I Call Bullshit...

I will admit that I'm crankier than usual, as I try to fight off the pig flu or strep or the bubonic plague or the common cold that never seems to leave this house once school starts, but there's a few things that got my rant-o-meter spinning out of control in the last couple days. In between the frequent naps that only make my exhausted ass more tired, I've managed to read some news online and watch a bit of TV (and ride a horse and run agility with the dogs -- shh! I'm really sick or getting sick any moment, I promise) that, quite frankly, had me yelling at the flat screen and the laptop all at the same time.

Since my sick husband and sick child are sick of listening to my cries for sanity in this fucked-up mess of a world, I'm forced to bitch to the "masses" that stop by this here blog (you know, the one that I find increasingly easier to ignore as the days wear on.) Maybe if you lurkers jumped in and called me a twat or a nasty whore once in a while, I'd find a reason to light the candelabras and crank the music in the Leopard Lounge more often than I have lately. Maybe not. Who cares...

Without further annoying ado, I give you my list of things that make me want to scream or puke or both this week.

Bullshit Item Number One: Big banks on Wall Street getting pig flu vaccines before, say, the hospitals, pediatricians and OB-GYNs around the country has me seeing Pepto pink (which is way worse than seeing red). Yeah, Goldman Sachs, Citi, The Federal Reserve, etc, apparently have a lot of pregnant women and young children working there, so they were shipped the impossible-to-get vaccines already. Morgan Stanley got a thousand or so vaccines and was at least human enough -- more likely, PR savvy enough -- to donate theirs to the local hospital that hadn't gotten any yet, so I give them a pass on my anger.

Can this government do anything right, EVER? We hand these same greedy fuckers billions of dollars that we cannot even account for, haven't been paid back, and now we give them the vaccine that pregnant women and children and health compromised Americans -- you know, the people that are at risk -- are standing in line for for 12 hours, only to be turned away? Shameful, pitiful, disgraceful.

Don't even get me started on the prisons getting their vaccines already, because I might say something really, really unkind. Oh, hell, I'll say it, because I'm in a mood. I don't give a shit about a bunch of murderers, rapists, pedophiles and thieves getting sick with the flu. Fuck them!! Vaccinate the guards and everyone who works there, and let's see who survives in the inmate population. Sorry, but a few less inmates that we have to pay for for LIFE seems like a win-win to me. In reality, it's a flu that most survive, so a handful of uncomfortable days for scumbags who rape kids seems only fair. I'm sure everyone will weep if the greediest of pigs, Bernie Madoff, dies from the pig flu.

Bullshit Item Number Two: Now, I really like Ellen DeGeneres. I do. Sue me. However, as I watched her show yesterday, I saw something that had me questioning her judgment. I found her guest Jonathan Safran Foer, author of "Eating Animals," to be fascinating. As he pimped his book, he enlightened us about factory farming and the disgusting practices that are involved in putting the burger in our cheeseburgers, the eggs in our omelets, the hormones in our breasts and the massive holes in our ozone.

I agree with almost everything he said, except the fact that there are still some farms where cows actually eat grass, see the light of day and are not fed any hormone-enriched grain whatsoever right here in New England. The same goes for chickens and pigs. My husband and I grew up on real, old-school dairy farms, you know, Old MacDonald kind of farms, and we know exactly what goes on today with the food supply. It's disgusting. Still, we manage to drink hormone-free milk and eat burger from grass-fed cows that live on old-school farms you can visit with your kids.

I'll get off of my farm girl soapbox for a second and get back to Ellen. Ellen is a vegan. I have no problem with that at all, as I have been a vegetarian and a vegan many times throughout my life and could live without meat without batting an eye. I'm the freak who gets all excited by vegetables and couldn't care less if she eats meat once, twice a month. I do love my poached eggs, and you better not get in between me and a hunk of cheese, but I've gone years without those, too.

