Blood red fingernails are such a confidence booster.

Okay, am I the only person that watches DWTS that is wondering what the fuck was going through their minds when they selected the music numbers for the couples to dance to? Are they making some crazy attempt to draw in a younger crowd?

Don't get me wrong, I adored Kirstie's Cha Cha Cha to Cee Lo's 'Forget You', but some of the songs are so unsuited to the dance style. A Foxtrot to 'Cooler Than Me'? What the hell is that?

And I thought the rumors were exaggerated; what the fuck is up with Brooke Burke? She seriously does look like a damned robot. The personality chip joke is getting a little overdone, but holds true. Sometimes the old ones are the best. Where is Samantha? Tell her to stop incubating crotch monkeys and come back to the show! She and Tom had wonderful chemistry; Brooke and Tom, not so much. Or, hell, just give the damn show to Tom! He's larger than life anyhow, and entertaining as fuck.

Erflet will probably kill me for telling this story one day (or, if I raise him right, be laughing his ass off at it), but I have to. It's one of those parenting moments that makes you realize just how resourceful one can become at 5:30 in the morning.

Yesterday at Erf's dad's, he apparently had an accident and pooped his pants. I didn't get details, just a tied up plastic bag of shit-covered clothes. This morning around 4:30 I hear the bathroom light turn on and a few minutes later I hear Erflet crying and saying, "Mama, I went potty in my pants!"

I figure no big deal, he just didn't make it to the potty in time. I go in to evaluate the damage and he tells me he pooped his pants. Oookay. No, he didn't really poop his pants.

He sharted them. For those of you unfamiliar with this term, it's when you fart and end up crapping instead. Shit + fart = shart.

So I clean up my son's shart-covered butt, get him into clean underwear, and ask him if he thought he was farting but pooped instead.

I get the cry-speak hybrid response, "ye-e-e-es..."

I tell him if he feels like he's going to fart again to come sit on the potty, just in case. We clamber back to bed and all seems to be fine. Until 5:30 when I hear the cry-speak, "Moooom, I pooped my pants again!" from the bathroom. Bloody hell.

Yep, another shart. I clean him up and am fumbling with what to do... I'm running out of clean underwear as Erf and I split up all his clothes after the move. I don't want to have to change him again if I can avoid it. So I made what I hope was a good decision, albeit unnecessary.

I lined my son's underwear with a panty liner.

What? Stop looking at your computer screen like that. Yes, I really did. I figured if he sharted again the panty liner would catch it and I could change that instead of his underwear.

Turns out it wasn't necessary as he went the rest of the night without sharting. (I love the phrase 'shart' if you can't tell) However, if the punishment of making me clean up crap wasn't enough, today he has had the NASTIEST silent but deadly farts.

I asked Erf what the fuck he ate yesterday. Pizza and cereal. I'm wondering if Erf's dad's habit of giving him regular milk is what has caused my past 12 hours to be full of shit.

Last night I got a bug up my ass to paint my nails. I'm a sparkly-loving girly girl who adores glitter and crystals and rhinestones and pretty much anything ostentatious, but I don't paint my nails on a regular basis. Actually, anything more than once every six months to a year is frequent for me. Last time I remember painting my nails was a month or so after I started working at Eyemart in May of last year. I was going to go for a nice pearly mauve (which is totally in my color wheel), but decided that in order to boost my confidence I'd go with blood red. It's actually called 'crimson creme', but blood red just sounds sassier.

Plus I'm going to a drag show Saturday night and I thought matching red lips and nails, paired with my dark hair, would look stunning. Not like I've really got anyone to impress at a gay bar, but one does want to look her best, yes?

As a result, I feel sassy and sexy and confident. I love how much something as simple as bold nail polish or lipstick can change your attitude. We girls are complex creatures.

Do you ever sit next to that annoying person?

So, my plans for today were pretty much uneventful. I got up around 9, made Erflet breakfast, made myself breakfast, sat down and watched Scooby Doo 2 with Erflet. Around noon, I took a shower and piled Erflet and my sister Katie into the car to drive to my grandparents' house to print off copies of our tax return for Erf's FAFSA... Then I brought Katie home and hung with my parents for a while.

My mom bought Dragon Age for PS3, and I watched her play that for a little while. It was hilarious; they kept saying something about 'beware the taint'. We are all thirteen year old boys in the sense that saying something like 'taint' will make us all laugh. Then they said it again and again. It was fabulous.

