Inspired By Zibbs

So days go by, even weeks, and I cannot think of a single thing to blog about. And then 5 billion ideas come rushing into my head, screaming, "Write this, talk about that!" Piss me off.

I don't like to write more than one post a day even when I'm chock full of those ideas because I am a needy comment whore. I love people commenting on my posts. It makes me feel loved, wanted (not always in a sexual way but yeah, sometimes) and worthy. So make sure y'all read the post prior to this one and comment lots there too!

Onwards..

Every night, I come home from work and make myself a salad. (It goes well with the serving platter of pasta.) I sit down, eat, sip of my sweet tea and read blogs. Tonight, Zibbs has inspired me with his fart video.

I try not to talk about ass so much even though it is the source of many a funny moment and blog worthy. Tonight, in this long fucking post, Phat Mama is going to tell a story. If it makes you need to 'yak', I suggest you do so on Hot Zibbs. It's all his fault.

I am a creature of habit. I like things my way or no way and this includes how I position myself to sleep, each night. I must have almost the entire bed - not because I have a fat ass but because I'm a (beautiful Queen) selfish bitch. I sprawl out on my side, wrap an arm around Big Daddy who is holding onto the mattress for dear life, and tuck my face between his shoulder blades.

This position makes it look like I'm hiding behind him. Which I am. Because if anyone wants to break in and rob all of our money (change jar), they need to shoot him first, please. (While this may seem awful of me, no.. it is not. I know he couldn't live without me so I'm saving him the trauma of that.)

*Side note: I've spent 18 years trying to fatten the skinny bastard up so that the bullet won't reach me too.

One night, I go to bed, get into my sleeping position and drift off to dream that Sean Connery is in love with me. (Okay, Sean was screwing me - Fuck Harlequin.) I wake up, hours later, gagging. Retching. My mouth salivating as mouths do when they're preparing to lube up for a volcanic vomit.

My tongue was lurching around in my mouth, sticking to the roof, trying to hide against my tonsils and it was then that I noticed the awful stench clinging to me. To my face, specifically. In my mouth. The worst bad breath ever. It was like I ate ass.

Just then, as I was still half asleep, trying to figure out why I wasn't smelling burnt toast instead of ripe asshole, if I were stroking out - Big Daddy lets rip again. Not loud. Nono, just that slow, whispering whizzz of air. Making its way up between our spooned bodies, his back and my tummy, over my stellar rack, straight into my gaping, drooling piehole.

I had eaten a fart. Actually, two of them.

Retching more furiously, I leapt out of bed and into the bathroom, squirted half a bottle of toothpaste into my mouth, rammed the toothbrush in and went crazy getting the taste and smell of deuce out.

Minty fresh but still gagging now and then, I went back to bed, gave him my back and fell asleep, dreaming of revenge.

The next morning, I made sure to tell him what he had done. After laughing, he apologized.

Mmhm, funny fucker, we'll see.

What was my perfect revenge, you ask? I'll blog about it soon, promise. Let me just say, for now, that he'll never ask me to shave his balls again. :)

(And if you read the prior post, you now know why this is the -secret- blog.)

The Secret Blog

Today is going to be a longer post, one that took a lot of thought to write and one of a serious (blogging) nature so everyone grab a glass of sweet tea (Jack Daniels) and settle in at Casa de Phat Mama.

I first started blogging months ago, on my Myspace page. Funny little stories, updates on how we were doing, etc. - mostly meant for friends and family in real life. And then a chat friend of mine, Nyx, gave me the URL to her blog here on Blogger.

An idea was born. Two seperate blogs! One for real life people and one for all the friends I've made while chatting over the years. This new blog would be the place I could let it all hang out, every bitchy, sexy, lewd, sassy and insecure bit of me, splashed across the blank page. A secret, private blog - ohh how delicious!

But over time, it became tiresome. Keeping up with two blogs, feeling like a split-personality, wondering why I had to hide certain aspects of myself with people in my real life. Wondering if my online friends actually knew me better than the people I surrounded myself with, did.

A blog is supposed to be our journal, a diary - our little corner of this infinite online world, where we can express anything we choose. Any thought, opinion, emotion, moment of our lives. With complete freedom from judgement and inhibition.

