Friday, May 15, 2009

Big Daddy Breaking Bad

Big Daddy told me to shut up. SHUT. UP. Did the Fucker fall down & bump his head?!

Oh. By the way. *Caution* P. Mama is pissed, this post may contain excessive use of profanity.

Yes, the love of my life, the man that vowed to worship me like the GODDESS I am, told me to shut up, last night.

We were on my way home from work and stopped at McShitty's to get me a sweet tea. I was telling him all about this woman who was on Oprah for shooting her husband eleven times after suffering years of abuse.

And all of a sudden, out of the wild blue yonder, out of left field, out of his fucking ass, obviously, he thinks that telling me to 'shut up' is a good plan.

Big Daddy - *aggravated voice* "Shut up now & tell me what you want me to order for you."

My head whipped to the side, the look on my face priceless, I'm sure. The look that was a combination of shock and wtf. A look that clearly conveyed - Have you lost your F'N mind?! Did you just have a stroke?! Look at me, quick - is half your face drooping?? Nope, you still look like the dickhead that just told me to SHUT UP.

P. Mama - *cold, going to duct tape your balls in your sleep voice* "Sweet tea. I want tea. Thank you." (Motherfucker.)

So, then, while we're waiting to get the drink, he tries to continue with the Oprah conversation. Like he gives a shit. No.

I made grunting noises and gave monosyllabic answers. He needed to recognize my passive aggressive pissed off. Which he did. It took a minute (to see me flipping him the bird in the dark of the car) but he did. And this is what he said:

Big Daddy - "I'm sorry for telling you to shut up but I needed to know what you wanted and you would have just kept going on and on and on."

Is that his idea of an apology?? FAIL. FAILFAILFAIL!!

P. Mama - "I always get a sweet tea. Every night - just a sweet tea. Was I going to go buck ass wild tonight and order a Big Mac extra value meal, super sized, hold the pickles, extra onions, no lettuce, more tomato, extra salt on the fries so I can have back to back heart attacks because I know I just had the first one when this SOB told me to SHUT UP! oh and two cherry pies for a dollar, please??"

Big Daddy - Silence. (Smart.)

When I woke this morning, he was cuddling me close. I remained aloof. I'm waiting for him to bring me an entire gallon of sweet tea today. If he does, I shall once again think he's the most perfect man in the universe.

Thursday, May 14, 2009

One Ass Cheek Is Higher Than The Other

I woke late, yesterday morning and was frantically trying to get ready for work. Finally ready, I sprinted (lazily shuffled while picking out my eye boogers) into the living room, slammed my feet into flip-flops and headed for the door. It was then that I noticed one foot seemed.. wrong. But with a backpack (laptop) on my shoulder, a huge homeless woman purse on the other shoulder, I didn't bother to look down.

I thought to myself - I must have stepped on gum and it's making this flop feel wrong - and off I went!

Because I'm an incredibly nice caregiver (too lazy to cook), I stopped at the grocery store to pick up a rotisserie chicken & slaw for lunch. I started noticing that quite a few people were staring at my feet. How rude! And yet, even that didn't make me look down.

See y'all, I had both big toenails removed, years ago. Ingrown toenails are a hurty bitch. And while in surgery, they found bone curvature so whacked off about 1/4 an inch from each big toe. I've had years of people staring at my feet/toes. I barely notice this anymore. And yes, I am redneck enough to still wear flip-flops and sandals to show off the weird of my toes. Sometimes, I even have my daughter paint a little pink 'nail' on the skin to match the rest of my polished toes. :)

But back to the Flip-Flop Disaster of '09.

I started giving these staring people looks back. The -glare-. You know the one, Mama's. The glare you use on your breaking bad kids. The one that says - "If I have to pause my blogging & come up offa this chair, someone is gettin' an ass whoopin'."

Or the glare that says to the much prettier, sexier, thinner single woman checking out your husband for a bit too long - "I will cut you, hooker."

