Here are some things about me you probably don’t know.

*My middle name is Rae. I’m named after my Uncle Ray, who when I was a child, convinced me he had a bear living in a tree in his front yard. I have been afraid of bears…and trees…and men named Ray ever since.

*I slept in the same bed with my two younger brothers until I was 14 years old. OK, 15. Because I was afraid to sleep by myself. And I only stopped then because my parents made me.

*In middle school, if the teachers gave no homework I would make up work to do because I loved doing homework. I would show my teachers the next day all the extra work I did. They thought it was odd. My mom swears to this day that I was never dropped on my head as a baby. I was just a school nerd.

*If I didn’t bleach or color my hair I’d be almost completely gray headed. It’s been this way since I was 28.

*One time when I went scuba diving I was nearly eaten by a grouper the size of a two bedroom apartment. I’ve never been able to look at a fish in the face again. Not even our pet Beta, Douglas. His beady little eyes scream “I will devour you!”

*When I was 15 I faked a stomach ache to get out of going to church camp and ended up having my appendix removed. DO NOT TELL MY MOTHER.

*My grandparents named my butt cheeks, Precious and Adorable. And they would fight over which cheek was cuter. I think this might explain a lot of what’s wrong with me.

*When I was in elementary school I used to cry because I wanted to be a boy. Not because I wished I had a penis, but because my mom wouldn’t let me play football in the front yard without my shirt on.

*I like going to the movies by myself so I can sit in the dark and eat a hot dog AND nachos AND popcorn without feeling like people are judging me.

*I’ve never won anything in my life–except a Cabbage Patch doll–when I was 12. And then Avitable ate it. Cuz he eats the fuck out of those.

*I’m terrified of going to the dentist. They have to practically drive to my house and pick me up for my appointment. And there are usually promises of candy if I behave for the doctor. I don’t normally make it through without crying…or behaving.

I think this pretty much sums it up. It all makes perfect sense now doesn’t it.

Weirdos need love too.

***Please keep Anissa in your thoughts. For updates on her condition, you can go here.

did you know it’s virtually impossible to type without the use of your thumb? i’m finding this out the hard way. i…just moments ago…cut my right thumb trying to put a picture in a frame. i don’t recommend using a pair of scissors to try and do anything other than what they indended for. i just learned this. i gashed (GASHED!) my thumb open–blood, guts…everywhere. you did not know you have guts in your thumb? well, you do. take my word for it. now it’s bandaged and throbbing. how’s a girl supposed to work under these conditions? can you file workman’s comp against yourself? for being an idiot? i called tommy and asked if i could file a claim on our homeowner’s insurance and he hung up on me…saying something about being in a meeting and not having time for my nonsense. i have NO idea what he’s talking about. it’s not like i try and come up with ways to screw up or be bothersome. it just ends up happening. but i guess i can kinda see where he’s coming from based on my recent flub-ubs.*

definition of flub-up: major fuck up

first, there was the other day when i forgot to turn off the hose and flooded the pool…and the deck…and the yard…which turned to ice when it froze that night…on which tommy nearly killed himself.

then there was the day i drove my huge car in our yard and knocked off 2 sprinkler heads.

after that i forgot to close my car door and our cat got inside and took a dump on the passenger side. (there’s a story there–the cats are FURIOUS with me)

next i washed a new red sweatshirt with a load of tommy’s white underwear…on hot. yikes. pink is a totally acceptable color for men’s underwear, no?

and now this. oh well, at least i cut myself and not one of the other family members. he should be happy about that, right?

oh wait. i just received a text message from the big man himself. it says, TRY AND NOT BURN DOWN THE HOUSE. REMEMBER TO CALL 9-1-1 IN CASE OF AN EMERGENCY. PERHAPS WE LOOK INTO HIRING SOMEONE TO WATCH YOU.

ha-ha, very funny.

i’m texting back, CAN’T TALK NOW. BUSY DOING TEQUILA SHOTS WITH ETHAN WHILE CLEANING THE GUN.