So, Ellen is a vegan, and she became a vegan after doing research into how a cow becomes a cheeseburger these days. Take it from someone who's been to a slaughterhouse, it ain't pretty under the most humane of circumstances. You all know I love animals more than most people, so I get it. I totally get that meat is murder, and I own a Meat Is Murder Smiths t-shirt (one of the best albums ever made -- or was The Queen is Dead better simply because some girls really are bigger than others? It's a toss-up, I suppose.)

As I lay on the couch, watching all of this, however, with Ellen asking Jonathan how we could make a difference and Jonathan telling us that we should at least give up eggs, because the chickens are treated way worse than the cows, something struck me as just not right with this picture. I dragged my "am I sick or not," tired ass off the couch, went to the pantry and grabbed that incredibly small bag of incredibly expensive Halo dog food that I feed my dogs and checked the ingredients. Hmm...

Chicken and eggs in the dry food. Beef, beef liver and lamb in the canned. Just as I thought. In case you didn't know, Ellen is part owner of Halo. So, Ellen is a vegan because it's wrong to eat animals, especially when they aren't raised in idyllic conditions. But Ellen's dogs and my dogs eating animals is just fine, because she's making money off of it? Are these cows and chickens and little lambs being raised like beloved pets on magnificent farms until it's time to make the dog food? Maybe. I seriously doubt it, but maybe they are. I'm way too lazy to do that research. I'll leave it to Jonathan.

Maybe I'm just an asshole for asking is meat not murder if it's going to our dogs, but I can't believe I'm the only one who picked up on this. I still truly like Ellen, and my dogs most definitely love her incredibly expensive dog food, but I had to call bullshit on this one.

Bullshit Item Number Three: Rihanna all of a sudden coming out with her story a couple weeks before her new album (I'm showing my age, I know) drops. I truly love this girl's songs, and I'd stand under her umbrella anytime, anyplace, but the timing of this interview just feels too publicity driven for my taste. Personally, I wanted to go beat the fuck out of that little pussy Chris Brown when I saw the pictures of her battered face. It was disgusting, and he should have gotten in a hell of a lot more trouble than he did.

Then, when she went back to him, I wanted to sit her down and talk some sense into her. These things happen all the time, all over the world, and I cannot pretend to understand how women do not take a knife and slit an abusive bastard's throat when he's sleeping. I don't understand it, but I also try hard not to judge it. Low self-esteem, misguided love, day-in, day-out fear, these are things I've thankfully never known, but I have compassion for people who get trapped by all of it.

Had Rihanna come out months ago and told her story to the young girls that look up to her like she is a goddess, I would have been cheering her on. I guess I still am, since I do love the girl, but the timing is incredibly suspect.

Bullshit Item Number Four: My husband yelling at the boy to cough into his elbow and to wash his hands every two seconds, while he, himself, doesn't cover his mouth at all when he coughs, wipes his runny nose on his hand and leaves snot rags laying all over the house. Yeah, the boy and I both call bullshit on that one!

So I don't feel like the only ragbag in Blogtown, what's got you calling bullshit this week?

Have No Fear, June Cleaver Is Here...

It is with great pride and utter disbelief that I report that I survived our biggest Halloween bash to date. Sure, I had a two-day hangover and am exhausted still, but I pulled it off without strangling anyone or peeling out of the driveway in the Gangsta Jeep, dressed as June Cleaver, hitting the nearest bar and giving lap dances to anyone who looked like Eddie Haskell or just about anyone who bought me a shot. While I had envisioned both scenarios over and over -- let's face it, me losing my shit dressed as America's most easy-going mom would make for a much better story -- it simply didn't happen.

Sadly, nobody got a Halloween lap dance out of this old June, and nobody got killed or removed from the friend list either. I'm calling that a major success as far as large parties go, especially when 25 or so kids are at your house. Who knew that that many kids could behave like actual human beings, instead of animals? They looked very cute/cool in their costumes, as did the adults that played along, except for that horny nerd guy that crashed the party. Oh, I kid our good friend and neighbor, as his was the best costume of all. It was also the most disturbing, but disturbing in a totally hilarious way.