Last night I dyed my sister's hair blonde... After I put Erflet to bed, she started changing into PJs. I asked if she had a tank top with her to wear while I put the dye in, she said no. So I grabbed an old tie dye shirt of mine and told her to wear it. The conversation was as follows:

Katie: "Isn't this the shirt that I made for you?"

Me: "Yeah, but I only wear it as a pajama shirt. It's not like I wear it in public or anything."

K: *in a semi-rueful tone* "Mom and Dad wear theirs in public all the time..."

M: "Yeah, well, Dad used to wear zebra striped Zubas in public. I rest my case."

K: "Good point."

I'm talking with my parents about this today and my dad pipes up and asks, "What's wrong with Zubas? They're comfortable."

I replied that if he actually asked that question, he's too old to know the answer. :)

After hanging out with my parents, Erflet and I went to walk around the mall. My feet were equipped with these. While insanely adorable, the straps began to cut into my big toe right by the nail. That's a very fucking sensitive spot, mind you... So when Erflet asked to go to Barnes and Noble to play with their Thomas the Train table, I enthusiastically agreed. Please, yes, let's rest mama's weary, sore, adorably-suited feet. But on my way over, I stopped to grab Tucker Max's new book, Assholes Finish First. Sadly, B&N was all out of it as far as I could see (and let's face facts, my feet were anxious to sit down as it felt like my toes were about to be cut off), so I grabbed I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell and followed Erflet to the kid's section.

We walk over to the train table to find the two chairs were already taken. Fine. I'm a classy girl; I plopped my ass right onto the floor. I had Tucker Max and Caribou Coffee, what the fuck did I care? After a while I noticed the people occupying the chairs had left. Wow, shows how observant I am. I got to my feet and gingerly walked over and proceeded to plop my ass into a chair and resume my reading.

Erflet is happily playing with the trains, and another kid comes up and begins playing. He gave Erflet a train he wanted and Erflet, being a polite child (ha, yeah... That was a good one), said 'thank you'. The guy with said kid then starts yammering on about how it's so great that my son says thank you and yada yada yada. I look up from my book and make the polite response of, 'thank you very much' and resume reading.

Guy apparently thinks that because he's complimented my child-rearing skills and we're sitting next to each other, I want to talk. Pretty sure having my nose buried in a book with a guy holding a beer on the cover means I don't want to motherfucking talk to your ass. Really.

Then his wife/girlfriend/whatever comes over and takes the seat from him. She also feels that I want to talk. She asks me if the book I'm reading is good. I reply that it is, and it's a comedy. Nose dives back into the book. She walks over and looks at some books on the wall. During that time Erf calls me, and I had forgotten to turn my phone to vibrate. So loud and clear everyone in the kid's section hears Peter Griffin singing, "I like pancakes, I like pancakes, they make me a happy Peter. I am happy, I am happy, la la la la la..."

Yes, that's really what I have set as Erf's ringtone.

I talk to him and hang up. Chick walks over and asks me where I got my ringtone. I told her I downloaded a soundboard that allows you to save sounds as ringtones. She then pulls out her IPhone and reads off a list of her ringtones. Dude, really? Do I really want to hear some random strangers ringtone list? Seriously?

No. I WANT TO READ TUCKER MAX NOW LEAVE ME ALONE.

Was she done? Of course not. She then decides I want to hear all about how hard it is to train her son to say his 'pleases' and 'thank yous'. "He doesn't like to say it and we asked him why and he said it embarrasses him." Maybe it's because he has a set of idiot parents who clearly don't know how to read social cues.

Happily the phone call from Erf meant he was home and that Erflet and I could head over to his place so I got him packed up and left.

I trust that you kittens are not the type of people to strike up conversations with people who are reading a book. Unless you're telling me my hair is on fire or there's something wrong with my kid, I will fucking donkey punch you.

Or I'll blog about you. Cause, you know, I'm a huge pussy who has never seriously hit anyone in her life.

Growing up a little...

Change. That's what growing up is all about, isn't it? You change. For better, for worse, to adapt...

The bitch about change is that you rarely choose to do it. Life and situations will force it upon you before you realize it's happened.

My childhood made me grow up and become (emotionally, anyway) older, faster than I should have had to become. I keep finding myself in situations that make me grow up.

Yeah, yeah, that's life and quit my whiny bitching and blah blah blah.

