Pass The Crab Legs And Irresponsibility, Please

So my company sent out the annual medical and life insurance benefits enrollment email today. Which means I spent exactly 30 seconds reading it before I broke out in a sweat and wailed “Too hard!”.

that’s what she said.

I suck at being an adult. Anything involving bills, paperwork, taxes or medical issues gets handed directly to my husband. I’m all “Here.” and he’s all “What is it?” and I’m all “I don’t know, something from the insurance company.” and he’s all “What does it say?” and I’m all “Something about a deductable and limits and percentages.” and he’s all “This is dated three weeks ago.” and I’m all *blank stare* and he’s all “You’re just now opening it?” and I’m all “Well, I thought you would open it so I left it there for you.” and he’s all “You left it under a bag of Skittles?” and I’m all “What? You love Skittles.” and he’s all “Why didn’t you just open it right away?” and I’m all “Why doesn’t your mom just open it right away?”. Because I’m awesome at grown-up conversations.

I can’t stand thinking about adult stuff. Or talking about it. Or being anywhere near it. I just want to know how much money is in my free checking account every month so I know if I can afford to buy new boots or not. Yes, my checking account is one of the free ones that doesn’t earn any interest, mom. I shouldn’t be given control of any important financial decisions, is what I’m saying here. Not because I’ll do stupid things. Because I won’t do anything at all. I’ll set the matter aside because ohmygodscary and then promptly forget about it until it’s almost too late.

I’m pretty sure I have a 401k left over from my last job somewhere. I can’t remember the name of the place where it’s at. I don’t know how much is in it. The Captain keeps asking me about it and my response every time is “Oh yeah, we need to figure out what to do with that…maybe, ummm, roll it over?”. I have no idea what “roll it over” means. I think I heard my sister say it once when she was talking about my IRA that I haven't looked at in 7 years.

I refuse to go into my bank and talk to a real person because they always ask me why I haven’t switched to an interest earning checking account and I get tired of explaining how I tried to do it online but I got super confused by the options and my husband is a big meany so he won’t help me because “you need to learn how to do these things for yourself, Marcy”.

The only time I’ve looked at our mortgage paperwork was when we went in to sign everything and they were all “sign here” 50 billion times. The Captain, who is totally awesome at this kind of shit (thank God), took care of everything. I probably set back women’s rights about 80 years when I told him “whatever you think is best, I don’t understand it”. All I know is that I have to click on the little “pay now” button on the bank website every month when the mortgage payment is due.

I’m barely qualified to program our DVR, people. No way should I be in charge of anything as important as my financial future. You should have seen me on the night my husband decided to sit me down and work on a 5 year financial plan. He was all “Let’s make a list of goals” and I was all “Great idea. I think we should have sex on a beach some day, don’t you?” and he was all “I mean financial goals.” and I was all “Oh, right. Hey, who wants a soda? I know I do! Boy am I thirsty!” and he was all “Okay, so I was thinking for next year we should…” and I’m all “OMG you know what would be soooo good right now? Crab legs!” and he’s all “Come on, focus.” and I’m all “I could totally run a train on some crab legs.” and he was all “So basically if we transpond these numbers from your paycheck into the logistical payroll calculationer …” and I’m all *eyes rolling back into head* “I’m dead…I’m dying…it’s too boring…I’m dead from boredom.”

The thing is, I was better at all this when I was single. Granted, my life was much less complicated and I had absolutely no assets so that’s probably why. But still. I managed to have both a checking and a savings account, along with a good understanding of my medical and life insurance benefits. Then I got married and inherited two children. Things got complicated and harder. How much life insurance is enough for teenagers? Should we max out our dental insurance this year? Maybe we need to re-evaluate where our 401k investments are going? Should we enroll in the flex account? What the fuck is a flex account???

Jesus, just writing about all that makes my armpits sweaty. I hate this shit. I just want someone else to do it for me so I can go play with my new kittens.

Did I mention that my old lady cat is probably dying, which is totally not fair because I just put my other old cat to sleep in July, but the Captain got me two kittens to make me feel better? I didn’t? Oh...well he totally did and they are cute and adorable and fluffy and boom! I just totally distracted you from all that adult shit up there.

I’m a genius at being irresponsible.

p.s. the kitten story is true. I’ll have more on that later….
p.p.s. Do I know how to keep people coming back for more or what? I'm like the Walt Disney of blogging.

Jogging Limply Towards A Destiny Vaguely Involving Something To Do With Smaller Clothing Maybe

So I’m trying to do this running thing with Captain Carl. It’s going so-so. It really depends what day you ask me, actually. Because ask me today, when Captain Carl is running with his brother and therefore not with me, and I will say it’s going awesome. Ask me on Monday night when I go running with him in the dark after work and I will say it sucks donkey teat. Because ouchy, that’s why.

Captain Carl is excelling at the running. He’s running 3 minute stretches straight now and leaving me in the dust. Literally. I am literally running in the dust on the side of the road about a block and a half behind him. And I’m not really running. I’m more jogging slowly than anything. And my jog gives me a vague resemblance to a wounded animal, limping to the curb after being hit by a car. A wounded animal chanting "fuck. this. shit." with each step it takes. But I like to think that I look like I know what I’m doing, on account of how I pump my arms back and forth vigorously. My feet are barely moving, but my arms are like violent tornadoes churning madly across the country. Check it out, everybody! It took me 30 seconds to get from one side of your driveway to the other, but look how fast I appear to be moving from the waist up! Crazy arms crazy arms crazy arms!

Meh.

And then there is the issue with my knees. Apparently I have old lady creaky knees. I had no idea until the running started. Now I wake up a dozen times in the night after I turn onto my stomach and my knees push into the mattress, causing searing pain to shoot through them. They crunch like gravel with every step I take up the stairs. And then Captain Carl is all “You should take a joint supplement.” and I’m all “Your mom takes a joint supplement!” and he’s all “I’m serious.” and I’m all “So am I. She really does take one.” and he’s all “So?” and I’m all “She’s 60.” and he’s all “Well maybe you should borrow her AARP magazine to see if they have any tips for you.” and then I punch him in the face.

But I am losing some weight. And apparently it’s starting to show, because the runner lady at my office who I find equal parts inspiring and annoying with all her Go-for-it!'s and Keep-it-up!'s and I-wouldn't-eat-that-if-I-were-you!'s told me yesterday she could see the weight loss in my clothes. Hurrah! I’m awesome! *air punch!*

Also, I've been posting on facebook about my adventures in running and weight loss. Which seemed like a good idea at the time because now I will totally keep up with this new lifestyle on account of all my facebook friends knowing about it. Except that what if I don't? And then when people are all "How's the running going?" on my wall, I'll have to block them so that I don't have to make up excuses for quitting, like maybe I went all Jehovah's Witness and it's taking up all my time with all the ummmm, witnessing?

