OK, We Can Leave SpongeBob Alone, Now.

I don't care what anyone else says, this whole article is just a euphemism for dirty, dirty acts of perversity.

Key quotes:

'He found the animal communing with his dog, Dandy, and both seemed to be hitting it off. '

'The authority doesn't normally do goats, but Wellington says they get calls like that from time to time. '

'He's friendly, as long as you don't turn your back on him, Cox said. '

Sick, sick SICK.

It's My Party, and I'll Lie If I Want To*

Wow. If you take a look at my Stat Counter over there on the sidebar, you will be seeing that it is at exactly 9,998 visitors. That's TWO away from 10,000. This is the shit, because I've been sitting on my 67th post for almost 3 months now, and I'm just never going to be able to hit that lovely 100th post mark, because of the bullshit this-absolutely-free-therefore-I-have-no-fucking-cause-to-complain-about-it Blogger pulls on me.

So, I'd like to tell the 10,000th visitor: "This is your lucky day! As the 10,oooth visitor to this little piece of literary-type heaven, you will get a new Swatch. A new Swatch, and a pair of pink and black striped leg warmers." Yes, I'd like to say that, but that would be a lie. (*See? Told ya!) Instead, I will have my own celebration, which will consist of tequila, pizza rolls, and unnecessary body piercing, quite possibly even my own.

The party never ends, at Casa de Tater.*

(*It's also my blog, and I'll write lame endings, if I want to.)

(Update: Larry Jones was visitor #9999.)

(Update numero two: Llama was visitor #10,000. She still doesn't get the Swatch, but is more than welcome to join me for copious amounts of tequila and pizza rolls.)

I Wish I Were More Interesting.

Really, I do. But, when the majority of things I have to say revolve around how many god-awful pink houses there are out there, I have opted instead to give you ...

A picture of Nick Nolte:



Nick Nolte's cat:



Discuss.

Things are Going ... Well, Things are Going.

We are searching for our dream house. We are hunting down sturdy boxes. We are hoping to get pre-approved ... soon. We are sending out revamped resumes to interested parties. We are researching schools and neighborhoods. WE ARE RIGHT FUCKING OUT OF OUR HEADS. We have not decided to move into separate apartments ... yet.

"It's Like a Trampy Snowflake!"

See?

Link and title courtesy of Llama.

So, I'm Going About This All Wrong

As I'm sure a lot of you know (and if you don't, I expect you to turn in your Geek Membership badge immediately, and don't let the door hit your ass on the way out) that NPR had interviews with various bloggers who lost their jobs because of what they wrote/posted on their blogs. The first, and possibly most well known, was the First Lady of Getting Your Ass Fired for Talking Smack About Your Supes: Heather Armstrong of Dooce.

I, however, am the First Lady of Doing Everything Ass-Backwards. See, I waited till I was fired by The Bastards That Canned Me before writing about how bastardly The Bastards That Canned Me really are. Pity, that. To think that I could have told the world at large that there was this one supervisor whose make-up regime clearly involved pushing her face into a birthday cake every morning. Then there was Johnny-Paul Redneck Boy, who was clearly the result of first cousins getting a little too chummy in the back of the pickup while parked behind the Dairy Queen. Oh, and then there was Little Miss Fishmouth, who was, to put it delicately, a raging disease-spreading whore.

But do I do this? Do I spread this bile and venom about the powers that be at BastardCo, earning myself a blogosphere martyrdom and inclusion in UrbanDictionary? Nooooooo! I do it after the fact, which probably means that the fuckers will be calling me tomorrow, offering me a company car, a corner office, and a cabana boy named Raoul.

Bastards.

OK, Everyone, On the Count of Three ...

Ready?

1 ...

2 ...

3 ...

AWWWWWW!

A Lot Can Happen in 9 Months

Disclaimer: I AM NOT PREGNANT. I HAVE TWO CHILDREN, AND I. AM. NOT. PREGNANT.

Yes, indeedy.

