The song 99 Red Balloons made me feel particularly stabby last night.

No, I don't particularly dislike the song 99 Red Balloons. It really has nothing to do with the song itself. I think it's a great song to jam to sometimes. And by sometimes, I mean like that time I was working for Lifetouch Church Directories (yes, you can laugh at the irony) and I was driving somewhere in the Bum-fuck of Minnesota and the only radio station I could get (because Hubby had accidentally broken my antenna) was playing 99 Red Balloons. So it was cool. But then it played some crappy song next, and I sucked it up and stuck my CD back in. Even though I'd been listening to the damned thing for two hours and was sick of it.

When it comes at me unexpectedly and I'm in the mood for it, I'm good with 99 Red Balloons. Also, when that song played in Wedding Crashers, I was okay with it. Alright, I think it was a deleted scene or a gag reel or something, but it was still pretty cool.

However, after coming home from a short night of having one margarita and a children's order of nachos (because that's HOW I ROLL) I decided to switch out the movies since Son and Hubby are home together and they might want to watch movies. So I picked up Meet The Robinsons and Coraline for them, and Watchmen for Hubby.

I am also feeling stabby that Jeffrey Dean Morgan was a total skeezoid prickface in this movie. He was all Chester-The-Molesterish. And it made me sad, because JDM should always be awesome like Denny. Always. Never skeezy and grody.

This movie SUCKED MY ASS. Like, I started watching it with Hubby and I felt this tugging sensation in my pants and I was like, "Watchmen? Why are you sucking on my anus?" And it pried it's lips from my rectum and said, "Because."

The movie's style was similar to Death Proof, except that Death Proof was kinda cool. It was all, Whoa! Random flashbacks for no apparent reason! and I was all, What the hell? Apparently it's about this group of retired superheros who were the shit back in the 40's, and some whackjob is snuffing them one at a time. Oh, and Russia wants to obliterate the world. Which is this odd subplot that seems to have just been thrown in there. And they're all old and wrinkly and fat and not at all remarkable (except Dr. Manhattan and Rorschach) but they can still whip ass.

The movie begins with the ass-whupping and death of one superhero. Then as they're poignantly zooming in upon the other has-beens surrounding his casket at the cemetery, they play 99 Red Balloons. What. The. Everloving. Fuck.

I just don't understand. There's a scene with Silk Spider II and whoever Patrick Wilson was playing and they're strolling down a dark alley and 20 guys come up and they just beat the crap out of them and walk away from it all. No fanfare, no amount of real awesome to it. No one wants to watch old balding creepies beat people up. Or watch superheros try to rape other superheros and later on shoot pregnant women.

Bah. I should have rented Body Of Lies.

Whoa, it's all sorts of the serious.

So I've been noticing lately that a lot of my fave bloggers have been blogging about feelings and stuff that goes with feelings. Like more feelings, and cheesecake. Because cheesecake and feelings? They're like, thisclose... So I thought, maybe I should bare a bit of myself (nothing that could get me arrested in 37 different states, sorry) and share with you. You know, more than my first blog post shared with you.

Just a quick note before I delve into the abyss of sunshine, rainbows and darkness; I'm not trying to scare anyone. I'm really not. I do wholeheartedly believe that this is a subject that isn't out there nearly enough. And as a result, I think that most women have no real idea what it's all about.

Cue ominous music.

Toxic shock syndrome.

Yes, we all read those stupid little pamphlets when we first being using tampons, if we ever begin using them at all. You browse over the TSS warning, and then giggle at the diagram of the tampon in the vagina. What the hell did that woman do with her other leg, anyway? Maybe she's a Mannequin. Maybe it's Kim Catrall. I digress.

However, I have survived the 'rare but potentially fatal' TSS... I fought the bacteria, and I won. Barely. What I didn't realize is how incredibly fast it progresses, and how few outward symptoms there really are.