But hey...right now I'm down 6 lbs, bitches! So I totally put that little fact on my wall.

And then I had Mexican food for dinner last night. And also a donut that morning. And also birthday cake in the afternoon. And also maybe a candy bar.

I didn’t put that part on facebook.

Neighborhood Etiquette: Dry Humping In The Front Yard Is A No-No

We put up the Christmas tree Friday night. I never seem to get into the spirit of the season until the tree is up, and this year was no exception. It just wasn't the same without the Kiddo here. He's usually my go-to man for all things up high on the tree. Which is why I usually end up with about 20 ornaments right underneath the angel. He loves to rub it in that Captain Carl and I are shorter than him, so he's always "Wellll, guess I'll put another one right up here seeing that y'all can't reach. Heh heh." I don't have the heart to tell him that being 5'8" isn't really all that tall, except in our house.

Last year, we invited Renty to decorate the tree with us and it was fun, despite my urge to move every single thing he and Captain Carl put up into a more appropriate location on the tree. What? Every good tree decorator knows you can't put two gold stars next to each other. I'm not controlling and obsessive, that's just basic tree trimming knowledge. Shut up.

This year, Renty was working late so it was just the Captain and I and it was awesome. We had a little wine, we listened to classic Christmas music, we pulled 50 million fucking Christmas decorations out of the closet under the stairs, I put up the nativity scene (yes I used the words "fucking" and "Christmas" and "nativity" in the same sentence. I'm aware that I am going to hell.) Then we admired our handy work and I put 49 million fucking Christmas decorations back in the closet under the stairs because I must have been a crazy person to put up all this shit every year because who needs eight animated Santa Clauses seriously?

In other news, apparently it's cold enough here to put on the heat in the house. This is according to my husband, with whom I vehemently disagree.

Me: Why is the heat on upstairs?
Him: Because it's cold outside.
Me: It's going to be 68 degrees today!
Him: But right now it's 43 degrees.
Me: That's because it's 7am.
Him: So?
Me: It's colder because of being night time.
Him: Really genius?
Me: There is no reason to have the heat on.
Him: You mean besides that it's fucking cold?
Me: You are such a baby, this is not cold. *opens front door. steps out in bare feet* This is called "perfectly comfortable" where I'm from.
Him: Listen, Minnesota...you are in Texas now and 43 degrees is called "fucking cold" now.
Me: What a bunch of pansies.
Him: Renty lives upstairs. The heat stays on.
Me: I'm turning it off and if he complains, I will tell him to buy another comforter unless he wants to pay the gas bill.
Him: I knew this was about money.
Me: What? No! This is totally not about money. In fact, this is so not about money it's ridiculous.
Him: What's it about then?
Me: It's about...you know...ummm...acclimating to your environment and...ummm...something something saving the ozone layer.
Him: *stare*
Me: Totally not about money.
Him: *stare*
Me: What?
Him: *blink*
Me: Well, do you want to pay a $200 gas bill???? Huh???
Him: Sometimes you are so much like your mother, it scares me.
Me: I'm taking that as a compliment.
Him: Your mother is cheap.
Me: My mother is frugal.
Him: And last winter you kept it so cold in here that the Kiddo wore gloves and a ski mask around the house.
Me: He's just a drama queen like his father. I was trying to toughen him up and get him ready for the world! Unlike you, who wanted to coddle and keep him soft.
Him: Just go to work, you're going to be late if you keep arguing with me.
Me: *walking out the door muttering* Fucking 43 degrees and you turn the heat on? Give me a break. You think this is cold? Cold is when the temperature doesn't get above zero and your nostrils freeze shut. *yelling back at house* We don't turn our heat on up north until the lakes freeze over! Because we're tough! And don't like to waste money!
Neighbor: Is everything okay?
Me: Oh sorry, I wasn't yelling at you. I'm yelling at my husband WHO APPARENTLY LOVES TO THROW MONEY OUT THE WINDOW BECAUSE IT IS TOTALLY NOT COLD OUT HERE!
Him: *opens front door* Shut up and go to work already!

This is probably why our neighbors never talk to us. This and the fact that Captain Carl tried to dry hump me doggy-style yesterday in the front yard while I was bent over watering the flowers and when I yelled at him to stop it he whispered "Let them watch" and then spanked me. True story.

Become A Follower And See Semi-Naked Pictures Of My Husband

So the time has come for me to pimp out someone else’s blog. I’m not really good at doing that, even though I should be better on account of all the bloggers who pimped me out back when I was just getting started. I would probably be way closer to my current follower goal of 1,000 if I did this more often. But, meh.

But this blog is different. I’m pretty much required by my wedding vows to pimp this blog. It belongs to Captain Carl. He started a blog to chronicle his efforts to lose weight, get fit and run a 5K in March. I know, right??? I mean, a 5K is pretty much my version of hell. It’s a nightmare filled with running shoes, short shorts and wheezing. But I totally support it, because he’s awesome and it’s something he’s wanted to do for a long time and I’m so very very proud of him for doing this.

So I’m here, asking my readers to go over there and read and become a follower and maybe leave a comment or two. But only nice, supportive comments because I am not afraid to cut a bitch, okay?

I am amazed by this man. He’s determined and focused and I’m freaking out because omg I’m totally going to be fatter than my husband if I don’t keep up. So his determination has got me determined to keep up as best I can. This is new territory for me. I try to eat better and maybe exercise sometimes but if anyone pushes me to do more? Hells no. You think I'm killing myself slowly by eating badly? You think I'd feel better if I pushed my workout to a higher level? Oh yeah? Well...

But this time seems different for him, so I’m trying to make it different for me. This includes sharing his blog with everyone I know and all the bloggers that are awesome enough to come here and hang out with me. He’s using real names. He’s honest and completely factual. He’s told his whole family about his goal and his blog. All things I do not do here. And! He blog rolled me, which means I’m about to be discovered by my family. Not only am I running because of him (Have you ever seen a fat girl run? Boobs everywhere, people.) but my secret blog identity is about to be revealed.

Well, shit.

But! I’m totally getting back at him for it.

Pssst. Come closer so I can tell y’all a secret.

He’s got pictures of himself over there without a shirt. He says it’s kind of humiliating and scary to do it, but it is keeping him motivated. I’m pretty sure that’s bullshit and he’s just trying to attract gay men who are into bears. Whichever. Just go follow him. His goal is to get 5 followers by the end of this month. Do me a favor and blow up his follower list. Leave an encouraging comment, like how sexy you think his man boobs are.

Click here to read FatDad5K

I feel like I should explain what is going on in this picture. I'm not gonna though.

p.s. I love you, Chad. You are totally gonna bend that 5K over and take it to brown town.

