H.Q.B.I.C. - Random Tuesday

Friday started out with a random little carpenter ant in my kitchen that was immediately squashed by my super cute black mary jane...then I noticed that this carpenter ant wasn't so random because they were ALL OVER MY FUCKING FLOOR.  Like, everywhere!  So, I began shuffle ball changing all over my kitchen stomping out the colonized bastards as I'm yelling to my husband, "get the kids...they are everywhere, go get ant killer, oh my gawd they are EVERYWHERE!"  My son in the background reminding me, "mom, we don't say Gawd..."  He couldn't hear me pronounce the W.  I may have squealed at this point I'm not sure and don't judge.  What would you have done if you were standing in your kitchen where you make PB&J's in heart shapes for your children staring down one of these...

Those are PINCHERS people!!!!  Ready and willing to rip apart my flesh and drag pieces of my sweet skin to their wicked little queen bitch which could totally happen if by some freak accident during my murderous dance routine I fell and cracked my head on the utensil drawer knocking myself clean out.  I would lay there paralyzed as they took me bit by bit in a single file line to the one they worship.

Whoa, whoa...settle down there friend.  Everything is fine.  I sprayed the entire house down with insecticide made special for ants (it said it was safe and had little children's drawings on it to prove that point so it must be true!)  The next day I woke up and none of the family had any bites or the beginning of flesh eating disease so all is right with the world...or so I thought.  Once my mother heard of Friday's events she begins to explain that these ants will eat my house from the inside out hence why they are carpenters.  So, apparently these guys have tool belts and everything and they are in the wood on my home just taking things apart bit by bit and presenting it to their head bitch in charge, the queen of their colony.  So, guess who comes today?  Terminex you pinching, wood eating, pillaging, flesh eating, dancing mumma murdering bastards!!  Who is the Head Queen Bitch In Charge now M'fers!!!!  Mwah ah ah...

    

Backhanded Samaritan...

This weekend I watched for the first time Pay it Forward.  It's a cute little flick about an alcoholic mother (most of us can relate), a deformed face teacher and a son who is going to make the world a better place three people at a time.  That really sums up the entire movie so don't put it in your Netflix queue.
This morning, on my way to work and very late as usual I see a young gentleman walking down the side of a rather busy street carrying a gas can with a baby carrier and a very small toddler on a make shift leash.  I drive by like everyone else on their morning commute and begin arguing with myself that I should turn around.  That stupid movie from the weekend urging me to do something nice for this father.  Also how can I as a mother, in good conscience, allow these small babies to be put in harm's way walking down the shoulder of this road?  I put on my blinker and make a U-turn.  This is when every freaking e-mail I have ever received about the newest gang initiation starts flooding my thoughts...the baby carrier is actually empty but filled with some kind of hallucinogenic drug that will make me pass out and this guy will take me in as a prisoner and make me his Kizzie, or I will reach for the gas can and a hypodermic needle with AIDS blood on it will poke me and I will re-live Philadelphia only I won't have a super hot stud like Antonio Banderas to help me put make-up on my scabs, even worse the guy will ask me to stay with his children while he goes and gets gas and he never comes back and I am then left with two more young toddlers when the ones I have are eating away at my sanity.  I pull my vehicle in front of the threesome and ask the obvious, "you need gas?"  I suffer from brilliance...he murmurs "yes" and my head is chanting "rapist, rapist, rapist" but I take my chances and grab the gas can and explain I'll go get his gas and for him to take those babies back to his vehicle (which is very well suited for kidnapping a naive 30 something mother of two).  Fast forward to my drive back to the car with the full can...I call my husband and explain I am helping some dude with two babies and give him a full description of my future captor and describe the car where I will be held for months putting lotion on my skin and as I'm pulling over I do so in a way so I can give him the license plate number.  I get out, preparing for the worst and hand the gas can to the young father.  Not wanting to sound entirely corny and say to him "pay it forward" because he must know I just watched the movie and that is most of the reason I am doing this in the first place I instruct him to, "do something nice for somebody else".
There you have it, my first attempt at making the world a better place.  Eat that Haley Joel Osment!  To the dude on the side of the road, sorry I thought you wanted to kidnap me and make a pretty suit from my flesh.  Pay it Forward!