WARNING: all you uptight people might want to stay away from the post today. grandmothers and children under the age of 25 need to leave the room immediately cuz we’re getting down and dirty.

how many times must we preach this?

are you not listening?

or maybe you don’t think we know what the hell we’re talking about?

ok, that’s true sometimes, but trust us, we’re right about this.

ask any woman.

what’s that? you don’t know many women? hmm.

there’s probably a reason for this.

and it most likely isn’t because you have a certain je ne sais quoi about you.

it’s because you’re a douchebag.

harsh? yeah, sorry about that. sometimes it’s best to just tell it like it is. pull the bandaid off really fast.

ooh, that open wound looks pretty bad.

it’s a good thing we’re here to help.

that’s just part of our service.

you’re welcome.

so here it is.

you really suck at convincing us to have sex with you.

not you, you. the general you. please, we’re not a whore. well, at least not one that gets paid or anything. in fact, if we were being paid for sex we wouldn’t be on here bitching about how sick we are of having you walk by, honk our boob, call that foreplay and then ask, “how bout me and you right now?”

bleck.

here’s the thing, fellas–and all you fellas with vaginas–we don’t want to leave anyone out–this here’s an equal opportunity bitch slap–we don’t NEED to have sex with you. we’ve got a vibrator and we’re not afraid to use it. in fact sometimes we prefer it over having 200 pounds of hairy flesh on top of us.

side note: you understand that it’s not ONE vibrator and we all share it right? that would be totally disgusting.

we need to WANT to have sex with you. period. end of story.

so to help you out, we’ve listed some things you can do that will surely have you headed in the other room with only your hand and a bottle of lotion and maybe some cheap porn that may or may not involve midgets.

1. complain about there being nothing to eat in the house.

2. shove the credit card statement in our faces while yelling, “what the fuck happened here?”

3. bitch about watching the kids (the ones that are HALF YOURS) whilst we prepare something for his majesty to eat. (refer to number 1)

4. leave your dirty clothes all over the floor in the bedroom, bathroom and closet. what are you, 7? we are not the maid–or your mother. we might be a whore, but we’re certainly not the maid and we’re definitely NOT your mother.

5. stroll in the kitchen, let out the biggest, god awful smelliest fart and then slap us on the ass. that’s actually a good way to get stabbed. see, we’re holding a knife. (refer to number 3)

6. say things like, “wanna give me a blow job?” the answer is always no. no one wants to give a blow job. ever. (my friends who are freaks and actully enjoy giving blow jobs? you be quiet. i’m making a point. don’t ruin this. i’m on a roll. like i said, you’re freaks. there’s clearly something wrong with you. we’ll visit this in another post.)

7. lecture us on how we could do things better. like organizing the fridge, parking the car in the garage, parenting the children (the ones you bitch about “babysitting.” how many times must we say this–YOU’RE NOT BABYSITTING. YOU’RE THE DAD! watching them every once in a while is part of the job description. what’s that? you don’t want to watch them? well you should’ve thought about that before you coerced us into having sex with you. see the kind of trouble mr. magnificent penis can get you into?).

8. makes lots of noises. please. it’s like you’ve got the annoying version of tourette’s. but i’m pretty sure unlike people who really have tourette’s, you can control yourself. practice this immediately.

look, if you want to do the bow chicka wow wow with us, you have to be more clever about it. we can’t have sex with you if we’re mad at you and we definitely can’t if we wish you were dead. everyone knows that having sex with a corpse is just wrong. we will not be party to it.

think of sex with us as a challenge–or a video game–or a sport. ooh, look over there. is that a hooter’s girl!?

(psst, women. over here. i’ve got to dumb this way down to a level they understand. what do you think? 3rd grade? no? too advanced? how about 1st grade? ok, 1st grade level it is. oops, they’re looking at us)

what’s that you say? no hooter’s girl? aawww, my bad.

anyway, back to what i was saying. ok, so you want to have sex with us. well, pretend you’re in a candy store, but you don’t have any money. and you really really want that jawbreaker, but you don’t know how to get it. (you understand the jawbreaker in this scenario is us, right? you don’t really want a jawbreaker. who eats those anyway?) so you work really hard until you have enough money to buy the jawbreaker. yes, the jawbreaker can be bought. so technically we are being paid for sex and my whole theory just went up in smoke.

well, i tried.

look, the point of the story is this–we want to have sex. we just don’t always want to have sex WITH YOU. so do something to change our minds. be sweet to us. tell us we’re beautiful. tell us we’re a great mother. tell us you couldn’t live without us (and do it with a straight face). tell us we’re skinny (you might even get a blow job for this). tell us you appreciate the fact that we haven’t killed you yet. don’t give us that look when we go for the third cupcake. thank us for putting up with all your bodily functions/noises. and lastly, do something about all that pubic hair. we’re not saying wax it, but please, introduce it to a pair of scissors and a razor. too much hair equals no time with the jawbreaker.

we’re just sayin.

it’s raining here in florida. scratch that. it’s coming down so hard that the pounding rain woke me up. i was kind of glad to be startled out of my sleep because i was having the worst dream ever.

i dreamt i killed my grandmother—with a piece of zucchini. i beat her to death with it. don’t laugh. this isn’t funny.