My point (and I do have one) is that this is what I found myself on the outcoming end of this summer. Growing up. Being a changed person. Before I realized it was happening, it happened. And it was a big one. I realized that I was a different person. And I struggled with it. I didn't want to be a different person. Particularly because the person I became didn't love her husband as a husband anymore. I hated myself for this change.

I hated myself because I was hurting Erf. Things got really difficult between us. There was no intimacy because I lost all my libido. There were talks that basically consisted of me sitting there while Erf talked for (literally) hours. Seriously. Four hours is a long time to barely be able to get a word in edgewise.

And I thought about it. This new person was my constant companion. And I began to see things through her eyes. I began to see that everything was a constant struggle. And recently I've realized that it was because we were acting like kids playing house. It's a hard truth, but that's what it was. We had a child together, and we all deserved better.

He deserved someone who could love him completely. I can no longer do that, and I can't explain just why. I tried so hard to make myself believe otherwise. Perhaps I took the coward's way out, because I didn't want to try therapy. My reasons are because A) we couldn't afford it and B) I don't see how anyone can make me fall back in love with someone when, frankly, I didn't want to anymore. I realized that we were very different people. I love him as a friend, and I want him to be happy, but I wanted to be happy too.

That feeling of wanting to be happy? Felt like the most selfish thing I could feel.

Things were so strained. And they still are. There are so many things I want to say, that I wish I could say. Things that only my closest family and friends have heard. But in the wise words of Aunt Becky, "Sometimes, those words remained unwritten because they cut too close to home; because sometimes words, feelings, pain, reactions cannot be explained away by logic. The kind of criticism it would open up would pour salt into an already-festering wound. Others remained unwritten because I didn’t want to cause drama or pain."

To cause him more pain would be horrible. I can't cause him any more pain than necessary.

But I wonder how much of his pain I need to take. His hatred toward me, his lashing out - because of me. Where do you find that balance? When you hurt someone as deeply as I know I hurt him, you need to expect to be the proverbial punching bag for a while. But when do you get to stop it?

My wondering, I think, stems from the fact that I'm done simply reacting to whatever is thrown at me. The cheesy alliteration I'd insert here would be some dramatic comparison to being an actor on stage, waiting for my cues. But I have realized that I have totally been out of it, not paying attention to what goes on around me. I've been keeping myself out of it. And I'm trying not to anymore. I'm trying to be proactive instead of waiting until things can't go any longer without being dealt with.

And for the first time, I'm being as independent as I can handle. I'm asking for help when I need it from people I can trust, because I'm not a dumb enough former blonde to think I can do it all by myself. Particularly when I've got Erflet part time. But I'm doing things that are making me feel proud of myself for the first time in a very long time. The last time I remember feeling this pride was when I realized that I was a good mother... Because I worried so much that I wouldn't be.

Now I have my first apartment, I'm fixing things, I'm assembling furniture... I'm the owner of a coffee maker for the first time in my life! These little things are bringing me so much joy, because I can be self-sufficient.

I can handle this. I've got it. I really can do this, and I believe in myself. :)

Holy hell, it's been over six months.

To the three of you who might still be following my blog, thank you. To any newcomers, my record is spotty, but I plan on updating at least once a week from now on.

So much has happened, my little kittens. So. Much. Shall I give you the CliffsNotes version? I'm going to pretend you're all sitting there in vapid admiration agreeing with every word I say, so here goes.

Last you all heard Erf and I had just moved into our new place in Duluth. Since then we've moved again... Into separate apartments. Back in October, I told him I wanted a divorce. I will explain, but that is a whole 'nuther post for a different day when my brain can handle writing about it.

We lived together until early this month (which, AWKWARD), and I got a one bedroom place in Superior while he and his friend got an apartment together in Duluth.

While this is bad news bears for multiple reasons, I can't help but be ridiculously excited for my very first apartment all on my own. It feels weird sometimes and I've been finding things to do to keep me out of the apartment when I don't have Erflet with me, but I'm getting more and more comfortable with it each day. I'm very slowly beginning the unpacking process (even though I've been here three weeks)(for real, I've had a crap ton of shit to do with wrapping things up from the old place and am just finding real free time), which is nice and annoying all at once.

I do hate not having Erflet with me every day, and it doesn't help if I'm doing something and lose track of the time that Erf texts me that Erflet was crying because I didn't call him to say goodnight. At the same time, I feel horribly guilty because I do enjoy the breaks I get. I shouldn't be enjoying this, but I've never had this much time away from him. Seriously, before now I'd never spent more than two nights away from him since he was born. He's now 5. I guess for now it's a novelty I'm sure I'll outgrow.