Seriously. All I had was extreme extreme exhaustion and a fever. The exhaustion was so bad I couldn't even care for my son. I woke up on a Sunday in August of last year (and had been fine Saturday night), and could barely get out of bed. I finally was able to make myself get up at noon, because I would've peed my pants. Getting out of bed, going to the bathroom, and getting Son out of his crib exhausted me. I laid on the couch, waiting with my sister for our mom to pick her up. Poor Son ran around in the same diaper until his nap, and he was soaked through. I couldn't even bring myself to throw away his diaper, I left it on the floor where I had unceremoniously changed him and put him in his crib. Then I crawled - literally crawled - back to my own bed. My mom brought my sister back to help take care of Son until Hubby got home, and brought me NyQuil and Gatorade to keep hydrated. I was too tired to eat or drink. I thought I just had a bad flu bug, something that just wiped me out. I'd go from freezing to sweating buckets. That was it. Tired and feverish.

Monday, Hubby had enough. He insisted we go to Urgent Care, and I begged him not to make me get up. It killed me to get up to go to the bathroom, forget about getting dressed. Meanwhile, he had thought I was just milking it. We arrived at Urgent Care, and found out my blood pressure was alarmingly low. My temp was around 103 or 104. They told us we had to go to the ER, so we wheeled down there. We were triaged, and then the real fun began.

We were put into a room, and I laid down. I wanted nothing more than to sleep. Then I got hungry. Mom was kind enough to bring me Subway, but they wouldn't let me eat yet. So they were keeping an eye on my blood pressure... I'm usually 120/80, or thereabout. My systolic was down to 50. I saw my mom's face, and I recall asking her, "I should be dead right now, shouldn't I?" At that point, I didn't care. All I wanted was for the exhaustion to go away. Then the real chills began. ER rooms are always chilly anyhow; they piled me with warmed blankets, but then it made my temperature rise. So off with the blankets. I was racked with chills that shook my whole body. I know now that all the blood was rushing from my extremities to fight the infection.

They took vial after vial of blood, and thought at one point that it was spinal meningitis. How do you test for SM, you ask? Why, a spinal tap of course! So on top of all that's going on, I get to have a gigantic needle shoved into my spine. Yay! Now I'm restricted to laying on my back for the next 24 hours. Not like I was leaving the hospital anytime soon anyway. Until the results came back, everyone was required to wear facial masks. The looks on the faces of my family members told me that I was not doing well. They looked scared. And then I was transferred up to the ICU so I could be carefully monitored and isolated.

After quite some time, I finally had to pee. They were most anxious to collect a cup of my steaming bladder soup, so I was happy to oblige. I was also beginning to feel like my life was turning into an episode of House M.D. No one knew what was going on with me. Spinal meningitis was ruled out (thanks for the useless spinal tap), so they were hovering over my urine like busy little bees. Then a doctor comes in and tells me that I have a severe kidney infection. What?! No way. Well they found bacteria in my pee, so yes... Haha, my body fooled them. TSS: 2. Doctors: 0.

So they begin intravenous antibiotics in addition to the fluids they already had going to rehydrate me (I was very dehydrated) and to flush my kidneys. Good start, but still not enough. I couldn't sit up without a sudden drop in blood pressure. Every time I dipped below 80, my monitor would go off. So I'd be tossing in my sleep; "BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP". Ugh. I slept like shit. So the next day, the fantastic Dr. Burke comes in and asks me the detrimental questions; do I use tampons? When was my last period? What absorbency do I use? And finally, it was TSS 2, Doctors 1. So in addition to the two IVs spewing re-hydrating fluid into my body, I had a catheter going into the vein in the crook of my right arm almost all the way to my heart. The TSS, they said, was attacking my kidneys and liver, and both were going into failure. Had I waited another 12-24 hours, there would have been little to no chance of stopping it. They needed to get the antibiotics as close to my heart as possible so that my body could pump them through as quickly as possible.

And then my room turned into a fucking zoo attraction... I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that I really felt like I was some medical oddity. And oddly enough, I actually kind of was. Most doctors apparently don't get to witness a case of TSS because it's so rare, so people kept coming in and asking me questions. I'm sure my chart was the hot topic around the water cooler. Kind of like the pregnant man episode of Grey's Anatomy.