Being A Hero Is Exhausting

On the phone with Captain Carl:

Me: Uh oh.
Him: What?
Me: The lady across the parking lot is taking her clothes into the dry cleaners and she dropped a shirt behind her car.
Him: That sucks.
Me: *knocking on window* Hey! Lady! Your shirt!
Him: Aren’t you on the second floor?
Me: Yes.
Him: And like, 50 yards away from the other side of the parking lot?
Me: So? Maybe she’d hear me banging and look back and notice her shirt.
Him: Did she?
Me: No.
Him: Bummer.

*silence*

Me: I hope she sees it when she comes out.
Him: She probably won’t if it’s behind her car.
Me: I suppose I could walk down there and take it into the dry cleaners if she doesn’t see it.
Him: That would be a very nice thing to do.

*silence*

Me: *sigh* That’s a really long way to walk.
Him: Annnddd there we go.
Me: What?
Him: I was just waiting for that last part.
Me: What? It’s all the way across the parking lot!
Him: But you’d do it. Because it’s the right thing to do. Right?
Me: *sigh* Yeah. Stupid lady and her stupid shirt, making me help her.

*silence*

Me: Ooh, here she comes. Come onnnn. Come onnnn! Look behind your car. Look! It’s right there! Don’t make me come down there! Oh thank God, she saw it.
Him: Yes, praise Jesus you didn’t have to walk across the parking lot to help someone.
Me: I know right? That was a close one. That lady didn’t even know how close she came to having me save her.
Him: Wow.
Me: No need to be in awe of me. I’m no hero or anything.
Him: You got that right.
Me: Shut up! I am sooo a hero!
Him: I’m pretty sure telling people that you’re hero doesn’t automatically make you one.
Me: Oh yeah? Well….your mom makes you one.

Boo ya. I showed him. I'm the queen of come backs. That's what she said.

Running Towards Something Besides The Buffet

So I’m running now.

I mean, I’m running for reals. For exercise. Not because someone is chasing me with a butcher knife or I’m trying to get to the buffet before that old lady with the walker gets all the red jello.

Okay so technically I’m sprinting. Which I guess is a form of running, but I’m not like, running a marathon or anything. I’m running from the tree on the furthest side of my backyard to the furthest tree on the other side of my backyard. It’s probably 15 yards. But! I’m running there and back. Six times in a row.

I know. I’m pretty amazed myself.

This shit wasn’t my idea though. It was Captain Carl's. On Friday at 4pm he called me at work and was all “Hey, when you get home we’ll kick the soccer ball around for a few minutes and then run sprints and then go for a walk” and I was all “Gah?” and he was all “This is our new exercise program…3 times a week” and I was all “Ummm, okay?” and he was all “Excellent!” and I was all “Well, fuck.”

Yep, all his idea. His brilliant Friday night sprinting idea. My idea was to sit on the couch and watch 5 episodes of Ghost Hunters while eating microwave popcorn and twizzlers. My idea was way more awesome, I think.

So I get home and I’m all “I have a headache” and he was all “Nice try” and I was all “No I really do. In my vagina.” and he was all “Shut up and put your sports bra on and get outside”. So I stomped around my bathroom getting ready for as long as I possibly could because I so did not want to exercise but apparently he doesn’t love me enough to let me do nothing and get fatter. Big jerk.

So we’re in the backyard and mosquitoes are eating me alive and I’m all *kick kick kick* with the soccer ball and he’s all “quit kicking it up towards my face!” and I’m all “It’s called strategy” and he’s all “There is no strategy, we’re just warming up” and I’m all “Oh yeah? Your mom's warming up!” because I'm pretty much the queen of soccer insults.

Then he made me sprint.

A real lot.

So there I am. Running. When I start the first sprint, it’s not as hard as I thought it was going to be. Hey, I’m moving pretty fast…not bad for a fat lady. At the halfway mark, I realize something. I’m running on grass. Ohmygod, what if I twist my ankle? By the time I finish that first sprint, I remember that my sports bra is too small for me. I look down. My left boob has popped out. I have to finish with my hand cupping my chest, much to the delight of my husband. We take a 2 minute rest, as per whatever fitness website he’s been reading that day. The mosquitoes swarm again, but I’m not breathing all that hard. I can do this…five more of these is no problem. By the third sprint, I’m praying for God to hit my husband with a freak bolt of lightning from out of nowhere. I’m panting and probably foaming at the mouth like a rabid animal. The Captain has beaten me on every sprint, even with the head start he gives me. “No fair!” I yell every time he passes me. “You don’t have boobs to hold up!” “You have more muscle than me!” “I hate you so hard right now!” And he just laughs and keeps running. At the end of the 5th sprint, my legs are shaking and I’m seriously considering punching him in the face. We are in our 2nd minute of rest before the final sprint when I decide to cheat. I yell “Go!” 30 seconds early and run like a crazy person. The Captain yells after me "It's not a race, moron!" but I don't care. My legs are pumping, my arms are swinging wildly, I’m laughing like a hyena. I’m winning this one! Yes!

And then I stepped in a rabbit hole and fell. I lay there like a slug, flat on my face, waiting for my husband to come pick me up and hold me and tell me he’s sorry and he’ll never ever make me do this ever again and then I'll be all "I could have been seriously injured, but I forgive you. Now go buy me some twizzlers" and he totally would on account of all his exercise guilt.

“Get up!” he yells from a distance. I raise my head and realize he has finished his sprint. “You left me here to die without twizzlers!” I scream at him. “Get up! Now we walk for 30 minutes!” he yells back. I roll over onto my back and stare at the sky. Mosquitoes are flying into my eyeballs. I’m sweating through my shorts and my knees are throbbing. I say nothing. He walks over and stands over me. He’s all “Come on, drama queen” and I’m all “I can’t” and he’s all “Yes you can” and I’m all “No you don’t understand!” and he’s all “I know, you’re tired and sore and don’t feel like it. But you will be so happy that you did.” and I’m all “No, it’s not that. I can’t get my boob back in my bra”.

So there we are, silent and motionless for a few minutes. He is contemplating how to get me up and moving again. I am contemplating how to fashion a shiv from blades of grass and my shoelace so I can take him down and shut him up about this exercise bullshit. He pokes me a couple times with the tip of his shoe. "Come onnnn" he whines. "No" I say and roll over onto my side away from him. He sighs and says "I'll go buy you twizzlers if you walk with me". I look over my shoulder at him and contemplate this offer. "What about my boob?" I ask. “It’s dark, no one will notice” he responds.

And that’s how I ended up walking through my neighborhood at 9pm on a Friday with a limp and my boob hanging out of my bra.

The Negotiation Ninja

At my sister's house:

Lizard: So I have some exciting news.
Me: You're buying me a puppy??
Lizard: Why do you always ask me that? No. I'm moving to Chicago to be with Golfy next year.

