Argh

So, I have since moved out of Hippie Sister's house. She had her new baby, and I know enough to know when I'm getting in the way. I called up some friends and offered them service as transportation (since none of them have a car and live on the edge of town) and as a cook (because OHGOD do they need help) in exchange for a place to live, and they eagerly accepted.

So now I am sleeping on what has to be the world's most comfortable couch, enjoying very good company that doesn't scream, cuss, or stress me out. My very good friend Bret, his brother Leo, and Leo's lady, Mary. They're awesome peoples, and amongst them, they think I am the awesomest thing in this house.

Yeah, cuz that totally doesn't stroke my ego to overwhelming proportions.

I gotta say, life has drastically improved over the past week. I'm getting used to freedom again, and oh how I missed it. I don't have to answer to anyone except the roomies, who ask very little and are just about the most laid-back bunch of weirdos I know. I spend my time with good company, which means spastic conversation and lots of laughing at inappropriate jokes not for polite company, and oh yeah, I'm not being accused of sleeping around every other week. Whoo!

More updates when shit actually starts to happen. Stay tuned!

Upheaval

Well kids, now that I have time to sit down and think, you get a blog post!

Life has, as usual, flipped me on my head and dumped me out in the rain.

For those of you in the GBC, you've already heard, but for those that don't know, the Redhead and I parted ways a few days ago. There was much screaming and cursing on his part, and much fear on mine as a reflexive action (those persevation instincts are strong!), but after everybody has calmed down, we have been amiable and civil to each other, agreeing not to get hostile for the sake of Wee Idjit.

I am currently staying with Hippie Sister, who gave birth to her third daughter the second morning I was here. I am not exactly sure how long I will be staying here, but I told her I would give her the extra help I know she'll need, juggling care of her other two daughters and a newborn. The girls absolutely adore their little red-haired cousin, and all three kids are ecstatic with having each other to chase around and play with all day.

I've had a lot of emotional and moral support from a lot of my friends, both online and off, and I REALLY needed it that first day. I'm grateful to each and every one of you who offered that support, and I have even received a couple of offers of couch space if the situation got too dire to handle. You guys know who you are, and you are the best kind of friends a girl could ever have!

Of course, on the flip side of that coin, several friends of the male persuasion here in town have realized... Snarky isn't with the Redhead any more... The Redhead is no longer under her protection! All I have to do is yelp and there will be a mob swarming him, and I'm not gonna lie: it does give me a perverse sense of joy knowing that.

On the less pleasant note, jobs in this little college town are so scarce that I highly doubt I'd be able to find something that can support myself and Idjit. It looks like I will have to relocate, and before too much longer. I love the friends I have here, and I will cherish their friendships for as long as I live, but those friendships will not pay for a roof over my head, gas for heating, or food in the little one's belly.

I'm looking west right now, towards Oklahoma City to be specific. It's an even distance between here (so Redhead can see Idjit), and Houston (so I can see my family), with a much better job market and more to do, room to really fly. I've got some things that I need to get settled here before I can do anything else, but as soon as plans are more concrete, you can bet I'll post it here, so everybody can follow their favorite Snark as she travels.

On the emotion front.... Well. I've been joking that I must have missed the class in high school where they taught you how to interact with the opposite sex. I am now single, and while it makes me giddy (YAY! FREEDOM!), I am also completely confused and just a wee bit scared. I don't know how to handle actually INTERACTING with people on a personal level all that well, and I'm not going to lie: I am utterly fucking TERRIFIED. Redhead showing up unexpectedly blows me the hell out of what little comfort zone, just because I'm nervous there is going to be an outbreak of unpleasantness. My mind is nowhere close to resembling stable, but I'm surrounded by friends, and that is helping a great deal.

Well kids, that's all I can really think to tell you right now. Hippie Sister has a computer and internet she is letting me use, so I can blog and update as things happen. Keep your eyes peeled for news from me!

Holiday Cheer

Wishing all of you out there in Internet-land a Merry Christmas, or whatever faith-specific holiday you choose to celebrate.

More posts soon to come. (I know, I know, I keep saying that. Seriously, I promise.)

Blargh, Pt. 2

So I'm still alive, I promise. I haven't been blogging, I know. I'm a bad person. Horrible, awful, terrible evil.

I haven't really had anything blog-worthy going on here as of late, and for that I do apologize. I live a very boring life, I just lie about it on the internet to make myself popular amongst people that don't really exist. *wink*

Sooner or later I'll be back to having real content up for your enjoyment. I'm really trying, I promise.

Stay tuned.

Booooored

So, Internetz... This is another long-winded and poitless blog post. Figured I'd warn you now, so if you want to click elsewhere, now is your chance.

Everybody gone? Okay.

In all honesty, I'm at work, down here on Campus. We're open for some Festival of Champions, and for the most part, we'll be standing around with our thumbs up our asses until about ten minutes til closing. Then all the bands will mob us. And we'll be open late, because we can't close the gates while we got people coming in.

Yeah. This sucks.

So maybe it's not long winded. But it is whiney.

Man I need some recoil therapy.

Argh

I wrote this totally awesome post about Ozzy Osbourne and with several links and it was this GIANT pain in the ass... Because I'm on the iTouch...

And then the blogging appberased it when I finished.

So no blog for you.

Music Meme

No real content today, just a meme I hijacked from the Pistolero. Play along if you want to!

1) Turn on your music player on your conputer (iPod in my case).

2) Go to SHUFFLE SONGS mode.

3) Write down the first 15 songs that come up - song title and artist - and no editing or cheating!

Let's do this!

1. Kansas - Carry On My Wayward Son
2. Queen - You're My Best Friend
3. The Offspring - Gotta Get Away
4. Metallica - Damage, Inc.
5. Iced Earth - High Water Mark
6. Ying Yang Twins - Grey Goose
7. Rob Zombie - Living Dead Girl
8. Linkin Park - Breaking The Habit
9. Metallica - My Apocolypse
10. Nightwish - Higher Than Hope
11. Stephen Lynch - Mixer at Delta Chi
12. Red Hot Chili Peppers - The Greeting Song
13. Three Days Grace - Time of Dying
14. Nobuo Uematsu - Fortress of the Condor
15. Stone Sour - Omega


... Yeah, that kinda bounced all over the place. That's all the music on my iPod, including the video game music. Yes, I am a nerd. Get over it.

So what do you listen to?

Blargh

Here, have a blog post! Typed up on a real computer, no less!

I'm at a friend's house right now, doing laundry and watching Idjit run around insanely. The bottom of his feet are pitch black, but then again, cleaning usually takes back seat at this house. Clean it enough to make it safe, and make sure there's room for children to play, but sweeping and mopping are small concerns. I'm not much of a housekeeper either, so hey, whatever works.

This is another one of those random, off the wall, rambling blog posts with no real point. I'm currently sitting in Bulldog's very dim living room, playing on her computer because she left the door unlocked for me to come do laundry, and she's not home. It feels nice to have a real keyboard under my fingers. Don't get me wrong - I love my iTouch, and with the lack of a real computer, it does a marvelous job to keep up - but I like to feel the reaction of keys. That and I can spread my hands out and exercise the joints in my fingers, instead of having my not-so-tiny hands wrapped around a small shiny, typing with my thumbs.

Hoooooo boy. I am in a state of shock, recovering from a night of excess. Our friends just moved in down the street this past week, so there was, of course, a house warming party thrown. And the drink of choice (aside from beer, because there is ALWAYS room for beer) was a lovely concoction that my friend Luc perfected before his death. We call it apple pie, because it literally tastes like liquid apple pie. It goes down ridiculously smooth, but you REALLY have to watch how much of it you drink, or Bad Things may happen. Ingredients include four gallons of apple cider, a gallon of apple juice, three instant-mix packs of cider, cinnamon sticks, apple pie spice, and three fifths of Everclear.

Yeah. It packs a punch. And they make it in such gigantic quantities because when they throw a party, a flock of psychos appear with the sole purpose of getting legless before the sun comes up. Apple pie is the best way to go if you're aiming in that direction.