And then they put in the catheter. The up-the-pee-hole catheter. Oh for joy. Add into this that I STILL couldn't eat; mostly because I couldn't keep anything down. I was feeling better by Thursday, and they finally let me get up and sit in a chair. At least I didn't have to miss Grey's (even if it was a re-run, I didn't miss the irony that my specialist's name was Dr. Burke). So then I got the peehole tube removed. However, I was beginning to swell like Violet Beauregarde. Except without turning blue. Stupid fluids.

Friday they moved me to a regular hospital room. Can I even tell you how much I missed my room in the ICU? They respond to you right away, and in the regular room... Not so much. Not long after I arrived at my new hospital room, they decide they want to give me an IV drip of potassium. In goes the needle with the warning, "This may burn a little."

Ha, let me stick this up your vagina you stupid bitch; let's see how much it stings you.

It was the worst pain I've ever felt in my life. It felt like someone was forcibly holding my whole left arm in an incinerator; and I couldn't get it out. I was immobilized by the pain. I imagine it's how it would feel to be turned into a vampire a'la Stephanie Meyer. I tried to keep as quiet as possible; but I cried out, and tears were streaming down my face. It took those stupid bitches ten minutes to come remove the IV. My poor grandma was there, and she was almost in tears watching me and knowing that nothing she could do would help. They finally came and removed the IV. I did have a really nice roommate there, which helped. I also got to really see my son for the first time, and holding him did more for me than any medication they could've given me. Except maybe Vicodin. They did give me Lortabs to sleep when I was in the ICU. They were beautiful. Damn it, I needed sedation.

Now that my organs weren't in dire straits, the fluids were working through me... I still looked like a fucking white blueberry, and I peed every hour. My poor roommate was next to the bathroom, so I'm sure I woke her up sometimes. I was finally stable again, and I had my first meal that night. I went Saturday evening through Friday afternoon with no food. I was so glad to finally eat again. I couldn't eat much, and not much sounded good, but I was eating.

Saturday passed by without much to-do, lots of time spent alone... From what I heard from Hubby later, he was afraid to go visit me because I looked like Death. He thought I was going to die on him, and to this day he still has a hard time talking about it. It's been nearly a year, and by some grace of God, I don't really feel how close I was to death. It was never a light at the end of the tunnel experience for me; I think I just never doubted that I'd fight it and live. I was released Sunday, and then I had the pleasure of my very first allergic reaction to a medication. I thought I was all invincible/without allergies... Bah whizzers anyhow.

So the pee drained on, they pumped over 13 litres into me (ten litres more fluid than Diane Schuler had of vodka - ha, I win!). It was a lot of pee to piss out. I kept waking Hubby up the first night, because I had to get up to pee every hour. I was still very tired, but I felt so much better. Just being home was fantastic.

I had my check-up a week later, and found out that contracting TSS once gives you a 30% higher chance of getting it again. Wonderful. I hate maxi-pads. Always have. Still do. I hate that warm squishy feeling of having your drawers full of uterine lining. But, I steer clear of tampons. Sorry, Playtex. It was fun while it lasted.

So, consider yourselves warned... I even wrote to Glamour hoping that they'd run an article on it to shed some light on the problem; alas, no article that I've seen. So I'm using my own personal Internet soapbox to tell you all about it. And finally, if you've stayed with me this far... Want to know what they think started it? It was the first time I'd ever used Super Plus absorbency. So change those cattails every four hours, and never use a higher absorbency than you need. Better to err on the low side and have to change more often than to use too high an absorbency.

So I'll end this on a positive note; at my checkup, I found out that I had lost 20 pounds over the course of the week.

That TSS was, like, the best diet EVAR.

Humanity isn't it's own worst enemy; E-Coli is.

It's in meat, eggs, spinach... And now, E-Coli has claimed another Weapon Of Mass Destruction.

Cookie Dough.