It's been a while...

This plate directs those that pull behind it to "NVESTIT".  Now, I am not an expert on motorized vehicles but if I am going to take financial advice from a license plate I think it should probably be from a car a little more on the expensive side.  If this plate was attached to say a Bentley then perhaps I would have arrived at work and immediately revised my 401k portfolio but dude, you are driving a Pontiac GTO.  It would be different if this was the GTO The Beach Boys sang about but no, it still has that new car smell you can tell.  Maybe I am way off base here and what this guy is trying to say is that instead of pissing his money away on frivolous things like hot rod road hogs he chose to purchase a more feminine, economical, glorified Cavalier.  Which leads me to an entirely different topic.  Some cars should only be driven by the female population and I am going to add the Pontiac GTO made in a year that begins with a 20 to that list.  So, if you consider yourself a manly dude that is single and ready to mingle consider this a free PSA:

1. Pontiac Sunfire - this car is the biggest offender in my book but if yours is purple you might need to turn in your man card or just come out already.
2. Cavalier - the only time you should drive this is if it belongs to the chick you are dating and it doesn't make a difference if you have a garter hanging from the rearview.
3. VW Bug - old school or the newer version with the cute little flower vase on the dash, run away
4. Pontiac GTO that currently still has a warranty
5. Dodge Neon - over sized roller skate, seriously
6. Geo - any make or model and you shouldn't even be able to fit in one unless your last name is Roloff
7. Mini Van of any shape or size and you are not either a) married, b) a dad or c) working at a daycare

So fellas, if you are starting any of the above engines and have hopes of getting laid in the near future you need to place a 'RENTAL' sticker on the side and explain to any potential wifey that your super charged, super manly, hot rod from heaven is in the shop because it keeps breaking down from pure awesomeness.

so now what...

I have found myself becoming more and more addicted to people and their blogs...I tend to have that addictive personality you hear about on A&E's intervention.  It truly is a miracle I never ended up some pimped out junkie.  Thankfully, most of my addiction need has been filled by being obnoxious, drinking (that's at least legal) and stalking people I have never or will ever meet.  There are some truly brilliant people on the internets.  I ask you to visit some of the blogs I follow, you will not be disappointed!  I also find that all of these funny people are also walking a fine line between normal and completely out of their fucking minds and that has been very reassuring.  I may have even teared up a little reading http://yo-mamasblog.blogspot.com/2010/06/this-post-is-kind-of-serious-i-threw-in.html this morning.  Either because I may be having these same emotional issues or I am a giant pussy.  Note - I AM a giant pussy not my pussy is giant, thank you very much.  So this leaves me with the question of what do I do about it?  I'm riding an emotional roller coaster ride to crazy and although I'm safely buckled in I am throwing very sharp objects at the innocent bystanders which just happen to be my sweet family (I am exxagerating a little bit here on the sweet part).  I remember one morning, I think I was about 8 or 9 and I awoke to my mom, red faced in anger, screaming at the top of her lungs; "WHERE IS MY FUCKING PIC"  (pic-as in hair comb for permed or naturally curly locks).  I never used her FUCKING PIC nor did I know where it was but at 6am in the morning I had to now make finding that pic my one goal in life so everyone could calm down.  Chanting begins...I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and, doggonit, people like me!  Damn you Stuart Smalley!  Now, where is my wallet...uh oh.

Fondly ~ SumSum

There's a pity party here, a pity party there, wave your hands in the air, shake your derriere...

PLEASE NOTE - this is my random Tuesday post but apparently Big Brother and the Inner Party were completely against any illegal trafficking over the Internets yesterday...that, or my time machine just began working and if that's the case here I come Woodstock!!!!!