Since we couldn't find a babysitter, and they live so close to us now, Redhead and I decided that we'd go over and get our drunk on in shifts. I took first shift, because I don't drink beer, and they'd been sipping on apple pie all week, so I was wondering just how much would be left. I didn't want to miss the good stuff.

So I go over there, and they give me a double shot of the stuff as soon as I walk in the door. I'm game for this. Then they give me another one, and an XBox controller, to play DC vs. Mortal Kombat. Or something like that. I played Scorpion and my buddy Ninja played the Flash and I got my ass kicked, that's all I remember.

Then I somehow ended up with an 18 ounce glass with Smurfs on it (don't ask me, nothing makes sense with this bunch), full of apple pie. It was all downhill from there.

Two hours after I got there, I had to be escorted home. Yes, it was that bad. I knew I was breaking the night up into shifts with Redhead, like I said, so I did what I could as fast as I could.

Needless to say, I'm not feeling too hot.

Ugh. I think I'm done for now.

Stumbling

Some of you may have seen the nifty toolbar called StumbleUpon, which matches up your interests with random pages that fit in that category. It's a good way to waste a few minutes (or hours). This was found using StumbleUpon, and was too good not to share.

Dear Mr. President:

Please find below my suggestion for fixing America 's economy.

Instead of giving billions of dollars to companies that will squander the money on lavish parties and unearned bonuses, use the following plan.

You can call it the Patriotic Retirement Plan:

There are about 40 million people over 50 in the work force.

Pay them $1 million apiece severance for early retirement with the following stipulations:

1) They MUST retire. Forty million job openings - Unemployment fixed.

2) They MUST buy a new American CAR. Forty million cars ordered - Auto Industry fixed.

3) They MUST either buy a house or pay off their mortgage - Housing Crisis fixed.

4) They MUST buy their own health insurance. - Health Plan for seniors just fixed!!!

It can't get any easier than that! If more money is needed, have all members of Congress and their constituents pay their taxes... If you think this would work, please tell everyone you know.

If not, please disregard. Then shoot yourself!!!! - 1 job opening

God Bless America.

Headache

You know how you sometimes get a headache that just throbs at one point in your skull? Usually, I get that. Right now, though, I am experiencing one constant, steady, unbroken pain, and it's not located in any one spot. My entire skull hurts.

This sucks.

QuickSilver

So, the past few weeks have been a blur. I bought one 1995 Chevy Blazer from my mechanic with the insurance check from the Mirage, and the second I brought her home, she started giving me problems.

Mighty Mechanic, who I bought her from, has been wonderful about helping me with the issues. Two days after I bought her, she stalled and wouldn't start. MM brought a flatbed trailer fifty someodd miles to pick her up and bring her back to his shop to work on her. The starter was bad.

Well, last weekend, she started acting up again and I called MM. He told me if it was alright with me, he'd like to take a week to shake her down thoroughly - this business of me constantly calling was costing both of us money. Him replacing parts and putting other jobs on the back burner, and me putting gas in the Blazer I have named QuickSilver to get to his shop. She has the 4.3 Vortec V6 under the hood, and Redneck Guitarist laughingly said it was big enough to be a V8. She's a powerful little pup.

Now, all these mechanical malfunctions have been very aggrevating. Truth be told, aggrevating is putting it lightly - the size of the inconvenience has left me near rabod with rage. Keep your distance, I bite.

Well, I called MM yesterday about picking her up. He told me she hadn't given him a single problem, the backstabbing little minx! He told me he wanted to take her out one more time, to pick up some parts, and if she still didn't buck him, then I would be free to pick her up.

Three hours later when I called, he told me she finally goofed, and majorly: she stalled in the middle of an intersection. And he asked me: whenever she did this, was my gas gauge around a quarter tank? Why, now that I think about it, yes, why?

Apparently the only problem she had was the gauge was broken. And my genius self did not realize that it was lying and telling me there was a quarter tank when in all honesty, it was empty because... When the tank is full, it works fine. But then you get down to the quarter mark, and she starts to act up with that needle, and next thing I know, I'm stalling and not wanting to start.

I feel like a royal idiot. I am catching a ride from Redhead's little sis, who lives a few blocks away from the shop, to pick her up. With a new, working gas gauge.

D'oh!

Uh, What?

So I was sucking my girlfriend's dick last night...

...

...I got nothing.

I thought I could wing it and pop something charming and witty, yet crude, off my hip, but I can't.

Rain, Rain, Go Away

I hate rainy days.

The grey skies above darken my apartment, causing the Wee Idjit to fuss. No amount of artificial lighting ever seems to brighten up this place, and both our eyes always seem to be straining and squinting.

The apartment we all live in is sized for one person - a college bachelor, ideally - and a couple can live comfortably here if they don't mind rubbing elbows a lot.

Throw in a toddler and subtract about a third of the floor space for drums, and it gets mighty cramped in here. Textbook young parents, I'm told. Money is always tight and there's not enough room. Hear about it in all the stories, right?

Usually, this is not a problem. Most days, I can play with Wee Idjit in the front yard (and draw the attention of every person going down the street - they want to stop and admire the adorable smile and bright red hair!), or if it's too hot, we can go over to a friend's house to play with other younguns, or to Adopted Gramma's house up the street, where there's lots of toys, space, and people to worship the little beastie I affectionately call "son".

Okay, now take the original equation, and subtract a major part of every day life: your vehicle. Suddenly, going anywhere becomes a lot more difficult. If the weather is poor (either too damn hot or water is falling from the sky), you can't walk somewhere with a stroller. If it's too far, or there are not smooth sidewalks, you are very discouraged before you ever walk out the front door.

So, there's no room for Wee Idjit to run around, making him even crankier, and he's so bored... It turns what is usually a very low-maintenance baby into more than a handful, with Epic Toddler Tantrums.

This makes me want to yank my hair out and scream from stress. And I don't handle stress well. By the time Redhead gets home from work, I am in roughly the same state as Wee Idjit. I rapidly dissolve into a mess in desperate need of a break.

I'll be glad when QuickSilver is back from the shop. She's not in for any real major work, just some fine tuning and tweaking - get all the bugs and kinks out, make her run smoother for a longer time. Again, at no cost. Mighty Mechanic is a good man, still feeling embarrassed for the Blazer giving me any problems.

Also, for my own comfort and amusement, as soon as she's back, Redneck Guitarist told me he'd put some of his extra speakers in the silvery beast. He's got a great system in his truck, and the ones he offered me were a previous set before the new upgraded system got installed.

Once she gets back and I'm working steadily, my money will get sunk into my SUV... No mechanic stuff, all cosmetic toys. The way I figure it, I spend more time around looking at the inside rather than the outside, so that is what I'll improve - speakers and stereo, dock for the iTouch, little comforts like that.

Sigh. So much to do, so little time.

RAGEHATE

You know, when you have a child, that means life as you know it is OVER. No longer will you get to stay up all night drinking and sleep til 3 PM the next day. No longer can you devote an entire afternoon to the pleasure of your choice, be it video games or fine tuning your drum kit. You now have responsibilities, obligations to put another soul before your own.

Then there's just plain common courtesy. When I ask you, as I'm crawling into bed, to put the leftovers from dinner in the fridge, so myself and Wee Idjit can eat them for lunch the next day, and you tell me you will... Imagine my surprise when I wake up the next morning to discover you didn't.

And no, putting them in the fridge after I call you on it does not make matters better. I'm not feeding meat that's been left out all night to myself, much less my toddler son. Thanks for being responsible, asshole.

Small Children

A text conversation between a friend and myself. We were discussing having a girls' night, and taking the Idjit along. The third friend has two little girls, ages two and three years, and my friend Ditzy relayed this little gem:

Ditzy: They're smart pistols. Just like Daniel. Only with blonde hair.
Me: And miniature vaginas.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, these are the things that go through my mind on a daily basis.

Home Alone

Here as of late, I've been spending a lot more time at the house with the baby. And with me cooped up with the baby all day, every day (because there is no way I am subjecting him and myself to the murderous heat of August in the midwest), by the time Redhead gets home, I can imagine that I'm... A handful, to say the least.