Seriously, Nestle had to recall $30-50 million dollar's worth of contaminated cookie dough. Here is the Washington Post story... I feel terrible for those people. However, I do not get the allure of raw cookie dough. Or spinach. So I'm safe until E-Coli begins to develop in Kit-Kat bars or ice cream sandwiches.

Now, fair Intarwebs. I have a question for you all.

My parking ramp requires me to park on the roof, and the parking up there isn't assigned. It's sort of first-come, first-served. Most of my fellow parking-mates are courteous, parking mostly in alignment with the pretty (shitty) yellow lines.

Except this motherfucker.

I'm not even kidding when I tell you that this is how the uber-mega douche parks EVERY MOTHERCOCKING DAY.

My question to you, my little pretties:

Should I write them a note about their parking habit? It seriously only takes an extra 5-10 seconds to back out and Correct Your Crooked Parking. This person regularly takes up half the parking space to their right (as illustrated above) throwing off the whole parking lot or causing us to sacrifice a parking spot to their idiocy.

I'm not even joking when I tell you that sometimes I really wanna smash in their windows. I never would, but I feel fits of extreme violence when I see their vehicle parked this way.

And I can't go to jail; I've got a purty mouth.

Movie reviews and orgasmically good boneless beef ribs

I live a few blocks away from a video store called Movie Gallery... Which is, you know, awesome. Because our old (teeny-tiny-no-shower-no-AC-upstairs-in-the-land-that-time-forgot) apartment was a good 10 minute drive (EACH WAY!!!) to the nearest video rental portal. Hubby and I haven't put out the money for cable TV - ever - since we've had our own place. And you know what? I'm pretty okay with that. We just rent and watch movies instead.

When we lived in Fargo, ND -

(yes, get the "Eh there!"s out of your system)(seriously, I'm waiting.)(Shut up, it was actually filmed in Bemidji, MN not Fargo, ND.)(And yes, we Minnesotans really do say, "Doan't youa look cyoot in dem dere boo-ahts!")

- we joined that Blockbuster thing where you paid so much a month, could have so many films out at a time, and could exchange them as often as you wanted. I'm not even fucking kidding you when I tell you that the staff knew us by name.

We loved it. However, when we moved back to this shitty town, the nearest Blockbuster was a 25 minute drive each way. Not long after moving back (within 4 months) we had our bouncing bundle of penis-equipped joy and no jobs. No jobs = no money. Thems were some tough times, and our family helped us out so many times I don't even know why they speak to us anymore.

Oh wait, it's cause I'm awesome and everyone loves me. Duh! :)

Anyhow, there weren't any closer video stores that had a similar plan - UNTIL NOW. Yes, people. For $40 a month (which we spend in two trips to the video rental portal) we can have out three movies or two games and one movie and exchange the disks as often as we like.

*gameshow host voice* But that's not all! */gameshow host voice*

We also get 50% off of Pre-Viewed movies (Which, awesome.) and 10% off of concessions.

Jesus, when did this become a post touting the pros of the Power Play deal? Bah.

Anyhow, I enrolled in said plan on Friday, and since then have rented:

Confessions Of A Shopaholic

I Love You, Man

Fast And Furious

Enchanted

and Rachel Getting Married.

The only one I had seen already was Enchanted.

Confessions of a Shopaholic

I gave it a C-. The cast was fabulous and perhaps I would have liked it more if I had read the book. The plot was so/so.

I Love You, Man

A solid B. It was hilarious - especially the projectile vomit part - but the ending sort of blew.

Rachel Getting Married

An A, for sure. My only complaint was all the stupid (and in my un-humble opinion, unnecessary) crap with the wedding rehearsal and rehearsal dinner toasts. Once Kym (Anne Hathaway) starts talking, the movie picks right up like a crack whore getting her second wind. My heart broke for Kym over and over again, I wanted to love her and make her okay again. And you will need a box of tissues.

Fast And Furious

Okay, so this one starts off with a panty-dropping action sequence. I figuratively creamed my panties. After cleaning up my panties, I'd have to give it a C+. The action sequences alone are worth the watch, but the plot leaves something to be desired.