Sure, there were a couple of whiny kids I wanted to smack at times, and in a very non-June moment I did have to scream at the boys to stay in the moonwalk, instead of riding high on top of it, but the two gallons of sangria I made and "June" drank seemed to keep us pretty calm all in all. The same could not be said for the two and a half days leading up to the party, when everything and everyone sucked the life out of me as if I were the only human left at a vampire convention.


I've got 7,000 things to do, but of course I'll help you out and take that "two-hour deposition" you simply cannot cover on Thursday that turned out to be SEVEN hours of hell. Sure, I'll bring the fruit platter to the boy's class party on Friday that lasted well over two hours, due to total stupidity and extremely bad planning by the room moms. Sorry, ladies, but some of us have things to do, so yes, I'm taking my plate now and getting the fuck out of this germ factory. By all means, keep the fruit.


Alas, my kindness to others left me screwed, stressed and out of time. Isn't that always the way, though? I finally got down to decorating the garage at 4:30 Friday, which was the biggest and yet most important key to keeping the kids out of the house and my sanity intact. Little did I know that five people were on their way over to shop my closet for costumes, instead of, say, going to the costume store. You can see I'm in the middle of a shitstorm, and you actually have the nerve to say things like, "Do you have anything else?" or "Too bad you don't have the vampire costume in a larger size" or "Can you check to see if you have any black shoes that might fit him?"

Instead of beating the shit out of these clueless people that wasted my time, I got out my hammer and electric staple gun and beat the shit out of the garage, hanging black plastic from floor to ceiling (it was very Dexter-like and excellent stress relief). The boy helped me string lights and haunt the place up with fog machines and strobe lights and all things spooky. I'm at my most creative when I'm completely out of time, so the place looked awesome. Then, at 9 P.M. and again at 9 A.M., it was time to cook. I can't say I didn't drink a lot, swear a lot and even cry at one point, but I got almost everything I needed to do done (except shower) and stuffed my unwashed hair into that ultra-short "June" wig five minutes before the first guests arrived.

As with all the parties I throw, once the guests arrive, I'm pretty calm. Lots of our friends brought food and drink, and my mother, in true school teacher fashion, organized a bunch of games for the kids. I warned her that the mostly 5 - 11 year-old boy crowd might not play any of those games, but her sheer determination to keep kids from running around like wild monkeys won out, and the kids played along. She may have retired from teaching years ago, but her ability to wrangle a bunch of kids and keep their attention remains intact.

Unfortunately, I did not take one picture, not one. It's the whole Mama's only got two hands problem that always comes with having lots of people at your house, where someone inevitably needs something or other at all times. Just when I tell myself to take some photos, someone needs toilet paper or band-aids or a plunger, so I've got nothing to show for all my effort. Our neighbor brought her camera, however, and took lots of shots. If she comes through with the CD she promised, I'll post some pics. It may not be until Christmas, but whatever.

Now, I did not forget my promise to show you my tits if your prayers and good thoughts brought me a warm, dry Halloween and I lived to see November 1st. Well, it was 70 degrees here on Saturday, and I am alive. Technically, however, I can wiggle out of that little promise, since it did rain. The kids were done trick-or-treating, and a lot of people had gone home, but the rains did come during the party. Sorry, Badass, but I'm going to latch onto that technicality and go with this shot instead:



Technically, those are my tits, since I bought the "Wet T-Shirt Winner" costume to wear to a party that always has a wet t-shirt contest. As shocking as it may sound, what with my extensive stripper training and all those years spent on the back of Harleys at Bike Week in Laconia or in New York at the Harley Rendezvous (click on that link if you want some real tit shots),where I could have scored all kinds of free drugs and alcohol by lifting my shirt, I've kept the girls under the cover of low-cut shirts and push-up bras all these years. Hard to believe I'm such a modest gal in public, but it's true.

