These... are the days... of their lives...

I was gonna write this a while ago and call it "My daughter married a guido". But I didn't, and I'm glad I didn't because sooooooo much has happened since then.

It all started one Sunday morning when my friend and I left the kids with her hubs. Our two littles's who are both 4 had a good time. We went to the market to buy fruit and when we came back, Her Boy was wearing "wedding pants". We were also informed that they had got married "for real" and kissed in the closet "for real". Then later The girl saw "her husband" in his underwear, and when they were playing at my house, they both came out of The Girl's room with her dress around her shoulders. EEK!!! I'm going to assume that's the preschool equivalent of consummation.

Not to worry though, eligible bachelors, because, on the way to school later that afternoon to pick up the biggles's, they broke up. It turns out that she had her feet on his feet in the wagon, and well...

A few weeks later, Her Boy informed us that they were gonna get married. He said, "We're gonna get married."

But then, a few days later, the kids were all hanging out in my carport. There are a handful of them, they're all four, and they're like a freaking gang. Anyway, I walk out and overhear... "No! We broke up!" So I ask other Boy, "Who'd you break up with?" He says The Girl, so I'm all like

And then the other day, all the kids were back over at friend's house. When I picked them up, she told me that she had to tell the two littles's that, no, they could not go upstairs and kiss. O.O

Seriously. OMG!!! These kids are gonna give me a coronary. I swear. Hubs wants to buy a gun just for all the little punk ass kids gonna be hittin' on shawty. Or whatever the kids are sayin' these days.

As a bonus I give you this amazing list that my dad once gave my husband...

Rules for Dating my Daughter

Rule One: If you pull into my driveway and honk you'd better be delivering a package, because you're sure not picking anything up.

Rule Two: You do not touch my daughter in front of me. You may glance at her, so long as you do not peer at anything below her neck. If you cannot keep your eyes or hands off of my daughter's body, I will remove them.

Rule Three: I am aware that it is considered fashionable for boys of your age to wear their trousers so loosely that they appear to be falling off their hips. Please don't take this as an insult, but you and all of your friends are complete idiots. Still, I want to be fair and open-minded about this issue, so I propose this compromise: You may come to the door with your underwear showing and your pants ten sizes too big, and I will not object. However, In order to ensure that your clothes do not, in fact, come off during the course of your date with my daughter, I will take my electric nail gun and fasten your trousers securely in place to your waist.

Rule Four: I'm sure you've been told that in today's world, sex without utilising a barrier method" of some kind can kill you. Let me elaborate: when it comes to sex, I am the barrier, and I will kill you.

Rule Five: In order for us to get to know each other, we should talk about sports, politics, and other issues of the day. Please do not do this. The only information I require from you is an indication of when you expect to have my daughter safely back at my house, and the only word I need from you on this subject is "early."

Rule Six: I have no doubt you are a popular fellow, with many opportunities to date other girls. This is fine with me as long as it is okay with my daughter. Otherwise, once you have gone out with my little girl, you will continue to date no one but her until she is finished with you. If you make her cry, I will make you cry.

Rule Seven: As you stand in my front hallway, waiting for my daughter to appear, and more than an hour goes by, do not sigh and fidget. If you want to be on time for the movie, you should not be dating. My daughter is putting on her makeup, a process that can take longer than painting the Golden Gate Bridge. Instead of just standing there, why don't you do something useful, like changing the oil in my car?

Rule Eight: The following places are not appropriate for a date with my daughter:
- Places where there are beds, sofas, or anything softer than a wooden stool.
- Places where there are no parents, policemen, or nuns within eyesight.
- Places where there is darkness.
- Places where there is dancing, holding hands, or happiness.
- Places where the ambient temperature is warm enough to induce my daughter to wear shorts, tank tops, midriff T-shirts, or anything other than overalls, a sweater, and a goose down parka zipped up to her throat.
- Movies with a strong romantic or sexual theme re to be avoided; movies which feature chainsaws are okay. Hockey games are okay. Old folks homes are better.

Rule Nine: Do not lie to me. I may appear to be a pot-bellied, balding, middle-aged, dim-witted has-been, but on issues relating to my daughter, I am the all-knowing, merciless god of your universe. If I ask you where you are going and with whom, you have one chance to tell me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I have a shotgun, a shovel, and five acres behind the house. Do not trifle with me.

