Chaos In A Bottle

So, I’d like to say that the reason I haven’t updated in oh, ever, is because I’ve been doing Really Exciting and Wild Things ™, but in fact, I’ve just been lazy. Sue me – it’s not like I get PAID to write this stuff. Contact me about doing ads on this blog and we’ll talk.

Instead of doing R.E.&W.T. ™ , I’ve been doing stuff like the following:

Threw a ball for Archer the Wonder Dog to catch, but instead he hit it with his nose and it flew back and clobbered me in the head.

Watched my eldest go to her first prom, and nearly died because (a) she’s gorgeous and (b) I’m old.

I am in so much trouble, being this one\’s mother…

Still not feeling better about my parenting chances here…

Wrote not nearly enough about zombies and way too many tweets.

Became addicted to The Glee Project, because not only do I watch Glee with the sort of rabid intensity I usually save for scifi and chocolate, I am apparently a sucker for people younger and prettier than myself who have so much talent it hurts. If you’re wondering, I’m pulling for Damian McGinty.

Yeah, I wanna see this guy on GLEE.

Realized that all the shows I usually watch are now in hiatus, got very sad, and then realized that Eureka is about to come back for the summer, and got glad again.

Remembered that the next installment of Gail Garriger’s The Parasol Protectorate series is due out very, very soon, and became rather giddy.

Bought Argent Vite by my dear friend Kaye and devoured it in a day. It’s available via Lulu and iBooks, and you should all go out and read it. Right now. Go on. I’ll wait.

Planted growing things in my gardens, realized I hadn’t bought enough of them to do the job, and since I’d already cleared out the OLD things for the NEW things, my flowerbeds look like they have alopecia. I guess that’s ok, though, since that matches my lawn. I rock so hard.

Tried to convince my guy that I could use a pet dryer for things other than drying Archer the Wonder Dog after his bath. The thing is, I actually COULD, but he’s not buying it – the story or the dryer. Why did I ever think practicality was an attractive quality in a man?? It’s a good thing he’s hot, that’s all I’m sayin’.

So – yeah. How did this become my life again?

P.S. – after proofing this for me, Patrick thinks everyone will believe that all I do is watch television and that our life stinks. Ya’ll know better than that – I eat and bathe occasionally, too. Take that, Patrick.

P.P.S. – if you’re just leaving a comment here because it’ll get you more traffic and better ratings with Google, then you need to go away. I actually READ the comments before I approve them, and if you’re putting up things like “this article had great informations can you tell me more?” while coding 482 links to Russian porn into the comment, you’re not going to get approved. Don’t try to sell stuff on my blog, ya’ll. I don’t even do that.

*Author’s Note – WordPress ate this once already. I love you, so I’m rewriting it. Fear me.*

So – there’s this kid I know. Good-natured, hardworking guy with a big heart that I totally want in my corner when the zombies come, because he’s big enough to swing a mean machete and loyal enough to swing it to help out his friends. The problem is his family treats him like crap.

I’m not talking about your ordinary, garden variety crap, either. I’m talking the sort of crap you find encased in glass domes with signs saying “for when the usual crap just won’t do”. THAT kind of crap. This kid’s stepfather is a class A Numbskull, and his mom must either be threatened or drunk, because she allows said Numbskull to dish out the afore-mentioned crap. Oh, not to all the kids, mind you – the kids she shares with the Numbskull get preferential treatment. It’s the kids she had B.N. (before Numbskull) that get the short end of the stick, and you’re not going to convince me that she doesn’t see it, because she’s got eyes in her head.

You know, I’ll take a lot of things from a lot of people, but you don’t mess with my kids. You want to be safe during the Zombie Apocalypse, then stand behind my kids, because I guarantee you they’re gonna survive. Nobody messes with my girls. That means that I don’t understand why in the Sam Hill anyone would treat their children like this, step or other, and since I have seriously great great step-parents, I really really have no frame of reference for this. No one would do this to my child, no matter who is the one doing the “doing”.

I know all I can do, at least at this precise moment in time, is offer support. What I’d like to do is significantly more, um, action oriented. And probably frowned upon. Or not, depending on who you are and what organizations or municipalities you work for. I am open to suggestions, however.