Work has been crazy insane and is looking to increase by a fucking buttload. Our doctor came on full time this summer, and since then we've been burdened with more jobs than we have staff or equipment to handle most days. Sam has put in his notice as he's sailing into bluer waters, and I'm very happy for him because if anyone knows how hard he works and how much time he puts in - it's me. However, this leaves my proverbial sperm sack in a vice because I'm the only one there who knows how to come close to doing his job until they find and train a replacement. And that means I'll be open to close six days a week after he's gone until they find a new manager.

I'm crazy thankful for the security and the overtime (which they hate authorizing, but is totes necessary in this case), but this means that my day off every week - which is my only solo day to spend with Erflet - is gone after next Thursday until further notice. Plus on top of trying to keep our heads above water jobwise, I get to train on paperwork and such with Sam before he leaves so someone can get it done.

Enough bitching.

I got to be a bridesmaid for the first time in my BFF's wedding this past October! For any of you good kittens who have read my not-really-recent-but-still-most-recent posts, the bridal shower cake was a total hit. It was a deliciously moist coconut cake with almond filling and vanilla buttercream frosting done in ivory and lavender. Anywho, it was an insanely beautiful wedding, she was absolutely stunning. And the reception was so much fun! She moved down to Arizona with her new husband, and is doing fabulous down there. :) As she so eloquently phrases it, 'the desert agrees with her'.

I went from light brown to bleach blonde to black hair. One of these days I'm going to go fucking bald, and I'll have no one to blame but an empty box of hair dye... Next up is red. :)

The whole unintentional weight loss has been going fairly well... I dropped from a size 22/24 to a size 18/20. And the fact that I'm in a second floor apartment sure as hell isn't going to hurt. I've been learning my lesson not to go crazy when grocery shopping; my building is also a secure building - so I need at least one hand free to unlock the downstairs door. I also don't spend half of what I used to on groceries... It's been nice.

Except I keep finding stupid things I need to buy, like a dry erase board to remind myself of all the crap I need to do that I keep forgetting to do but people keep getting pissed at me for forgetting to do them and so I bought myself the board so people can stop yelling at me. And I bought a new showerhead (because I overzealously broke my old one trying to install it), and I've named it Gerard because it has two heads... One is removable and the other is stationary. Which means I don't have to go cold when I use the handheld to... um... shave my legs. Yeah. And a dish drain. And I have to buy some sort of shelving thingamajig, because I have a lot of shit and a really small fucking kitchen.

Not too sure what else there is to say for now, but I have internet at this place so you can bet your sweet little asses I'll be updating way more often.

I leave you with something I thought at work today that sounds incredibly dirty and really isn't:

"Sometimes it's really annoying when the box is soaking wet."

There is nothing that sucks more than feeling useless.

Especially when you're a parent who feels useless.

You kittens might be wondering what I'm feeling useless about...

After the last few nights (and a few nights a week during the past month) of Erflet waking up screaming, shaking, and inconsolable - I did what any parent would do. I Bing'd it.

Night terrors, that is.

Like the good mother of a newborn I was, I read the What To Expect books. The pregnancy one, the first year one, and the toddler years one. Back when I had time to read a book and it wasn't a few pages here and there while I was on the commode.

By the way, Erflet thinks it's hilarious to come into the bathroom while I'm laying a deuce and mock me by saying, "Can't I poop in peace?" He's his mother's son.

Anywho, there was a mention of night terrors - to which I paid ZERO attention, obviously. Mommy fail. Some part of my post-partum frazzled baby spitup coated brain must have stored it, though, because I remembered what they were called long enough to type it into the browser.

Kidshealth.org describes night terrors thus:

"Night terrors typically occur about 2 or 3 hours after a child falls asleep, when sleep transitions from the deepest stage of non-REM sleep to lighter REM sleep, a stage where dreams occur. Usually this transition is a smooth one. But rarely, a child becomes agitated and frightened - and that fear reaction is a night terror.

During a night terror, a child might suddenly sit upright in bed and shout out or scream in distress. The child's breathing and heartbeat may be faster, he or she might sweat, thrash around, and act upset and scared. After a few minutes, or sometimes longer, a child simply calms down and returns to sleep."

Holy balls, have these bastards been watching in my windows? This has been happening for the last month (also, yay for mommy guilt, because these began occurring around the same time we moved and so now I feel responsible)(fuck. me.) at least a few times a week and has happened the last three nights in a row.