I think tonight I'm going to get 12 Rounds and perhaps Race To Witch Mountain or something equally fantastical. :)

Saturday night I bought a little over 2 1/2 pounds of boneless beef ribs at WalMart. Usually their produce and meat sections blow like a nickel whore with a pocket full of quarters, but these were pretty damned good. I marinated them overnight in KC Masterpiece's Steakhouse marinade (I'd do steak in that stuff, too) and baked them at 300 degrees from about 11:00 am until we ate around 6:00. I couldn't lift them with the tongs, I had to scoop them out.

The best part? They tasted like tender, flaky beef jerky. So Son ate them without a fuss!

Mommy: 1 Son: 4,509,927.

We may have to move to Iowa... But I'd do it for Aunt Becky.

This post will also be known as Aunt Becky, Part Deux.

Because our awesomeness couldn't be contained in one blog post. Oh, no. We were too fabulous for that.

Just to catch everyone up who didn't read the previous post, Aunt Becky and I went to Walmart, participated in alcoholic beverages and had a foursome with Ben and Jerry, then we ended with her giving me blog tips the next day.

Because my boss is such a wonderfully fabulous guy, he took Aunt Becky to lunch with us at Le Bistro's. You can find them here on Facebook. (Fan them!)(Just do it!!!) We had a fabulous entree of Oriental Chicken Salad; romaine, grilled chicken, mandarin oranges, water chestnuts, and fried wonton strips with their Asian dressing. Tres magnifique!

However, the best was yet to come. We had what is possibly the best tasting thing to have ever been in my mouth (besides Aunt Becky - HA, DIRTY!) for dessert.

Chocolate Raspberry Creme Brulee.

Be jealous.

Then Aunt Becky stole my Ande's mint, but that's ok. I'll let her because we love each other so. And when you love someone, you share everything with them.

Except your herpes.

Then we went cruising across the bridge back to work; the view looks pretty, but to the left there is a waste management plant and it smells like poo and farts.

Then we giggled at the awesome fish in the deli downstairs; I've named him Oscar, because he just looks like an Oscar. Don't you think?

Shut up. I really don't care if you agree with me.

He is Oscar, and no one can convince me otherwise.

Ok, I took my bitter pants off and put my giggly pants on.

And Sign; I could never keep my hands off Aunt Becky.

Nor would I ever use her in the event of a fire.

Speaking of giggly; this sort of speaks for itself, doesn't it?

Apokolips? Really?

So Aunt Becky and I giggled much, and then did blowjob shots. Because they're delicious.

Then once I got her good and drunk, I asked Aunt Becky to marry me.

And once she swallowed her blowjob, she said YES!!!

Stick that in your computer and process it, Daver. Ha!

Cucumbers vs. Carrots

This is just a short blog to share a hilarious story with you all.

I was at Aunt Becky's blog when I read about her guest spot on the Mouthy Housewives blog. I decided to read the other posts, because it seemed like a good blog. And it's hilarious. This post in particular made me think terrible, dirty thoughts about produce.

This was the portion of the post that triggered these terrible, sinful thoughts:

Ah, the joys of having a 3-year-old. There you are, simply trying to pee in a public restroom with your child in the stall, when suddenly the kid booms out louder than LAX’s PA system, “WOW, MOMMY! YOU SURE HAVE A LOT OF HAIR IN YOUR PRIVATE PARTS! YOU LOOK LIKE A STUFFED BUNNY! DO YOU WANT SOME CAWWOTS DOWN THERE?” Or at least that’s what I heard happened to a friend of mine one time at the Target she no longer frequents.

And my first thought was:

"No thank you, honey. Mommy prefers to feed the bunny big cucumbers."

On a scale of 1-10, how bad is that? Like, can I Hail Mary my way out of this? :)

God I'm awesome.

To Ashley's house we go, then to Wal*Mart we go... Wait, that doesn't rhyme. Fuck, I suck at that.

So, I got the best surprise EVER a few weeks ago when Aunt Becky was delivered right to my front door! She arrived surrounded by sparkling hearts bearing an invitation to a non-existent party. I was initially disappointed; but then I realized that the party was standing right in front of me!