This recipe for disaster is assisted with the fact that Redhead has decided to quit smoking. Not purely for health reasons, but also there's a really big awesome shiny he wants to get, but whateva.

Either way, if he wants to quit smoking, I applaud him his intentions. It's commendable. It's not an easy thing to do. A person who is nic-fitting is one of the most agitated bodies to deal with. Last time I tried to quit, a friend made the mistake of taunting me with his, after I had gone without so much as a drag for two days. I tried to rip his adams' apple out.

So, me being cooped up all day (something I am not accustomed to by a long shot) plus him sitting on the proverbial pins and needles that is fighting any addiction, equals a lot of time spent apart, mostly me home alone.

I no longer have internet at home. Of course, in turn, I now feel the urge to blog more than ever. Love the irony there!

So, I'm bored a lot. A soul can only watch the same movies so many times, and read the same books as well. Going a wee bit stir-crazy. But reacquiring my iTouch has helped, let me tell you. I know some other bloggers may frown on it, bt I finally have a soundtrack to play in the background of my life again. It gets my blood pumping and gets me moving a lot more. It's helping me to get things done around the house when I can put my headphones in, turn the volume up, and block out the world.

Yes, finding the motivation is hard for me. We might discuss this later. Don't know yet.

The main gist of where I was going with this was simple: I have a lot more time to think, and unlike with the computer, I always have the iTouch with me. So when a train of thought crosses my mind, I can blog it. And since this town is full of WiFi hotspots (the perk of living in a college town), I can easily type up a blogpost that strikes my fancy and publish it.

Yes, I bet you loyal readers have enjoyed the recent upswing of posts here at SFTSM! And JayG can quit bitching at me every time he sees me in the GBC about how little I post!

More and more this little niche in the internet has become a source for me to vent to. My musings and ponderings are being posted for the world at large to see, rather than things people may find interesting or relevent to others.

This is my journal, laid open for all to see. You guys will probably start seeing more of the snarky mistress you admire, and the things in her life that make her words bite so.

I like to tell stories. I was an avid reader growing up, drawn towards elegant words and fantasy worlds. I read Jane Eyre when I was in the sixth grade, fer fucks' sake. I fill my spare moments these days with old classics; I'm particularly drawn towards 18th century literature. And it shows with how I write here.

Just imagine how my words will flow once I have read the complete Lord of the Rings series, a feat I started some years ago and was never able to finish, thanks to my unpleasant ex, who stole it from me when he and I parted ways on less than pleasant terms.

So, that influences how I think and how I write. If you want a real twist, throw in my addiction for music. Now THERE is an interesting topic!

I always play music. Always. The iTouch either has headphones plugged into my ears, or it's settled in my docking station, providing background noise for myself and Little Idjit to go through our day with. And it's never just one style of music. I have a main playlist that goes from Metallica to Ray Charles to Tech N9ne to Tim McGraw. Yes, I am a freak like that. And believe it or not, that influences my thought process, too.

Sigh... This post really has no real direction to it. Just thoughts as they come into my head. Expect to see a lot more of that, too. Bounce from topic to topic. What do you expect, I have the attention span of a gnat!

Well Then!

I'm wondering how this is going to work out.

The only working laptop currently in my possession belongs to a friend (who is currently a guest of the state - in rehab). Well, he gets out on the 2nd, and he'll be wanting his machine back.

This boy, though I love him to death, he's a dear friend... Is a fuckin idiot. He is more destructive in the way of computers than anyone I know. Kind of reminds me of my little brother.

He bought the laptop new and within six months had taken it into the shop no less than four times, covered under warranty, of course.

Well, he also screwed with the power cord. Apparently in all his bending and twisting, he broke one of the connections in the actual plug-in part. Forgive my lack of technical talk, I don't know what the actual name of the piece is.

Well, I have positioned and twisted and taped in every way I know how to, just to make the connection and charge the battery. Nothing doing with the little (read:none) tools I have.

So Pet Alcoholic's laptop is down due to lack of being able to charge the battery. I have done everything in my power to fix the damages it came to me in.

In other news, I have managed to power up my Toshiba, which until now lay dormant thanks to hard drive failure. I found an Ubunto disk, courtesy of Marko, and have booted it from the disk.

Hey, at least I have a way to charge my iTouch, right? Right!

Owwie

No blog for you right now. I haven't been sleeping well, and apparently last night I slept with my arm curled under me, and now I can't straighten it out.

Come back later, maybe I'll have something worth reading then.

Sweaty Musings

(Not like that, you filthy perverts! Get your minds out of the gutter!)

No, this post is some brain vomit. With my beloved Mira out of commission, and me in limbo until I have found the perfect chariot to pique my interests, I am, regrettably, on foot until further notice.

It figures that I would suddenly find myself prevailing upon the Heel-Toe Express for transportation during the hottest weeks of the year. And, true to my goddess-like status (in my own mind, at least), I have singed the ears of anyone within a half mile radius with my curses, swears, and general wishings of ill will upon the wench that is responsible for my current lack of transportation.

So let's talk about car shopping, shall we? Fine way to pass the time.

Now, bear one thing in mind: I utterly loathe car shopping. I won't be getting enough from the wench's insurance to go to a dealership, so this limits me to private sales with individuals. And the process of haggling prices for the huge mechanical steeds is well... Enough to try the patience of a saint. You can imagine what it does with me.

Now, in the KCMO Criagslist, there are plenty of little rusted out beaters for under two grand I could purchase. But no, you all ought to know by now that I would never lower myself to that. And with a baby less than two years old to carry with me? Never! No, I need something reliable, and with working heat and AC to combat the vicious weather that the midwest offers.

Now. That being said, there are still several cars of that variety for a low price. But I am going to share with you, faithful reader of my snark, the reason why I have such particular standards for my own set of wheels.

Several years ago, when I was 17, I was in a relationship with an older gentleman of a less than savory disposition. He was fond of his illegal vices, and even fonder of having a well-subdued girl a home. Thanks to those illegal vices, we moved quite often in the year and a half I lived with him; he was unable to hold a job for more than a couple weeks at a time.

We also went through several vehicles, starting with a beautiful F150 that was my pride and joy. I loved that truck, loved it more than anything, especially more than the beastly excuse for a man I was with. His mother had signed it over to him, and he was to pay off the remaining balance to the dealership. Needless to say, the truck was repossessed, and I was bitter and heartbroken over the loss of what little joy I had. Then we started to get car after car, each bought for a measely few hundred bucks, never paying more than a thousand for any of them.

First there was the Jimmy, a mid-80s monstrosity with a transmission in such horrid shape it wouldn't get over about 20 mph. It overheated every few miles, thanks to rear-ending a tank of an old Ford truck, which punched a hole in the radiator. The passenger door didn't open and the window didn't roll down either. There was no radio or AC, and it made some of the most god-awful noises. Everything was rusted and twisted with age and improper care, and every day I saw that delapidated excuse for a vehicle, I inwardly wept. My father had taught me to be proud of myself, and it was hard to do in both that relationship, and that Jimmy, limping down the streets and alleyways the way it did.

There were several other cars that followed the Jimmy: a 94 Lumina, a 92 Escort wagon... They were not as bad, when compared to the heap that was charitably called a car, the Jimmy, but they still were bought and sold within two months. The thought of a title for any of them was laughable, and insurance, though legally required, was never purchased.

These were the first vehicles of my youth, when all my peers at school boasted beautiful trucks or sports cars that their doting parents or grandparents had bought them.

Shortly after I turned 18, I bit off the pride my father had instilled in me and moved back into his house, tail tucked between my legs, and was rewarded with the keys to his van. And oh, what a beautiful mistress that big beast was! Green and gold on the outside, with silvery-blue cloth seats and lush carpeting inside. Wood panels and accent lights added to the allure, and a wheelchair lift and automatic doors that swung out at the push of a button on a remote control.

I became my father's driver, for that was one thing I enjoyed above any other: driving. He paid my insurance and kept the gas tank filled, and at a moment's notice would yell for me to start the van, for he needed some fresh air. He taught me to harness the power of that massive thing, and to compensate her shortcomings.