(Golfy is Lizard's boyfriend. I named him that because he likes to golf. I'm a genius with fake names)

Me: What?? How can you move away? I thought he was moving here next year?
Lizard: It makes more sense for me to move there. It'll be cheaper and he can keep his job and I can work from anywhere.
Me: This sucks!
Lizard: I know. It'll be hard to move away from you guys.
Me: I moved to Texas just because you were here. And now you're leaving???
Lizard: That was 11 years ago.
Me: And your point is?
Lizard: Things change.
Me: Your mom changes.
Lizard: Look, you moved here and you met Captain Carl. It's not like I'm leaving you here alone.
Me: Whatever.
Lizard: Don't be mad.
Me: Stop talking to me.
Lizard: *sigh*
Me: Oh look at me. I'm Lizard and I'm selfish and I'm moving away so now my sister has no blood relatives in the state of Texas and I don't even care if her house catches on fire and she has nowhere to live and no clothes except what she wore to bed which is nothing because she sleeps in the nude!

*Lizard's phone rings*

Lizard: Hi baby!
Me: Is that him?
Lizard: I just told my sister the news.
Me: You tell Golfy that I hate him!
Lizard: She says she hates you.
Me: I never want to see his face again!
Lizard: She never wants to see your face again.
Me: He is dead to me! *walks out to living room*
Lizard: I should have told her over the phone.
Me: *yelling* Hey, can I have your couch?
Lizard: What?
Me: Your living room couch. Can I have it when you move?
Lizard: No, I'm taking it with me.
Me: Why?
Lizard: Because I love it and it will go perfectly in Golfy's house.
Me: *whining* It would look so much better at my house though.
Lizard: You haven't even seen his house.
Me: Well I know it would anyway, so shut up.
Lizard: You can have the couch in the family room.
Me: Gross.
Lizard: Excuse me?
Me: I don't like that couch.
Lizard: Thanks for insulting my taste in couches.
Me: Just that couch. It's all green and...old.
Lizard: Well sorry, but that's the only couch I'm not taking.
Me: *walks into home office* What about your desk?
Lizard: You have a desk already.
Me: I do not! I have a dining room table that I'm using as a desk. Because I'm poor and can't afford a nice desk like this because mom and dad wouldn't pay for me to go through law school like someone I know.
Lizard: They didn't pay for me either. I paid for it myself.
Me: Blah blah blah. If you give me this desk, I could sell my dining room table and make some cash. It's a win-win.
Lizard: Hmmm. I could probably sell you the desk.
Me: You would make me buy it?
Lizard: It's solid wood, I could get a lot for it. I'll sell it to you for $300.
Me: That's extortion!
Lizard: Oh come on...
Me: I better die before you so I can keep you out of heaven. Oh man, I can't wait to get up there and tell Baby Jesus that my darling sister made me buy a desk she already owned for $300!
Lizard: Seriously, you are ridiculous.
Me: Fine. *hangs head* Go ahead and move away and forget all about me stuck down here in fucking hot as hell Texas. Enjoy your snow and windy city and the mob.
Lizard: Okay okay. I'll give you my flat screen tv.
Me: *jumping and clapping* Really????? OMGOMGOMGOMG!!!!
Lizard: *staring*
Me: Score! *moon walks* *grabs crotch* *puts fist into air* *stomps right foot repeatedly* Ahhhhhhhh!!!!!
Lizard: *still staring*
Me: That was the only thing I really wanted anyway! Jokes on you, sucka! You never saw that coming, did ya? I rule at negotiation! I'm like a negotiation ninja!
Lizard: *more staring*
Me: What?
Lizard: *crosses arms over chest* *looks pissed*
Me: *smiles*
Lizard: *narrows eyes*
Me: I am going to miss you so much when you move.

I Believe The Children Are Our Future. Which Is Why I'm Terrified.

The Kiddo decided to have a poker party at the house last Saturday night. I made him vacuum and clean up cat puke and scrub the toilet before I let his friends come over and he was all “Why am I scrubbing the toilet in your bathroom? They won’t be using it.” and I was all “Pipe down there, Cinderella.” Because I’m an awesome mom who knows an opportunity when she sees it, thankyouverymuch.

Anyway, around 8pm the doorbell rang and a huge gaggle of 18 year old boys walked in and suddenly my house was filled with shaggy hair and baggy pants and Axe body spray. One by one, they walked upstairs after mumbling “hey” or “how’s it going” or “yo” in our general direction. I had only seen a few of these boys before, the rest were a mystery to me. So a few hours, five pizzas, two twelve packs of Dr. Pepper and many cries of “dude!” and “you douche!” later, everyone goes home. It wasn’t too bad, actually. They weren’t too loud and testosterone-y on account of the party being sans girls. I kept thinking to myself “only a few more months of this before he goes to college and then my house will be quiet and empty” and I got a little teary-eyed. At one point, the Captain looked over and caught me wiping my eyes and asked what was wrong. When I told him what I was thinking about, he was all “I know!” and pumped his fist in the air. So yeah, we’re feeling a little differently about the Kiddo’s upcoming departure.

So everyone leaves and the Kiddo flops down on the couch next to Captain Carl.

Me: Did you have fun?
Kiddo: Yep. It was cool.
Captain: Who were all those kids?
Kiddo: Just my dudes.
Me: I only recognized a couple of them. Who was the one wearing the sideways baseball cap?
Kiddo: That’s Nards.
Captain: What?
Kiddo: Nards.
Me: His name is Nards?
Kiddo: Well, his name is Jason. We call him Nards.
Me: Wh...
Captain: *points at me* Do not ask him why.
Me: What about the really tall kid?
Kiddo: That’s Black Kid.
Me: I know he’s black, I have eyes. What’s his name?
Kiddo: That is his name.
Captain: Son, do we need to have a talk about racism?
Kiddo: No, for real. He calls me White Kid and I call him Black Kid. It’s our thing.
Me: Awesome. You are totally not getting beaten up when you go to college.
Kiddo: What?
Captain: Who were the rest of them?
Kiddo: Well, there’s B-ry, Stony, G-Man, you already know Pothead and M-Dog, Twat and J-Whiz.
Captain: Holy hell.
Me: Which one was J-Whiz?
Kiddo: The one with the jewfro.
Me: Yep. Totally not getting beaten up.
Captain: So it’s one black kid, one jewish kid and a bunch of rednecks in your group.
Kiddo: We’re diverse and kick ass.
Me: You guys are like the United Nations of morons.
Kiddo: Yeah, and your mom is our president.
Captain: Ooooh snap.
Me: *sigh* I’d like to get upset about that comment, but it’s just too awesome.
Kiddo: You taught me everything you know.
Me: I know. I’m your Obi-wan.
Kiddo: Nah, I already have an Obi-wan. He couldn’t come tonight because he’s grounded for shaving his cat.
Captain: Of course he is.

Perhaps now is a good time to remind y’all that these boys are old enough to vote. Our country's future? This is it, America. Cat shavers and kids named Twat. Awesome.

