This is The End of the World As We Know It!

Well, the world may very well be coming to an end! Hell must be freezing over. Pigs will indeed fly. Farrah really IS an angel. And Michael Jackson is the world's very best child role model.

I suppose, dear reader, that you are wondering what has sent the earth in to this untimely spin of destruction? And why, oh why, is mysuestories at the heart of such world altering changes?
Simply put, constant reader, the current state of turmoil of this galaxy is caused by changes at mysuestories manor. Yep. Single handedly, I have achieved total universal chaos.

"But how did you do this, mysusetories, your majesty?" (Hey, my blog, my kingdom. Don't judge me.)
Quite simply, we have turned out our three-toed sloth to the working force! That's right. The kid who couldn't find his way out of a paper bag with a map has got a job!!!

Not just any job, either. He's pulling ten and eleven hour shifts SIX (That's right, reader, SIX!!!!) days a week digging post holes and installing fences for a certain local landmark (who shall remain nameless, but who would probably be better suited as a plumber due to certain characteristics!)

Yep, the kid who wouldn't, shouldn't, (" I just can't work, Mama! I just can't!") CAN!!!!!!! He really can work! And he does. Makes a mama proud, I tell ya!!!

And he has just stepped right into the working man's lament head first. Besides enrapturing us at nightly meals with tales "from the job site" and his just-walked-in-the-door lamentations of "what a long day on the job!" , our little three toed sloth has finally embraced a long standing tradition of the working man the globe over.

Tonight, the Sloth came home and announced he had bought his very first lottery ticket. You know. So that he can retire. At the ripe old age of eightteen.

Yep. He and sixty two million other Amercians. God bless the working class!

Pomp and Circumcisions

WOO HOOO! Graduation Day, faithful readers!!! I did it!!!

From Graduation Day June 2009

I finally graduated high school!!!! Yea! Me!!!

What's that, mountain man? I already graduated high school 25 frigging years ago a long, long time ago?
But I worked so hard for this day! It was me who dragged the three toed sloth's ass out of bed every morning. Me who had to ask him if he finished his homework every goddamn night through 13 years of education. And just who was it that had to run to the f**king drug store for poster board for the science project assigned three weeks earlier that had to be started, researched, and finished in a mere twelve hours? Me!
I gave up episodes of Law & Order for that sheepskin! Even missed the season finale of Deadliest Catch to help the bugger study for an economics exam, for Cripe's sake (just who is Cripe, any way?)
The nagging, the pleading, the sticking my foot so far up some one's ass he could taste the nail polish....... And now you say it ain't my day? Ya coulda told me that before I stayed up all night worrying about the next day's S.A.T.'s. (The Sloth? He slept like a baby, the s.o.b.!)
And just who is responsible for making sure that kid was not up there in his grungy jeans and tee shirt? Who made sure that suit and tie were hanging in my closet (his closet would scare the pleats out of your slacks!) three weeks before graduation?

It's not my day? But I don't wanna give up the cap and gown....Geez....if I were a man, I'd be feeling a little emasculated right now, my (imaginary) balls crawling into a warm scrotal sac.

Fine.
I'll start over.
woo hoo. it's graduation day.
I he did it.

From Graduation Day june 2009

Happy? Sigh.

From Graduation Day June 2009

Look at the little heathens throwing their hats in the air. Hey, You! I paid 36 bucks for that gown AND cap, mister!!!! You march right back there and pick that up!!!!!

Thank you. Now show a brother some love!

From Graduation Day June 2009

Congrats, Kiddo! I knew I you could do it!!!!! I love you more than broccoli!

Oh, and Sloth? If it isn't too much trouble? Can I borrow that cap and gown while you're out painting the town red tonight? I'm thinking I could sneak up on the Gamester tonight while he's sleeping....You know...kinda like the Ghost of Graduation future.....

Oh, and Sloth? Ya owe me a pedicure!

Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead

OK. It's all over the news, and I guess we have to pay our due to the death of a once hugely popular music icon, Michael Jackson. I grew up in the 70's, and I remember the days of ABC and 123, and I'll Be There. Then there was the Moonwalk that I could never get right. And the creepy night of the living dead Thriller stage. The man could sing. The man could dance. And he did. Sing. And dance.

So all hail the King of Pop.

But then the mother in me creeps out. ( And, yes, constant reader. I can be quite the mother. In a variety of ways.) Does anyone out there today remember the infamous child molestation charges that always managed to pop up around this guy? Or the tales of sexual abuse that mysteriously went away amid swirls of rumors of parents accepting large amounts of money to silence their broken children. After all, isn't that a valuable lesson to teach one's child? (Hell, the mountain man would've volunteered for a mere five million and a roofie!)

And how come no one's mentioning the "Jesus Juice" this King Of Pop so generously plied his under aged companions with? And isn't anyone curious as to why a grown man had his own little Disneylandesque play land in his back yard? (What, offers of candy and lollipops were too passe?)

And while I'm at it, who in their right mind would not only bequest three young children upon this surgical recreation of a man, but leave those same children motherless and unattended with no one to guide them but a "man" who was so uncomfortable in his own skin that he spent a lifetime trying to alter it?

OK. So the King of Pop is dead. He could sing. He could dance. And millions of people the world over will cry and profess their unabashed love for him.

Me? I think a lot of kids out there are silently cheering. And it is the loss of their innocence that I mourn today. I think someone some where should have ripped that one handed little glove off of him at some point and slapped it across that made to order face of his. King of Pop? Blech.

Kinda ironic that a germaphobe who hid from the world should die from the most twisted part of his own body- his heart! Maybe he shoulda asked the The Wiz for a new one back in the day?

Post script- sorry for the downer today, faithful readers-but if I had to listen in silence to one more "All hail The King of Molestation" today, I believe I may have punched someone. So thanks for listening. And saving me bail money.

We will resume our regularly scheduled "mysuestories" programming later today.

Jon & Kate Plus 8-1 + The Mountain Man?

Jon & Kate Plus 8 - 1???????

Well, it's officially official!!! Jon and Kate are splitsville. Yea, like no one saw that coming. And their first statement to hit the press?

They plan to continue their tv show for the sake of the $$$$$$ (ahem) children.
Well isn't that a relief, America? Nothing I'd like to watch more than six young children face the horrors of divorce in an already publicly ruined family dynamic. Perhaps we could start betting on which of the little buggers will be the first to utter "I HAAATTTEEEE YOU (insert either parent here)!"

Today, the sacristy of marriage has lost to reality t.v. Aren't we just proud Americans today?

It's a sad, sad, world.

Anyone out there in network land looking to film a reality show about mysuestories' family? OK, so the kids are well fed and well adjusted (for the most part!) Nobody? Not interested in seeing a couple of loving parents strive to get their kids to the point of responsibility and self supporting while contributing to a better nation?


Yea, you're right. I wouldn't watch it either. I may live it (I hope!) but I probably wouldn't get past the first five minutes on tv.
Hmmm, what if mountain man had an affair with a neighbor? Maybe even the infamous Kate, who is surely on a manhunt by now! Nah. She' d be dead, I' d be in prison, and the mountain man would have a permanent knot in his manhood. End of Episode One. End of series. Besides, stripes make me look pudgy! (My real fear that keeps me on the right side of the law? No internet in prison. You can betcha ass I'm a good soldier!))

And just for the record, who the f**k is looking atJon, a father of SIX young kids; a man who is emasculated EVERY time Kate talks, and yet some how, some where, a young girl says "I wanna piece of him!"
Sigh. It's bad enough they film this shit. But that America chooses to watch it? Nauseating.

Now sit quietly and pass the pop corn. And the Pepto-Bismol. I don't want to miss a minute of
this crap!

No Soap Suds For You!!!