(Be jealous)

Anywho, Aunt Becky and I have been chilling out the last few weeks. We've been watching movies, reading books, watching adult films...

*cough*

Um, aaaanyways. We had to take a trip to Wal*Mart last night to buy fish food, and I decided we should take some photos to document our precious time together.

The following is a true story. None of the names have been changed to protect the innocent, because there are no innocents in this story.

Aunt Becky decided that she wanted to drive. It took me forever to find enough phone books for her to see over the wheel, but that's okay. She's worth it.

As soon as we arrived at Wal*Mart, she beelined straight for the essentials. I decided that considering the 'activities' of the past few weeks, we were running low on KY anyhow, so I picked up a (few) bottle(s).

When we saw these shorts, we had to giggle. It reminded us both of ice-cream cone socks, high ponytails, scrunchies and knotted t-shirts, and so Aunt Becky insisted on taking a photo with them. We were documenting for posterity, people.

We finally made it to the pet section, and Aunt Becky helped me find the fish food I needed to buy. But not until we played one good (loud) game of Marco Polo. I didn't get any photos of that because, well, it's a verbal game. And I was Marco. Hard to take photos with your eyes closed.

We were about to leave when Aunt Becky decided that she needed a new Harlequinn book. It's deliciously smutty, just like Aunt Becky!

By the way, darling, every time feels like the first time with you...

We had a fun time, and decided to keep the good times rolling by cracking open some more vodka - it's even a girly flavor, just like Aunt Becky likes it. Are we soul mates or what?

Even after drinking all that vodka, she still wasn't drunk enough to sleep with me. So I did the only thing I could to push her over the edge; I tempted her with a foursome. Ben and Jerry do it every time. :)

Because this is not an NC-17 blog, this was the only photo I could get of the activities that followed. Let me just say, there were handcuffs, whipped cream, chocolate sauce, cupcakes and llamas involved. It was hot and kinky.

Aunt Becky decided to come with me to work today, and when I was getting ready to schmear my bagel she insisted on taking a photo with it. Because she said they looked like boobs with inverted nipples. I've corrupted her so well!

Now she's lecturing me on proper blogging etiquette. It's so humbling to have such a fabulous blogger here, in person, giving me blogging advice. Because Aunt Becky is, like, one of the many goddesses of blogging. It's like having Hera giving you advice on how to deal with a philandering husband.

The Daver, eat your heart out. I'm keeping Aunt Becky forever.

Cream colored ponies and crisp apple strudels, doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles...

So, for your bakery-related entertainment, I present to you a double feature!

We have today, for your drool-worthy delight, a chocolate half-sheet cake decorated as a Vikings-themed football field, and a Double Chocolate Raspberry torte coated with ganache and accented with a drizzled chocolate lace garnish.

Chocolate cake batter - a delicious amalgamation that includes butter, chocolate, eggs and vanilla. Everything a growing girl needs. It tastes way better than the boxed batter.

Baked half sheet cake. I really need to invest in a heating core next time I do anything larger than an 8" cake. Baking it at 200 degrees for an hour sucks.

Golden Yellow, Violet, and Kelly Green. Wilton should fucking sponsor me.

Derek is a Viking fan, and so his wife ordered a cake decorated like a football field. I even bought a Wilton 'hair/grass' tip to decorate the field. What happens right as I'm about to begin filling in the field? I can't find the damned tip I JUST BOUGHT. So he got a star field instead.

Double Chocolate Raspberry torte batter - chocolate, butter, eggs, vanilla and dark raspberry liquer. Yum!

The finished torte - filled with seedless raspberry jam.

Hand-piped chocolate lace to garnish the sides.