I still saw the friends I had graduated high school with out and about the town, both with my father and on my own. And they would titter at the massive beast I rode, parked next to their little Honda Civics and Nissan... Whatever they were... that responded to the lightest touch and would fly down the pavement.

I was not bitter, though. I consoled myself happily with the knowledge that, while they could turn on a dime and sprint, my big green beast would outlast any of them. And sure enough, she did: a four cylinder engine can only do so much when matched up against the raw power in a V8. And when they would get into an accident, finding themselves with nothing but a totaled heap that used to be a car, my Econoline would take a beating and purr for more.

Now, with a vehicle history such as that to remind me what I left behind, now maybe you can understand why I refuse to settle for nothing less than the best my money can buy, in both looks and performance. I don't want another rusted-out ride as a constant reminder of a dark spot in my youth; nay, I want something that shines in the sun and roars with the challenge of meeting her rider's requests whenever my foot touches the gas pedal.

It's a bit poetic.

O God My Life

Well, faithful readers on the Intarwebz, as the saying goes, "If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all."

This is very true.

Let me tell you a little story. When I bought my Mitsubishi, I paid the car insurance up for six months. I had a big financial aid check from the University that gave me enough to buy the car, pay the insurance up in advance, and get it tagged and refistered. She was mine, she was beautiful, she was street legal, and that is all that mattered.

Well. That six months of insurance ran out on the 26th of July, and I with no way to pay my car insurance. But shortly afterwards, I found a job. Imagine that! Granted, due to circumstances beyond my control it did not last more than a week. Doesn't matter though, because I had enough hours on that one paycheck to pay my insurance.

The paycheck arrived on the 15th, a Sunday, and I couldn't deposit the monies in my bank for obvious reasons. So I waited until Monday, for I was going to pay my insurance and try to get a job at one of the pizza joints here in town that were hiring.

So. Monday morning, I got up bright and early, fed the Idjit and set him in his playpen with some toys and the TV playing MASH to keep him amused while I took a shower. Scrub scrub, pay particular attention to the beautiful mane I boast, and then dry off and get dressed.

Shortly before 11, I picked up the Idjit and his diaper bag and stepped out to go to the bank and then go pay my car insurance. I had a plan, I was going to be productive!

I walked up and glanced to my left and saw... My driver's side headlight... Hanging out by the wires. And then dented sheet metal around the hinges to the driver's door. Paint scrapes all over my car, and the rear tire shoved forward, rubber treads bending around the lip of the wheel well.

Oh my god. Oh god. My car, my big blue baby!

I put Daniel back inside, in the air conditioning in his playpen, and turned the TV back on. Then I bolted back outside with a shriek of rage and sadness, my mind whirling in a panic. Someone had hit my car in the night and left, my only means of transportation now lay totaled on the street in front of my home.

I did not know what to do, so I called Redhead's mom, because she was in town, down at Hippie Sister's house. When she answered, my voice cracked and I started to cry as I told her, "I need you at the house. Somebody hit my car!"

Thank god for that woman, let me tell you. She told me to call the cops, and she grabbed my phonebook to start calling the tow truck companies here in town while I talked to the nice people with the badges and the woo-woo lights on their blue Crown Victorias.

When the nice officer arrived and started to ask me questions, Redhead's mom walked up and told us that one company had towed a car from right there at about 2 AM, back to the girl's house who was driving it.

Long story short, the cops arreated the girl. She is going to be charged with a felony hit-and-run for causing over a thousand dollars' worth of damage to my parked car. Her insurance has been most cooperative, and I was amazed that they didn't try to stiff me on the amount of damage.

My Mirage, the little blue car with bull horns on the grill, is totaled. I'm just waiting for some paperwork to come in before the insurance company to cut me a check and tow it off.

My mechanic has offered me one of his cars that he has fixed up, a nice little Chevy Blazer, and as soon as I have the money, I will be going to pick it up. Doesn't get the outstandinggas mileage the Mirage did, but i have size, power, and lower insurance premiums to make up for it.

Brain Pain

Ladies and gentlemen of the Intarwebs, the Redhead makes absolutely NO FUCKING SENSE. Ever.

For example, when talking about tattoos earlier today, he said "It's like putting your hand through a sewing machine, but there's no prize at the end."

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, Internet! What the hell does that even MEAN?!?

This is why my brain always hurts. Trying to understand WHAT THE HELL he is talking about.

[Five Finger Death Punch - Bad Company]

I have an idea for a tattoo. I just don't have the skill to draw it up myself. Why don't you pull up a chair and listen to me describe it? Who knows, one of my readers might be able to do it for me. Stranger things have happened.

I am from Texas. And no matter how much shit people around me may give me about it, I am proud of that fact. Don't like it? Go fuck yourself, see how much I give a shit.

Anyway. Since I doubt I'll grow old and die in Texas, and I can't always go around with horns on my car to prove I'm from Texas in THAT way, what's the next best way?

Yes. Ink.

What I have in mind sounds... sorta simple, but really isn't, because of one thing. Let me describe it.

I want the outline of Texas on my shoulder, and I want it filled in with the Texas flag. Sounds simple, right? Not so much. Instead of a plain black outline, I want it to look like scar tissue. Burns, in particular. A Texas-shaped brand, to be perfectly specifice. Complete with the appearance of skin stretching and the shadows of burned flesh contours.

Yeahhhhh, now we're getting somewhere, aren't we? Thought so.

Anyway. Branded outline, Texas flag colors filling it in, and in the appropriate lettering (which I haven't found yet), I want it to say "Don't Mess With Texas" around it. Part above and part below, to be specific.

Anyway. That's the idea I have in my head. Let's see if I can pull it off. Who knows, I might be able to.

And when I can find the right person to draw it up, I'll get it done, and I will finally join the masses of inked freaks.

It's all about the pain. The picture is just a souvenir.

TMI Tuesday

Even though this happened on a Sunday night.... Shut up, it sounded funnier in my head!

Me: *Sitting in the kitchen, watching food simmer on the stove and texting*
Redhead: *pulls curtain to hallway aside, walks into kitchen*
Me: Hooray for PMS. Ugh.
Redhead: .... *turns around and walks out*

I've been snarling the past couple of days, and now he knows why.

In other news, now that life is less ZOMGINYOURFACEDRAMA and panic-prone, with me finding a job... usually, for most people, that would make blogging schedules LIGHTER, with LESS posts.

For me, now that I'll be able to relax with the second income, no matter how small, it means there will be MORE posts, because I'll be able to actually THINK and be WITTY.

Watch this space!

Grief is a funny thing

[Kanye West - Stronger]

This post will have no rhythm to it, or purpose or point. This post will not be clean and groomed. This post will be raw emotion, flooding out of my fingers as fast as they can move. This post is a catharsis, for god DAMN do I need to get this out of my system before I go insane.

Here at Straight from the Snark's Mouth, I try to post things that you, my loyal readers, want to see. I try to leave out the drama and bullshit of my day-to-day life and bring you only the best possible content: shooting, art, baby-related awesomeness.

Tonight, though, I will do something I don't often do: I will remind my readers that this is my blog, started for my use. This blog is an outlet for my frustrations and anger, my happiness and joy, and though I don't often show it to you, great big Internets, it is still there. I try to word things nicely when I do talk about that drama and bullshit, so you won't think, “Oh, another emo moment from the mind of a self-centered young woman.”

Well, you can kiss my ass. If I want to vent, I'm going to vent. And so I shall.

I really shouldn't be so callous, I know. But I'm reeling from the sudden and unexpected death of a friend. His funeral was Saturday, and the Redhead and I, along with a group of about twenty of our friends, piled into every available vehicle we had and convoyed up to the city for our final good-byes.

It was a beautiful service, though many of us did not like the preacher that delivered the eulogy. He was trying too hard to push the message of accepting Jesus, but I suppose that is his job. And were I standing in his shoes, and looking out at the mismatched crowd there to bid final farewell to Luc, I probably would have done the same thing.

You could tell who was family in the chapel: clean and shaved, wearing somber dress and suit to show mourning, as proper. And then, scattered around those sharp-dressed mourners, were the friends that wept for the loss of Luc: the friends that he drank with, he smoked with. The friends that he practiced every last bit of debauchery alongside. We were not dressed as somberly as his family. No, we were dressed the way Luc would have wanted us to dress. Fuck fancy clothes, he would have said. Come as you are.