So, they're staring, I'm glaring and finally, I make my way to the check out. Where a teenaged boy is waiting to pay, too. A teenaged boy whose face looks like acupuncture gone wrong, he has so many piercings. His F'n earlobe is hanging lower than my boobs do because he has a spinner tire rim wedged into it.

And he is staring, fixated even, on my feet. I begin to have a heated, silent conversation with myself.

*this little shit wants to even glance at my poor, ugly toes and look disgusted?? This here was involuntary body modification, unlike that booger crusted tin skewered through your nose, heathen. Didn't his Mama teach him that staring is rude?? I should take my flip-flop off and smack him in the back of the head. Does this kid have a foot fetish, I wonder? I've heard about people like that..*

Finally unable to stand it a second longer, I hissed through clenched teeth, "WHAT are you staring at?!"

And he drawled, "Mayumm, you have two different flip-flops on."


A look down (finally) assured me that yes, I had one white, dressy flip flop with a wedge heel and one brown, everyday hillbilly on.

Here people.. was the reason why there was a hitch in my giddy-up. The reason why one of my ass cheeks was higher than the other. And WHY people were staring at my fucking feet!

I quickly hid my utter humiliation and leveled pierced boy with a snotty look before replying, "Obviously you didn't see the HUGE layout in Rolling Stone where Beyonce/Bono/Lil' Wayne/AND OPRAH were wearing their flip-flops just like this!

And then I stalked (gimped) off, leaving the chicken and slaw behind.

Monday, May 11, 2009

Chick Flick Epiphany

I was finally able to get a few hours off of work. Just enough that Big Daddy & I could make dinner for two, together. And then to watch a movie I have been -begging- him to watch with me, for months.

P.S. I Love You.

He's not much for chick flicks. Thus, the necessary begging. And a possible promise of my singing (and humming the instrumental sections) all 985,623 minutes of 'Stairway To Heaven' on his tool of menace.

*rubs chapstick onto her lips before continuing with this post*

He ended up really liking the movie. As do I. You know a movie is super good when tears burn your eyes like the smoke from a Marlboro, when your nose bubbles snot and your throat clogs with tears to the point that you suck a breath like a beached (whale) really cute, skinny fish.

Maybe that's why men don't want to watch them with us. -I have had an epiphany!- They know we will want some sweet lovin' when it's over and during the whole movie, they are looking over at us, tears, snot, hiccuped sobs, blotchy faces full of adoration as we slobber out how we love him just like Kate loves Leo.

Of course I would share the slab of ice floating in the frozen sea, Big Daddy! And when you (are shoved) fell off the side, just like you do our bed, because there's only room for Phat Mama, my 'heart might go on' but I would be inconsolable for a good while. At least until I got the insurance check from the dickheads that said Titanic couldn't sink.

Anyway. Yes, my epiphany is that men may not want to chick flick with their beloved woman because she is giving him lovestruck, teary 'fuck me' eyes while snot is rolling from her nose to her trembling lower lip.

So we were watching P.S. I Love You & I sat there thinking to myself - God, please let me go first (like in 40 years or so - no rush, really) because I could not bear to live without him. He is every best moment of my life.

*makes moo eyes at Big Daddy & snuffles up dripping snot - I'm in the mood, lets make out.*

Friday, May 8, 2009

All Dogs Go To Heaven

I was suprised yesterday with a couple of comments I got on the MeMe's post. I had mentioned one of the things I love is the velvet bag of my dog's ashes. I know that having your dog cremated is not sooo.. usual. Or at least I thought I knew that. Maybe I was wrong.

I've mentioned to people since it happened that we had her cremated & got the 'weird looks' from them, too.

But those comments got me to thinking. And thinking about that is not something I allow myself to do often. I've never lost anyone I love. The closest I came was watching Big Daddy go through the loss of his Dad. And when our son was critically ill for a very long time, having to come to grips with the possibility of losing him. But we didn't. God is good.