A relatively normal, stick-bug sized woman, such as myself, can turn into a quite-a-bit-larger-than-a-stick-bug snarling beast who would kill you as soon as look at you if you didn't offer up your cheeseburger with fries fast enough. A relatively healthy woman can develop gestational diabetes, and be forced to not eat food for longer than an hour, which doesn't set well with the newly developed ravenous eating machine she's become. A relatively sane woman can begin sobbing uncontrollably in the middle of Wal-Mart while shopping for baby gear, just because she happened to find a tiny stuffed Zoe from Sesame Street. Also, a relatively whatever-the-word-is-for-not-having-an-ounce-of-guilt-about-what-she-fills-her-mind-and-body-with can succumb to tremendous pangs and an almost uncontrollable desire to flog herself because she 1) ate an entire chocolate cream pie in one sitting and 2) was caught reading Mary Shelley's Frankenstein and was accused of permanently damaging the baby's psyche. The chocolate pie seemed to have no lasting damage, (having 3 thumbs can actually be quite helpful). However, the gothic horror-induced psychosis may still present itself. He's still young. (Was pregnant, but now NOT PREGNANT.)

However, none of these things are likely to happen in the next 9 months, because ... well, because I said so. (See? NOT PREGNANT.)

What is happening is that our lease will be up, (lease up, again, NOT PREGNANT) and we have decided that we are finally going to take down the Sex Pistols posters and neon beer signs, put on some clean clothes, become adults and purchase a house. I know, it's just so anti-Generation X to do anything even remotely productive or practical, but one can only play saxophone on the street corner for tips for so long. Especially since I don't actually have a saxophone...or any musical talent. (Or PREGNANCY. Because I am NOT PREGNANT.)

This presents us with a dilemma. We can afford a house (on one salary) in our present city of residence, if we don't particularly mind that it's all solar heat, and has the words U-Haul printed all over the exterior. Yes, I suppose I could go back to work, but the prospect of putting on shoes and socks every morning and having to use words like ... um ... well, I can't remember any work-related words right now, but as soon as I do, I'll be sure and include them. Fortunately, I have found a loophole in all this. During the process of becoming adults and practical and smart, I've done what I always do, and taken things to extremes. While I've been very busy dealing with the credit bureaus, and researching mortgage lenders, and knitting the kids's clothes out of used dryer lint to save money, I've also found various bits of helpful nuggets of information for prospective homebuyers. Some of these are: investigate the neighborhood(s) you are considering well before you commit, make sure the house isn't built on fault lines, crumbling cliff edges, or sacred Indian burial ground (unless you want to pay a shitload of money for homeowner's insurance that includes Demon-Children-Eating-Tree coverage). Then I found this particular bit of advice: 'It's best to not over-extend yourselves, and look for a mortgage that can be handled with one salary, in case one of you loses your job.' SCORE! (Still NOT PREGNANT.)

So, that leaves us with a couple of options. We move back to our hometown where the cost of living is more manageable, and I continue my career as a professional slug/writer/keeper of the spawn, and expanding that job description to include the title 'Avoider of Mother and In-Laws.' Our other option would be stay here, I go back to work full time, my daughter is left in the hands of Miss Hannigan, the world is denied my Magnum Opus and Minimum Bill the Cat, and I make an appearance on the 11:00 news for strangling my supervisor at Bastardco. with a phone cord. (Not for being PREGNANT. Because I am NOT PREGNANT.)

Decisions, decisions ... (None of which has to do with being pregnant. Because I AM NOT PREGNANT.)

Addendum to an already totally misunderstood and now really fucked up post because of all the disclaimers, clarifications, and legal fees resulting from said misunderstanding(s): I did not (past tense, people) actually develop gestational diabetes, which would necessitate my eating more (still past tense) than I already was. I was thought to have developed it, and had to not eat for a long time before the tests, which showed that I did not have G.D. I won't say anymore on this traumatic subject, except that I had to drink a choice of clear crap-flavored liquid or orange colored crap-flavored liquid before the tests, but afterward I kicked the blood-test giver (that's the technical term. Yes, it is!), in the balls. Then I had a sandwich, and half a gallon of milk.