So we did.

We arrived, the contingent from Warrensburg, in a dozen cars and small trucks in various stages of falling the fuck apart, and stepped into the bright sunlight to the disapproving stares from family that did not know us. Band t-shirts, Tripp pants, leather and chains, spikes and tattoos bared for all the world to see. And tears streaming down every face as we grieved just as much for Luc as his family did. I wore an Iced Earth t-shirt that I met Luc in, and Redhead wore an Ozzfest t-shirt that Luc had given him. And even the most callous and unforgiving grudges were set aside as we wept together.

[Trapt – Headstrong]

We were relieved to see that Luc would not be laid to rest in a monkey suit. Never would his girlfriend, his partner, and mother to his children, Jen, allow such a thing to happen. No, he was delivered to the afterlife in jeans, a black t-shirt, and the leather vest he so often wore, with his tattooed knuckles crossed and one of his many gothic crosses resting in his palms. The preacher told stories of Luc in his youth, and I, having only known him for a couple of years, was surprised to hear some of the things he said. We were reminded not to weep for him, for he was in a better place and free of the worries and strife that so plagued all of us, but such words mean little when you see his beautiful four-year-old daughter, Lillian, crying because she knows her daddy is dead and she'll never see him again.

Luc was the go-to man for parties. He threw the loudest, proudest parties in town, and was well-known for the trouble that was caused at them. People had drank, smoke, fought, and fucked at these parties, while Luc stood back and cheered everybody on. He was the king of Warrensburg's debauchery. Of course, he also tried to convince every female he met to sleep with him, and I was no exception. Most of the time, introductions to Luc ended up sounding something along the lines of “Nice tits, wanna fuck?”

And his death was so sudden, so out of the blue, that we were left gasping. Crass though he may have been, he was our friend and he cared about all of us in his own unique way. None of us doubted this, and as RC walked down the aisle, his t-shirt clutched in one fist to be laid in the open casket, we all were reminded that the feeling was mutual.

[Sick Puppies – Riptide]

And then, as the service came to a close and we all stepped out in the suffocating afternoon heat, sweat pouring down our backs and our faces as no less than a dozen men helped to carry the casket to the mausoleum he would be enshrined in forever, we huddled together under the shade offered by the trees lining the cemetery. We clung to each other for reassurance and comfort, tears streaming down our faces with no shame. That is the only time, I think, that many of us would see each other cry.

As they slid the wide casket, for Luc was not a small man, into the opening in the mausoleum for him, we all passed it in a single-file line. Hugging Jen and the kids, shaking hands with Luc's mother, and resting a hand on the end of the casket for a moment. Uncle Face laid down dog tags that they had made for Luc: he had earned the right to be a Hemp Knight. Jonathan pressed his forehead against the casket and wept. Another man removed his fedora and set it in the shadows.

[Nine Inch Nails – Head Like A Hole]

And then we climbed back into the ovens that were our cars, left out in the sun for three hours, and made our way home to Warrensburg, all of automatically going to the house that Luc and Jen were living in. Jen has, as far as I know, not set foot in that house for longer than it takes to get clothes and necessities for her children since she came home on her lunch break last Tuesday and found her boyfriend dead of an overdose.

Once everyone had arrived at the house, we began to celebrate Luc's memory in the only way that was proper: we drank. I was unable to beat my liver into submission, for bad weather was rolling in and I could not take Daniel to a babysitter, so I gave Redhead a hug and a kiss and wished him well, then took myself home. He crawled into bed at 6 AM the next morning.

The memory of Luc will live on in our hearts and minds, of that there is no doubt. We may not be able to see him or hear his voice now, every time we take a shot, hit the bong, light a joint, WHATEVER it is that your vice is, we will think of Luc.

Rest in peace, friend. We miss you.

Brain Vomit

You know, I was headed to the site to blog. I had a head full of random ass thoughts and planned and spewing them all here, in much the same way I do whenever anyone gives me pen and paper. I never have an organized thought system, it just sort of falls out in the order it occurs to me. It's brain vomit, it really is.

But then I actually got the the new post page, and my mind shook itself like an Etch-a-Sketch, and it's gone. So.

Brain vomit forthcoming.

Dear Internets

Have you missed me? I know you have. I'm sorry, I've been a horrible blogger and haven't put anything up in FOREVER.

And right now, I don't have any real content to speak of, but I do have something, just a lil' something.

You have raped my brain, Internets. It's a horrible thing to do.

Not for the faint of heart.

Love, Snarky.

Mother's Day

Parenting is a joy and a burden. Do I hear several 'Amen's in the crowd, as well as commiserating murmurs? Yes, I thought so.

In honor of today, Mother's Day, I bring to you a post I wrote some time back that was supposed to be a guest post on another blog, but never got around to it. Musings on my own insane crotch-spawn. Yes, I called my son a crotch spawn, get over it....

When you have your first child, everyone you know is quick to offer advice, tips, and tricks to help make that first month or so easier. Well, as easy as possible: the simplest tasks, like making a pot of coffee, become a hectic game of “beat the clock”. Will he fall back asleep while the pot is brewing? Can I steal a few minutes to down a cup? Gosh, I’m just so tired…!

All this advice is given, but no one ever really tells you the things you need to know. They all tell you, “You’re going to lose a lot of sleep,” but not a word is mentioned about just how far a human body can go on two hours of rest. You become super-human, discovering reserves of strength and energy, helping you to do dishes, try to clean house, make speedy runs to the store for more diapers or wipes. By the time you finally do get to catch a nap, you feel as if you could sleep for days. How come no one ever warned me about that?

We’ve all heard (and witnessed) the “Mother Bear Syndrome”: come between me and my child, and lives will be lost. Hearing the stories and truly living them is another matter entirely. Thank whatever deity exists, my son has never been threatened, but there have been nights early in his young life where I have woken up in a cold sweat from a nightmare of having my child taken away from me. And it wasn’t even a kidnapper that did it: Child Protective Services had deemed me unfit to raise my child and brought a foster family to my home to take him. Kidnapping may not be that common an occurrence any more, but with the way the world has turned, when it has reached the point of spanking your child gets you arrested, that particular bad dream could happen all too easily. I have never felt such a strong instinct to protect at all costs, and it can be shocking the first time you realize it has hit you too.

When you have friends who have spawned before you, they are always gushing about this milestone or that. You smile and offer congratulations, but deep down, you really don’t understand what the big deal is, am I right? That too gets flipped on its head when you bring life into this world. The first smile, or the first time your son or daughter responds to their name… It’s magical. You would willingly throw your life away to ensure happiness for this tiny pink bundle, swaddled in blankets and cute clothes. You make so many sacrifices to try and make life better for them with no guarantee that it will pay off in any way, shape or form, but then one day they look at you and their lips curve, their face lights up, and all you can feel is the instant explosion of happiness and joy: he smiled at Mommy. He knows you’re talking to him. He knows the scent of you, the sound of your voice. And suddenly, all the sleepless nights, the frantic worry, the hope you can make a better tomorrow, as cheesy and cliché as THAT might sound, all become worth it.

Parenting is by no stretch of the imagination easy, and to some people, the reward it brings may not justify the sacrifices you make. But that little smile, to those who do have children of their own to brighten their day, means more than the world.

Happy Mother's Day, folks.

Boobquake!

So over here and also here on Facebook, we have something new to participate in.

Boobquake.

Some screwhead over in the sandbox (because I am so anti-P.C.) decided that dressing immodestly is the reason we have more earthquakes here as of late. And some of the lovely psychos on the Intarwebz (whom I adore for reasons like this) decided that we needed to prove, in the name of SCIENCE, that this is just not true.

So, to the pleasure of men EVERYWHERE, all day Monday, wear the most cleavage-revealing shirt you own. Let's see if we can make the whole Earth tremble. Probably in excitement but hey.

Let's rock the boobs, ya'll.

Bad Ass Merit Badge

So. I have a car. An itty bitty little four banger.