And there's nothing I can do - he has to 'outgrow' them. My little sister apparently got to the point of running out of the house and punching and kicking people during her night terrors. Great. And, a child has an 80% higher chance of experiencing night terrors if a family member has had them!

On a brighter note, Erf, Erflet and I are going to go hiking again tomorrow. Between working on my feet, not eating as much as I used to, and hiking/walking/swimming, I'm beginning to lose some weight. I say that as I sit here eating half a pint of Ben and Jerry's Mud Pie ice cream.

You know what would be awesome? If I were a size 14 again. I was at my ideal weight when I was a size 14, because I'M SIX FUCKING FEET TALL. Yes, I am tall enough to enter America's Top Model, but I will never do that because I would be so tempted to bring in baked goods and get the skinny stick figures with poufy lips all fat and then I'd get kicked out of ATM and I'd laugh and tell my grandchildren the epic story someday.

Also, then I could wear those adorable jeans I've been holding onto for the last 6 years because my big lard ass can't fit into them anymore but I don't want to get rid of them in the hopes that I'll fit into them again someday.

You have those jeans too, don't lie.

It's cheese, it's cake, it's orgasm in a springform.

Let me begin by saying that I never, ever used to like cheesecake.

I know, get your gasps of shock out now.

I think it's because the only cheesecakes I had eaten were either dry as hell (NOT what you want from a cheesecake) or from a box. As a child, the majority of the food I ate came from a box - contributing to my utterly disgusting picky-ness when it comes to food, I'm sure - or it was burned to a crisp. I still can't stand eating chicken that is juicy, because I grew up with dry and overdone chicken. I finally just began eating my steak medium to medium-well, but I'll be fucked by a spork if I can force myself to choke down properly cooked chicken.

Ohai, tangent.

Then I learned to make cheesecake. I'm still mastering the small stuff, but I've been told (by multiple people) that my cheesecakes rival desserts you find in high-end restaurants. By that I mean restaurants rated by stars, not Applebee's or TGIFriday's. Well, I've been told that a lot of my desserts are better than the *cough*pre-cooked/frozen*cough* desserts you find in fine restaurants.

I now consider my own horn tooted.

Here's photographic evidence. :)

I took a photo of the crust/ladyfingers of my tiramisu cheesecake that I made for a local charity auction, but forgot to take a photo of the finished product. Derp.

A.) Ladyfingers are incredibly delicious, and I heart them. B.) Doesn't it look pretty!?

Speaking of pretty, what could be more beautiful than a marriage of chocolate and Irish Cream whiskey? Especially when it's drizzled with bittersweet chocolate... I give you Chocolate Irish Cream cheesecake:

Well, I can't actually give one to you, kittens. If I could, I would! I swear, if any of you come visit me, I'll make you a fabulous dessert! (If that isn't incentive to buy a plane ticket/take a road trip, I don't know what is!)

One of my personal favorites is Cafe Au Lait Cheesecake. Chocolate crust, a layer of mocha filling, and a layer of vanilla filling. Who could ask for more?

This last one isn't a cheesecake, and I fucked up the crust (I converted a pie crust, lmao), but it's my first attempt at a fruit tart...

Blueberry/Strawberry tart with lemon cream cheese filling:

Don't those berries look mouth-wateringly delicious brushed with melted grape jelly? Oooh, shiny!

So, I work in a lab. A lot of our machines produce a fuck-ton of heat. As a result, we worship at the altar of Air Conditioning. The A/C decided to punk out on us sometime between Tuesday night and Wednesday morning. Bitch. Anywho, the lab has been running around 90-100 degrees and the fucking part we need has to be shipped from fucking JAPAN. So we're stuck in the crazy nasty heat for the next week or two. Blech.

I am also getting excited as I have a fun baking project coming up! My BFF's bridal shower is coming up near the end of August, and she asked me to do her shower cake! It's going to be a coconut cake with vanilla filling (possibly vanilla/coconut filling) and vanilla buttercream frosting. I get carte blanche on how it's decorated, what shape, etc. Except she said no lovey-dovey crap. Which is cool, I've been wanting to do a simplistic, modern cake anyhow. It'll be my first attempt at a tiered cake, as well.

Erflet enjoys listening to the radio at night, and likes listening to the local Top 40 station. I just put him to bed, and 'What's Your Fantasy?' by Ludacris was playing when I turned it on.