What's even harder to believe is that I posted a picture of me exhausted, sans makeup and sporting the same dirty hair that was under that June Cleaver wig on Saturday. Scary, dirty hag be thy name!!! That was yesterday, while I was still in recovery and clean-up mode. My only defense, flimsy as it may be, is that I had done the trusty French whore cleanup of the body each day, so I wasn't totally rank to be around. I know, I know, says me, but no one told me I stank like a skank.

You'll be happy to know, and my family will be happy to see/smell, that I was able to muster the energy to shower, shave and wash my ratty hair about an hour ago. I'm not lazy enough to go four full days without a complete cleansing, at least not since I had a colicky infant on my hands. Back then, I was always a scary, hairy, dirty hag, and I couldn't have cared less...

Slave For Love...

The other night, I left a comment on my girl Becky's blog in response to her question of what job I/you would never be capable of doing (or something like that), and I feel the need to expound on my already long-winded answer. After telling her my list would be so long that it would crash her blog, what I came up with was something along the lines of: I could never do a job that involved getting up early every day, working with the same annoying people every day, touching anyone, being touched by anyone, dealing with more than one child for more than a couple hours, cleaning up anything gross or smelly, anything in the service industry or anything to do with customers that might be able to contact me and complain about my cranky attitude.

My list could go on and on, like adding that I could never work with people in pain or sick people of any kind, teach anyone how to do anything, sell anything, and so on and so on and so on. Still, that would only cover 50% of the things I wouldn't want to have to attempt to do for a paycheck.
Now, I knew before I hit "submit" that my list makes me sound like a spoiled brat who doesn't work for a living. Well, we all know that I am a spoiled brat, but most of you also know that I do have a job. It just happens to be a job that I do when and if I want to, for the most part. So, yes, I am a middle-aged brat, but I worked really, really hard to be able to get to this point of brattiness in my career and in my life.

Then, when I received Becky's reply that magically comes to my Crackberry as soon as she replies (pretty sweet setup, Mama), I read over the list again and realized a couple of things: One, yeah, it does make me look like a spoiled brat, but I have no shame about that; two, I want my replies to go to people's e-mail addresses, just like Becky's; and last but not least, I do almost all of those tasks every day as a wife and mother for no paycheck at all.

I know, I know, you all realized that immediately upon reading my list, but I'm a little slow sometimes. Sadly, I don't get a dime for being the world's greatest wife/mother, and that is just so wrong. My compensation for all of this work comes in hugs and "I love you's," and while that's great and all, I'm thinking some green dollar bills would be stellar when the menfolk are being dickheads. This lack of pay for my services may explain a few things. Being a very bad slave and an even worse martyr, I tend to delegate quite a bit of the childcare to the husband.

Oh, sure, I do most of the heavy lifting around here. I cook and clean, help with/do the boy's homework and even dole out the occasional blowjob to the husband, but I am not afraid to hand over childcare duty to the husband whenever possible. I'm a slave who knows how to ask for help.

Watching some women run here and there doing errands with the kids, attending every school event, every sporting event, every birthday party and do all of the work around the house while their husband is home doing nothing or golfing with his buddies just blows my mind. I realize that most men work all the time and that sometimes they're the only ones bringing home the money, so they deserve some downtime, but certainly not every single night and not all weekend. Personally, I could never live with a guy who wouldn't help out with his child. If I had to do it all, day after day, I'd be divorced.

Maybe that's easy for me to say, since I've got a self-employed husband who can make time if I need him to, but it wouldn't matter much if I had to nag his ass to bring the boy to the bus stop a couple days a week or to baseball practice or to pick him up at school. I ask him for help, and he gladly gives it most of the time.

No, he's not an angel sent to save my sorry soul, not by a long shot. Short of grocery shopping, which he does just to keep me from spending too much money (I do kind of lose my mind around food), he does next to nothing around the house, and he has no clue how to write anything down so that he might remember where he's supposed to be. Keeping family life on track would not be his forte.