Yeah, that's her. One 2001 Mitsubishi Mirage. I call her Mira.

Itty bitty, yanno. You get what I'm saying.

So yesterday, on my birthday (which I forgot to leave a blog post up about, my bad), I went out to my buddy's house to see him and his mom and his friend who just got out of jail. They were all broke, and I had nothing to do all day. All my fun was gonna start after the sun went down, yo.

But I was bored and they were broke, and in Sedalia some ~30 miles down the highway, there was a place that bought scrap metal. Bret, Joe, and Bret's mom Perry all live out on farm land.... With rusted hunks of steel that hadn't moved in over fifteen years.

DING!! Idea!

We spent a couple hours going through a garage that looked like it was going to collapse any minute, a pole barn full of old tractor parts that you needed a tetanus shot just looking at, and cannabalizing a twisted ball of steel that may or may not have been a car half a century ago parked behind the hay shed. And then Perry and I laif the back seats down in Mira and her station wagon, and we loaded up. And then we had to do some shuffling. The station wagon held all the big pieces and my car had all the smaller bits... Which were denser and heavier.

My little car is a trooper, though. Almost 400 pounds of metal in the back end down the highway, struggling to maintain a 60 mph speed, and once we got weighed, unloaded, and paid, didn't bat an eyelash about the ordeal. Nary a mechanical issue.

I got my gas tank filled and nommy Starbucks treats because I'm a spoiled brat, and Perry is taking me to lunch at a little Cajun place in Sedalia Friday. I'm hoping it meets my standards.

Even though I didn't actually DO anything but drive, I had a lot of fun hanging out with good friends. Lots of laughs, lots of fun.

My little car earned her Bad Ass Merit Badge.

Convos from Teh Craziez

Overheard in my living room:

Dez: **Trying to do something sexy with her tongue to a can of icing. And failing.**

Snarky: Failtastic, toots.

Dez: **wails** I was trying to be sexy!

Forgive Me, Intarwebz, For I Have Sinned...

But first, a video.



Now. Onto my confession.

I used to be one of those young people that didn't pay attention to politics and voted. I didn't pay any attention to the presidential campaign, and I voted for Obama.

And I regret it immensely, trust me.

Part of me starting to pay attention to what was going on was the fact that I started reading people who let their opinions be known, and linked to various news articles. And I realized that I agreed with their opinions. And they would talk of things that a lot of mainstream news channels wouldn't cover, and I would get angry. Things like this that I linked to some time back. Obama's administration was considering doing *this*? I couldn't believe it, and I raged.

As the Redhead is so fond of saying, it's "America of the people, by the people, for the people". We are the ones in charge, not them. The White House? That belongs to us, and we employ anyone that resides there. Congress? By all rights, they are OUR bitches.

A lot of people have said it before me, and a lot of people will continue to say it after me: if we want things to change (real change, not Hopenchange), we have to be the ones to set the ball rolling. We have to get things moving towards the change we want.

And it all starts with you, sitting at home. Call your congressmen. Write to your representatives. If you don't like what's happening on Capitol Hill, go to the protests. If you don't like what they're doing, then vote their asses out when the time comes around.

You want things to change, you have to make them change. Get involved. Don't sit by and ride the waves, saying "Things well get better when [Insert Political Allegiance] gets back in the White House." It may for you, it may not for other people.

Get involved. Make the changes you so desire. Because it's not gonna happen on its own.

No Blog For You!

Snarky is going out north of town to a friend's farm to go fishing today. She may or may not take pictures of her friend, affectionately known as the Pet Alcoholic. My camera has been feeling woefully neglected here as of late, so I'll rectify that situation.

The weather is beautiful, I have gas in the car, $20 in my pocket, and a full charge on my iPod. Life is good right now.

More later.

ZOMGYUM!!!

So, because I am trying to get back into the regular swing of blogging (because I am such a horrible terrible no-good useless blogger), today I bring you something easy to read, something YOU can do at home, and pictures! It's a lovely trifecta, and you know you love me for it.

COOKIEZ!!

Cake Cookies
**Note: This is the single recipe. Because I have friends over who have sweet-tooths (sweet-teeths?) bigger than Alaska, and the last single batch I made lasted less than 12 hours, I doubled the recipe for the demonstration pictures. End Note**

** 1 box cake mix, flavor of your choice
** 2 large eggs
** 1/2 cup vegetable oil
** 3 tablespoons water
** 1 bag (8 or 10 oz, your choice) semi-sweet chocolate chips (Depending on your taste and what kind of cake mix you use, peanut butter chips are good too!)

1) Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease cookie pan.

2) Throw everything in a big bowl together and mix it up. For this post and demonstration videos, I used Dark Chocolate Fudge cake mix from Duncan Hines. NOM.

2A) Because I'm an idiot, before I started stirring it up, I forgot to add the chocolate chips. So I ended up with this:


(click to embiggin)

Of course, as soon as I realized my mistake, I added the chips. But of course, by that time, the mix was quite stiff from being thoroughly stirred up, so mixing the chips in was quite the work out for my arm. Whoo!



And the dough will get pleasantly stiff once it's good and stirred up. And it's utterly delicious raw, so feel free to spoon some into your mouth. Nom nom nom.

3) Spoon onto greased cookie sheet. I can fit a dozen onto my cookie sheet.



4) Bake in the oven for ~10 minutes. It's not an exact time, because depending on how big of a spoonful you lay out, 10 minutes may be too long for small cookies, or too short for big cookies. Use your judgement.

5) Pull out of the oven, and I always scrape them off the cookie sheet and let them sit on a plate for a few minutes to harden up enough to where you can handle them without them falling apart into goo on your fingers.


Tha's a big damn cookie, yo.

And I am truly ghetto, for I do not have an actual, honest-to-goodness cookie jar. I use my larger mixing bowls with lids.



The recipe yields 18 to 24 cookies, depending on how big you want your cookies. The double batch yielded 47 exactly, due to one ZOMGWTFBBQ!!1!-sized cookie, as pictured above.

All done!



They wouldn't all fit in my biggest mixing bowl with lid, so I had to put the last dozen in a smaller-sized container.

But there! Yummy cookies that are nice and chewy without being undercooked.

Nom away, kids.

Dream big. Or not.

It is a person's perogative to dream as big or as little as they like, I've always felt. And yes, parents always want their children to be happy and achieve their goals. That is a parent's job. You wanna be a doctor or a firemen or an astronaut? Go for it. Work hard and you can.

I do not dream big. I do not have any major goals for my life.

You know what my goal is? To fucking make ends meet and survive to see next Tuesday.

You know why I don't dream big? Because I can't even dream small. Hell, less than dream - I can't set a small goal of something I would LIKE to do for the day, week, month.

I don't know what I want to be when I grow up. I don't know where I want to live. I don't know what kind o house or lifestyle I want to have. And in all honesty, I don't care to worry about it. It does me no good to get all butthurt because I can't become an astronaut or whatever.

Another fallacy they tell you growing up: you are in charge of your own life. Yeah, I call bullshit on that one. You are in control of certain aspects of your own life.

To a certain degree, you can choose where you want to work... But after a while, if the bills start to pile up and the eviction notice gets nailed to your front door, you will take a job shoveling shit if it includes a steady paycheck.

If you're in a relationship, especially a long-term monogamous relationship, you are no longer in complete control. If you want to stay in that relationship, you have to make compromises. And sometimes, you don't get to do what you want to do.

I don't dream big, because I can't even dream small. I live my life day to day, paycheck to paycheck.

Now take your preaching and go say it to someone who cares.

When we last saw our snarky hero, she was ill and without a car. We missed a couple of episodes between then and now, so let's recap.

-Go Mira fixed. Took two days of working from sun rise to set, but she is in full working order. Drove home once it had started snowing (bad idea), at about 9:30 (worse idea). Hit a patch of ice on the highway, spun out, nearly hit a cop car. I spun out because I was slowing down due to the eighty bajillion flashing lights from cops and tow trucks for the four or five people who had hit the same patch of ice and landed in the ditch. Made it home without any further complications.