But what I've learned is:

Real life is the place where people who actually see me, can touch me(kick my ass) are at. They are the people that I may have to answer to. These are the people that because they are 'real life' - I have to edit myself with, verbally and textually, as their opinions can and possibly will affect my day to day life.

My children - Those two beloved spawn that could break my heart if they ever read something on my blog and looked at me with disappointment in their eyes.

My husband - Who I joke about, I may poke fun of, but always suffuse it with so much love because I couldn't bear to hurt him if I crossed some line, he read it and didn't know it was just a funny and he will always be my rockstar.

My parents - Who I never want to know that their daughter is a bit of a kinky freak. One that says the 'Fuck' word too often and with wayyy too much flava!

My siblings & In Laws - Who piss me off on an almost daily basis and I must rant here on my private blog, to get by each day without choking them or beating them down with the turkey leg at Thanksgiving.

My boss - That person who pays me and thus, I can only tell the truth about having a hangover from the glass of wine and calling out sick with the (entire F'n bottle) flu, here on my secret blog.

Just recently, my favorite blogger - Vodka Mom - shut down her blog for a few days. It was obvious that something had happened, something that had made her question herself. I wondered if it had to do with her blog and now, it seems so.

I read the comments on her last post, I read other people's blog posts at that time, crushed over her leaving. This woman has made such an impact with her blog that her leaving caused a sad ripple effect across the medium.

I wanted to reach out and say to her - Your blog is like you opening your front door and inviting all of us to share a cup of coffee (martini) with you each morning, when we click on it. It makes us smile, laugh, relate, feel not alone in the insanity of life, in short, it touches us. Please don't turn away, no matter what happened, we'll miss you.

But what if she had that happen - that moment where our personal blog becomes the issue. That something said here in our little corner of the world is turned sideways and judged. Taken out of context. Or just found.. wrong.

Each of us has to decide how much to share of ourselves and with whom. Sometimes, that decision is pretty damned difficult because it comes down to this: Is this -my- space to be free or not?

There is a saying by Marshall McLuhan - "Publication is a self-invasion of privacy."

That is so very true. Each time we click publish post, we have allowed others in. We hope they tread lightly. We hope they understand that.. We just want to have others laugh with us - we just want someone to relate - we just want to not feel alone in this vastness of space - we just want to have someone cheer us on - we just want to cheer them on in return - we don't want to hurt anyone, we just want to share our moments.

And It's Not Even Mothers Day

Good Morning, y'all!

Forgive me for not posting in over a week. It's been hectic at Casa de Phat Mama. Alas, not much funny has been happening.

But in the last two nights, something has happened that I had to write about.

Our son, rebel boy, has moved back home. That happened about a month ago. To give a little history - We moved to North Carolina, for the second time, in October of last year. Colt didn't want to move so after a month here with us, chose to move back to where our families & his girlfriend live, in Illinois & Wisconsin.

(Yes, I'm fully aware that the girlfriend was the -real- reason, family be damned!)

Allowing him to leave us at 17 was devastating. But we knew it was the best choice. There were lessons for him to learn that only going would teach him. Another aspect of it being so hard for us was that he was ill for a very long time and will have issues for the rest of his life.

He finally returned to us after six months.

Last night, he and I were talking & he said to me: "We make fun of you and Dad a lot, but honestly, the love you two have is what I dream of, with my wife, when I get married. You two are really awesome, just to watch, because the love is actually visible in a million ways."
I could have cried.

Tonight, after work, I took him to Waffle House. (Yes, we are rednecks.) And on the way home, somehow death was brought up. I told him that after caring for elderly people, I didn't really think I wanted to live to a very old age.

He replied, "I think I would just die if I lost you. Not unless I'm married to a woman I love so much, someone a lot like you.. then I could maybe get through it. Yanno Mama, when men are looking for the girl they want to marry, they look for someone as great as their Mom, if they have a good one.. and I'm lucky, I have the best Mom. I just can't stand the thought, to even think about you dying. Sometimes I wish you were a really shitty Mom, like yours.. so it wouldn't be such a big deal."