A little known mysuestories fact. I love laundry. Yeh. I know. Pathetic, isn't it? But I must confess, I revel in the smell of Downy bouncing off fresh from the dryer towels. Something about the cleansing, the order of the creased folding, freshly hung clothes heading for a closet....hey every body gets to pick their p0rn, no? Superman had Lois Lane, Humphrey had Katherine, I have Tide! (What would Freud say? - "You, mysuestories, are a very dirty girl with a past you are constantly trying to cleanse". Hmmm....he may be onto something, except there ain't that much detergent in this world!)



Second little known mysuestories factoid (I know...I am just spoiling the hell out of you today, aren't I?)---Fact #2- I hate ironing. Couple this with Fact #1, and this explains that when that dryer buzzes done, I am up and off my fat ass running for that dryer to hang the clothes before dreaded wrinkles set in. OK. I have issues. Major issues. I can live with that.

Based on this confession, it comes as no surprise to me that laundry fixations (up to and maybe including rubbing up against the washer during its' spin cycle?) apparently run in the family.

I was on the phone with my Kister (that's sister with a kiss--not Keister-my Keister can't dial yet, but if ever my ass picks up that little talent I will post all about it...Or maybe I will just let my ass call you on the phone).

Anyway, Kister called and was doing what we do best on the phone together. Bitching. We are pros at bitching on the phone. We rant, we rave, we reveal our biggest annoyance of any given moment, and then we hang up. It helps, and, shit, who can afford an appointment with Freud these days, anyway?

So Kister is bitching about today's gripe, which happens to be the imminent demise of her washing machine, which, she swears is a mere few years old. Complaining, with the phone in one hand, while flipping through papers searching out a warranty with the other, she laments on how her old faithful Maytag just won't squeeze her wet linens like it used to. (I know...this is sad...kinda like when we had to watch Brad drop Jen, no?)

In the course of laundry lamentations, I revealed a deep dark secret to her, that in mysuestories manor, the clothing you took off at 8 p.m. last night is already hanging back in your closet this morning. (Sad, but true. I have that little entertainment going on.)

I even shared that the kids (for the most part) place their clothes directly in the washer immediately after showering or undressing. (No. No. No. After showering and redressing. We do not all happily prance to the wash room naked. Well, no one but the mountain man, and that's another post).



After my little "clothes directly in washer, do not pass GO" disclosure, Kister's end of the line got real quiet. After a moment, she whispered ( I swear!):
"You mix all the clothes together?"

Gulp! Deep Inhale! Is she for real?

mysuestories: "Um, yeah. I don't have time to wash each piece individually."

Kister : " The darks mingle with the whites?!!!!"

At this point I think we are now in Alabama pre-1950. Have I committed a crime here by introducing my dirty laundry to a Woodstock type environment? Is that why the old concert jerseys smell like pot?

mysuestories: "Um, Kister? I thought segregation was banned. Or lifted. Or just plain
wrong."

Kister: " THAT was for people, not delicates!!!!"

mysuestories, very concerned for Kister's mental status, I try to put her at ease. So I lie.

"Well, I usually separate the whites from the rest." Yeh. About once a year, when the whites have gone over to grey. Then I bleach the hell out of 'em, and they promptly fall apart.

Kister: "So you have only two categories for laundry?"

mysuestories: "Um.......how many are there?"

Would you believe she has seven???!!!!

Here they are, in no particular order (which is probably killing her anal little mind right now. Or it would if she bothered to read this blog!
Kister's Laundry Classifications

#1- Red clothing only.

#2- Orange and yellows. (?????)

#3- Greens and light blues.

#4 - Dark blues, browns, and blacks.

#5- Tans and khakis.

#6- Whites (Except socks?!)

#7- White socks. (Reasoning? Dirty socks make the other clothes dirty......Yeah, I would imagine all those smelly gym socks sharing tales of jock strap stories and other locker room trash talk with the fine white delicates....)

Seven laundry classifications? I don't have that much variety in our pantry, for the love of Christ! Do you have any idea how long it would take my family to make a whole load of RED laundry?

