See? I totally wouldn’t do that because I realize that informing people that this: 

…likes to sing this:

…most definitely qualifies as a violation of the “don’t ask don’t tell” policy. So enjoy your birthday and know that, for once, I will do my level best to preserve the perfectly macho facade that you have so carefully cultivated over the years.

P.S. – Is it physically possible to fit 57 candles on top of an MRE?

P.P.S. - Do you still make the Taliban POWs sashay around and call you Maria, or has that been declared an official violation of the Geneva Conventions?

Ok. Maybe just leave him a comment to tell him happy birthday. Leave the sexual favors to the sheep.

So let’s all wish my favorite left-wing nutjob a happy birthday!

I’d like to take this opportunity to collectively address the e-mails I have received about my hatred for the holidays. Yes, I really do hate the holidays with a cold wet fury that one can only have when Christmas music is piped into her head beginning in August.

First of all, the holidays mean it’s too cold outside to water-board my kids without my fingers going numb.

Secondly, the holidays are the time of year I’m obligated to commune with members of my extended family and hear, from the mouth of my eighty-four-year-old grandmother, how sexy John Madden is and let me tell you, when your brain starts to chomp on your grandmother’s crushes and consider the possibility that she may have a very active fantasy world inside her head that involves John Madden you might just start to wish that September would just give way to March so you could skip all this holiday togetherness too.

But enough about that. Let’s clear some space from my hard drive and have some more photos shall we?

Here’s an adopt-a-highway sign on Interstate 5 between the Twin Cities and Hood-Franklin Road exits. Those weed wackers sure are civic-minded!

The mailbox at my grandmother’s house. It’s always struck me as odd that my grandfather has been in the ground since 1996 yet his name lives on, of all places, on a mailbox in Modesto’s airport district.

A house across the street from my grandmother. I had a friend that lived here when I was little but it’s been a long time since anyone called this place home.

This is the entrance from the side yard at the house in the above photograph.

In the kitchen of the same house pictured above. Nice paint job no?
(Yeah, technically I was trespassing. So sue me.)

This is the house next door to my grandmother. Yes most of the windows are missing. Yes, people actually do live there. Does Extreme Makeover Home Edition re-do the digs of meth addicts? Anyone?

So if any of my readers know where to hook us up with that last part minus the twelve hour flight to Amsterdam I’m down. My husband said he’ll show you his boobs in return.

Also! I would like to slather every party guest with profuse thanks for abstaining from gifting my daughter with an item spawned by the whole sickeningly-cute-Disney-princess-craze. Because really? If I end up schlepping my kids to a Disney On Ice show like, ever? I’m going to hunt down and murder the person who introduced it to our household.

…and since this post isn’t rambley enough I figure I might as well ask: What the hell happened to my blog? I read through a few of my recent posts and it seems like there was a time when I was cruising along all ranting and cursing and happy when suddenly this turned into a full-on mommy blog. I mean, cute kid pictures? Field trips? WTF?

In order to remedy developing notions that I might have a side softer than the cast-iron spikes that line Chuck Norris’ underwear I give you this, which I like to be pictured yelling while swigging moonshine and throwing lawn darts around a McDonald’s Playland:

FUCK! DAMN! (ad lib, ad lib) SHIT! PISS! HELL! I’VE GOT YOUR SAFE WORD RIGHT HERE! FUCKING FUCKERS FUCKING FUCKED! (gratuitous cursing) DAMMIT ALL TO HELL!!!! (more ad lib cursing) DONKEY SHOW! I’LL SURRENDER MY ATTENTION SPAN TO REGIS & KELLY WHEN ALIENS PRY MY BRAIN FROM MY COLD, DEAD GREY MATTER! CARE BEARS WERE MADE TO BE FRIED AND EATEN!

Oh, and the pairing of John Cougar Mellencamp and Chevy is a sign that the end times are upon us. That is all. Goodbye.

Sorry I haven’t posted for nearly a week. How are you folks? I’ve missed you guys. Is everyone good? Still breathing? Got all your limbs? Good.