And if that wasn't enough, the whole thing is drenched in chocolate ganache. :)

I am currently listening to NPR's Wait Wait... Don't Tell Me! It's pretty motherfucking hilarious. If you haven't listened to it before, you can find it here. There was a huge controversy over a comment that Mo Rocca made back in February of 2009 about sweaters. I laughed my ass off. And Paula Poundstone is pretty damned funny, too. I could have gotten in trouble with the volume of my laughter when Kevin Fitzgerald (a former rock 'n' roll bouncer who has worked with the Grateful Dead, Rolling Stones and Ozzy Osbourne) was talking about his current career as a large animal veterinarian and confessed his fear of spiders.

(I'm terrified of spiders, by the way. Not as terrified as Hubby, who makes ME kill the spiders in our house.)

A man brought in a giant spider and said, "I just don't think he's acting like himself" and "his legs are falling off". Kevin's response was, "Well, when a spider's legs are falling off it means it's seriously ill." And without an examination he sent him to a gentleman who specializes in spiders. The Dr. calls him and says, "Did you tell this man that when a spider's legs are falling off it means it's ill?" and Kevin says, "Yes." The Dr. responds, "If you would have taken the time to examine it, you would have realized the the legs falling off means that the spider is DEAD."

I almost pissed my pants laughing. And when he talks about how he was thinking the best cure for a spider not acting like itself is a phone book... Oh dear lord.

Last night I decided that, the hell with it, I'm going to get my hairs trimmed. My ends were so split even Bobby and Whitney were like, "You need to work this shit out." I wasn't quite to the straw-farm-in-a-third-world-country stage, but it was creeping it's way up.

Now it's happy and healthy again. I can run my fingers through it without it cutting me up. :)

Son has, as I've mentioned before, an obsession with pretending to be He-Man. Last night, I was upgraded from Skeletor to Cringer, the faithful tiger sidekick. Who is a total pussy until he's transformed. But it's adorable, it sounds like he's saying, "Krincher" and "Skedegor". And when he holds aloft his mighty Cars umbrella and goes, "By the Power of Greyskull!" and makes the crashing noises, then holds the umbrella with both hands and goes, "I have the power!" It's just too funny. At least it's not Barbie in Some Gay Ballet That We Adapted That Sucks Total Ass.

And for that, Hubby is grateful. :)

"Hello, I'm calling to procure a hasty abortion. Hold on, I'm calling on my hamburger phone."

Hello, fair Intarweb land!

I apologize for not updating on Friday - cause I totally would have - but my computer at work is being a severe dickhead. I don't know what's wrong with it, and I'm not techie-smart enough to fix the damn thing. However, I don't know if it's luck of the draw or not all in my head, but switching from Firefox back to Internet Explorer seems to have allowed me to get on the internet without freezing. Perhaps I'll download Google Chrome.

Anywho, you don't really care, do you my dear Intarweb? You're yawning and drooling and thinking to yourself, "Why the hell doesn't she just get on with being all witty and clever?"

So, onto the rants.

Hubby and I have been together for seven years. Matter of fact, we joined hands in the world of wedded bliss on our seven-year anniversary. It was also the five year anniversary of our engagement. We, like any other couple, have had our fair share of ups and downs... Sometimes it feels like more downs than ups. The important things about these tidbitlets of fact are that we didn't get hitched right away. We had started planning a wedding about four years back, then all hell broke loose in our relationship. It took us a good two and a half years to work our shit out. Add into the world of our stressed out relationship the birth of our son; having a child is stressful in a healthy, steady relationship. I sometimes wonder how we survived. But somehow, out of the dark and gloom that would rival Snow White's nightmare forest, we pulled together. Now, fair Intarweb, that's not to say that we never have disagreements (true fights are very rare - I'd say we've had maybe two in the seven years we've been together), but the point, precious Intarwebs -

And I do have one

- is that we waited. We talked out the marriage planning, and decided that the time was finally right. We married because we WANTED (notice the caps lock, that means I'm emphasizing the seriousness) to; not because we felt compelled to. Yep, we had a baby together. Yep, most people would view that as a sign that "It's Time" to get married. We resisted. We both knew the other wasn't going anywhere, and we waited. I've been seeing a lot of old classmates around my age who got married because they thought it was just the next step - something they were supposed to do, like they were following some life recipe. That's not to say, of course, that these couples don't love each other. I'm sure they do. But that doesn't mean that you HAVE (caps lock again, people) to get married. Marriage is Teh Sewious. It's not a goal line, it's just being handed the football. You have to work toward the goal AFTER you get the football. And you'll get tackled, and you'll fumble, and whatever other bad shit happens in basketball (Kidding, people. Kidding. Maybe.).