-Lost a friend. Former Roommate, who sold me the car, insinuated that anything that needed to be fixed was MY FAULT. I'd had the car for all of what, three weeks? A month? Not even I can do that grand of damage to a vehicle. I said some words, he accused me of cheating on my boyfriend, and then started to spread rumors about me sleeping around. What do you expect from someone with a high school mentality? He also made a bet that he could break me and the Redhead up in the month before he moved out of our sleepy lil burg. We laughed in his face and got closer. Way to prove me right about your two-faced nature, Caleb.

-Made a new enemy. When I discover that a... young person of the female variety (because I damn sure won't call her a woman. Whore, maybe) is feeding her 18-month-old daughter Benedryl every night to make her go to sleep, in addition to whoring around while her husband is in Iraq, I am displeased. That's too weak a word; I am RAGING. He deploys, and three weeks later she fucks somebody else in a state on the other side of the COUNTRY. Which she drove his Jeep to get to. She gets pregnant, other guy abandons her, and now she's back in Warrensburg, spreading her legs for any guy that will have her. I cannot abide infidelity, so I sent an email to her husband. And her husband has a heart of gold and wants to believe she can change, and refuses to listen unless I can provide him with solid proof. What, friends that she was staying with witnessing her making out with two different dudes on the couch aren't solid enough? The next morning my car was covered in eggs. I also had a voicemail threatening to sue me for harassment if I didn't quit lying to her husband. Huh. Chris, am I harassing you? No? Thought so.

Let's see, what else... Oh yeah.

I rekindled my love for cooking. Redhead is very happy with this and seems to actually be putting on a few pounds. Not a lot, because he's a scrawny little thing, but a few pounds. For Valentine's Day he bought me stainless steel cookware, which made me squee all over my kitchen, and I've been scouring books and the Intarwebz for new recipes to try. LabRat has a new recipe she did for her Cooking Noob series that looks delicious and I am eager to try out. Bacon-wrapped shrimp? Shit yes!

I have also been watching Hell's Kitchen religiously. I loves me some Gordon Ramsay. For my birthday (which is officially 18 days away, hint hint!) I want to get some of his books, two of which have recipes and one of which is his autobiography. If you order from his website here, all books are signed. I hope to either be given or buy myself the books called Humble Pie (autobiography), Gordon Ramsay's Sunday Lunch (With DVD), and Gordon Ramsay Makes It Easy (with DVD). The man is a cooking genius and I want to mimic some of his meals.

I'm also considering culinary school. And while a lot of people tell me it's easier to just get a job as a cook somewhere and start there, I have been having some difficulty with that. I have tried again and again to get a job cooking at one of the local restaurants, but nobody will hire me because... you guessed it... I have never been employed as a cook. This creates a dilemma, no? Besides... I want to LEARN. If I get a degree in Culinary Management, I can learn the cuisine side of the business as well as how to adequately run a kitchen plus staff. Sounds like a plan to me.

And on the baby front, we have....



TWO TOOFERS! YAY!

I think that's all I have for now. I really am sorry for such a lengthy absence, but every time I sat down to blog, I just... didn't have it in me. Sorry, ya'll. Can you ever forgive me?

Excuse the absence...

Life has been crazy hectic as of late. As soon as we got back from Texas, school started and I had to leap into that feet first. Daniel picked up a stomach bug somewhere along the way, and did I mention I bought a car? Oh yeah.

Today has been spent in a town about 1 to 1.5 hours away, kicking it with Redhead's mom whilst her personal mechanic combed over the car to identify some problems I knew of, and many that I did not know of. Mira (my Mitsubishi Mirage) got to stay the night with Personal Mechanic until the rest of the parts she needs come in tomorrow morning.

The kicker about her getting work done? She needs about $400 worth of new parts. I'm being charged a grand total of $500 for all of it.

I was quite anxious leaving her behind, and felt out of sorts being in the passenger seat instead od the driver's. But tomorrow I will go pick her up and pay the nice man, and she will no longer suck gas and stall. Yay.

Currently: Curled up in bed under a sheet, an afghan, and two big thick comforters, AND still shivering. Legitimately ill. Send soup and fruit juice.

Because I want to be one of the cool kids...

Spotted this gem at both Breda's and Tam's places...

Created by Oatmeal

Apple Fanbois?

Here's one for you... Alan and Breda in particular, rocking the iPhones.. :D




Note: No, this is not a PC-lover hating on Apple fanbois. Not at all. If I had the money, I'd totally get a Macbook. They're nifty. I just giggled at the song is all.

Self Defense

The subject of carrying a gun and self defense in general hit home last night.

Redhead was on his way home from hanging out at Country Kitchen with some friends and stopped in to get cigarettes at a store less than a block from our apartment. He left the gas station and began walking through parking lots to take the most direct route to our apartment.

Three guys jumped him right next door to the gas station. One pulled a gun and the other two shoved him to the ground and take everything out of his pockets. Once they took off down the alley, Redhead ran home and called the police.

The cops were out in force last night, and we only discovered why this morning. In addition to mugging the Redhead, three other girls were jumped on their way home. The guys that snatch and grabbed them fit the description of the cum-stains that attacked Redhead.

They snuck up behind each victim, spun them around, pointed a gun at their face while two guys with masks on grabbed purses, bags, wallets, iPods, whatever was had on them. They even asked the Redhead if he had any pot before taking off down an alley. We suspect they live in a house that backs up to the alley, for the cops never saw them come out, and they were all parked with headlights on both ends of the alley. Some friends say that a guy matching the description of the man with the gun, wearing no mask, lives in an upstairs apartment in one of those houses, and is known to act like a wanna-be thug with a chip on his shoulder.

Best we can figure is they thought Redhead was a girl, being built small with long hair and a shoulder-bag for carrying books in. They took his bag, his wallet, the iPod that I had just given him, and ran.

I moved out of Houston to escape this kind of shit. I figured life would be a little safer for a girl in a small town in the middle of nowhere. But with unemployment on the rise, so is the crime rate.

Ladies, please. For the love of all that's holy, if you have to leave at night, even in a decent neighborhood, don't walk if you can avoid it. If you have to, try to go armed, or don't go alone. There really is safety in numbers. Try to keep your eyes peeled and look for signs of suspicious activity, people lurking in the shadows, what have you.

The world is not a safe place. That message was quite clearly hammered home last night for me and my family.

New Toy

So, I got this nifty little toy, thanks to the fever I caught from some cool people.

I bought an iPod Touch. And I must say, it is an awesome little gadget. All the power and capabilities of a laptop computer, the price of your average netbook, and conveniently sized to fit in my left butt pocket.

Can't argue with that.

I am thoroghly enjoying myself playing with it. Facebook, IMs, IRC, and a fuck-ton of nifty little pleasure apps, most of which are free.

I like the touch screen. After playing with it for a solid 8 hours yesterday, I got a text message, and started tapping the screen of my phone... Only to get embarassed when I remembered that my phone was not a touch screen and there was a keyboard there for a reason.

Yeah. I are geenioos.

These things are totally worth the money you spend on them, though. If you buy one, I heartily recommend getting at least a 32 gig iPod, for space fills up fast, and before you know it, the base model 8 gigs is full.

Go. Get one. Spread the fevah.

PS - yes, I did just post this from the new shiny. I am such a tech whore.

Cute Kid Pic

I know, I have been lax in giving you your weekly addiction of adorable baby pictures. Life's been a wee bit on the crazy end of the spectrum, but Daniel woke me up early this morning, so I've got time before class to post pictures for all you lovely people.

Ready? Set? GO!


FLYING BABEEEEEEE!! And the look on his face is priceless. Freaks out while he's in the air, but once Daddy catches him, he's all giggles and smiles.


Don't worry, the bottle was empty. I set it down after I finished it, and when he reached for it, I went to rinse it out before giving it to him. No worries there.


Apples! Which I have to watch when I give to him, because even in big chunks like that, he'll bite off a piece and then choke on it.


Back to work, peons! You've had your pay for the week, now GIT!