I don't feel random today...in fact I'm having one of those really awesome days where your mind let's you know that you are getting ready to have your period...have it or release it, I'm not sure the best term but I'm moody and may have cried a couple times just this morning.  I wonder if I can get my hands on one of those wire hangers for a back alley hysterectomy.  Dear hormonal imbalances, it's not working out...

I drank myself to sleep last night (one fish bowl did the trick so don't worry family, my alcoholic doppelganger scummer is not coming back into town) and never put the load of laundry I had sitting on the couch in the washer.  When I awoke this morning and saw the basket of clothes I thought they were clean...needless to say I am wearing A LOT of body spray today. 

I am doused in a body spray titled Pure Seduction...The bottle states I'll imagine I am standing in a lush garden of sensual fragrance but to be honest there is nothing lush or sensual about the fragrance I am emitting.  This is garbage chic at it's finest people...

The turtle is still alive and I'm actually starting to like the little bugger.  He has been the easiest to care for...he doesn't scratch at the back door to go out or whine because he hasn't eaten in a couple of days, will these kids ever give me a break?

We are having a party for my youngest son in July and my mom asked if there was anything I still needed.  I shared my list of still needs and then added, "Oh you know what else?  I need water balloons!"  To which she responded, "I can definitely get those.  They have a huge bag of them at the dollar store...they are called water balloons."  Yes mom, yes they are...

Fondly ~ SumSum

Am I in 1984?

Big Brother is obviously keeping a watchful eye on my internet voyages and has certainly sabotaged my afternoon blogging.  I don't understand what the big deal is...sure, I am clearly not obeying the electronic communications policy set forth in the employee handbook but it's not like I'm the one knee deep in porn (today).  I'm not the one sending love e-mails to the married person I'm having a lucid affair with in another department (yes, that is really happening and it is as juicy as it sounds).  I'm not spending 20 minutes 3+ times each day in the handicap stall suffering from wicked IBS (we have code words for when not to enter the facilities; RED=do not enter/PINK=subtle shat scent/CLEAR=proceed with your own dump).  I'm not traveling from cubicle to cubicle spreading my halitosis around the entire floor (I really think this person has a serious medical condition and their breath is screaming a warning to deaf ears).  I'm certainly not the one sitting at my desk all day picking at acne on my neck and then going into the kitchen to grab cookies brought in for the whole office (no one touched the casserole this person brought in during the Christmas pot luck).  I blog and if that's a crime, damn it, sue me but don't fire me because as much as I don't want to admit it I need this gig...at least until Andy Samberg stumbles upon my blog and wants me to write the follow up to Dick in a Box, Twat in a Tote.

Fondly ~ SumSum

How not to make an asshole...

I have no special instructions on such an accomplishment but rather this is a call for advice.  How does one make a boy child turn into a grown ass man without the hole?  Don't get me wrong, my guy is better than average (that's in case he reads this) but like most men has random and sometimes extended stays into assholedness.   Sometimes I push him to it and some days he just takes the trip there on his own.  From what I find 99.9% of women can say the same.  Sometimes they are selfish assholes, absent assholes, deaf assholes, worthless assholes, polio ridden assholes, drunk assholes, dumb assholes but all with one thing in common ASSHOLES.  So, if it is common knowledge that most (if not all) men are assholes then how do I make sure my sweet little baby boys don't wind up with the same nickname whispered by their wives as she takes another load of laundry up the stairs as he sits and watches UFC 1500?  I think it's impossible, all of our sons will wind up being assholes.  We won't think they are just like our MIL's don't think their sons are but they will be.  So, instead of a call for advice I guess this has progressed into an apology to my future daughter in laws.  I'm sorry that you are such bitches that drive my sweet baby boys into assholedness.  Maybe if you would serve dinner a little bit warmer next time or rub his feet before bed he wouldn't treat you like the son stealing twat that you are.

Fondly ~ SumSum