I could only laugh and blink back the tears - realizing that my rebel child is finally growing up. That the day I wished for has come, my son telling me that I did it right.

I'm Not Sorry I Gagged

A text message woke me bright & early (noon), three days ago and this is what it said: "U hav until 2day 2 pay ur bill trailer trash or we will bingo ur celly." I stumbled out of bed, pulled clothes on over my nightie, jammed feet into flip-flops and dashed to the local 'Turn your change into dollars' machine.

I tried once (five times) to shove the extra large lint ball through while muttering, "Cummon, let me cheat, that's as big a nickle, you asshole."

Then I drove to my federal bailout institution and deposited the money/lint ball.

I called the phone company & pressed '1' for some anal penetration, then '8' for the circle jerk (we sang Kum Bah Yah), then '3' to give them a BJ and because I didn't swallow, I was told to press '8' to go back to the main menu and start over.

After humping Sprint's collective ass to beg forgiveness for the error of my late paying ways, they deigned to put a real, live, breathing customer service rep on the phone so that I could be berated and robbed in person.

I apologized for my hair-trigger gag reflex, paid the bill and hung up after thanking them profusely for the anal penetration.

Today, I logged into my bank account and see that this payment is still pending. Three days later. PENDING.

"We will disconnect your phone if you do not pay today." Fucking liars. I know they just wanted to see how fast the fat ass could get to the bank. I should have pressed '3' and bitten their dick off.

You Know You Want It

I have a 15 minute drive home from work, each night. It's always eventful. Here is my textual & pictorial explanation of tonights excursion:

First stop sign: I wait behind another car so that I can turn while wondering wtf is taking so long. I honk the horn. I see the driver do an irritated 'talk to the hand' movement. Knowing sign language too, I raise my middle finger, obvious sign language for 'I'm number one'. I then bother to look to the left and notice the oncoming semi-truck.

Oh. Umm yeah, don't try to shoot the gap for me, Grandma.

As I leave town, I notice the license plates on the car in front of me.

I think (talk) to myself: Does that hooker realize that license plates are forever? Unless you want to pony up $125.00 or your first born, you keep those mofo's until you die. What happens when Krissy leaves Asshole? Hm? She may as well have gotten his name tattoo'd on her butt cheeks, it would have been cheaper. I hope her next boyfriends name starts with an 'A' too. Dumbass.

As I was turning the corner onto my road, I had to dodge the piece of mobile home siding. Can someone please get out of their fucking vehicle and clean up after themselves? Jim Bo? Bubba? Anyone?

Finally, I get to my house. I was (tail-gating) following a minivan. Apparently, Soccer Mom's Mapquest took a huge shit at that exact moment because she whips a U-turn in my drive-way.


This is what I looked like:


I say a little prayer to JC (remember, he's not a cuss word, people) for getting me home safely & dash into my house. Make my way to our bedroom. Crawl in bed. Possibly horny. (It happens twice a year wether I want it to or not.) And upon this happening, I remember that Big Daddy worked 13 hours today.



The end.

Satan Loves My Ass.

So last night, darling bitchy bitch's friend came over. Jen, 20, pretty. And rebel boy scurried through our bedroom to the master bath to have a quick shower , change into his best 'boxer showing' jeans and 'I'm A Pimp' tshirt.

As he was mad dashing back through our room, leaving a cloud of cologne & teenaged testosterone behind, I thoughtfully watched his departure and wondered if I would be a bad Mom, throwing condoms at him.

Also, while I'm discussing the most (humiliating) every day happenings at Casa de Phat Mama..

I have IBS. Do y'all know what that is? Does anyone have it? (If so, please leave a comment so I don't feel so alone, and so everyone else knows your ass hurts.) It's Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Now before everyone shuts this window, here's a funny mixed with a health lesson:

When one (me) has IBS, they may eat a (1/2 a pan of lasagna) salad and also consume (3 bottles) a glass of wine and be fine. The next day, they might eat (the other half pan of lasagna) an apple.. and not be fine. Today is one of those not fine days. I'm reading all of your blogs from my throne (princess waves) and I daresay, it feels like Satan himself is giving me a rim job, my ring piece is burning so terribly.