I frequently see some of these couples complaining that they hate their spouses, that they're unhappy... Well, it's because you married because you thought you were supposed to, or because you wanted a wedding. People need to stop getting married to have weddings. Honestly. I do know some couples who got married for the marriage and seem very happy. And I wish all the couples happiness and a long marriage if that's what they're meant to have.

My second irritation of the day happens to be about something even more (GASP) controversial.

I stopped by my mom's work today to pick up a check from a cake I did for them last week. They work down the block from the only clinic in town that happens to do abortions. Now, I'm pro-choice, but I don't think it's a decision to be made lightly. I can understand why other people are pro-life, and I think that they have a right to protest, just the same as I have the right to procure a hasty abortion if I so choose. Not that I've ever had an abortion, but if I wanted one, I'm glad to have that option available.

The problem, sweet Intarwebs, are when protesters parade around with mutilated aborted fetus posters, flashing them at all who pass by (on a fairly busy street in the downtown area, I might add). I can understand their scare tactic, even if I think it's rude and uncouth. But they don't know who is in each car that passes by. There are children that could see that. And I firmly believe that mutilated fetuses are not something children should see. Why in the hell don't they just show them to women entering the clinic? Why do they need to flash the goddamn posters at all? They're sick and disgusting. You don't show them flashing posters of dead soldiers when they protest war. At least, I haven't seem them do that.

I really want to walk up to them and bitch slap them back to reality. However, working for a criminal defense attorney has intensified my respect for the law. Also, I have a pretty mouth and I'm pretty sure I'd become Brunhilda's Bitch if I ever had to serve time. I may be a tall Amazonian, but I can't really fight for shit.

So maybe one day I'll walk up to them and engage their narrow minds, but for now I'm just going to bitch about it here. Because I'm sure that debating with them would have made me late for work.

I think my son may grow up to idolize Liberace.

I got some text messages from the Husband today; it's his day off with the Son and he decided to take him to the local White Trash Paradise (a.k.a. Walmart) and bum around there for a while.

Cool. Have fun, boys.

So the text messages are as follows:

1/3: What the hell is wrong with our kid? I tried to get him coloring stuff and he threw a fit. Get him Cars and he's happier than a pig stuck in shit he

2/3: needs to start using his head let's try to explain to him for coloring is coordination (?). He's your kid man tell ya what if it ain't sparkly or shiny he don't

3/3: want it.

Son enjoys sparkly things, shiny things, high heeled shoes, purses, and his favorite color is pink. He's also a huge drama queen.

One of his favorite pastimes is walking around the house in my stilettos -

at least his favorites are my Nine West pumps, kid's got taste

- and shorts with no shirt with a purse and a necklace.

*Sigh* It's a good thing I wouldn't mind having a gay son. As long as my daughter (if/when I have one) also likes pink and sparkly things. If I give birth to a girl who becomes a tomboy, I will consider my womb a failure.

It's probably my fault anyhow, because when I was cooking my cooter monkey I was wishing for a girl. Hardcore. My uterus granted half my wish, except it gave me a girl with a twig and giggleberries. He even has an almost androgynous look about him. He's got full coral lips, big bright baby blue eyes, long dark eyelashes, and soft baby hair that grows like I put fertilizer on it. I kid you not, monkey boy had a mullet by the time he was 7 months old. I have to cut his bangs usually once every month and a half.

See?

If he had been a girl, his hair would've been almost to his butt by now. And it would be glorious; it's dirty dishwater blonde, with light blonde and darker blonde natural highlights and as soft as satin. I'd love to have his hair color.

It was hilarious to see the meat and potatoes on the ultrasound, though. :)