Rule Ten: Be afraid. Be very afraid. It takes very little for me to mistake the sound of your car in the driveway for a chopper coming in over a rice paddy outside of Hanoi. When my Agent Orange starts acting up, the voices in my head frequently tell me to clean the guns as I wait for you to bring my daughter home. As soon as you pull into the driveway you should exit your car with both hands in plain sight. Speak the perimeter password, announce in a clear voice that you have brought my daughter home safely and early, then return to your car - there is no need for you to come inside. The camouflaged face at the window is mine."

Take care little neighbor boy...

And she jumped up on his disco stick and rode away to Funkytown... (I'm gonna go ahead and say NSFW...)

Or... not.

It's been previously established that I am a writer, primarily of unsuccessful children's books, and as such, it is a necessity that I have a novel in progress. All good writers do. And in writing said novel, I've come across many roadblocks. Sixty thousand words is a LOT. I don't like writing dialogue. The kids zombie drink my brains. Seriously, I'm not so sure but what one of my curls isn't a crazy straw. Writer's block. Feeling like I'm shit, and this is a shit novel, and I am a shit writer and no one reads shit novels from shit writers who haven't even gotten their shit published. And so on and so forth.

However, recently, I've come across a particularly sensitive issue... one might call it "delicate", "unmentionable", "unsavory"... "skeezy". I had to write a sex scene. I seriously had more trouble coming up for the idea for the novel than I did the language of the sex scene. So I did what any normal person would do, I asked my friends via Facebook. I was greeted with suggestions that were unhelpful, bizarre, and hilarious, but all reminded me of that part in 10 Things I Hate About You. I used to know all the words to that movie. Sigh... Ah hem. Anyway, I was saying... Oh yes...

And no one wants to be like that lady. No one. My guess is not even the people who write that garbage. But then I was thinking about all the hubbub with Fifty Shades of Grey. Full Disclaimer here: I HAVE NOT READ IT NOR DO I INTEND TO. IT IS SIMPLY NOT MY CUP OF TEA NO MATTER HOW COMPELLING MY MOM TELLS ME THE STORY IS. Yeah, and guys read Playboy for the articles. That's why Hef has surrounded himself with the most intelligent women of the time. I'm hoping you're picking up on the sarcasm. That being said, I've heard a lot about the "crappy writing" in this book and how "she can't even say penis". Right well, let me write you a scene with the word "penis" in it.

She kissed him until his penis filled with blood, stiffening enough to penetrate her vagina.

Romantic, eh? So if your problem is that E. L. James doesn't use the word "penis", shut up. Let me show you by this flow chart I made in paint.

Basically what I'm saying is that it's hard to find a happy medium in a normal book between "Penis" and "quivering member". It has to go with the tone, you know? And the answer is most likely not "Disco Stick".

No, I don't care if Lady Gaga says it is. It isn't. She is not a reputable source, she wears dresses made of meat. She wears dead cow carcasses. She is the Hannibal Lector of pop, and yes, I'm sure it seemed like a good idea at the time.

But anyway, I went with generalities such as "She took him inside her" and "wrapped her lips around him". I'm gonna call success on this one.

And also, just for fun...

PENIS PENIS PENIS PENIS PENIS PENIS!!!

OMFG, emphasis on the F

So the kids are whining at me all day for one thing or another. Their either hungrier than African orphans, or they desperately need their video game fix. But not the three or four video game systems currently available to them, nooooo... They want the one they are not allowed to have because they've become overly obsessed girlfriend about it.

Needless to say, it's not been a peaceful, zen inducing day. But I finally cave, because at five pm, it is finally cool enough to go outside and not drown in your own boob sweat while sinking in your swamp ass. But then apparently, poltergeists or aliens or someone about to get the piss beat out of them by Liam Neeson have come around and kidnapped everyone on our street because no one can play, no one is home, and this is clearly the start of the apocalypse. Or at least the apocalypse according to kids. Maybe that should be the name of my blog???