Someone Almost Got Murdered With A Squeegee This Weekend

Isn’t squeegee like the best word ever? Almost as good as the word cake. Squeegee. Awesome.

*ahem*

Anyway.

So our house is turning 7 years old this summer. I didn’t think that was very old for a house. The house I grew up in was almost 100 years old when my parents sold it and the only problem I remember about it was the ghost that hung out there. I’ll tell you that story later. Maybe.

But now I’m thinking that maybe my selfish child/teenage brain didn’t pay much attention back when I was living there, because my 7 year old house is falling apart. Okay, maybe only parts of it are falling apart. Okay fine, none if it is falling apart. It’s just breaking down a little bit. Maybe houses are like dogs and 7 years is more like 49 years? Because we’ve had to replace parts in both of our air conditioners (yes, we have two because we’re fancy rednecks, thankyouverymuch). And our kitchen tiles are cracking and buckling spontaneously and 5 of our windows have broken seals so they have that foggy, wet look about them. Our landscaping that looked so cute and neat when we moved in is now overgrown and jungle-like. Our sprinkler system only works on manual mode and sometimes it comes on even when it’s turned completely off. You get the picture. Lots of little projects to be tackled.

Because we have no money to pay professionals for all these projects, Captain Carl and I have been learning a lot about home improvement. And hiding the kitchen knives from each other. Yeah. We do not work well together. Things could get real stabby around our place real quick if either of us had easy access to pointy things.

See, the problem is that both of us are experts at everything. Curtain rod installation? Experts. Air filter replacement? Experts. Hedge clipping? Total experts. So with all this expertise floating around, it’s hard to do any projects without the words “fuck” and “you” being thrown about. You’d think after 7 years of wedded bliss and home ownership we would have learned by now to stagger the home improvement jobs far apart to give our marriage a chance to recover. After all, we almost got divorced over a vicious furniture moving incident two years ago. It was ugly, y’all. Pillows were flung, temper tantrums occurred.

Nope, haven’t learned a thing. For some reason this weekend, we decided to tackle not one but two projects. Landscaping on Friday and solar window film application on Sunday. It was like the MMA of matrimony. I have no idea what we were thinking. Well, I know what I was thinking...

Okay, this time just keep your mouth shut when he wants to do it the wrong way. Let him be all manly and shit and then when he does it wrong, you can fix it and smile serenely. It’ll kill him. It’ll be awesome.

I should totally win an award for being such a great wife.

So the landscaping went pretty well actually. We had already pulled out the old shrubs a few days before. He dug and I pulled and we only called each other jerks and assholes a couple of times. So all we had to do Friday was put in the new plants, which we did with no problems. I asked the Captain afterwards how we managed to get through it still speaking to each other and he was all “Probably because I don’t care about stupid plants.” and I was all “They aren’t stupid, they’re important!” and he was all “meh.” and I was all “Screw you then!” and he was all “Don’t take it personally, it’s no big deal.” and I was all “Your mom’s no big deal. Ha! I win!” *dancing pelvic thrusts*.

Like I said before: Me. Great Wife. Award. Right here. This lady.

So we got through the landscaping relatively unscathed and were feeling confident about our Sunday project of applying solar film to our bedroom windows. The Captain watched the instructional video on the laptop while I clipped coupons in the kitchen and yelled “Turned it up, I can’t hear it!” and “Wait, which side do we peel off?” and “We get to use razor blades? Sweet!”. That was pretty much the high point of the project. Then the Captain brought the ladder in and banged it into the wall and I asked him sweetly to please be careful and he irrationally screamed at me to shut my pie hole or something like that. I don’t know, the details are a little fuzzy and not important and no I did not start it. Shut up.

Then things got and stayed ugly. I won’t go into the sordid details, but let’s just say there was a lot of cursing and window film sticking to itself. It was a good thing the razor blades we used were dull. Also? There may or may not have been an incident involving a flying squeegee and Captain Carl’s head. Oh calm down, people. How was I supposed to know a rubber window cleaning device could rupture an eardrum? Geesh. It was totally accidental-ish.

It's Because I Love You, Asshole

This week, the one and only member of Captain Carl's family who knows about my blog, his aunt, is staying with us. I asked her what she wanted me to call her here since I don't use real names and she suggested "Sweetbritches" and then was all "hahaaa, I'm just kidding!" but I know she's totally not. I decided to call her "Crystal Gripper" instead on account of her being all liberal and pro-health care bill and blah blah blah Obama blah blah blah new age blah blah blah yoga. And because that's what Captain Carl calls her already. I'll refer to her as CG for streamlining aka lazy purposes.

Anyway, so while she's been here the Captain has gone crazy with the cooking. First it was shrimp nachos. Then it was burgers and fries. Tonight it was chicken fried steak. I mean, seriously people. I'm in fat people food heaven up in here.

Unfortunately, tomorrow night is curry night. Blech. I hate curry. So does the Kiddo. But the Captain loves his Indian food and will make it anytime someone is here who will eat it without holding their nose and making gagging noises.

Me: (to CG) I love when you come to visit. We never eat like this normally.
The Captain: And you enjoy her company...
Me: Yeah, that too.
CG: You are so sweet.
Me: *shrug* It's a gift.
The Captain: *rubbing hands together* Who's ready for curry tomorrow night???
Me: Gross.
CG: You don't like Indian?
The Captain: She hates the smell.
Me: It stays in the house for days!
The Captain: Quit yer bitchin', woman.
Me: Screw you.
The Captain: It smells good.
Me: Yeah, if you like the smell of dog diarrhea.
The Captain: You are so close minded.
Me: Am not!
The Captain: Are too.
Me: Your mom!
The Captain: If you hate it so much, why did you buy me that curry cookbook for my birthday this year?
Me: It's because I love you, asshole!
CG: You guys are adorable.
The Captain: Yeah, our love is the stuff hallmark cards are made of.
CG: It's more like a Lifetime movie.
Me: You mean the one where a dingo stole your mom's baby?
The Captain: Nice.
Me: Thank you.
The Captain: Up top, baby.
Me: Holla!

Lifetime ain't got nothin' on us.

Check Out The Cheeseburger On That Guy

I've never posted pictures of any of our renters for obvious reasons. But I really really wanted to give you an idea of what Renty looks like when he's kind of drunk and/or overly excited about something. He looks like the Jack Nicholson Joker, except thinner and younger and without the hat and clown makeup.

His smile covers the entire width of his face. It's equal parts hilarious and endearing and creepy.

So Renty hasn't had a whole lot to be joker face smiley about lately. I'm not going to list his person problems here because that's his story to tell, not mine. And also because I like not getting sued. Because I still can't decide if he knows about this blog or not. Probably not, but he tells me every day that he's "keepin' it real"...like he's trying to fuck with me and be all "I totally know about your little blog and how you make fun of me and my sayings and the way I make out with your cat".

