2012? Seriously?

Good LORD! It’s been so long since I’ve visited my blog and written anything that I don’t even recognize WordPress. Holy CRAP!

If you are a teacher, know one well, or live with one, you know that the first month or so of school are CRAZY! I haven’t had more than five hours of sleep per night for the last two weeks. There’s so much to do when you have a new class. To be honest, it’s just so much fun! I plan to elaborate in a later post.

First, I’m going to slap something up here that I wrote a week or so ago for a Monday Listicle. I never had a chance to post it or link up. To say I’m behind is kind of an understatement. Anyway, here goes!

Ten Ways I know I’m living in 2012—

  1. I have a crush on a metrasexual Olympic swimmer. It’s a Leap year and an Olympic year as well.
  2. I have to vote for the Presidential candidate I hate less this November. First, I have to listen to their shit-slingingly despicable commercials while I try to watch all my season premiers this fall. Sheldon will have to be exceptionally funny this year to off-set all the negative energy.
  3. If I had a smart phone, I could watch TV on it. Amazing. Instead, I’m too cheap to pay the $30 per month data package fee. Besides, I just bought reams of cardstock, approximately 20 crates for classroom book display, a ton of binders, hundreds of page protectors, markers, magnets, and an army of plants. Thus, I’m stuck playing Ms. Pac-Man and Asteroids on my dumb phone. Everyone else likes Kinect. I still like Atari.
  4. My four-year-old wants an iPad.
  5. My four-year-old asked me if I was going to upload some pictures onto Facebook.
  6. I have a Sam’s Club steel shelf unit in my pantry loaded with all my preserved goods, just in case the Mayans and the Doomsday Preppers on that dumb show are right.
  7. We make gas out of corn. That is so freakin’ cool to me.
  8. We are learning and advancing so quickly in our technology that the information our daughter learns this year in college will probably be obsolete by her senior year. Can we get a refund?
  9. I’m preparing fourth grade students for jobs that don’t even exist yet.
  10. Morgan Freeman just told me that everything in the future of the Universe might already exist. Through the Wormhole reminds me through each episode what a wild, wonderful world we live in.


I’m going to try to post weekly until I get my head above water. Have a great weekend, folks! Thanks for reading!

We are STILL ha…

We are STILL having technical difficulties…hopefully I’ll be straight by tomorrow! Thanks for visiting, and I can’t wait to “see” all of you soon!


Thanks to the s…

Thanks to the stupid Internet that hates me, I’ve been stuck off-line this week. Additionally, I’m back to work, so I’m having trouble balancing my time in the Chick-Fil-A parking lot stealing WiFi with all my responsibilities. I’m going to take off from blogging until next week, when I’ll hopefully be back full force. We’re slated to have our Internet fixed early next week. YAY! I’ll see y’all then. I miss you!


Ten Things About My Truck

This week’s Listicle for Northwest Mommy has to do with our vehicles. Some of us Mommy-writer- teacher types are driving cars, trucks, minivans, and SUVs that could shit the bed at any time. I am convinced that prayers, petrified French fries, and baby spit-up are holding my 2001 SUV together.  Since my girl is getting ready to trip 200,000 miles, I think it’s fitting to celebrate her a little for keeping us safe and getting us where we need to be for almost 11 years.

  1. We’ve taken my truck all over the beaches of the National Seashore. We’ve only had to dig her out of the sand once. NEVER have we had to call the $150 hooptie beach towing service to snatch her out.
  2. Mr. Jenn and I broke in the backseat. TMI, but it sure was fun.
  3. Sand and salt water rusted out the brake lines. I did not soil myself when the brakes failed. I wrote about it here.
  4. My truck has towed everything from boats, to campers, to enough lumber to build a house.
  5. Mr. Jenn and I took turns kneeboarding behind our SUV. One of us drove on the sand beside a tide pool on the National Seashore, and the other held onto a rope on a kneeboard in the tidepool. The pool was about fifty yards long right in the middle of the beach. It was all fun and games until the knee board hit the sand at the other end.  I swear no alcohol was involved on the outset. Much Ibuprofen followed all our dipshittery, though.
  6. Our truck has had the pleasure of snatching a station wagon, a two-wheel drive SUV, and a Honda Civic out of deep sand at the beach. If a truck could smile, ours would have as she dragged that Civic back to the asphalt where it belonged. We, on the other hand, wasted good beach time dealing with that asshat who thought it would be fun to drive a Civic over a sandune. He had blocked the trail to the beach when he buried his car, so we had no choice but to haul him out. We had worms that needed drowning before the tide went out. Additionally, he made me late for my beach nap.
  7. The truck has a couple of dents. One happened when we pulled in to a Dairy Queen with our camper behind us. We knew there wasn’t much room to turn around, but nothing matters when you need a hot dog and a Blizzard, right? Even DQ hot dogs have a crappy aftertaste, however, when you have to turn so sharply that your trailer hitch apparatus stabs a hole in your bumper. I told Mr. Jenn he should have driven over those damned azaleas. Who slaps a flower bed in the middle of a parking lot anyway?
  8. The other dent happened when Mr. Jenn drove our riding lawnmower into the right rear quarter panel. Our tractor is older than dirt like most of our junk. It doesn’t have brakes, so it started rolling down the hill. Mr. Jenn swears he couldn’t stop it. Whatever. He only spilled a little bit of his beer when the collision occurred.
  9.  I’ve had the better part of a third grade class stuffed inside the truck. It’s hauled kids to football, cheerleading, soccer, volleyball, band, golf, swimming, and ballet practice. No wonder it stinks.
  10. Mr. Jenn drove both my babies home safely from the hospital in the backseat of my SUV. I sat perched on my donut pillow beside them watching over their every breath and wondering what I had done to deserve such a miracle in this life.