I am so Mother Of The Year. :)

Food porn and a new template!

So many exciting things to see and salivate over!

I needed a change, kittens, so here it is! A fresh, new and sassy template for you to feast your eyes on.

And speaking of things to feast your eyes on, have I got some food porn to catch up on. Holy schneikes. Chocolate ruffle cake, brownies, and other assorted delicious confections that will make you wish you lived in my kitchen. :)

For now, we'll start with the most beautiful (not to mention challenging) dessert I've made to date. Chocolate Ruffle Cake!

It was sent to me by a gentleman who won a contest at my mom's workplace for a free cake. He wanted to try it, but didn't want to make it himself. So he asked me to make it. It's a chocolate genoise cake filled with chocolate and vanilla creme fraiche and raspberries, brushed with framboise syrup, topped with chocolate ruffles and wrapped in chocolate.

I'll pause for a moment while you go get yourself a towel.

It all starts with the chocolate genoise, of course. It's an easy cake to make, requiring only butter, vanilla extract, flour, cocoa powder, eggs and sugar. The recipe tells you to combine the eggs and sugar in a large, heat safe glass bowl and heat over DIRECT HEAT. Being the dipshit blonde I can be sometimes, I put the glass bowl directly on the burner. Did you know that Pyrex sounds like a gunshot when it explodes? Not to mention how much fun it is to clean sugar/egg mixture from underneath your stovetop. Off to WalMart to buy a new bowl. Aaaaand, take two. This time I put the bowl over a pot of boiling water, and heated the mix to the instructed temperature. Much better. After following the rest of the instructions for the genoise, I pull this pretty, dense and beautifully crumbed cake from the oven:

The most interesting part, in my opinion, was the creme fraiche. It's apparently some sort of delicacy, because you can't find it in a normal grocery store. And rumor has it that if you CAN find it, it's hella expensive. So I searched the intarwebz for a recipe and made my own creme fraiche. (Note to you all; creme fraiche needs to sit at room temperature for about three days before it's ready.) It was a delightful new experience to the tastebuds; thick, creamy, with a sour nutty flavor. Add some sugar and vanilla extract, and it's absolutely delicious once it's whipped:

Once you're ready to fill the cake (seriously, this cake took me four days from start to finish), you torte the genoise into three layers. Then you make the framboise syrup, which consists of water, sugar, and white rum. I KNOW, RIGHT?!

You take an 8" springform pan, line the bottom with parchment paper, and gently put in the bottom layer. Brush it with framboise syrup, then fill it with chocolate creme fraiche. Brush the bottom of the next layer with syrup, and ease it on top of the filling. Then, brush the top and layer with fresh raspberries. Cover the raspberries with vanilla creme fraiche, then brush the bottom of the top layer with syrup. Ease it over the filling, then brush the top with syrup. Refrigerate overnight, loosen the sides of the pan, and this is what you get:

Doesn't look like much yet, but it's gonna be gorgeous! Next, you make the wrap. All you do is spread melted chocolate over parchment paper and carefully press it into the sides. Refrigerate for a few hours until the paper peels away easily. Then top with the remaining creme fraiche and prepared chocolate ruffles, with a single pretty raspberry:

No, I wasn't naked, just in short shorts. :)

Here's what the finished project looks like:

Have you drooled all over your keyboards? I know it was tough for me not to keep a slice for myself. Unfortunately, I didn't get to try any... But they said it was amazing. :) I'm waiting for a special enough occasion to try making this for myself. Or at least to make it for someone who will save me a piece to try. :)

Who would've thought tequila and puff paint would go together?

I've discovered a new talent.

Puff-painting t-shirts. No, really.

Okay, stop laughing. Yes, they still sell puff paint. No, I'm not tragically re-living my youth.

Erf got a work study job at a youth organization at a local rec center, and came home one day with a blank t-shirt that he said he wanted my help decorating. Cause I'm all autistic artistic like that.

He wanted something with 'flames' that looked 'really cool'. So off to the local WalMart to purchase some puff paints and tweezers (because Erflet, for the second time, absconded with my tweezers and had moved them to god knows where).

We put Erflet to bed, and I got to work. Enter some Jeff Dunham's Spark Of Insanity, because I love Peanut.

3/4 of the way through the shirt, my dad knocks at the door. He asks if I want to go and do some shots with him. Um, yeah! But... Can I finish the shirt please?