The health lesson is this: Don't eat an entire lasagna (a salad, damnit!) and (3 bottles) a glass of wine or your ass will mount a full on revolt.

The overall lesson of the day is: Having to consider which size condoms to buy for your son so your fabulous 38 year old self isn't a Grandma too soon.. not priceless. At all. It will give you the shits too.

Epiphany

It's been 28 days straight at work. I'm tired & I am chronically lazy, thus I share an old journal post. It is the beginning of a story. Over time, I will tell it to completion. It's not funny, not even a little bit. But sometimes, that's okay too.


"Epiphany"

Tuesday, December 30th, 2003

I was watching "The Horse Whisperer" tonight. I had been wanting to see it for a long time but had never gotten around to it. When the movie begins, there is a scene after the girls accident, when she is laying in the hospital, her leg partially amputated. The girls Mother is ordering the Nurse's around. You can tell that she is about to lose control and hanging on by a very thin thread.

John looked at me and said that the Mother in the movie reminded him of me, when Colton was sick and in the hospital. Right at that moment, I had an epiphany. I realized with utter clarity that when a Mother is faced with her child being sick or injured, in pain, they simply cannot begin to handle their own lack of control over it.

It's not something they sort through in that moment. It's not something they understand themselves. They don't rationalize what their own brain is doing to compensate for not being able to make their child well or pain free.

What happens is that without thinking, they grasp at every small thing they can control. The childs medication needs. A drink of water. Checking to make sure the I.V. is still dripping. Asking the Nurse and Doctor a hundred questions. Tucking blankets and fluffing pillows.

There are a million things that a Mother will do to keep herself believing that she has control of the situation. To cacoon herself from the horror of watching their child go through some hellish illness or injury and not being able to take their place.

As I was having this epiphany, Kendall's friend says, "If I were that Momma, I'd be crying so hard." I only responded with, "You would be surprised, Sunny. It's actually quite rare that you cry in those first moments."

And it is. Rare. I think at times that people ask themselves what they would do in this situation or that one. How would I react? It's natural to give themselves worst case scenarios and plan out reactions to them, all in the name of being prepared in case the situation were ever to happen.

We feel safer when we do that. Like by thinking about it, planning for it, we can somehow anesthize ourselves to the pain we know would come along with the situation.

I relate it to terminal cancer. I've often thought that to lose someone to cancer, although emotionally and mentally draining, would be easier than losing them in an abrupt way, like a car accident. You have time within a terminal illness to grieve preemenintly. You have time to think about life without that person. You have time to say goodbye.

The reality of it is that there is no preparing for a childs illness or injury. You can assume and suppose every possible thing that could happen at some unknown date in the distant future. You can soothe yourself with thinking you would know how you would deal with it. You won't. You can't.

Life does not come with a crystal ball and if it did, would you really have the nerve to take a long look into it? What I can share with you is this: Everyone is different. How they handle tough situations, what emotions they can mute and what one's will refuse to be silenced. You will only have the answers if or when it happens to you.

In the first moments of a child's critical illness or injury, you may hear a whooshing noise that turns into thunderous cacophony. You fidget, wipe sweaty palms over your jeans. You may tug at your hair, fingers raking through the strands until they are as knotted as your stomach. You could pace back and forth, unable to remain in one place for long.

Biting your lips and blinking back tears, you fight for each and every breath. You long to clap your hands over your ears, just as you did as a child, blocking out the words that make a dream turn into a nightmare. You argue. You demand more tests be done. You may swear and rage and finally, slump into a chair, weak from the emotion and thoughts battling for supremacy.

And then.. your brain usually goes into a state of shock. It numbs you to the devastation. The confusion, pain and sadness. You can feel a sense of icy control. Everything inside of you stills until you can hear the steady beat of your own heart. One thought congeals and it is, "What can I do to make this better?"

Therein lies the need for control over what is controllable. The need to fill each moment with the mundane, the quest for answers so that you are not forced to realize that the life you brought into this world can be taken back.