So, yeah, I have a lot of memories in this vehicle. I plan to drive the tires off. Are you as attached to your vehicle as I am to mine? If so, why?

Crackhead Shares a Piece of As–I Mean, Advice.

I, the Crackhead Beagle, am back for more twisted advice. I’ve nearly set my doghouse on fire contemplating this week’s question. Ethel Moonbeam , of Intercourse, PA, wants to know if she should cut her hair or have an affair. It’s a good thing I’m spayed.

Had my owners not opted to alter me, I would have encouraged Ethel to sit in the backyard with all four paws up in the air and howl. Something will always come along to tap that—just hope it’s not a roaming Chihuahua.

However, my priorities have changed from trolling the neighborhood for poontang to eating Snausages and leftover steak on my pillow. Since Ethel appears interested in Snausages of a different sort, I’ve got more of a clear head to consider the consequences of flaunting one’s wares through the monthly Homeowner’s Association meeting.

First of all, if you’ve seen one set of genitalia, you’ve seen them all. The grass only appears to grow greener on the other side of the dog pen. I must assume that there is a Mr. Moonbeam. If so, Ethel could get caught straying and wind up on her knees in front of the judge—lovin’ and litigation don’t mix. Just the thought of getting lawyers involved in one’s fling makes me want to go eat grass and heave on the floor at midnight. That’s an awful lot of pricks with whom to contend.  Ethel will most definitely wind up with fleas or putting out for some slimeball attorney for eternity.

On the other hand, Ethel could cut her feathered bangs.   I, personally, can’t imagine getting clipped. I find it tough to stand still for my monthly flea treatment. Honestly, Ethel could cut her hair until hell froze over, but that shit is always going to grow back out, and she’ll still be stuck with that same lame-assed mullet she has now. A sensible bob just isn’t going to fix what ails our dear, horny friend, Ethel.

Sounds like to me Ethel has been scooping ice cream out of the same tub of vanilla for too long, if you know what I mean.  She needs some nuts.

Look, from one bitch to another, Ethel, you could go about this in a number of ways.  Personally, I think you should shave everything—and I mean EVERYTHING—get yourself a leather bra and some thongs and flavor up the vanilla you’ve got at home. Mr. Moonbeam could use a spanking, and so could you. If you blindfold him, he can enjoy the whole thing without seeing that mullet you’ve been sporting since 1978.

Join me next week when I help Slack-Ass John sort out his career options–pump gas at the Slippin’ In on the Frontage Road or read tarot cards for Miss Cleo’s newest psychic venture. I”m looking into my crystal dogbone as we speak.

Please be patient with my owner. She is having Internet problems and will be around to read all your blogs as soon as she gets it fixed. Stealing WiFi from the Chick-Fil-A is getting old. Plus her ass is widening from all those waffle fries. 

Speaking “Man” with the Po-Po

The other day, Mr. Jenn and I loaded all four kids in the family SUV and took off to see his mama. All those progeny make my big bus look like a little Shriner’s car in a festival parade. The only things missing are those cute little hats with the tassels. But that’s not what I wanted to write about today.

I’m actually going to share with you a brilliant deduction made by Lil’ K., my four-year-old daughter, on this particular trip. Mr. Jenn, one of those Type-A personalities wound up tighter than a tick on our Crackhead Beagle’s buttocks, got behind some slow drivers on a two-lane highway. After a couple miles of creeping along at about 3 mph, Mr. Jenn let fly a few colorful words. I, of course, told him to watch his language in front of all the children.