after i bludgened her to death with the vegetable (by the way, i’ll never be able to eat zucchini and feel good about it again) i fled the scene and drove home. it’s not clear where i was when i did the killing, but i ended up at home just in time to watch ace of cakes on the food network. in my dream i was very concerned about missing the show. yep, apparently killing my favorite relative came second to missing my favorite food network program.

side note: dad, you know you’re my favorite MALE relative. mimi is my favorite OVERALL relative. good luck when the new poll comes out next week. maybe you’ll make the cut.

so anyway, back to my dream. i’m watching ace of cakes and my mom calls and screams, “mimi’s dead! someone has killed her!”

the woman was hysterical…and she was interrupting my show. i hit the pause button on my remote.

“mom!” i yelled back in the receiver, “it’s ok. i’m the one who did it. she was getting so annoying–what with her inability to hear and all. she refused (REFUSED!) to put in her hearing aids, saying something about them being uncomfortable or some shit like that. i just lost it. i’m so sorry. she was old, mom. she had a good run. it was time.”

in my dream my mom stopped screaming then and said, “oh, well if it was a family member that did it then i guess it’s ok. shoot. i already called the police. they’ll be here any minute. you better come back and explain what happened.”

before i could tell her i was too busy to deal with all that my front door burst open and cagney and lacey were standing in the doorway, yelling, “ok you freak, come out with your hands up!”

i turned around and said, “i’ll be there in a minute. i have to see if chef duff gets the linda blair exorcist cake finished in time for the big halloween party.”

and then the sound of the rain woke me up.

shheeewwwww. i’m glad that was just a dream. that’s the last time i eat pumpkin pie in bed right before i go to sleep. who knew pumpkins give you nightmares? and the bigger question: are cagney and lacey still alive?

now the rain has stopped now. dammit. i was hoping it would rain all morning so i would have an excuse for not exercising. i haven’t been to the gym or gone jogging in a week. apparently i took the holiday week off. what i didn’t do though was take the week off from pigging out.

you should see my ass.

talk about horrifying.

maybe the rain will start back up again just in time for me to eat my thanksgiving meal breakfast. do not turn your nose up at the idea of turkey and dressing in the morning. don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. it rocks. hey, wouldn’t turkey and dressing in the morning be a great radio show? i could be turkey and i’d say, “good morning everybody. you’re listening to turkey and dressing in the morning right here on KSUX.” it could so happen. no. one. steal. my. idea. k?

in the meantime, let’s play a little game. and for those of you who have played this recently, just suck it up and play again. (i never said i was original–all good ideas are stolen)

let’s see how many people we have do this. come on all you lookey loos who’ve never commented before. i know you’re out there. i can even tell you what city you live in. i have connections–or sitemeter.

anyway, this is fun and doesn’t require any original thought. so everyone can play!

here’s what you do. grab a book. any book. the closest one to you will work beautifully. turn to page 86. go to the 13th sentence and copy it on here.

i’ll start.

“i don’t fish,” she said. “i’m jewish. we’re not a fishing people.”

see? fun.

now it’s your turn.

and, GO!

ok, so you how much it pains me to get on here and bitch about tommy. i hate doing it, really i do. but my therapist insists that i get my emotions out of my body and in the open so i can deal with them. (actually, i think what he had in mind was that i sit down with tommy and discuss my feelings with him–face to face–but that’s hard and not as much fun. you see on here i’m free. free to be me. plus here no one cries or says “oh yeah, well you’re dumb” or throws hairbrushes at the wall–man i can be difficult sometimes–so i’ve chosen this as my mental health outlet)

i reason this by telling myself that at any time tommy can start his own blog and is free to bitch about me all he wants. what he would bitch about, i have no idea. but if he wants to make up a bunch of shitty lies about how difficult i can be or how my farts smell really bad, then i say go for it. ok, scratch that. if tommy were to EVER start a blog and write about me i would be devastated. i mean that would be cruel. so, it’s agreed. tommy doesn’t get to start a blog and i get to continue ripping him a new one just as i’ve done for the last year and a half. sshhewww. glad that’s decided. now let’s get to the good stuff.

when my doctor came by my hospital room on friday she agreed to let me go home if i promised to stay in bed and rest all weekend. as i was nodding in agreement in my head i was like, “yeah, right, i have 4 kids. as soon as they see i’m home they’ll think i’m back to my regular self, aka their bitch.”

tommy said all the right things. “i’ve got it. i’ll take care of them. you just hang out and feel better.”

isn’t he adorable?

bleck.