He is not the perfect husband, just like I'm not the perfect wife, but he is a very good father. He offers to bring the boy wherever he needs to be, and he spends his entire weekend with his little buddy mountain biking, skiing or hunting for treasures (crap) at flea markets and yard sales. He changed diapers and gave baths when the boy was a wee lad, and he wakes up early the days he's home and gets him ready for school. Hell, he'll even pick up vomit.

It goes without saying that he will not do these tasks exactly the way I would, and he might even screw up sometimes, but so what if the kid goes out looking ridiculous in clothes I would never let him be seen in or if he has bedhead and dirty fingernails when he shows up at a birthday party. Oh, I'll cringe and maybe bitch to my friends, but I'm all about having an involved father, even if he can't do everything as well as I can.

Helicopter mom I am not. Why would I be if I don't have to be? I prefer to make my head spin in much more enjoyable ways. Other than the nearly severed thumb incident and the massive amount of junk they find and bring home, the boys seem to do all right without me there every single second breathing down their necks. It's a good deal all the way around, and everyone is happier for it.

Our little system seems to drive some women I know crazy, like the one who wanted to know where I was Sunday when the husband brought the boy to a birthday party. "She's home," he said, and she replied, "God, I envy that woman." She's also got a problem with me attending about half of the baseball season and always has something to say about it, but that's just it, it's her problem.

Does it bother me that some women make a big deal out of me not being "there" all the time, just like them? Maybe a little on a bad day, where I'll feel the need to point out the fact that I am the one who actually practices baseball with the boy or that I'm out riding the dirt bike or the ATV with him. Most days, however, I just laugh and say, "God, I don't envy that woman," just like I did Sunday night when my husband reported that Miss Judgemental was keeping score again.

Reality is that some women have no choice but to do everything, which sucks big, hairy balls. I truly feel for them. Then, there are those that wouldn't let their husband step up even if he was willing, out of fear that he wouldn't do it "right" or, even more sad, out of fear that they'd be branded crappy, selfish mothers for not being there every single second. Sorry, but I'm not buying it. Remember, I, like you, don't get paid a cent for this wife/mother gig, so letting my husband handle some of the extra-curricular activity load seems only fair.

My non-helicopter ways don't seem to cut down on my hugs and "I love you" compensation, so I'm sticking to it.

It Keeps Gettin' Better...

When you wake up after 11 hours of sleep feeling no better than when you had one hour of sleep on Wednesday night or four hours on Thursday night, you might as well just go back to bed for the rest of the day or maybe the entire weekend. Of course, I know that now. This morning, however, when my eyes opened enough to focus on the three dogs that were standing on various parts of my body, I was determined to make the most of my Saturday.

Sure, I was stiff and bleary eyed, but I swung my legs over the side of the bed and dragged myself to the back door to let the dogs out so that I could take a pee in peace. After washing my hands and dousing my itchy eyes with eye drops (which is usually step one each day if I don't have to pee really badly), I put the tea kettle on and let the dogs back in. In my travels from the bedroom to the bathroom and into the kitchen, I had noticed that the house was quiet, which means that the husband had taken the boy out for breakfast. Nice!

The plan was to relax with my green tea and catch up on some blogs before I got busy. Except there was no green tea, because some rude person had gotten to the pantry before me. Strike one or I guess strike two, since I felt like shit. Okay, so I'll make coffee. I prefer green tea first thing in the morning, but caffeine is caffeine, right? Strike three was finding that the coffee pot was never cleaned by the lazy, rude, tea-stealing husband the last time he used it and still had a filter full of old grinds in it, but what else is new.

I cleaned the coffee maker, got the beans ground and let it brew while I fed the dogs. I took my favorite mug down from the cabinet, put in three Sugar In The Raw packets, poured the coffee into the mug and went to grab the milk. NO FUCKING MILK. Not even any cream, which I hate, but will use in a pinch. Now, this would be understandable in most households, but when your husband is the fucking m..km.n to thousands of people who have milk in their refrigerators right that very second, and he has already been over to his business, where there are hundreds upon hundreds of cases of milk, and been back home, THIS IS NOT ACCEPTABLE.