Okay, so whatever, whine your asses off, you've been doing it all day, what else is new? Run on sentence anyone? But then the girl comes back and after much tantruming and phone calling and get-the-crap-out-of-my-face-ing, I tell the kids to get the crap out of my face go to the purple park with their friends and the nanny. They were supposed to go to the friend's house, but not them. They're efficient, they just went to the park, came back crying and yelling and whining because no one was there. I tell them to stop crying right NOW!!!! And to go to friend's house. They seriously don't make it out of our yard before all hell breaks loose and I'm not sure, but I think I saw some Horsemen riding by me. Though, since it's the kiddie apocalypse, maybe they were like little midgets riding Shetland ponies or something. REGARDLESS! They were like screaming and yelling and freaking all the hell out for no. apparent. reason. Hand to God. No reason whatsoever. None. Pretty sure the Shetland Ponymen are Whining, Crazy, Starving, and Obnoxious.

And now we arrive at the present. They are in their rooms screeching and crying and yelling, and I? Well, I am blogging it out. Sure, I thought about writing it all to the hubs in Spain, but where's the fun in that? You all can't read it, if it's in an email, all private and stuff. Well, not necessarily private since the NSA is reading all of our correspondence now. Who do they have reading all this crap? I mean, are there special people whose job it is to read my emails? I think that's the money that needs to be going to military programs because, I'll be the first to tell you, my emails are bor-ing. Unless you think my inane daily goings on are exciting, in which case I can refer you to Overly Obsessed Girlfriend up there ^.

What was I talking about? Oh yeah, I've learned today that 7 sucks. Mostly because now, I never let them do anything they want to do, ever. Never Ever, and they know it always. And the boy wants to die. Martyrdom for the sake of Xbox Live games everywhere.

P.S. Hi NSA guy. You could at least be polite and follow my blog. Jerk. That's probably why they have you locked in a back room reading my emails, because you're a jerk. No one likes you. Carry on.

What is wrong with you people?!?

I don't like cleaning. If you don't remember me telling you that, I have, and you should catch up.

http://motherofanadventure.blogspot.com/2013/04/i-dont-like-cleaning-or-glitter.html

But sometimes you have to bite the bullet, suck it up, put on your big girl panties, use lotsa metaphors and just clean the damn house. And since hubs is gone. To sunny Spain. To the beach of sunny, Southern Spain. On "work".

Looks like work doesn't it?

Anyway, I cleaned the house so I wouldn't be on an episode of Hoarders. But the kids were home. And you know what that means...

So, Oreos in mouth and Pandora rockin' out some AC/DC, I set to work. I swept the floors first. I was taking it slow. Which basically means that I didn't want to do crap but the house was nasty so I had to sweep the floors. It was then that my littlest Oreo... er... kid decided she wanted to run through the house with a pilfered package of graham crackers leaving bits and crumbs behind her, you know, in case she lost her way to the butt kicking I wanted to give her. Why do you do things?!? What is wrong with you?!?

Then the next day, I set forth picking up, mopping, and wiping off surfaces in the house. Being grown up is bananas. I actually scrubbed finish off the desk trying to get colored and regular pencil off it. In the desk's defense, I was the one who redid it, so the finish was sub par at best. But still. It was a lot of trouble and was annoying. So, job wonderfully done, I set off for a shower with my step bouncing from my feeling of success. It really is true, cleanliness is next to godliness because I was some kind of magic. Fifteen minutes later. When I got out of the shower, I walked into the computer room to check on the Girl Oreo when what did I see but PURPLE FREAKIN CRAYON ALL OVER THE DAMN F***ING DESK!!! I was a little upset. What is wrong with you?!?

Then I was putting up the boy's clothes and there was crayon on his underwear drawer. WHAT. IS. WRONG. WITH. YOU. PEOPLE?!?

I quit life as a result. You've reached Mom. I'm not in right now, but if you'll leave your name and number, I still won't care.

The Other Boleyn Girl by Philippa Gregory

I read The Other Boleyn Girl and thought I would give a little review of it.

The book takes place in the Tudor court of England. Basically, the Boleyn family has two daughters and lots of ambition. They marry off the young one and ship off the old one. The young one is pretty and gets shoved basically right onto King Henry's knob. They do their thing and the Boleyn's think they're just the coolest kids ever. Then the old one comes back. Aww... snap. It's Anne. Spoilers. So Anne throws out her boobies and wiles and catches ole horndog Henry's eye. But she won't put out. She won't be cast aside because Hank is tired of her. So she skanks it up like whoa and gets a queen exiled, a king excommunicated, and a new church founded, not to mention the heads lobbed off in her honor. So, Katherine is out of the way with her piousness and sincerity. There's no room for that crap at court. And the king marries Anne, but Anne can't birth a baby who is both alive and has bits. Then she does the nasty with her homosexual brother and gives birth to a stillborn monstrous baby thing. The king yells witch with the help of the rival house of Seymour, lobs off Anne's melon, and dips his stick in someone else called Queen. The End.