Strokin'

Yesterday, I did a post about love. Thank y'all for your comments - they inspired me! Today though, we're going to have a peek into another facet of a long-term marriage. The sex! This will be some of my funniest blog material so it will be a recurring theme, folks. (Which he will never know about, of course.)

The following is a conversation that happened between myself and JBaby, last night.

This mojo music was playing. In his mind only.





Phat Mama: *cuddles in bed with him, a drawn out sigh of bliss to stretch out after a long day. Studmuffin may have taken it as a moan of pleasure at his mere presence.* "I'm soo tired. This is my 22nd day in a row at work & I need a day off, badly. I'm bone-deep tired, Baby."

JBaby: "Take your shirt off."

Phat Mama: (Mental Response - Mofo, do you have your selective hearing aide in again? Because I know I just said I was exhausted.)

*Okay all you newlyweds, we're going to take a break from the big happenings in my bedroom last night, for this next part. Pay attention. This right here is some really good advice (possibly me talking out of my ass) that you will not see in 'Men Are From Mars But Want In Uranus'.

Your words - I'm too tired.
His translaterion - To give a BJ?

Your words - I have a headache.
His translation - The area between your tits and ass feels okay though, right?

Your words - My jaw hurts.
His translation - Is the Anbesol still in the kids' room? Just numb it up, Baby. Maybe it'll work on your gag reflex too!

Your words - I'm having cramps.
His translation - Let me give you a massage from the inside out.

Okay, so back to me now! I'm stretched out, exhausted and he tells me to take my shirt off. There, caught up.

Being the good wife I am, even whilst calling him names (horndog) silently, I take off my shirt.

JBaby: *blinks, confused* "Ummm, okay, take your nightgown off too."

*I had to run to Wal-Mart earlier and here in the south, we just pull our shirt and pants on over our nightie, k?

Phat Mama: *Taking off the nightie* (Mental Response - if his love pickle is getting happy right now, I'm going to be so pissed. Maybe I can hunch forward and make my boobs look saggy so he doesn't want any of this tonight. Can't he see I'm tired!? Blind fucker.)

JBaby: *pats the bed* "Lay here, on your belly."

Phat Mama: *mutters & rolls over* (Mental Response - I wonder if he'll notice the little nap I take as long as I'm face down, ass up.)

And then.. he gave me a back massage!

Phat Mama: *lots of purr purr noises* (Mental Response - Oh please, don't let him not have an ulterior motive.

JBaby: *Slowly and connivingly moves his hand towards my boob*

Phat Mama: (Mental Response - Damnit, I didn't make them look saggy enough. Now he's going to prod me with his tool of menace.)

A Different Kind of Thang

I'm going to a different kind of post today & I hope y'all don't read it and think - Holy Crap, Phat Mama just went Hallmark on us!

I love to write - it's my meditation, my time just for me, it's even therapeutic. I write poetry, short stories, letters to those I love and really, just whatever I'm thinking and feeling in that moment or that time in my life.

My dream is to someday be published but 1. I'm too much a wussy to try & be rejected. 2. I'm too lazy to actually send anything off. 3. I read a lot & can see true talent - I'm not it! lol

So now and then, here on my blog, I'm going to share some of that writing. I hope y'all enjoy it or can even relate in some way. If not.. pretend you do & leave comments saying, "Wow, P Mama, you are amazing!" That way, I can happily scarf down my Cheez-Its and princess wave to y'all.



"Missing You"

Everything will be obscure and off balance until you return to me. What was important is meaningless. My eyes glaze over from watching this screen. I'd rather close my eyes and see your laughing face reflected from memory. I keep sniffing the air but your scent left with you. I dread our bed because it's cold, lonely and to big. Is it pathetic that I bury my face in your pillow to catch that last tantalizing whiff of lingering cologne?

I roam around this house, lost. You would swear it's a fifty room mansion the way I lose myself from room to room. I think I'm looking for you on some base level of my being. I watch the door, the sundown is mesmerizing thru the panes of glass. I would give up a weeks worth of sundowns to see you walk through it. Missing you is always hardest at this hour, when your arms would reach for me in sleep, tug me close until I fit in your embrace like I was created to be there.