It Beats a Bowling Ball Named Homer

Chocolate cake, shrimp dinner, Young Frankenstein on DVD, and unlimited access to the GameCube.

Best. Birthday. Since. Last. Year.

That Cheesecake Isn't Going to Eat Itself, You Know!

I'd like to preface this post by saying that my lack of writing is entirely NOT MY FAULT. It's everything and everyone around me. There is a treasure trove of Cheerios, bits of paper, and something that I sincerely hope was cake frosting under my dining room table. The kids keep on with their relentless and unreasonable requests for attention and food and release from the closet because it's 'scary'. Clio, Erato, and the rest of their no-good sisters have left town with the Merchant Marines (no mean feat, seeing as we're landlocked here, and they're mythological, er ... people).

And it's 5 degrees outside and there's flannel sheets and a down comforter on the bed and I'm not made of stone, people!

More Wisdom from The People's Court

1) When trying to come across as a non-racist person, try and avoid this phrase: "I have friends who are black."
2) When trying to appear as a rational, intelligent adult on national television, do NOT bring your necessary documents in a M&M folder.
3) If your wife continues to speak, even after uttering such Darwin Award Winning phrases such as "I have friends who are black." the stun gun and duct tape route would probably be your best chance of winning the case.
4) On the off chance that this doesn't work, it's probably a good idea to relieve the black baliff of his billy club and gun before she starts demonstrating her non-racistness by telling him "You people sure can dance!"

We Interrupt This Self-Centeredness ...

For a quick note to Getupgrrl at Chez Miscarriage: "GODDAMMIT!" and a hopeful and welcoming wave to the sister/brother.

Thank you, and we now resume our regularly scheduled ego-maniacal ramblings.

Progress is Progress is a Pop-up

Snippet of conversation between UH and myself tonight:

"Is your book going to be about me?"

(Sound of cat getting into trash in kitchen)

"No, it's going to be about the cat that was killed for getting into the trash."

"Yeah, 'The Cat That Was Disemboweled in the Kitchen.'"

"Yes, it's going to be a children's book."

"It's a pop-up!"

It practically writes itself, I tell you what.

Depressing Realization of the Day:

I have never been referred to as a 'screeching harpy.' A bitch, sure! I was even labeled as having a 'foul, putrid, hate-filled little mouth*', but harpy? Not once.

My life is shit.


*=Upon further reflection, this was 'venomous, putrid, hate-filled little mouth', which just makes it SO much better.

Well, It's About Freakin' Time (3 Things)

I was asked to do this, with a minimum of whining and pouting, and I've finally got around to posting it.

Three Screennames You Have: I'm. Not. Telling.

Three Things You Like About Yourself: Ability to walk upright, opposable thumbs, tear ducts

Three Things You Dislike About Yourself: My uncanny resemblance to Hitler, my feet, and being a humorless S.O.B.

Three Parts of Your Heritage: I'm. Not. Telling.

Three Things That Scare You: Surveys, manicurists, and spiders.

Three of Your Everyday Essentials: Water, food, air.

Three Things You Are Wearing Right Now: Yarmulke, toga, and a bandaid.

Three of Your Favorite Bands/Artists (at the moment): Yanni, John Tesh, and Marilyn Manson.

Three of Your Favorite Songs at Present: It's My Party (and I'll Cry if I Want To), I Want to F*** You Like An Animal, and the theme to A Summer Place

Three New Things You Want to Try in the Next 12 Months: World domination, reuniting the cast of The Brady Bunch, making fried chicken

Three Things You Want in a Relationship (love is a given): Total subservience, never ending supply of chocolate, cash.

Two Truths and a Lie: A few of these answers are true, some of these answers are total bullshit, most of these answers were coerced out of me by gun-wielding ground squirrels.

Three Physical Things About the Opposite Sex (or same) That Appeal to You: The ability to fly, to walk on water, and sweat chocolate.