So last night, Renty comes home from work and starts going through the mail. There's a small package for him and he gets all excited and rips it open. I'm watching the Olympics because I love sports and international relations and feel-good stories about snowboarders with head injuries and ohmygod sled dogs!!! So I'm all wrapped up in the latest Lindsay VonBlondeHair wipeout when Renty walks over and is all "Check out my new cd case!" and I look over and he's holding a giant cheeseburger in his hand.

I'm all "Ummmm, hahaaa nice cheeseburger?" and his joker smile gets even more jokery and he's all "It's a cd case!" and I'm all "Oh. Neat." and he's all *zip zip zip* "See? It opens where the meat part is and that's the inside where the cd's go!" and I'm all "Huh." and he's all *crazy smile crazy smile crazy smile* and I'm all "It's puffy" and he's all *creepy joker face stare* and I'm all *nervous laugh* "I mean, wow! Awesome! I'd never guess that cheeseburger has cd's inside it!" and he's all "It only cost me five dollars on ebay!" and I was all "And now your cd's are nestled snug between two buns. Just like your mom." and he's all "What? Oh! I get it! Haha haaaa ha haaaaaaaha aaahaaaaaaaseriouslyscaryjokersmileyface!!!!".

Then he put his cheeseburger cd holder in the pantry next to his tortilla chips. For reals.

Look Deeply Into My Eye Fist

Remember how I said a while back that we were getting a new renter? Yeah, the bitch didn't show. Just never moved in and didn't bother to call or email or anything. I thought I'd better let y'all know in case you were wondering. Because I'm the center of the universe.

So this conversation happened awhile ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday because my mind is a steel trap and almost as awesome as my boobs.

Me: So our new renter ever call you back about moving in?
The Captain: Nope.
Me: Did you email and ask her why she never showed?
The Captain: Yep. She didn't answer me.
Me: What the hell, man?
The Captain: I don't know, guess she changed her mind for some reason.
Me: That's so rude to not even call.
The Captain: Very. I wonder what happened?
Me: Hmmmm....
The Captain: What?
Me: Maybe it was my fault.
The Captain: How is that possible?
Me: I might have mentioned that she was bald on my blog. But only in passing.
The Captain: So you think this random lady who was going to rent a room from us just happens to also read your blog and figured out you were talking about her and got upset and decided not to move in.
Me: Maybe.
The Captain: Right.
Me: *squinty eyes* My blog is very popular.
The Captain: Yeah it is.
Me: *more squinty eyes* What are you trying to say?
The Captain: Nothing!
Me: *intense squinty eyes*
The Captain: What's wrong with you? Do you have something in your eye?
Me: Yeah. My fist.
The Captain: What?
Me: It's a metaphor.
The Captain: For what?
Me: For me punching you in the face.
The Captain: With an eye fist?
Me: Hell yeah with an eye fist. To the max.
The Captain: I don't think you understand what a metaphor is.
Me: *extreme squinty eyes*
The Captain: See, a good metaphor is something something something analogy something something something conveyed something something something word.
Me: Your mom's a good metaphor, punk.
The Captain: Why are you talking like Clint Eastwood?
Me: That's my eye fist talking. Right before it hits you in the mouth.
The Captain: I'm going to bed.
Me: You feelin' lucky, punk?
The Captain: *sigh* Goodnight, Dirty Harry.
Me: *scariest squinty eyes ever* That's right. Keep walkin', punk. Keep walkin'.

A Lesson In Romance From My Punk Ass Kid

We're in the middle of a snowstorm here in Dallas. So far we've gotten six inches, just like your mom did last night. Tomorrow's school day is delayed two hours so far and the Kiddo is hoping it will be completely canceled. The snow has turned back time and my almost 18-year old is suddenly 10 years old again. The kid that we barely see when he's home because he's locked up in his room texting and playing his guitar and probably smoking pot has spent the last 3 hours running in and out of the house and making snow angels and yelling at me to "come out here and see what I made!".

Here's what he made.


It's a heart in the snow. For his girlfriend for Valentine's Day.

Dudes, how adorable is that? So adorable that you are totally rethinking those flowers for your wife, right?

So I offered to put my mad photoshopping skills to work and make a photo card for him to give to his girl. He wasn't too excited about it at first on account of how I'd probably make it all "gay". But I convinced him to let me try.

This was my first version:


His response: Too predictable.

Okay, I tried again:



His response: Too old fashioned. Also too gay.

I decided to try something a little different for my third attempt:



His response: Huh?

Obviously the boy knows nothing about good music.

I was at a complete loss at this point. So I sat staring blankly at my computer screen for about 10 minutes while the Kiddo went back to rolling around in the front yard like a crazy stray dog.

Then genius struck:



His response: Sweet.

I'm totally going to work for Hallmark.

More Exciting Than A Bag Full Of Vibrators*

I just received an email with the most awesome link in the history of links ever in the universe*.


Caution: Clicking here may cause your mind to blow from extreme awesomeness*. Also, your mom blows stuff, but it ain't minds. boo-ya.

Y'all.



Pee Wee Herman Abstinence Rings.

My life is now complete.

*I might have over-hyped the website slightly. I mean, a bag of vibrators would be pretty awesome too, I guess. But come on, y'all! They have Miss Yvonne bandanas!

Miss Yvonne Action Figure - Now With Saggy Boobs

So I found my namesake's doll online today. She looks a little crazy, no? She is also no longer in mint condition and comes in vintage retro packaging. Coincidentally, all of those things describe me perfectly. Crazy? Check. Non-Mint condition? Check. Retro packaging? Check aaannnd check. Except my own retro packaging is less cardboard box and more saggy boobs and left foot bunion. Hottttt!

Remember when I was whining about not having any good underwear? Here's where I'm going to whine about not having any good bras. I know, you're so lucky to be reading this right now. It's okay, take a deep breath and calm the fuck down.

Being a *ahem* pleasantly pump girl, I require some heavy duty support. I can't just tra la la skip down to Victoria's Secret and snatch (I said snatch) up a little underwire number. No sir.

Case in point.

Hi, have you met my boobs?

My largely lady lumps require what the female undergarment industry refers to as "extended sizes" or what I refer to as "big titty bras".

Seriously, they refuse to stay in my clothes.

But I want cute, y'all. I refuse to wear the same bra my mother wears.

70 years old and she hasn't tried a different style bra since she was 30.

Yeah. No.

I'm thinking something more like this.

Look! She has a tassel. Sexy and classy.

I want to dance into a room like this after I put it on.




And then I'm going to buy a white chiffon dress and style my hair in a bouffant and probably adopt a puppy small enough to prop in my cleavage and I'll walk around town and people will be all "That lady has a dog between her boobs, but who cares...her tits look amazing!".

What? I don't know. I'm tired. And saggy. This is the best I can do today. Also, your mom's a slut.