And do ya really think the khakis know they are not brown? Is my Kister a closet laundry racist?

What would happen if the reds played with the blues? Would a giant laundry Barney come out of the dryer wielding Tide with a "Safe Bleach Alternative"?

Who is this Kister, and what has she done with the girl I grew up with, a girl who could projectile vomit in her bed at 3 a.m., and depend on ME to wash her bed linens -- pillow cases, pj's, and different colored sheets, and washed them ALL together, at that?

And when. sweet Jesus, did she become a laundry Nazi?

SAW VII

So, hubby has been very busy renovating our home. Forget that he is the greatest cook in the entire Northeastern States. Or that he religiously maintains our cars. Or that he is a love god he is soooo cute. All that talent is simply not enough for my man.

Nope. He also wants to be a master of home improvements. So last night my little connoisseur of disaster home decorator decided to take an electric saw to our freshly installed wall beams to make way for the coming electrical and cable lines.

He hit a knot. In. The. Wood.

The saw practically leaped out of his hands, and he struggled to maintain control of the wildly bucking electric saw while also maintaining to keep all four of his limbs attached to his cute little body.

Finally, the power cut off from the saw.

When the power cord was severed. Right from the saw.

Now it's a cordless saw. Only it doesn't work without it's cord. Sigh.

Thank god he can cook.

That's Right Neighborly of Ya, Compadre

This past weekend the mountain man and I were watching t.v. in our bedroom (OK, OK, so we weren't exactly watching t.v. That's all I'm gonna say. After all, this isn't that kind of blog!---but it could be if I thought it would encourage more comments, dammit! Just saying).

So, there we were in the steamy hot throes of, um, Judge Judy, when I hear what I thought was a baby crying. (Talk about a mood killer!!) I leap off the bed (Alright..it was more like a seal in a death roll-sheesh!), and peak out the window to see this:

From New Window

And then this:

From New Window

It seems our neighbor's chickens and roosters were having a romp of their own. In. Our. Yard.

The mountain man proceeded to herd the invading game farm parade back to their own yard where we found about twenty more chickens, chicks, and roosters milling about. ( and yes, I am very sorry I left the camera in its case. We generally don't have it handy when, er, watching Judge Judy. Maybe that's why this blog doesn't get so many comments....

The owner of said chicken farm (referred affectionately at mysuestories manor as Foghorn Leghorn) was out herding sheep towards a cliff working, so the mountain man rounded up as many of the little errant chicks and cocks as he could and put them in their pen.

When Foghorn Leghorn arrived home smelling suspiciously like wool awhile later, the mountain man approached him about his encroaching fowl. The following exchange ensued:

Mountain man: I say, I say, Boy, your chicks are flaunting their tails all over our yard. You do know we have dogs, right?

Foghorn Leghorn: Si', senor. I will build a fence to keep them in, hokay?

Mountain man: Hokay. Just giving you a heads up.

Foghorn Leghorn: Muchas Gracias, Meester Mountain person. I haf already lost one cheeken to a stray cat, I theenk.

The mountain man and I exchange a glance and simultaneously reminisce back to a few weeks ago... (play dream sequence music here)
MYSUESTORIES: A Hen In the Pen, Sam I Am

Um, yeah. That cat? It was our dog. Rusty: Slayer of Chickens.
Like a good neighbor...We said nothing.

Two days later? Our Gamester/Dog Whisperer puts Rusty into our dog pen. Where apparently ANOTHER errant chicken had the misfortune to wander. AGAIN.

I guess Foghorn Leghorn hasn't gotten around to feexxing that fence yet. Sigh.

In the mean time, I am trying to catch that stray cat so I can pluck some cat hairs off of the thing and attach them to the chicken before I toss that dead duck (?) back into Foghorn's yard. Who says I can't be neighborly?

In unrelated news? Coincidentally, we had chicken for dinner that night. Some how, it just didn't seem right. But I guess if we can feed our dachshunds hot dogs, we'll get over it.