It's the end of the world as we know it. And I feel fiiiiine.

Have I ever mentioned just HOW cool my dad is? In case I didn't....he's way cooler than you.

But, he's a little over dramatic.

I received a voicemail from him yesterday, this is what it said verbatim.

"Hey, lissa...it's your papafamilia...hey guess what...Korea is going to bomb us. July 4th. Hawaii. Nuclear. World is going to end as we know it. Something to think about. We should stop paying any bills now since we are all going to die. Love ya little girl. Bye."

I told you. Dramatic.

So I had to call him up and was all like, "Daddy, we are not going to die."
"Yes..yes we are", he says. "Nuclear I tell you. I wish we could move to Mars already."

I was all, "Daddy, are you smoking crack? Please tell me that you have gone on a crack binge and you're not really just this remedial."

He may build an underground bunker, shit... I don't know.

Don't get me started on my mom. I hate getting a phone call from her asking how to use the computer. Every time it happens, she makes me want to kill myself. She can't even figure out where the search bar is. Ugh.

I'm like...you have two perfectly capable teenage boys there who know how to use the computer...go ask them. But, they are smart little fuckers....they just tell her to call me since I'm the smartest. Whatever, they just don't want to fuck with her. Little assholes.

Apparently, nobody gives a fuck if it's my birfday.

Fuck you 50 cent. Fiddy cent, half dollar, 2 quarters... whatever. By the way..it's pronounced FIFTY CENT..get your shit straight. Your not that gangster. I got shot 9 times! I got shot 9 times! You're stupid anyway, after the first shot..I think I would have hauled ass up outta there.



I'm having a shitty birthday and I'm taking it out on a rapper. Only because in my younger days, you would find me screaming at anyone that would listen, 'And you know we don't give a fuck cause it's my birfday'.



Getting older sucks sweaty donkey balls. It does. It's so not exciting anymore. It's just.....another day.



Yes, I got tons of shout outs on Facebook. I'm not ungrateful at all. It made me happy that people acknowledged the day of my birth.



But, shouldn't my husband do the same? I got a 'Happy Birthday' this morning.

He took me to Longhorns for dinner, that was nice of him.

And then we came home, and he went to sleep. Fucker.

Cake? Nope.

Card? Nope.

Present? Nope.

Party? Nope.

Sex? He can go fuck himself.

I guess I wouldn't be so bitter if I didn't do shit for him on his birthday. I have done something for that man EVERY year since we have been together. Every single year. I have surprised him twice....and that's hard for me to do. I can't keep my mouth shut!

And seriously, not even a card? How hard is that? He KNEW how much I wanted a new camera. I thought I had drilled 'Nikon D40' into his head a million times over the last 2 months. Is he fucking brain dead?

Sorry for the bitchy blog today. But, you can blame Clay. I do.

I hope my blog doesn't end up with abandonment issues, man...

Seriously, I've neglected it.

I don't mean to...it's just that I've been completely wrapped up in Matilda Jane for the past week, my mind cannot concentrate on much else. Hell, my kids better be thanking their lucky stars they got fed. For real, yo.

ETA-I'm just kidding. They have eaten quite well, albeit frozen or boxed dinners, but still.

By the way, Bertolli Chicken Parmesan with Penne pasta and basil-somethinganother-sauce is what's UP! Shit makes you wanna slap yo mama.

So I've placed my MJ orders and I'm DONE! Done with shopping for a while. Actually, there is no truth in that. Gymboree is about to release a ladybug line and well, I'm a sucker for ladybugs.

But, after THAT..I'm done. Oh, wait...the purple stuff should be popping up on Gap soon, so it'll have to be after that.

Don't look at me like that, the girls have NO purple in their spring/summer wardrobe and what kind of mother would I be to deprive my children the ability to rock some purple shit?


Sooooooo....we didn't get a single fucking snowflake Sunday night! Not one!! How the weather can go from possibly 5"+ to being in a 'dry spot', is so beyond my comprehension. All I know is, my kids woke up pissed off as a motherfucker...at ME! And, school had already been canceled so I had to deal with the 'It didn't snow, mama you lied, please call the weather man and tell him to send snow' attitude for most of the day.

I totally suck, I have nothing else to write about. Sorry, G.

Is this thing on?

Just checking.

There was no sign, I swear.

The mother of all blogs is coming....tomorrow.

Okay, I'm back.

Hi.

So, it's not really the mother of all blogs...but at the time I wrote the above, I was irritated.

Here's the story.

We went out Saturday evening and decided to stop by Ruby Tuesday for some dinner. I requested it actually, because their salad bar is slamalama-ding dong. As I'm approaching the salad bar, there is nobody up there and this makes me incredibly happy. I like to take my time assembling my salad, you see. Usually I start of super healthy. Lettuce..tomato..cucumber..mushrooms, all that good stuff. That all starts to go to shit once I see the cheese, bacon, pasta salads and of course, ranch dressing. I suppose I could get light ranch or fat free..but that shit just won't do. All of the healthy items on my salad so totally balance out the fatty ones, no?

Great. Now I want a fucking Gandhi-ass salad.