It's Like I'm Living In A Bryan Adams Video, Except With Less Kevin Costner And More Ball Sack

At bedtime with Captain Carl

Me: Oooh, I'm freezing!

Captain: Come over here then.

Me: *hugs the Captain* My hands are still cold.

Captain: Put your hand on my crotch.

Me: No, I'm too tired.

Captain: You want to warm up?

Me: Yes.

Captain: Then cup my balls.

Me: What? No.

Captain: Do it.

Me: No!

Captain: Do it. Cup 'em.

Me: But they're sweaty! *sticks hand behind Captain's knee*

Captain: That's not my balls.

Me: Oh come on!

Captain: You don't have to stroke or anything, just cup 'em.

Me: Fine. *cups balls* There.

Captain: Is your hand warmer now?

Me: Yeah.

Captain: See? I know what I'm talking about.

Me: Great, now my hand smells like sweaty ball sack.

Captain: That's the smell of warmth, baby.

Me: Shut up.

Captain: *sings* You know it's truuue, everything I doooo, I do it for youuuu....

Me: You're a moron.

Captain: A moron currently getting his balls cupped. Maybe you should squeeze a little.

Me: No.

*silence*

Captain: You know, I have above average sized balls.

Me: Dude, I was almost asleep.

Captain: It's true.

Me: Whatever.

Captain: Totally true. And amazing.

Me: I'm rolling over now.

Captain: My balls say "you're welcome".

Me: Oh yeah? My fist says "your mom".

Captain: You just had to get one more in before we fall asleep, huh?

Me: That's what she said.

*silence*

Captain: *whispering* Hey.

Me: *whispering* What?

Captain: Maybe next time you squeeze a little.

UPDATED: Short, Fat & Carlos

This adorable guy showed up in our garage the other night.

He ran in when we opened the door and cowered behind the car, whining and trying to make his big old self as small as possible. I managed to lure him out with a little food and once he ate, he decided I was his new forever friend and promptly rolled over on his back to get his belly scratched.

Damn it, I was in love.

Lucky for Captain Carl, some folks from down the street noticed him earlier in the night and had decided to track him down and take him to the city shelter. Because otherwise? That dog would have been ours. No way could I have kept him overnight and then turned him over to the animal shelter. I mean, look at that face!

After they left with him, I begged and begged to adopt him and when that didn't work, I gave the Captain my best frowny face. That didn't work either.

Captain: No dogs.

Me: But he chose us!

Captain: No he didn't.

Me: He did so! He came right into our garage.

Captain: No dogs. Not right now.

Me: You're just a big jerk face.

Captain: Okay, fine. I'm a jerk face.

Me: First Regina, now Carlos.

Captain: Carlos?

Me: That's his name.

Captain: Stop naming every stray dog you see!

Me: I can't help it. Their names just come to me.

Captain: Right.

Me: Tell me that dog didn't look like a Carlos. He's all short and fat and cool. Totally a Carlos.

Captain: I'm thinking he looked more like a Fred.

Me: Oh way to be original, Mr. Smokey and the Bandit.

Captain: *blank stare*

Me: His name is Carlos Spicy Weiner.

Captain: Carlos Spicy Weiner.

Me: Yep.

Captain: Where have I heard that before?

Me: Nowhere. Except here. Because I thought it up. Because I'm awesome.

Captain: Hmmmm...

Me: So once Christmas is over, I am totally adopting Carlos if he is still at the shelter.

Captain: Nope. No dogs.

Me: You'd rather Carlos get murdered?

Captain: Our city shelter is no-kill. Nice try.

Me: He's not gonna be euthanized. He's gonna get shanked.

Captain: *blank stare*

Me: Because he's in doggy prison and there are always about 15 pit bulls in doggy prison and pit bulls are like the shanky-ist prison dogs ever and they will totally pick on Carlos because he's got short legs.

Captain: Your logic really scares me sometimes.

Me: I'm putting my foot down. Carlos Spicy Weiner is ours on January 2.

Captain: Family Guy!

Me: What?

Captain: You stole that name from Family Guy.

Me: Yeah well....your mom.

Captain: No dogs.

UPDATE: Houston has started a "Free Carlos" campaign over at his blog. I sense the Captain is waivering.....I need more comments and maybe even copies of Houston's poster on your blog to convince him.

People Love Me. I'm Kind Of A Big Deal.

So Wednesday night was a pretty bad night for me. Marian the Librarian moved out in the early morning hours Wednesday and she asked Captain Carl if he wouldn't mind getting rid of some garbage for her. Just some stuff she didn't want anymore but didn't have time to dispose of. I suppose he thought she meant maybe four or five bags of junk and maybe a few boxes because he said yes.

Dudes. That crazy bitch left about 25 garbage bags of junk, 20 empty boxes and 15 pieces of furniture. I am not even shitting you. How she got all that crap in one little bedroom in the first place is beyond me. Turns out we had one of those crazy hoarding people living in our house and didn't know it. And here's a little bonus....she left a dirty litter box in there. A DIRTY litter box, y'all. It smells like a fucking pet store in there. And not a nice pet store. The kind of pet store that you walk into with your kids because la la la look how we're making happy family memories by visiting cute little puppies and kittens! and then suddenly it's a horror show of feces and urine and hair and yucky smells and your kids are screaming and you're gagging from the fumes and blam! there's your family memory, only it ain't happy.

So yeah...bad night. And yesterday morning I drove to work thinking about how much cleaning and dumping we were going to be doing this weekend and I was all frowny and grumpy and I just knew this day was going to suck. Then I got to work and checked my blog for comments, because I'm an attention whore and also a really shitty employee.

Dudes! I don't know what I did to deserve this (that's a lie...I do know what I did and that is be super awesome and sexy), but three of my all-time favorite bloggers decided to make today "Miss Yvonne Appreciation Day". No shit. Turns out Vic, Becky and Kurt got together (dirty? maybe.) and decided they would each write a blog post about little ole me. And they are all awesome, kick-ass posts and I am (kind of) humbled and (totally) appreciative because I pretty much wish I could write like they do every single time I read their blogs. I'm also completely jealous of how many followers and comments they get, because as I said before (in my last paragraph...keep up, loser) I am an attention whore and everytime I check my followers I make that drumroll sound with my tongue. Your mom taught me how to do that because she's a whore too, but in the literal sense.

*sigh*

Now that Kurt has said I'm super awesome at your mom jokes, I can't come up with a single good one. I think he jinxed me, which was probably his secret plan all along because that's exactly the kind of blogger he is. He uses his ridiculously handsome looks and his run-on sentences and love of all things dinosaur and skittles to distract you before he goes in for the kill. And now that my your mom skills have been disabled he's going think he's the king of your mom. But he's totally not because only one person can be the king and that person is your dad.

That's right. I just replaced your mom with your dad. Your dad is the new your mom.

No? Not working for you?

Shit.