Last week I finally did it. I unplugged my Internet, for the most part anyway. I have a book I should be writing. I have dishes that need to be done. Finals are next week. Oh, and Officer Montgomery has promised to throw my ass in jail for neglect if she ever catches me again exposing my daughter to internet horse meat and escort services.

So I was kinda forced to kill the Internet. Pull the plug. Take myself off the E-Bay and blog-fed life support system. So I yanked the cord out of the wall, the lights went out, and e-mails immediately started piling up on Google’s server. World Wide Web go bye bye.

The result? I am now fully prepared for finals. All the laundry is caught up. The dishes are spot free. My children no longer have those unsightly restraint marks on their wrists and ankles. I’ve written a huge chunk of my book. It’s been at least five days since I’ve had to answer the question “Mommy, what is that man doing to that chicken?” I’ve made several batches of cookies, two gallons of salsa, and dinner four nights in a row. All my rugs have been vacuumed and steam cleaned.

…and I have realized something:

I need to drop acid or run naked through a crowded mall to counteract this flurry of domesticity before my brain melts and leaks out my ears.

But then I realized something else. I do have something un-domestic on my horizon! I’m going to do the Alcatraz to Fisherman’s Wharf swim! (And yeah, I’m still planning on diving with the great white sharks, but at $875 a pop I’ve realized that’s a dive that’s going to have to wait until November of 2008. And I need something un-domestic to happen, like, really soon lest I become a mindless suburbanite Stepford clone who listens to adult contemporary stations and lives for Pottery Barn sales.)

So where was I? Oh yeah, so I’m going to swim Alcatraz in August. And I haven’t done an open water ocean swim in Northern California in… well…. almost ten years. So today I tell my husband that I’m going to head down to Fleet Feet and check out their wetsuit rentals this next week. You know, so I can make a trial run in the bay and figure out what all I need to tackle the whole “swimming in water that will make you hypothermic in less than twenty minutes” thing.

Now, my husband is an engineer and is possessed of all the character flaws that come with the breed. The concept of taking on a task more complex than getting out of bed without a slide rule, calculator and butt-load of data is completely foreign to him. I, on the other hand, would skip off gaily to Sub-Saharan Africa and forget to pack underwear.

Him: You’re going to what?

Me: I’m going to Fleet Feet to get fitted for a wetsuit for the Alcatraz swim.

(This time I use finger signals to get my point across.)

Him: You’re still doing that?

Now, this is a common tactic of my husband whenever I come up with some brilliant plan that involves stuff like running marathons, climbing Everest, or applying to mortuary college. He forgets all about it. That is, until I follow up with something that makes him realize I am dead serious and not flaking on this. It’s not his fault really. There’s a reason I’ve never been mistaken for ‘the responsible one’.

Me: Yeah. It’s in August. So I should probably get moving on it.

Him: Ok… um, don’t people die in the bay? You know, of the cold?

At this point I gave him my best Tara-Reid-gets-asked-who-the-Speaker-of-the-House-is face. I’m scuba certified. I’m actually quite familiar with the dangers of swimming in water as cold as San Francisco Bay. Still, I couldn’t resist fucking with the poor man.

Me: Die? Oh yeah. All the time.

Him: Wouldn’t you… ah… feel better, uh, just watching this year? You know, until you get a good feel for what you need to do to prepare?

Me: Watch? No way. I just need to figure out if I need a wetsuit.

Him: It’s freezing out there…

Me: Yeah, sure. Look, you don’t think I’ll need one of those hokey shark repellent devices do you? Like some electronic beep’s gonna keep those fuckers at bay.

Him: Sharks?

Me: And don’t even worry about that jellyfish infestation off Angel Island. Please. Like some glob with tentacles is really that dangerous. I mean, paralysis doesn’t always lead to death.

Him: Paralysis?

Me: Oh, and they are dreaming if they think I’m wearing one of their silly yellow swim caps. Me. Get lost? Pshaw. Like I’m going to need to be visible. Tidal drift my ass.

Him: Lemme call and get our life insurance adjusted…