After screaming obscenities at the milk-free fridge and slamming the door so hard that it sprung back open, I called that useless m..km.n that drank my last two green teas to bitch him out and tell him to bring me skim milk for my coffee STAT. Lucky for him, he was in another state on some stupid excursion that would most likely end with another antique bike being added to the five hundred we already have.

But what about me? What about that hideous black coffee sitting there in my pretty mug waiting for milk? Not two weeks ago, that stupid m..km.n left me in the same predicament, and I drank black coffee for the first time ever. I then proceeded to have heartburn for 12 hours. Not going there again.

So, while still in my PJ's, I threw on my raincoat and my UGG-COMs (meaning seriously ugly and yet seriously comfy Ugg boots) and told the three dogs to get in the truck. Off we went in the pouring rain to get milk over at the husband's business. Seeing that it's about two minutes away, I didn't bother to load the crates in the truck or put up the fence or the gate or whatever the hell you call those things that keep the dogs in the cargo area. It would have taken ten times longer to do that than it would to drive over there and back and drink my damn coffee while reading blogs.

All three dogs were in the cargo area when I hopped out of the truck to get my milk, but of course two of them (they will be known as The Assholes from here on out) missed me so much that they had to climb over the back seats and into the front seats, where they jumped all over the driver's door and the passenger door and managed to lock the doors. Yes, the keys were in the truck.

When I grabbed the handle on the driver's door and found that it was locked, I looked past the oh-so-happy Assholes over to the passenger door and saw that it was locked, too. So, there I stood in my PJ's in the pouring rain with my two quarts of skim and a loaf of whole wheat, and I started screaming at my two asshole dogs that were drooling all over the driver's door window all proud of themselves. Rebel, the usual pain in my ass, was still in the cargo area like a good, good dog should be, so I told him he was a good boy and started cracking up while I kicked dirt and weighed my options.

Before I limped back into the building to call my mother or my brother to come and get me so that I could go home and get the spare key, I had the good sense to try the back door. Luckily, they hadn't hit the button that locks all the doors but had hit each individual knob on the doors, and I was able to get in the back seat and crawl into the front. Fucking dogs!! Fucking m..km.n!!

After all that, I was soaked, my truck was a mess, my coffee sucked, and it was only 11:00. I should have crawled in bed with my laptop, but instead decided to vacuum, which lead to the bright idea of steam cleaning my formerly white couch. Yes, I'm one of those delusional freaks that thought it was possible to have a pretty white couch. Even if you don't have kids or a menagerie of animals or any humans of the male persuasion living with you, a white couch is a bad idea. Dust is going to get the fucker dirty or some friend or relative is going to spill red wine on it, so don't even bother.

Now, I admitted I was an idiot long ago for getting that couch and have been looking for a new one for years but can't find exactly what I want. So, there it sits, year after year, getting more gray from the cats sleeping on it and the dogs laying up against it. It's in the "formal" living room, as if anything in my house is formal. It just means there's no TV in there and that it's not near the kitchen. It also means I never go in there and can avoid looking at the nastiness most of the time. Today, however, while vacuuming, I looked at it, and it bugged me. It bugged me so much that I borrowed the best friend's steam cleaner, rolled up my sleeves and got busy.

What a huge mistake. It's one of those things that seems like a good idea. I mean, how hard could it be, right? Why hire a professional, who's going to use toxic chemicals and a steam cleaner that probably just cleaned up a double murder scene, when you can do it yourself?

I'll tell you why. It's a lot of fucking work, and it takes hours of changing the dirty water and adding soap and muscling that seemingly light machine around to the point that your wrists and elbows and shoulders and back are killing you. Oh, and who knows if the couch is clean. It went from gray to tan as best I can tell. If it dries to white, well, I might change my mind on whether the pain and the hours of work were worth it. Somehow, I think I'm going to end up with dingy white, at best, and be off to look harder for a new couch on Monday.