Thanks a lot Kurt. I hope you and Beautiful Treasure and your dinosaurs are happy now.

Anyway, so I'm always checking Vic's blog to see if she has posted anything new because she is so cute and funny and I hate going weeks between new posts from her. Also she has a profile picture of herself wearing really huge sunglasses but when I first saw it I thought she had fly eyes. Go look at it...I'm telling you, fly eyes. Okay, I just went and looked again and really they look nothing like fly eyes and my mind probably just told me that because she's so damn cute and I was jealous of her non-double chin so I made up the fly eye thing to make myself feel better. My point is that I am honored that Vic took the time out of her very busy schedule to write about me and link to some of my own best posts. Vic, I heart you to infinity plus fly eyes.

And then there's Becky (remember the theme song to Maude? Classic). She has me literally laughing out loud (I know she loves that) with every post. I can't decide what I love most about her...she uses great swears, she's totally inappropriate, she makes fun of things other people are afraid to make fun of, she vlogs on days that she hasn't showered....so many awesome things. I've always loved Becky, but now I love her even more because she put boobies all over her blog for me today. Just because I left a comment once asking her to blog about me and to mention titties when she does it. And she did both. I think I'll ask her to send me money and vibrators next. You need to visit her blog today, just so you can see the man boobs picture.

Becky

+

Vic

+

Kurt

+

Me
=

BSGLAPHFF (Best Super Good Looking And Possibly Homosexual Friends Forever)

I Am Officially The World's Greatest Role Model....UPDATED To Include Photographic Proof

A few weekends ago I was out of town on a photo shoot with a couple of friends. The job was to photograph the buildings on the campus of the college they had attended. I spent the day taking photographs and seeing the sights. Then it got dark and we went to dinner at a place all the locals love.

I had one drink. Okay, it was a huge drink. Okay, it was a huge drink with 5 different liquors in it. Okay, I had two of them. Whatever. My point is that I might have been somewhat tipsy when I decided that it would be a great idea to head back to campus and take some night photos. So that was how three grown women ended up dancing around in front of a camera on the square of a major university at 11pm at night. My 17 year old niece is considering attending this same college. This was something I thought of in the middle of our night shoot and decided to text her....

Me: Dude guess what???? I'm on the ___ campuus and I'm a tiny bit drunks!!
Her: Quit drunk dialing me you ho.
Me: Haaahaa! Uur hilaarous!!
Her: Go sleep it off loser!
Me: Im just gettingg started! All aboard the party train! Cchoo choo!
Her: B careful. Don't drink anything from strange guys & get date raped.
Me: Will du. Play on playa.

10 minutes later I texted her again.

Me: Hey Im gonna askk 4 the best place to hit a kegger. I let u know for next yr, k?
Her: Tell me ur kidding
Me: OMG some guy jst walked by w a bong in his hand!
Her: No way
Me: For reals! He prob knows where I can hit a ragin kegger
Her: Srsly, I'm concerned for ur safety
Me: Nah its alll good. Word to ur mom who is also my sister. Ha up top!

I'm pretty much the best and most responsible aunt ever, right? I should get an award for being such a great role model.

P.S. At some point in the evening some college kid drove up to us and asked if I wanted to take his picture and supposedly I said "You know it, hot stuff." and then I allegedly said "Hey, my friend here is 45 and single and ready to mingle. Awwww yeah" and possibly "Seriously dude, she can totally buy you beer. Call it trade." I have no recollection of any of this, but my friends swear that I did. Lying bitches.

See? I should be a guidance counselor or something.

UPDATED: The Elusive 150th

I've got 148 followers now. I told Captain Carl back in the spring that I wanted to hit 100 by the end of this year, so yea for me! However, I've been hovering around the mid-140's for weeks now and yes, I know it's probably partly somewhat kind of my own fault because I haven't been blogging and commenting much lately. But come on people, I'm still hilarious and awesome even if I'm around less.

So now I'm obsessed with hitting the 150 mark. I mean, Kim has more than 150 now. And Steamy and Vic and Kurt? Well hell, they've already gone way past 200....I'm choking on their follower dust. I'm just as funny and witty and good looking as all of them, right? Okay, maybe not quite as funny but I'm definitely as good looking and probably better in bed than all of them. Just sayin'.

I'm trying to figure out ways to boost my number. I'm pretty sure I need to get more sweary and sexy, which is an almost impossible task because I'm already damn sexy and very sweary. Very sweary. That should totally be a Hubba Bubba gum flavor. Do they still make Hubba Bubba? I chewed a lot of that shit in high school. Probably why I have the clicky jaw now. Thanks a lot Hubba Bubba. You suck. Unless you want to pay me for my soon-to-be-patented "Very Sweary" gum flavor. If you do, I'd like to consult on the wrapper design please....you'll need a catchy phrase to draw the kid's eyes. Like "Now With More Fucks And Shits!" or something like that. I'm pretty much a marketing genius. I'm like the Ted Danson of marketing. I don't even know what that means, but I am.

So back to how I'm going to get my 150th follower. I need suggestions. More renter stories? More renter sex stories? More renter pissing-me-off stories? A picture of Captain Carl smelling his back scratcher?

Ooooh! What if I offer the 150th follower a special surprise? Like maybe they give me the code to their voicemail and I change their message to say something like "This is Miss Yvonne and so-and-so is not available to speak with you. Because he probably can't stand you and saw your number come up and was all 'Oh shit, not that asshole again' and let it go to voicemail. Or because he's busy having sex with your mom. Leave a message, bitch!".

Or I could promise to post a video of me singing "Don't Cha" on drunk karaoke night when I hit 150. Or maybe I could share Captain Carl's recipe for the absolutely best lemon ice box pie you will ever eat in the history of eating pie (that's what she said). Or I could send the lucky follower a present and when they open it, it will be something awesome like a post-it note with a chewed piece of gum stuck to it or a caricature of me drawn by the Captain with me doing something cool like riding a unicycle or using a vibrator and also I'll make sure the package is marked "This box contains really offensive porn and sexy toys".

All that sounds pretty awesome, right? I'm sure I won't have any trouble getting to 150 now. I'll probably hit 170 in no time. And then in a couple weeks when I hit 300, I can be all "Suck it Steamy!" and "In your face Kim!" and "Take that Vic!" and "Bend over Kurt!" which he probably hears all the time anyway. But still.

UPDATE: Well apparently all I have to do is whine enough and I'll get what I want because guess what, y'all?! 150 followers. Boo ya. And what's even more awesome is that my 150th follower is called "vagiunta" which probably stands for something beautiful and meaningful but I'm going to say it's the Spanish word for cooter. That's what you get for following me, vagiunta. Sorry. Not really.

So now I have to get drunk this weekend and have the Captain video me singing "Don'cha". Just to make all my long-time followers happy. So quit yer bitchin'.

Now I'm off to whine about wanting to win the lottery.