Lil’ K. piped up from the backseat and said, “Don’t worry, Mama, Daddy is only speaking `man.’”

Diet Coke came through my nose.

“What does it mean to `speak man?’” I asked her.

“It means that Daddy always has something to say, and he likes for his words to win over other words,” she said. “It makes you roll your eyes, Mama.”

“Your daddy could never be accused of being at a loss for words,” I agreed.

A few weeks later, when we were all reclining with some friends on a National Seashore, a ranger drove up to our truck. Out here, you can drive on certain parts of the beach provided you cough up 120 bucks for a year’s permit and don’t scare the turtles and the birds.

Anyway, this ranger pulls up to where we were digging holes and playing with our eleventy-hundred million sand toys beneath our canopy and asks to speak to the owner of the red truck. Mr. Jenn, an officer of the law himself, sauntered up casually to the ranger to discuss whatever problem may have arisen concerning our red truck.

“Why is the Po-Po here?” asked Lil’ K.

“Po-Po?” questioned Lil’ P.

“I don’t know,” I said, trying to eavesdrop without taking an eye off Lil’ P., who likes to snack on sand and run off into the waves. He laughs when they suck him under, so long as someone is present to retrieve him from the bottom.

Apparently, the ranger had an issue with the fact that Mr. Jenn had displayed his off-road pass inside the front window rather than outside.  This state legislature doesn’t seem to care what you slap on your front windshield, so long as they get their fees from you. In our home state having anything other than inspection stickers stuck to the windshield is illegal.

Mr. Jenn drew himself up taller than his typical 6’2” stature and explained the situation to the officer. The ranger had thrown his chest out, too, and looped his fingers in his gun belt. The cloud of testosterone threatened to obscure them both from view.

“And I’m in law enforcement, too,” Mr. Jenn emphasized at the end of his manly little soliloquy.

“Daddy is “speaking man” to the Po-Po,” noted Lil’ K.

Our friends, one of whom is of the male persuasion, both quietly observed the exchange. Turns out the ranger acquiesced and let Mr. Jenn keep his sticker inside the windshield. “Speaking man, huh?” asked our male friend. “Basically, they just squared off and decided who had the biggest dick. Your husband apparently won.”

The officer did, however, get the last word by telling us that four other rangers would be checking stickers throughout the week. Translation—you can keep your sticker on the inside of your windshield, Peckerhead, but we will bug the hell out of you during your vacation until you put the sticker on the outside. When the officer left, Mr. Jenn applied the sticker to the outside of the windshield after all—I guess the thought of leaving his chair for something other than nature’s call convinced him.

So, when you get right down to it, which of these malest of males had the most generous endowment? Everyone got what they wanted in the end, I guess. The whole exchange made me think. I immediately applied this little confrontation to foreign relations. A hell of a leap, I know, especially after a few Lime-a-Ritas and some Maria cookies, but hang with me. What would have happened to our country without two female Secretaries of State over the past decade or so? Would things be better in the world if the previous and present Presidential administrations  had employed men to do all the bargaining? Women know how to lubricate a situation properly before driving a point home. We cajole, we compliment, we compromise, then we jam our position down the opposing throat with the sledgehammer of our nagging, guilt-mongering, and bitching. Occasionally, some members of our sex might lower their neckline and employ the assistance of a good push-up bra. Men just puff their chests, adjust the package, and let the testosterone do the talking. Whoever seems the most bad-ass apparently has the biggest penis and gets to win.

Ladies know that you just can’t speak man with dictators. Or if you do, you’d better make sure your missiles really are bigger or you might find yourself taking orders from some douche with Teeny Weenie syndrome.

Lil’ K., it seems, has activated her female intuition prior to preschool and put her tiny little finger on one segment of the pulse of human conflict. Would we have all these wars among nations had God created all penises the same? I think this is a fair question.
read to be read at yeahwrite.me

Ten Things Our Parents Did to Not Screw Us Up

This week, Mr. Jenn and I are submitting a co-Listicle for Stasha, at Northwest Mommy and Lisa, at The Sprog. Even though both of us consider ourselves a teeny bit left of plumb, our mothers and fathers reared us both to be good parents, law-abiding citizens, and all-around decent humans.