Three Things You Just Can't Do: Fly, walk on water, sweat chocolate

Three of Your Favorite Hobbies: Drinking, swearing and puppy bashing.

Three Things You Want to Do Really Badly Right Now: Drink, swear, and bash a puppy.

Three Careers You're Considering: Do I really need to continue with this theme?

Three Places You Want to Go on Vacation: 3 Mile Island, Cherynobyl, and Disney Land.

Three Kids' Names: (If it ever happens) Beulah, Mohammad, and Peter

Three Things You Want to Do Before You Die: Stop breathing, stop my heart from beating, gasp and twitch a little.

Three People You Want to Take this Quiz: Pee-Wee Herman, Paul Reubens, and the assistant to the head vampire in the movie version of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

There's No Going Back Now, n'shit.

Since I've apparently lost my place in line, and nobody is even bothering to read my crap anymore, I'm just going to start posting links to Mr. Rogers' website.

And if that just didn't satisfy the tons of people who are not reading my crap anymore, take that first link, right click and save it, then plug the URL in HERE.

Know what I'm sayin'?

On Not Writing

I've been doing some research, and have found that, as a writer, I'm fucked. Not because I haven't actually done any writing, because that's just crazy talk.

No, I'm fucked because I just can't take myself as seriously as other (*ahem*) authors out there. I don't want to be an author, and I firmly believe that anyone who refers to themself as such, or the much dreaded 'scribe' should be taken out and shot in the privates. I don't care much about the whole necessary evils of successful publishing, either: book tours, interviews, hand jobs for the primo spots in the bookstores. I just want to be left alone with my kids and my cats and eat marshmallows and write and get enough money to buy a big ass house with a separate room for my Legos and someone named Stefan to clean up my Lego Room when I'm done.

It doesn't have to be a large room.

And ... TIME!

Does anybody know the expiration date on New Years Resolutions? Because, if it's anything under 10 days, I'm toast.

Lemony Snicket is an Asshole

We took the kids to the movies this weekend, and ended up in a theater watching A Series of Unfortunate Events. It was T1's choice, as celebration for his good grades. For those unfamiliar with this, and/or too damn lazy to click on the link I so thoughtfully provided, the basic plot equation is as follows: 3 kids + recently barbecued parents + deliciously evil villain who tries to off the kids in varied and interesting ways to get their large inheritance = quality family time that results in youngest cowering on your lap and hiding her face in terror for 35% of the movie. Good, good times.

The movie is based on the series of the same name, written under the nom de plume of Daniel Handler, Lemony Snicket. Very popular books, well-written, dark sense of humor, and it just isn't quality children's literature without at least one violent death caused by flesh-eating leeches. I'd even venture to say that they are better than the JK Rowling juggernaut (I don't really need to say Harry Potter, do I?), if I could do so without fear that I'll be dead resulting from a very suspicious yet fully explainable accident when I leave the house tomorrow morning.

My point is (finally) that I'm not doing any writing other than this blog. There isn't much money in naked Barbies that doesn't involve a digital camera and a paved road straight to hell. Despite my repeated requests, not one of you has offered to start sending me money for no apparent reason. I'm not likely to find a job that will include watching Judge Judy while eating marshmallows straight from the bag (what?!? It's a FAT-FREE food.) in the description of duties. I suppose I could go back to school, spend tons of money and time, and get told what to think by a bunch of over-educated assholes, or I could continue to get that same thing here, for free, and I don't even have to change out of my Spongebob pj's.

So. Since this is the time for changes, resolutions, and other promises that people don't intend to keep, I'm going to start writing. Again. Like, for money and crap. I have it figured out: Parents die in violent and painful ways = orphaned child(ren) thrown in with villains and just not very nice people = boatloads of cash. I just need to find a new way to kill off the parents, get myself a cool pen name "that sounds like a sneeze", and start e-mailing Jim Carrey and Tim Burton now.

I'll be putting the down payment on the mansion in oh, about 3 months. 6 months, tops.