things were going pretty well on saturday morning. i stayed in bed and the little kids jumped around me, doing flips and landing on me while squealing, “watch this mommy.” i love mattress gymnastics. it’s especially enjoyable when your belly hurts and you’re recovering from surgery.

around noon tommy brought me food and something to drink and dispensed all the appropriate medication. speaking of meds, i asked the nurse for a to-go box for my demerol pump and she said they didn’t do that. can you believe it? i said, “well can you at least send it to all the starving children in africa?” and then instead of answering my question–you see, i’m just trying to do my part for the children of the world–she asked me if i’ve ever been evaluated by a psychiatrist. i have NO idea what that was about. i mean, can’t she stay on topic? and to ask such personal questions like that. we hardly knew each other. i would say i was offended but luckily i lack that gene. so anyway, i had no good meds, just regular ones that like do stuff and kill germs and fight infection. it was probably the pill form of pinesol. that shit cures everything. every once in awhile when the kids are having trouble sleeping or are generally pissy, i put a little pinesol in their milk and minutes later, they’re passed out on their beds for like 10 or 12 hours. it’s crazy. you should try it.

so then i heard tommy tell the little ones he’d put on a movie in the other room. they took off running down the hall yelling, “daddy’s the best! daddy’s the best!” whatever. anybody can turn on a friggin dvd player. a minute later he reappeared and said, “um, ok. i’ve got them all set up in the other room. they shouldn’t need anything else. how are you? you all right?” i nodded. i knew something was coming. i was just waiting for the big kaboom. “so, i think i’m going to go to the movies.” KABOOM! and there it was. instead of getting out my ‘feelings’ which would have been something like, “OH HELL NO. YOU’RE NOT LEAVING ME HERE WITH THOSE TWO! I DON’T HAVE MEDICINE STRONG ENOUGH TO HANDLE TWEEDLE DEE AND TWEEDLE DUM BY MYSELF WHEN I’M NOT FEELING WELL. SO YOU CAN JUST FORGET ALL ABOUT GOING TO THE MOVIES, YOU SILLY MAN. YOU JUST STAY HERE AND DEAL WITH THEM. AND WHILE YOU’RE AT IT, MAKE ME CHICKEN POT PIE!” no. never happened. i just stabbed him with imaginary daggers and smiled and said, “ok, have fun.”

when i heard the garage door shut, i got up, found a piece of paper and a pen and started sketching a rough copy of the voo-doo doll i’m going to have made in his honor. i don’t know where i can get one but i’m sure if i google “voo-doo dolls” something’s bound to come up. i can’t be the first person to want one. surely there’s a little old lady sitting in her rocking chair somewhere (my guess would be the midwest region–what else is there to do in iowa?) who specializes in making hexed voo-doo dolls. i already know where i’d stick the first pin. right in his throat.

edit: i just read over what i’ve written so far and wow. i’m so violent today. first i’m giving my kids small doses of pinesol and then i’m sticking needles in tommy’s throat. oh well, it’s just another wednesday around here.

so tommy was off enjoying himself at the movies and i was in hell. i made ramen noodles, opened countless containers of yogurt, sliced strawberries and bananas for ‘yogurt surprise’ and made chocolate milk 4 times. oh, and we were out of green straws so that was a problem. the e-man wanted a green straw but we only had yellow, orange, pink, and purple. no green. it’s never a good idea to punch a 3 year old in the mouth is it? yeah, i didn’t think so, so i didn’t. but man i really wanted to. what the fuck does it matter what color straw? he finally settled on pink. good man. now mommy didn’t have to kill herself.

recipe for yogurt suprise: slice a banana and put it in a bowl. open a flavored yogurt and pour over the top of banana. add sliced strawberries, blueberries, rasperries. sprinkle with granola and/or walnuts. my kids love it.

a few hours later tommy bebops back in the house from a lovely afternoon out. it must suck so hard to be him. he comes over to me, pats me on the head, and says, “oh good, you’re still in the bed. i’ll take care of the kids.”

really? you’re gonna do that? now? are you sure? isn’t there some concert or sporting event you want to attend? i mean all you have to do is turn on a movie for them and they’re good, right? they won’t want to eat, or need help wiping their freshly pooped butt, or want you to get a band-aid for an imaginary booboo, or anything like that. dvd=piece of cake, right? is that what you’re telling me? (you realize, this whole conversation played out in my head. i never said any of it out loud. why do you think tommy thinks i’m the best wife on the planet? if only he knew the real me. the real shauna who if the timing was just right, would scratch his eyes out and cook them up and feed them to the dogs.)

so you see folks, saturday was a breeze. no problems whatsoever. tommy had it handled.

stay tuned for sunday. it gets better.