I mean it. I totally rock as a mom. Listen to this:

So, my oldest daughter and I are giving the baby (that we babysit, not that I actually HAD, ’cause the last baby I had is now eight, and that would be weird) a bath, and she informs me that she needs a big brain bleach, because she couldn’t get to sleep last night because of MY BED CREAKING.

I got busted by my kid. Oops.

Ok, so I’m not gonna apologize, ’cause, really, why should I apologize for having a good, um, intimate relationship with my guy, and I’m caught between being embarrassed and being sorta smug, and yeah, smug wins out. Which, to my mind, makes me mom-of-the-year.

Look at how many people have screwed-up ideas on how marriages and intimate relations work, and I’m showing my daughter, showing, mind you, in an INDIRECT and totally UNKNOWING way, that after a long time that part of my life is still active and good. I think that is a pretty awesome thing for her to know, that monogamy doesn’t mean boring or monotonous and that as a couple her dad and I have a relationship that’s strong and vital and pretty darn good.

To continue the lesson, I will be attaching one of these to the bottom of my bed:

Cowbell – for all your noise-making needs

P.S. I just remembered that my parents read this, too. Oh, well – did they think their grandkids came from the cabbage patch??

I’m generally a fairly easy-going person. Shut up, I am. A bit. Anyway, as I was going to pick up my neighbor’s little girl from school yesterday, I got a big ole’ dose of stupid shoved right down my throat, and I’m gonna share.

The bus from the high school had dropped it’s load of delinquents students off at the end of the block. They’re walking down the street, in the middle of the street, and a minivan is behind them. Do they move to the side, like, oh, I don’t know, people with a few brain cells to rub together? Nope; I watch them continue down the street, with the minivan behind them, until the driver realized that yes, they were obviously brain donors, and pulled out around them.

What the…

What a group of no manners, no account, no freakin’ BRAIN mouth-breathers! I mean – come on, dude. Move out of the bleedin’ street, because if you knew how much damage that minvan would suffer if the driver were someone like ME and ran your sorry behind down – i.e. NONE AT ALL – you might think about firing a synapse or two and GETTING OUT OF THE WAY!!

Before you tell me that they’re not stupid, they’re just ill-mannered, let me remind you that by the time you reach high school, if you haven’t figured out that walking down the middle of a busy street is BAD, you’re just plain dumb. The kind of dumb that wears two pairs of boxers and its jeans around its thighs and thinks that standing on a hill during a lightning storm while wearing plate armor would be a good idea.

Is there a reason for this??

Pull up your pants and get out of the street. You’re lowering the IQ of the rest of the neighborhood.

Yet another reason why I homeschool. I don’t want this sort of attitude rubbing off on my kids. The idiot’s attitude, not my attitude, because my attitude rocks.

IT DOES.

While I’m hoping that this blog might eventually help me become rich launch a productive writing career, I’ve discovered that it has an excellent bonus that I can cash in on here and now. I can use it to embarrass my teenage daughter. Awesomeness. I was asked if I was writing about zombies again, and I probably should, ’cause writing the about the undead rocks hard, but in reality I wasn’t, at least until she asked me that with that “my mom is a complete headcase” look in her eyes, so of course I had to. It’s in the rule book.

So, apparently it’s ok for her to do things like yell “loodle loodle loo” on roller coasters and pretend to be a kraken in public fountains – wait, that was a movie teenager, my bad, but she’d totally do it if she thought she could get away with it, so I’m leaving it in – and of course nothing I’ve done yet can measure up to her announcing at the top of her lungs outside of the Disney store “I HAVE A WEDGIE IN MY BUTT! CAN YOU GET THE WEDGIE OUT OF MY BUTT??” Yeah, she was 3, but she totally looked older, and now I’m known as the wedgie mom in that mall, so it’s a good thing I shop somewhere else now.

I’m not, however, allowed to blog a teensy bit about zombies. ‘Cause, that’s embarrassing, apparently.

It’s a good thing she’s cute, and is old enough to do things like laundry.