The story is told from Mary Boleyn's pov which is nice because Anne was AWFUL. So much so, in fact, that I was kind of glad her melon got lobbed off. I would like to point out that the rival families of Howard and Seymour were just barely classed up Hatfields and McCoys. Also, if you seriously think skeeziness and gay love and crap like that is new, you're a moron. I'm not sure there was a skankier time period than Tudor Englad. Nor was there one more entertaining.

The book was great. Follow it up with the movie of the same name and the Showtime series, The Tudors.

Mad Men

I've been watching Mad Men. I really like it. I like it in the way I like Napoleon Dynamite or "The Catcher in the Rye". There doesn't seem to be any real plot other than drinking and checking out Joan. I really love the costumes. They're amazing. I can't watch this show without wishing I could change my wardrobe. It makes women want to wear dresses and men want to smoke.

Also, I find it to be a comedy. I mean seriously. Aside from aiming a jab at the people we sprang from under the guise of entertainment, we get to laugh at the ridiculousness of "olden times". Just by the way, I hate it when people say "olden times". I feel like times should be tymes and you should be 8 years old or in a special school for special people who say "olden tymes".

For instance when the Drapers went on a picnic, Don chucked his empty beer can in the trees and the family left all their garbage on the ground. Somehow the director of this show has an uncanny ability to zoom in on these things without actually zooming. Also, the drunkenness and the pregnant women smoking and drinking cocktails.

Speaking of cocktails, do you ever break down words to try to guess their meaning and/or origin? Break that one up would ya? The cleanest I can make it is a chicken's ass. I'm not sure what that has to do with putting juice in hard liquor,  but there ya have it.

Mad Men also has an interesting view of women.

The poor jilted housewife kicks out her husband and then apparently loses all desire to go on. She stops getting dressed. She drinks and naps in the middle of the day. She basically just gets modernized.

 Then there are the "professional" women. Not like those kinds of professionals, you pervert, the kind who work.

There's the adorable little girl who is "one of the guys" now, except for the fact that she (gasp) had a baby "out of wedlock" with one of the guys she's supposed to be now and went whackadoo for a bit.

And that brings us to probably my favorite character: Joan Holloway. It is my opinion that Christina Hendricks owns that show. She's Sterling Cooper's own Marilyn. Curves and great hair, and then she finally gets a chance to have a job she enjoys, not just managing secretaries and what do they do? The bastards give away her new job that she likes to some punk kid who has no idea what's going on. Well f you, fat glasses guy (I can't actually remember their names), you should know that the voluptuous lady that has been charming networks is a better choice than the idiot you picked.

Overall, I love this show! I think it's great!

Celebrities = Courtiers???

Hola, world. I've just been mopping my floor listening to "Tom Cruise Crazy" by Jonathan Coulton.

I've also been reading

 



 

Anyway, I was thinking, "What if celebrities are modern day courtiers???" Let me submit my evidence. Back in the dizzle, courtiers were supposed to keep the king entertained... in every way. And as an aside, HenryVIII was a HOUND DOG. WHOA! But they put on plays and charades and masques and played cards and were a source of  G O S S I P. So then I was thinking about Tom Cruise because that song is ah-mazing, and it starts with "Tom Cruise is so in love with Katie". Except the thing is, he's not. But it's still there. And we all dig the scandal and eat it up via Us Weekly and People. But they only have jobs to entertain us. I mean, sure they get paid WAAAYYY more $$$ than me, but without me, they'd not be them. Right? So by my thinking then, I am the modern day equivalent of a Kingslashqueen. Hmm... What the french, toast? Where are my untold millions and ability to boss everyone around? Why don't I have an amazing coat made of the fur of baby seals or something. I don't even think baby seals have fur, but I'm kingslashqueen so it's irrelevant! I think I just turned into Cruella DeVil... Eek.

 

Cruella Out!