Where was I? Oh yes, I was pissed.

So I had JUST gotten the lettuce on my plate, when crazy-Adderal snorting-huffy puffy bitch grabbed her plate and started on her salad. She still pisses me off 2 days later. Hmph.

Anyways, I'm moving along at a fairly reasonable pace. Not at all too slow in my opinion. This crazy bitch starts slinging her items on her plate and scooting as close to me as she possibly can. I'm not even shitting you when I say you couldn't slide a piece of paper between us. I can also tell you that she was wearing Estee' Lauder Pleasures and her breath smelled like Amaretto Sour. I don't lie.

So, I keep going..trying to quicken my pace just a little as not to get my ass trampled and lose my salad, because it was a masterpiece. Finally, halfway down the bar as I was getting my eggs is about the time I lost it.

Those eggs were not cooperating with me and the plastic tongs. Not my fault, dude. In the middle of trying to coax the eggs on my plate, psycho bitch lets out a loud and exaggerated sigh. I immediately started looking around the bar for a moment and then I took 2 STOMPS backward. She looks at me like I have two heads. "Please, by all means..go ahead" I said while presenting the bar to her a la Vanna White.

"Huh?" She says.

"Well you are obviously in a much bigger hurry than I am, so by all means..PROCEED."

I would like to point out that I am a fairly calm and easy going person. It takes a lot to really piss me off to the point of putting your ass in your place. But do not FUCK with me and my salad. Period.

I mean, I looked around for a sign saying something about the fastest one at the salad bar wins..but this was not the case. Because if it had been, bitch you know I would've straight up been in it to win it.

She mumbled something under her amaretto tainted breath, but this didn't matter to me. I had a fucking salad waiting to be eaten.

I'm not even going to go into the 80 year old couple that sat in the booth behind us bitching about EVERYTHING. Okay, that's a lie because they were straight being nasty! Well, the lady was anyways. The man was trying to get her to shut the fuck up, I think. He is probably secretly counting the days until he doesn't have to listen to her mouth anymore. Was that mean to say? Yeah, I decided it was too mean but I'm keeping it in here.

I honestly wanted to turn around and tell her, lady..do not FUCK with the people who are handling your food. It's a rule that pretty much everyone understands. Have you ever seen the movie, Waiting? Unless you wants pubes in your broccoli quiche, be nice to your waitress.

Clay will bite you

My husband is a dork.

The girls were fighting earlier, because..well..that's what they do. Meghan is screaming about a toy Hannah "stole" and Hannah retaliated by pulling her hair. Meghan starts freaking out so we had to call Hannah down about it. Clay then decides to pull(he barely touched it) Hannah's hair to show her it's not very nice to do that. Of course Hannah runs off with hurt feelings and I'm staring at Clay like, what the hell..you don't pull her hair!

She needs to know it's not cool to pull hair, he says. It's the same as if a dog bites you, you bite it back.

Bwahahahahaha!!! I was hunched over the side of the couch in tears, and he just stared at me blankly for a few seconds until he realized what he had said.

I do not steal my butt paper.

I hate Walmart. There, I said it.

I especially hate going grocery shopping there, but I'm all about the cheapness of food. I don't like spending money on food when it can go to more important things like, oh say, Gymbo or Gap. But, I'll put up with the bullshit that is Walmart to save a few bucks but this doesn't mean I can't bitch about it. Right?

First off, people please move your fucking carts out of the way. Seriously, if you are taking your sweet time deciding between Ragu or Prego, kindly shove your cart to the side. Don't leave it in the middle of the aisle and restrict the other shoppers from grabbing their Ragu and busting the hell up outta there. And further more, don't get all butt-hurt when I politely say excuse me. Because if you wanna get like that, I will politely knock you in the side of the head with a can of baked beans. I won't actually do that, but the scenario looks pretty sweet in my head.

The lines, the fucking lines!! Why on God's green earth are there 25 registers and only 3 open? It makes no sense! And you know that at least 1 cashier out of those 3 are gonna be all up in your business. Please don't examine every item that passes through your hands and be all, "Where did you find this, I need to try it!" Mmkay, lady..you work here. Figure it out on your own because I have shit to do.

I think you have to be over the age of 60 to even be considered for the position of a Walmart greeter. Now, I have nothing against the greeters. But when I'm walking out of there with a cart full of groceries all bagged up, for the love of molasses don't stop me and ask to see my receipt verifying that the 24 pack of Charmin under the cart was indeed paid for. That shit don't fit in a bag. I do not steal my butt paper.

Why is it that the day you decide to go grocery shopping in workout pants and a ball cap, is the same day that you run into every single person you've ever known? I never run into anyone when I'm out looking all kinds of fly. But of course when you see these people, you try to pretend you didn't. But that shit gets blown when they RUN you DOWN screaming your name. Alissa? No, I'm not her, but I hear she just exudes awesomeness. I don't think she'd ever be caught dead in public wearing this. Wrong person, sorry.

The above isn't true. I have to smile and be like, yeah I just got out of the gym. It's total bullshit because I so just crawled my ass out of bed and was like, fuck it. And off to the store I go.