So when it came time to put our dog down - I was wrecked. Does that seem melodramatic? I don't know. I just know that I miss her still, every day.

What made her so special? She was my Dad's dog - he got her as a puppy from his neighbors. A wolf had gotten into the family pet's pen and bred their Chow Chow before they could run the wild animal off. And when our son was very ill, my Dad moved 2,000 miles to be with us, to help his only daughter through the worst time in her life.

The night he got to our house, this scary looking dog walked in with him, went to our son who was drugged on pain killers, sleeping on the couch. She sniffed him from his face to his toes and back up & then laid down next to the couch. She would not leave him from that point on - except to go to the bathroom & eat.

I believe, to this day, that she knew how ill he was & thought she was his Momma.

Over the years, he and I were here favorites. She loved Big Daddy & darling bitchy bitch - but it was obvious to everyone that the boy & I were everything to her. The adoration of us could be seen in her eyes and silly, loving smile as she looked at us.

The day we put her down because she was old, because she had cancer - my son & I took her in to the vet. I held her head to my chest while Colton slowly petted her back. And then in just one moment, she was gone.

I wrote about her, the night before we had her put down, and then a few days later. I'd like to share that now.

This was the blog post I did (elsewhere) the night before:

To preface this blog post, I will say that.. I'm going to sound like a crazy person. I know this, aware of it & I don't care. But for the animal lovers out there, I will sound completely sane.

I should be asleep right now. I have to wake up early in the morning, but I cannot sleep. Not yet.
In seven hours, I will be standing in the vet's office, with my son and the dog we both love so much. We will both hug her close, kiss her face, tell her how very loved she is while she is being put down.

She is a dog. A pet. Not human. But she is family.

She is unconditional love and dedication.

She is this huge puff ball of fur that keeps my toes warm when she curls at my feet. She is the licorice eater.

She is my protector at night when I'm afraid of the dark. She is the lick on the tip of my nose that says without words - I love you too.

She is my shadow, wherever I go. No matter how many times I move my fat ass, she never fails to wake up & follow.

She is the silly smile face & the wiggly one in the grass, scratching her back.

She is the one that sat with me for hours, days and months, watching over my son. She's the paw in my hand when I say.. Friends?

She cannot hug me but when I hug her, I feel better, no matter what's wrong.

She is my Katie, my grizzly bear, my baby. And I am heartbroken beyond words to say goodbye to her.

I'm 38 years old & I've never lost someone I love.

Until my dog.

Three days later, I tried to do a blog post about how I felt afterwards. I couldn't even type, I was sobbing so hard.

So while I have cried during this post, it's not as bad as then. Maybe I finally am getting to that place where I can remember her without it hurting my heart so very much.

Thank y'all for taking the time to read this while I shared a few moments with her.

Thursday, May 7, 2009

MeMe - zelzee & GI.

Good Morning, y'all. :)

zelzee tagged me and so did GI, with MeMe's. *smooch* to both of you. Here are the answers:

7 Things I Love:

1. The baby blue blanket that a woman knitted for me when I was young.
2. The collection of books I've been saving since childhood.
3. Sheets that have been hung out on the line to dry. They smell sooo good.
4. Flip-flops.
5. Watching movies with Big Daddy & the kids.
6. The soft, velvet bag that holds my beloved dog's ashes.
7. My computer.

The seven things that I think make me Awesummm:

1) I can streak my daughters hair better than any salon could.
2) I'm an amazing cook.
3) I'm a pretty decent writer.
4) I'm a great dancer & could do the 'tootsie roll' like nobodies business!
5) I'm a music trivia goddess.
6) I once rented a movie to Mike Tyson & didn't get a body part bitten off.
7) This is hard. I just asked my daughter what was awesummm about me and she replied, "Everything." :)

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Dearly Beloved, Blame Pru.

*Caution: The following story is stinky. Read at your own risk.

Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here today..