So he sat down and watched Peanut and Jose Jalapeño with us. ('A condiment?' 'I do not use them.') This is what Erf's shirt looks like:

Pretty cool, huh? I thought I did a pretty good job, if I do say so myself. So off to a local sports bar we went. Which, hi? Sweet and sour mix is not the same thing as margarita mix. But tequila is tequila... Then I made my big mistake. I told my dad I wanted to do a shot of tequila. I've never shot tequila before, unless you count the shooter of Patron - and let's face it, Patron is in a whole different class from Cuervo. My dad orders two doubles, and orders mine with 'training wheels'. I scoffed. I did a double shot of Jack Daniel's with him WITHOUT A CHASER, didn't I? I could handle tequila. He smiled, and looked at the bartender.

"Serve hers with training wheels."

So after some instruction on how to shoot tequila (apparently, there's such a thing as too much salt), I lick my hand. I apply salt. I shake off the 'too much' salt. I lick my salt-covered hand. I raise the plastic cup (yes, they served the shot in a PLASTIC FUCKING CUP. Ghetto, yo) and shoot the tequila. Midway through, I realize that tequila? Tastes like fucking vomit. Tasting anything remotely vomit-flavored usually triggers my harf-reflex.

I sucked hard on that teeny, tiny lime wedge let me tell ya.

And realized there's still a half a shot in the cup. Shit. My mouth is watering uncontrollably, and I have no clue how I'm gonna taste that again and not vomit. However, the second half-shot wasn't nearly as bad as the first. Perhaps it was the salt. Anywho, I headed home - slightly buzzed, very happy - and did some buzzed intarwebz surfing.

Erf goes to work and comes home with a handful of t-shirts and a box of various colored puff paints.

Guess who got volunteered to decorate shirts without being asked? Yeah, it wasn't Bob Ross. So I thought I'd share photos of my pretty shirts with you, kittens.

I heart this one the most, I think it's wicked.

Yes, I do heart glitter.

Obvs.

I am now going to find a plain t-shirt in my closet and make a shirt that has my blog's tagline across the chest:

"Giving Jesus his money's worth since 1985"

Should I put my blog name and URL on the back, or would that be tacky? What do you think, kittens?

Also, there will be food porn coming soon. I have lots to catch up on, so get ready for some porn-picture heavy posts!

Holy fracking sassafrass. Did I spell sassafrass correctly?

So much shit has been happening, kittens. I scarcely know where to begin.

I had to chide myself this evening when I was IMing with everyone's one and only Aunt Becky, and she had no idea that I had moved.

I fucking suck as a blogger lately. I blame it on a.) an insane work schedule, b.) lack of constant and steady streaming Intarwebz and c.) me just being a lazy bitch.

So, a few weeks ago, Erf, Erflet and I packed up our shit and moved out of our three bedroom apartment in Souptown and moved into a three bedroom house in Dull-uth. The reason sucked. Because of Erf and I losing our jobs last November and my obstinately pig-headed insistence to make my old job work (when obvs, I'm NOT a high-pressure salesperson), we had gone into arrears on our rent. We did get things paid up, but alas started to fall behind again. Not by much, we were paying what we could and would usually end up current within a month. My job only pays me $8.50 an hour, and my ex-coworker - who didn't give a shit if he broke lenses, thereby affecting our breakage 'bonus' pay - really screwed Sam (the lab manager) and I out of money.

Our lease was up at the end of June, and our landlady chose not to renew it. Which, dudes? I totally understand. I would've done the same damn thing. But moving? It sucked. I especially felt terrible moving Erflet AGAIN, when we had just moved into that apartment a year prior. Luckily, he's a hardy little fella, and he loves the new house. We're house sitting for my mom's friend; her mother passed away in May and this was her house. Mom's friend has her own house, and owns this one free and clear. So she needed someone to occupy it. :)

So here we are, and our new place is literally right across the street from McDonald's. And smelling frenchiddy fries from your front yard? IS OF DE DEBBIL. I've managed to abstain thus far, but my tenuous hold on self control can only be greased by spontaneous french fries for so long.

Seriously, do they put crack in the McNuggets and fries? Am I the only one who feels that way?

We also are going to be adopting two adorable dogs; we're fostering them until the shelter's vet has an opening to get them fixed. Then the adoption will become permanent. Kittens, meet Mr. Bill:

And Miss Mya:
Bill is a huge 71 lb ball of lovable kisses and energy, and is a black lab mix... We think he might be mixed with American Staffordshire or something similar, as his ears are docked and his tail is not, as well as the shape of his head and legs. He is Erf's dog, through and through.