Don't you know that you own my soul, my heart, my every memory? Yes, I think you do know. Maybe that's why you reach out to touch me at every oppurtunity. Fate can be cruel but sometimes it brings two lives together to form one. Every song that I listen to tries to describe love. There are no words, not those and not these I write tonight.

A lifetime of little moments that would never fit into any scrapbook. I wish I could write our love story but those words wouldn't be good enough either. How do we tell our children, how do we share with them this incredible history, the fragments of life and emotion?

How can I show them the completeness of their parents? I want to do that, you know. I want them to see it all and take it with them, long after we are gone. Love like ours is rare in this chaotic reality. To stand the test of time, to walk through each tragedy and triumph, hand in hand, is a little piece of miracle.

How is it possible to fall in love with the same person with each new dawn? How can I sit here with you so far away and feel tears of loneliness and blissful love slide down my cheeks? When I leave this plane of existence where eveything and everyone is less than perfect, where I cry and laugh and live with my imperfection.. if I leave it tomorrow, I just want to know that I loved you best. I just want to know that you felt it this deep.

Maybe these words are coming from that lonely place that will only be full again when you come home. Maybe it's dramatic, emotional. And maybe, someday our kids will go through some papers in an old box and find this and know the completeness of their parents and take it with them, long after we are gone.

Hot Southern Kittay.

As a born & bred yankee, transplanted in the south, I've come to learn all kinds of things. Some of them have been mentioned on an older blog post. These are 'new' lessons:

1. Don't ever talk shit about Lynyrd Skynyrd. It's much like burning the flag. 'Sweet Home Alabama' is THE anthem in these parts. I learned this recently while simply mentioning that while watching a concert video of this song, I was squicked by how many men were in their underwear at said concert.

The Suth'ner that I was speaking to about this ugliness spit his chew within inches of my flip-flop and just stared at me.

2. You can get flip-flops for a buck at the 'Everything's A Dollar' store. These are the shoes of choice. For your church socials at Southern Baptist, have some class! Spend $5 for a nicer sandal (a big fake rose on the toe & some rhinestones) at Wal-Mart.

3. Flip-flops also make good child beaters - they don't leave marks and can fly in a boomerang fashion to knock naughty child down when thrown with appropriate skill and wrist action. I learned this from the Minister at the Southern Baptist ice cream social.

4. When people say, "Quit being ugly!" to their children, they do not actually mean - Man, this kid belongs on the set of Deliverance. They are simply telling their child that if they don't stop doing what they're doing, they are going to be beaten with the flip-flop.

5. An acceptable method of greeting one another down here is by passing the lit joint.

6. Do not offend your new neighbor when he passes you the lit joint over top his razor fence by saying, "Oh, not thank you, I don't do drugs. I belong to D.A.R.E!" This will get you chew juice spit into your eye and a flip-flop up your ass.

7. The correct way to decline illegal drugs is to mention the upcoming piss test mandatory with probation after a doing a nickel in the state pen for assault & battery. (Flex muscles while making this statement. Having a rebel flag tattoo'd on your bicep produces best results.)

8. Never, ever, ever make a joke to Jim Bob about how the north won the war so you don't understand why he's still flying a rebel flag in front of his trailer. This will get you hung from a tree. A hog will be roasting, they will have their hands over their hearts, singing 'Sweet Home Alabama', the whole trailer park will turn out for your (lynching) party.

9. 'Texas Pete', the hot sauce, goes on everything. Wings, grits, greens - everything. I'm almost sure redneck men sprinkle a bit on the va-jay-jay before eating southern kittay.

More.. as I learn the culture!

Tits Up.

Another riveting glimpse into my life/morning:

As mentioned in prior blog posts, I take care of an 89 year old, ex-Navy vet. I am his Nurse. I am a professional. And last night, I had to take the over night shift. Here's where it turns terribly wrong.

Having not had dinner, I took some McD's to work with me. I scarfed it down whilst watching Walker, Texas Ranger with him. (I'd like to kick Chuck Norris's ass, just to show him that Phat Mama's don't play, bitch.)