  1. We both work like two fleas on a dog’s ass. Our parents instilled within us both a rock-solid work ethic. My dad built ships for 44 years, my mother still works part-time, and Mr. Jenn’s mother retired from dispatching police officers at 70 years old. Until emphysema made it impossible, Mr. Jenn’s father worked in his family’s logging business and farmed. We both learned that money is freedom—you can do whatever you want as long as you can finance it yourself. I got my first job at 11, and Mr. Jenn was probably about nine. We’ve been paying for at least a portion of our respective mischief and maelstroms ever since.
  2. We play hard because we’ve worked our asses off. Our parents took few, if any, real vacations until they got older. We need things to look forward to when work overwhelms the crap out of us.
  3. One half of us cooks, and the other half bakes. Mr. Jenn learned to cook and make home-made ice cream from his Mama. He had to feed the rest of his siblings when his mother worked nights at the Sheriff’s office. He can make enough potato soup and Brunswick stew to feed a football team and his repertoire of fried food will incite drooling from three counties over. He can make a road-killed ‘possum taste yummy.   I bake because my mom worked with a grocery budget so tight it squeaked. I learned early-on that a homemade sugar cookie tastes much better than a store-bought generic one.  I also learned that if I wanted a stick of good butter, I’d better find a coupon or I’d get stuck trying to bake with the 25 cent plastic shit. That mess makes cookies flatter than Mr. Jenn’s boo-tocks after our ice cream-maker broke. Believe me, that was flat.
  4. We can both blame our asses on our parents. Thanks to Mr. Jenn’s daddy, neither Mr. Jenn, nor Lil’ P., can keep their drawers up to save themselves. When Mr. Jenn’s pants hang below his tractor shirt, it just doesn’t look hip-hoppy cool at all. Luckily, I have enough ass to compensate for all of us. That’s my mama’s fault. The thing is, she’s always been skinny, and her butt looked adorable and shapely. Mama can belly up to a buffet, pack away more than a road crew, and not even look slightly bloated. I, on the other hand, inherited her butt and Daddy’s metabolism. We can merely look at an Oreo and acquire hiney dimples. Unfortunately, that never stops us.
  5. We are grateful for our health. Both our parents have struggled with scary illnesses, and so has Mr. Jenn. To be honest, if chemo or some other scary pharmaceutical is not dripping into a hapless vein, we feel like we’re in pretty good shape.
  6.  We also blame our obsession with a wide variety of music on our parents. When you’ve cut your teeth on Roy Clark, Buck Owens, Kenny Rogers, and the Oak Ridge Boys, the inception of iTunes was like someone springing us from Hee-Haw jail.
  7. Speaking of Hee-Haw, our parents also exposed us to the oilier, slightly hairier elder cousins of today’s music television in the form of The Lawrence Welk Show, The Porter Wagoner Show, and Sha Na Na. Since both of us have“Where, Oh Where, Are You Tonight?” permanently glued to our eardrums, we avoid music television. That is, unless My Big Redneck Vacation is on. Refer to Number 2 above.
  8. Our parents inadvertently made us both lovers of nature. Mr. Jenn’s parents turned him loose on their 400 acre farm when he was about four years old. He’d leave after breakfast and return for dinner.  He fished in the water moccasin-infested river near his house and played on the train tracks. If you are wondering if something’s amiss with this picture, please keep in mind that Mr. Jenn grew up in a town smaller than the average map dot where old men still played checkers outside the country store. “Co-Cola” still came in bottles, and traffic jams consisted of two old station wagons piled up behind a tricycle John Deere fresh out of a peanut field. I, on the other hand, had parents with the opposite mentality—they kept me on such a short leash that I could barely climb a nearby tree without hanging myself. The only thing that didn’t terrify them was the water, so they bought me a 12 foot jon boat and two oars for my 11th birthday. After a couple of lessons with Daddy, they turned me loose. By the end of the summer, I rowed about a mile upriver. Alone. I had shoulders wider than a brick shithouse. The next year, they bought me a motor. Daddy taught me about channel markers, navigation, and the oil/gas ratio mixture, then set me free. By the end of that summer, I’d made it out of our river, across a bay, and way up into the river into the next county. Daddy decided he needed to set a few parameters or he’d find his twelve-year-old daughter somewhere in the vicinity of Bermuda.
  9. The freedoms our parents bestowed on us as children forced our independence and made us able to fix things. Mr. Jenn found some old cars and trucks in the woods on the family farm when he was about ten and began taking them apart. He pulled the starter off one, and put it into a broken down station wagon he located. Pretty soon, he was driving that old car all over the farm. I, too, had to learn to patch things up a bit. I watched Daddy make adjustments to my outboard motor whenever it sputtered.  I never left the boat landing armed without a can of WD40, and I never had to flag someone down for a tow back to land, either.
  10.  Thanks to our parents, we both find clothing rather restrictive. My Daddy insisted on all of us wearing clothes at all times in the house. Naturally, I grew up and rebelled. Mr. Jenn grew up in a strict Baptist house with a semi-nudist grandmother who bathed in the kitchen sink. No wonder he ran around the barn buck nekkid as a little kid. He still does it today!

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