To tell a shiteous story that Prunella reminded me of, a couple of weeks back with a post she did.

You don't know Pru? Oh, for shame! She is awesome, hysterical and terminally fucking sexy. You must go to her site and follow along. Trust me, you must!

So, a couple of weeks ago, Pretty Pru did a post about what happens when you eat the wrong mix of foods and then have to go to the Booby Barn to strip for a livin'. It is one of the top five funniest posts that I've ever read. Go look through her archives for it - so worth the time!

I left a comment at the time telling her that someday soon, I would do a similar post and lay the credit at her feet, homage to the most fantastic girl on blogger! (Though she is tied with GI & Vodka Mom.)

Now where was I? Oh, the shiteous story.

Once upon a time,

(Do you like how I'm mixing the first line of the wedding ceremony with the first line of a fairy tale in this post?)

There was a very well hung man that P. Mama had the good sense to marry.

Ohhh, how she loved him. He was tall and strong, smart and funny, he worked hard to give her money for (clothes, shoes, purses, electronics) bills and food. He was so good looking he took her breath away and he was very (orally gifted) good at visiting Brazil. Daily. Frequent flier miles like a mofo.

Years went by and P. Mama felt very blessed. She never regretted saying, 'I Do' to the man of her dreams.

Until one awful day. One day that was to be the tornado, the famine, the blight, the natural disaster, visited upon her marriage.

On this day, she was sitting at her desk, chatting happily with online (perverts) friends when Big Daddy walked in. And walked right past her. Actually, sprinted right past her like the bill collectors were hot on his heels.

*stops here for a second to show off her loverly Coach bag*

Now Big Daddy had a schedule upon getting home to his castle. And it was always to show the love to his Queen, first. About 30 minutes later, Phat Mama looked away from the computer long enough to realize that Big Daddy had not given her kisses on her face. He had not shown proper adoration, at all! It was then that she vaguely recalled his crazed sprint towards the back of the house.

Just as she was wondering if he were okay, she heard the most horrific scream. High pitched and much like a girl, her Man of Steel was screaming her name!

She jumped up and followed the sound to the bathroom and there, she stopped, frozen, her hand on the doorknob, not yet twisting, eyes big and round, filled with fear at what she might find.

Had he fallen in the shower and cracked his skull open?

Had he cut himself while shaving his pork & beans??

With monumental effort, she jerked on the knob and THREW open the door, prepared to save the man she loved!

Big Daddy had come down with the flu. And he was spinning in circles (picture Exorcist, please) unable to decide if his ass or his head should be in the toilet. At the moment, still spinning with indecision, he was repainting the bathroom with a mixture of hot doody and projectiled chalupa.

And in return for her bravery, her devotion.. Phat Mama was sprayed with a tsunami of shit.

Never one to give in, in the face of adversity, she dripped her way over to the miserable man, got them both into a shower and then him to bed. (After demanding he sleep on a Hefty trash bag.)

She mixed a cocktail (Xanax & zinfandel in a box) and once suitably fucked up enough to get through what was coming, she scrubbed the bathroom from floor to ceiling with bleach and the yard hose. And she *may* have called Big Daddy some names.

Like.. sonofabitchmotherfuckerdickheadwhydidimarrytheAK-47ofassholes. But she was drunk so she doesn't really remember.

Only later was he able to tell her that he started ass on the can and when the overpowering urge to vomit came upon him, he didn't know what to do so spun around to use the toilet he was just seated on. She asked him why he didn't just lean over a wee bit and use the bathtub?

His Einstein response? "Do you know what chunks of food do to a drain? I didn't want to have to fix that!"


Tuesday, May 5, 2009

Orange, Hairy, Arrested - Tool.

Dear Hugh,

I have been in (whorish lust) love with you ever since I watched the movie, "Something About You" with Ashley Judd. The moment I saw you in those boxer briefs, I knew we were meant to be, Hugh. Your smartass humor in the film and obvious intelligence only sweetened the deal your (huge package) smile promised me. And only me.