Mya is a 9.8 lb ball of snuggles and kisses, and is a Chihuahua mix. I always said I'd never have a fucking chihuahua, because they're all Paris Hilton-y purse dogs. But Mya must be mixed with a terrier of some sort, because she is lap-size and very healthy. And seriously, dudes? I fell in love with her immediately, and she with me. She loves snuggling with me, and sleeps behind my knees every night, and adores car rides where she's on my lap with her head resting in the crook of my elbow. She's got a beautiful brindle coat, too - except for the three white toes on her back left paw. She's quirky, like me.

So that's really about everything up til now, I'd update a little more frequently but I'm leeching Intarwebz from McD's (retribution for the french fry stench) and I don't always have connection to the internet. I'm hoping to get a USB network adapter to boost my signal reception, but the one I want is like $55... Bleh. I need to check Craigslist, note to self....

*off like a prom dress to search Craigslist*

How I got squirted on by (an obviously male) machine.

So I'm sitting here going through my Reader, and I decided that I'd much rather write shit for people to read, than read shit that other people have written. I've got a couple of pretty good stories from work so far, and I thought I'd do the fabulous thing and share them with you.

Not like you have a choice about what I write. So ha. :)

My new job as a lab technician is going swimmingly. My third day on the job I was able to do a pair of glasses, from start to finish - by myself. Wahoo for me! From what everyone has told me, I seem to be smarter than your average bear. Or technician trainee. Whatever. It was kind of hilarious, because as my manager and I were talking about the other trainee, he told me had to keep reminding himself not to compare his progress to mine, because I was way ahead of where I should be.

Someone's going to have to come pop my fucking ego, because my head is too big for me to fit through the damn door. Seriously. I am awesome.

Also? Erf and Erflet are play wrestling in the living room. It is quite distracting, but in a cute, 'father-playing-with-his-son-who-may-randomly-hit-his-father-in-the-nuts' way.

So the whole process involves tracing the glasses, entering the prescription into the computer, lining up the axis, using the metal blocks and alloy machine to block the lenses, using the generator to cut in the prescription, buffing and polishing the lens, adding anti-scratch coating if necessary, blocking the lens again, cutting it to shape, adding UV protection or tint if necessary, then mounting the lens (ha, mounting) into the frames and checking to make sure the glasses are as they should be.

Well, on Thursday I was in the starting station - doing everything up to the generator. And I was trying to block a lens with the alloy machine, I broke the lever. This lever? Not an easy fucker to break. There's a huge spring that I undid or some shit, and the machine had to be taken apart to re-mount the spring. Both Sam and Lucas kept laughing and saying, "We've never seen anyone do that before." Because, apparently? It takes a lot of torque to undo that spring. I am she-woman, hear me roar!

Sam and Lucas proceeded to tease me the next few days about laying off the 'roids. :) FYI, the guys I work with (even though Lucas is a fuckstick and had quit - Saturday was his last day - before I started) are fucking AWESOME. It was mildly amusing when they each said to me, "Let us know if anything we say offends you." Because, ha! I can't recall the last time I found anything offensive. I'm a crude bitch, yo.

The other day I said to Sam, "You know, I do actually like Celine Dion. But, you know, I've got a vagina so it's cool."

The look on his face was priceless. Like he's never heard a female talk that way. Poor sheltered guy. He's in for such a shock. :)

So later that day after breaking the lever, I had left a cooling ring on the alloy machine and the alloy cooled and hardened inside the rubber nipple. (Dudes, I know. This place is full of hilarious and awesome innuendos.) I could not, for the life of me, dig out the alloy. So I did what any true blonde would fucking do. I pulled the lever in the hopes that the alloy would melt the cooled alloy. Apparently, the alloy machine was seeking revenge. It decided to squirt me with shiny, silver, 114 degree metal. Typical male, showing me who was boss by spooging on me.

Apparently even inanimate objects find my tits irresistible. Because that's where it decided to shoot it's load. Right on my chest, and down into my bra. Yeah, I know. Of course Sam and Lucas crack up laughing, and manage to spit out, "We've never seen anyone do that before!"

They say that a lot. To me, anyway.

So I had to go in the bathroom and fish alloy chips out of my tits. I came back in and said, "You know, that's the first time I've ever taken my bra off at work. It was rather awkward."