Sam went to bed & shortly thereafter, I went to the 'Nurse's bedroom' because I was so tired from the night before. (Read previous blog post.)

I woke up, every hour on the hour, feeling awful, sweating until my hair was soaked. (I know I'm F'n sexy, people!)

And sometime during the night, in a half-asleep, sickly haze, I forgot that I wasn't at home, in bed with my beloved Fuckmuffin and took off my tshirt. I was hot! Like I woke up in Hell & Satan was breathing on me, Hot.

I woke up for the last time, one minute before my shift was over. I heard noises from other areas of the house. Sam was awake, brushing his teeth. The morning nurse was already there. And horror, the cat had been let out of her room - right next to mine - and my bedroom door was wide open, just like I left it!

I had an entire minute of wondering.. Did Sam see me sleeping tits up? (Can 89 year olds get wood?)

(No pictures, sorry, Maelstrom! - Check out his blog today, people - too damn funny! It's on my sidebar as - Nothing To See Here, Move Along.)

To add to the never ending craptafic that is my life, I'm trying to decide wether I should go in for my next shift today or go to the E.R.

I have a sixth sense at self-diagnosis. (Another of my many talents.) So if I choose the E.R. option, I'll have to say things like:

"The 25 pound bag of McD's that I ate last night may have triggered my Irritable Bowel Syndrome, Doc."

"I think it may have because of the nuclear explosion in my ass this morning."

"I also had to hold a trash can between my thighs this morning. Do I look bulimic to you - vomiting is not my friend. I'm obviously sick, like on my death bed."

"Do you really have to look at my tonsils with that light thingmabob? The problem is in my stomach/ass region in case you wern't listening. I don't have a french fry caught in my throat, dude."

"My breath stinks? Well I didn't have time to brush my teeth before calling 911."

"Hey, you're kind of hot, Dr. IKnowYou'reRich. If I ever get divorced, let's hook up."

Tweeter on my blog!

2:00 a.m. - Woken by my laughing like hyena teenagers & a friend, whispers that sounded more like shouting, hissing at each other to be quiet & then an apparent farting contest (started by someone laughing so hard they farted) that devolved into more hysterical laughter.

I lay there, investigating, and realize that darling bitchy bitch and her friend, Jen, are dying their hair. I wonder why the boy rebel isn't hiding in a dark corner, playing his XBox, while this female bonding is going on & then realize.. Ohh, Jen is 20, very pretty! He's decided that he can gut his sister to flirt with her friend. (I am brilliant.)

2:05 a.m. - Me, crawling out of bed & giving the 'Mom-eye' to the culprits & shouting at them to be quiet before they wake their Dad who works like a dog to make money for me.

2:10 a.m. - (I'm long winded.) Boy rebel says, "You're the one that's going to wake him with that yelling."

2:16 a.m. - (Scrubbing my itching to give him a smack palms.) "I don't give a crap, better that I wake him than you!"

2:17 a.m. - Boy who wants a beating: "That made no sense."

2:18 a.m. - "I don't have to make sense you little shit, I'm the Momma!"

2:20 a.m. - Stomping back to bed, looking fab for being woken so early. Fall back to sleep in 30 seconds flat. (It's a talent.)

9 a.m. - Gently nudged right off the side of the bed by darling bitchy bitch. (Daughter.) "Momma, do you like my hair?"

9:20 a.m. - I took me that long to stare at her out of one bleary, booger crusted eye and wonder exactly what Clairol calls that color orange. And since my brain to mouth filter doesn't work with lack of sleep, I say - "What the hell is that color orange?"

9:22 a.m. - Agape with shocked hurt, she nearly screams, "It was bleach blonde!"

9:23 a.m. - "Find the receipt & get (your Dad's) my money back. Show them your hair while you're at it, they'll worry about getting sued & give you a Wal-Hell gift card."

9:24 a.m. - "You don't know what's cool! You're old!"

9:25 a.m. - Obviously she's pulled out the big guns so I feel safe in doing the same. "Well, your hair looks like an Easter egg so if cool is being festive for the holiday, you nailed it, Pippi."

We're off for breakfast. I'm sure I'll be back later for more happy blogging!