However, I must write to express a concern. I watched you on Oprah Live, last Friday & noticed something startling, Hugh. You glowed. Like a pumpkin on Halloween. You were orange, Hugh. The picture I've included doesn't really show just -how- orange, but I wanted to call you my sweet potata.

Wolverine cannot be orange, Hugh. You are naked and almost full monty in the film, or so I hear. You need to be a color not found in a box of Crayola. Please quit taking the dickhole advice of your minions when they tell you that a spray tan is where it's at. Tell them that you're the sexiest man alive and to shut their man pleaser, Hugh. For the sake of my happiness & because it will be stipulated in the prenup, I must insist you always look like this:

P.S. You can keep the Wolverine facial hair - I like a lil tickle on my thighs.

All my love,

Your future alimony payment

Dear Kid,

You're not really that handsome. It's just that you're so naughty. So delightfully filthy. Shamelessly trailer trash. You look like the best all night ride at the rodeo. Yeehaw, giddy-up Mr. Cock!!

But please quit getting arrested at Waffle House, Kid. Your mug shots are taking the big poo on my pornofantasies.


P. Mama, Yo.

Dear Viggo,

I confess to not loving you enough to watch that flop trilogy you did with the hobbits. However, you deserve an award (Oscar) for having the 'balls' to do this film not only completely naked but.. limp. You're a star, Viggo. You could have demanded a fluffer. You could have also demanded someone (dreadlock) trim that Amazon bush down yonder.

P.S. Call me when you've got that (weed whacked) managed.


Loved your Dom/Sadistic self in G.I. Jane.

Sunday, May 3, 2009

Trailer Trash Crib

I was perusing blogs this morning and came upon one that featured pictures of blogger's who had created the 'dream' nursery for their babies. Chandeliers, silk drapes, four inch pile white carpet.

The problem is that I instantly felt inferior as I looked at those -GORGEOUS- pictures. Why inferior? Because I was transported back 20 years to my own kid's nurseries.

No antique rocker passed down from kin that rowed over on the Mayflower.

I wedged my fat ass onto the seat of the plastic horse, held on to the handle sticking out the side of its head, planted the baby on a knee, clamped my lips together to hold the Marlboro tight and we took off at a gallop!

*Caution: These suckers are spring loaded. If you have a big ass and rock too fast, you -will- do a header over the handlebars and crush your ciggie between your face and the floor.

And those custom painted cribs?! Hand made stencils, carefully cut out, swirls of baby-safe paint mixed on a palette with mink-hair brushes.

I totally missed the Mama Picasso classes held next door to the Lamaze classes I didn't give a shit about. "Uhh yeah.. I'ma big girl, I've been doing that 'hoo hoo hee' breathing for a while now, thanks. Like on my once a year jog. Now quit trying to hand me more natural child birth literature, crazy bitch. I'm all for the Morphine/Quaalude/Xanax/Jack Daniels cocktail to get through this vajayjay nightmare."

But back to nurseries!

When my daughter was a baby, I bought a crib at a garage sale, hitched her to my hip and spray painted it & her hair a lovely shade of Pepto-pink. Then I stuck some Scratch & Sniff stickers all over it (not only pretty but fun too!) and called it a day.

And keeping with the 'I turned into an artist the moment I was inseminated' theme of these nurseries - trees painted on the walls? Really? Done in silvers and taupes, dreamy abstracts of a tree.. what the fuck, Monet! You're making those -other- Moms feel inferior. You know.. The ones that consider their toddler's room a beautiful place when they keep the finger-painted doody off the walls.

Nicely organized changing tables? Everything in those cute little wicker baskets? How about somewhere to put my bottle of wine when I had to dig around in the twenty baskets of unfolded clothes for a onesie and a matching sock? My 'elegant' contribution to the nursery? Strawberry Hill - $2.99 a bottle, stuck in the cup holder screwed into the ass end of the rocking horse.