After my miserable morning and all that work that probably just made matters worse, I wanted to cry. I should have cried and gone to bed. Instead, I opened a bottle of wine and made smoked Gouda mac & cheese and ate so much that I gained 10 pounds. Then, instead of cleaning the kitchen, I watched a horrible movie with the boy until he fell asleep, and here I am typing away with my throbbing arms. Why? Because I'm a glutton for punishment and smoked Gouda, which I feared would permanently settle its blobs of fat on my thighs if I were to go to sleep so soon after gorging myself.

Now that it's 2:30 AM, I think my thighs are safe to sleep. So, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to crawl into bed, stick my thumb in my mouth, and snuggle with my boo-boo bear...

Where's Lola...

It only stands to reason that I'd get sick when it's the busiest time at work in months and when I've got a To Do list longer than my entire body. Yeah, yeah, I know I'm not that tall, so I'll say my list is longer than my giant husband's entire body or maybe even longer than the street we live on. It's a big fucking list.


Instead of tending to my list, I've been curled up on the couch in the fetal position, because standing up with a migraine and all-over body aches is simply too much to ask of even me. Today is the first day that I can even focus on a computer screen without it making my head feel like it's going to explode, and I'm actually going to work. Typical. If I feel the slightest bit better, I'm off and running again, because I'm stupid like that. I'll most likely be back on the couch tomorrow.


The truth is that I have to get moving whether I feel like it or not. The big party is next week, and way too many children are coming to my house, because I'm also stupid like that. Every single Halloween, my kid gets me sick the week before or the week of our big party, so I really shouldn't be surprised that he took me down again, should I? Call me a party-loving optimist or a complete moron for planning a big bash when history shows that we will be sick, but next Saturday is coming quick, and I've got some major work to do.


In order to keep the 25 or so little bastards hopped up on candy out of my house, the garage has to be turned into a haunted kid central, and some kind of activity must be devised. When I originally lost my mind and was all gung-ho sending out the invites, I mentioned something about a scavenger hunt.


So far, I've not come up with one single clue for said hunt, but my fallback plan is to send them in search of a scary, three-legged unicorn or a giant four-leaf clover, with empty promises of a big payoff to keep their motivation up. If I'm feeling energetic, I suppose I could hide a skull really well or pretend that I hid a skull really well so that they run around for an hour or so looking for something that's not there.


By then, it will be time for them to take to the streets and surprise the neighbors who expected the ten trick-or-treaters we usually get and, therefore, run out of treats by 7:00. That's all right, though, since the cool neighbors are coming to the party. The rest are no fun anyway and can just shut their lights out and go to bed after they give out their last microwave popcorn or Halloween pencil in lieu of what the kids really want: Candy!!


Now that you understand what I'm up against, say a little prayer for me that the germs have left my body at least until November 2nd (November 1st is all about the cleanup) and that I will never, ever get the migraines back. That is some nasty shit right there, and I can't imagine having them on a regular basis. It's nearly impossible to function, and driving is a very bad idea I learned.


Next time, if there is a next time, I'm having the husband drive me to the hospital, where I will crawl to the first male hospital person I see, latch onto their balls , twist those balls, and demand that some sweet, sweet Demerol be injected into my veins immediately.


Oh, and say a little prayer for me that it doesn't rain next Saturday or go down into the twenties again. The best month of the year has been a suckfest of unseasonal cold and lots of rain around here. It even snowed last Sunday, and that is just unacceptable. 25 children, between the ages of 5 and 12, in my home is unacceptable and scary. So, please pray or light a candle or smudge some sage and send some good energy out into the universe for me.


In return for your good energy, I'll show you my tits or something on November 2nd. I'm afraid to look at my Google Reader, but if I survive work today, I'll check in on all of you soon. Hopefully, you've been having wild sex and feel the need to tell the Internet all about it...