My Brand Of Parenting

Overheard in a conversation on Yahoo Messenger with the lovely NinjaMedic:

NinjaMedic: you know,I just love it when my kids restart the router without telling me
Snarky: Throw a shoe at them
Snarky: lol
NinjaMedic: it just makes my fucking night.
Snarky: Is it sad that I can't wait for Daniel to be big enough to do shit like that?
Snarky: "Why you throwing stuff at me?!"
NinjaMedic: I yelled instead. they said 'oh. sorry'
Snarky: Cuz you're being a little shit head!
NinjaMedic: hahahah!
Snarky: You're just like your father. Now go brew me some coffee.
NinjaMedic: haha!
Snarky: "I'm six, I don't know how to use the coffee maker!"
Snarky: WELL IT'S TIME TO LEARN, BITCH.


I win. NinjaMedic shot coke out of her nose.

Haiti

As you are all aware, Haiti was devastated by an earthquake, killing thousands. The people are reeling in the aftermath, and lack of assistance, be it nutritional or medical or what-have-you, is part of the problem.

Some ways that you can help:

• To donate $10 (billed to your cell phone) to the Red Cross' earthquake relief fund in Haiti, text the word 'Haiti' to 9099.
  
• To donate $10 (also billed to cell phone) to the Clinton Foundation Haiti Relif Fund, text the word 'Haiti' to 20222.
  
• To donate $10 to the International Medical Corps, text 'Haiti' to 85944.
  
• To donate $5 to the International Rescue Committee, text 'Haiti' to 25383.

MattG makes a good point here:

Look, I'm a poor man. And, I'm a pragmatist. I've got mine, you know?

But I'm sitting here in my climate-controlled sun room, drinking decent coffee out of a clean glass, typing away on my magic elf box. My stomach is full, and I'm about to register for Spring 2010 grad school.

I may be a "poor man," but I ain't really hurtin'.

And, if you're reading this, neither are you. You're reading this on your computer or your super phone or your netbook or your cybertronic feed or whatever. You're probably seated comfortably. You probably aren't too worked up about where you're going to get your next sip of clean water.

If you've got a few extra dollars to spare, help out some people who truly are in need. Lives depend on it.

Nanny State Goes To School

Remember when you were in high school or college, some years ago? Remember how, if you couldn't do the work, you didn't get the grade? Or if you couldn't take good notes, you failed on the test? That required tutoring, or remedial classes, or seeing the teacher during office hours to try and learn where you fucked up?

Not anymore!

Here at the UCM, we want everyone to be able to pass their classes. We want to make getting a college education as easy as humanly possible for everyone involved, even if it means lowering the standard, or letting under-educated people get jobs with a degree they honestly don't know how to use, because they couldn't do the work.

The Office of Accessibility Services is here to save the day!

What has brought this lovely rant to the surface just happened in my Elementary Algebra class. Yes, I'm in elementary algebra. Why, you ask? Because I hadn't taken a math class in six years and had no SAT scores to place me in a class that was my level. So I'm taking the elementary classes to get up to speed and to serve as a refresher course for my school-atrophied brain.

I'm taking Elementary Algebra II. The first half of the course was last semester, and almost all of the students in II were there with me in I. It's very, VERY basic stuff. And when we started the class on Monday, our professor told us, "For the first two chapters, you are not allowed to use calculators, unless you've gone to the office of Accessibility Services."

We're doing integers: positive and negative numbers. You know, 3+(-4)=-1. Basic shit. Also with variables in it. Solve 4a+3b when a=4 and b=-6.

IT AIN'T THAT HARD, FOLKS.

Anyway. We're going through another section in the chapter, doing example exercises, and I glance over to see a woman only a few years older than me with one of those monstrous TI-83 calculators. I raise my hand.

"Professor, I thought you said for the first two chapters, we weren't allowed to use calculators?"

"Oh, well, Student Such-and-Such is registered with the office of accessibility services. She needs it."

"...On what grounds?"

"ADHD."

It's official. You have ADHD? Cool, you can bypass all the rules for a class and do what you need to. In high school, it didn't matter what you had. You either found some way to make ends meet, or you flunked the class and took it over.

Also available from accessibility services, if you qualify: a note-taker, for someone who "just can't focus". So, while I'm busting my ass to take notes and be able to pass a class, I can look at the girl next to me who's texting her baby-daddy about going out to get drunk tomorrow night, and it's no problem for her, because she has someone else to take notes and pass. And if she fails the class anyway? Five to one says she can appeal to the head of the department due to her "disabilities".

I'm being a real college student, and not relying on some fake-ass disability to make life easier for me. I'm getting an education for a degree I can USE. The people that need to cheat and rely on perks from their "disability" to pass a class will be useless in the real world, unable to do basic math in a business environment.

"But I need a calculator to figure out how much of these meds need to go to the patient!"

Fuck you, and your calculator.

Can't Sleep. Clowns Will Eat Me.

Didja miss me?

I thought so.

Sorry I haven't blogged lately. Went to Texas for a week with la familia, and when we came back, there was a weekend-long scramble of getting prepared for classes that started Monday for me, return to daycare for Daniel, and return to work for Ben. And then, yanno, the week of getting back into the swing of classes with new professors, new subjects, and new classmates.

Whoo.

Anyway. I was a genius earlier and fell asleep while playing me some KOTOR on a friend's borrowed Xbox 360 (I gotta get me one o' them, they're fun), and stayed asleep til 9 PM.

Yeah. No sleep for me.

So, time for some late night blogging. Proverbial counting sheep, as it were.

Besides, I know you're just DYING to hear how Texas went, and how my spawnling is doing. Yeah. You are. Don't lie.

Well. Let's start.

Hm.

To start it all off, this was Daniel and Redhead's first commercial flight. Redhead had only gone up in a little two-seater Cessna when his cousin had first got her pilot's license, and that has been some years ago. He'd never even set foot in an airport before the trip down to Texas, specifically Pasadena.

This was gonna be fun.

Redhead's older sister, Hippie Sister, took us halfway to Kansas City, where Redhead's mother picked us up to cart us the rest of the way. Many hugs were had at the airport, with Mom admonishing us to have lots of fun and take lots of pictures! Of course, I promptly forgot my camera at the townhouse most of the time, so not a lot of pictures were to be had. Sad face.

Never having been in an airport, much less flown, Redhead did not know of the joy of going through security. Empty pockets, take of jacket, take off shoes. "My shoes?!" Yes, sweetie, your shoes. Wait for TSA Dood to wave you through, walk through metal detector. Daniel and I went through with nary a blip, but Redhead's necklaces set off the alarm, so he had to back up and go through it once more.

Finally made it, juggling diaper bag, fat babeh, big puffy leather jacket, and my boots, trying not to topple over on my way to a bench. Of course, even sitting down made putting myself back together, because I couldn't exactly put Daniel down. He'd either fall over on the bench and roll off, and I wasn't going to put him on the floor and have every snotty old lady within ten miles berate me for bad parenting. I don't take kindly to that kind of nonsense, nosirree.

Finally got everything back together, and on our way to the gates we went! Then we sat. And sat. And sat. Oh hey, our turn to get on the plane!

We found seats near the back of a very full flight, with Redhead immediately going for a window seat. He didn't want to miss a thing! It was like watching a little kid: very excited, VERY animated. He loved the feeling of taking off and the sharp banking as we circled upwards, gaining altitude. For a bit, anyway.

Daniel handled flying better than Redhead did. Once we hit cruising altitude (for all of fifteen minutes, maybe?), he was fine. But going up or going down made him nauseous as all hell, and I made sure to keep a barf bag handy... just in case. Daniel just bounced and played, and didn't want any part of either a bottle of formula, nor a bottle of juice. Just chew on the nipple and he'd be happy.

Taking Daniel out into a crowd with that many people was cute to watch. I lost count of how many people stopped to comment on just how CUTE he was, whether in the airport or actually ON the plane. Makes Mommy proud, that does.



I mean, how can you argue with something THAT DAMNED CUTE?!?

Now, a note on our itinerary: the cheapest flight we could find for two adults with an infant in the lap, because we is poor young adults, one of which is a college student... We had to change planes in Chicago. Yes, I know what you're thinking. "Wait. Flying from KC to Houston, and you had a stop in CHICAGO?!" It's madness, it really is.

The plan was land in Chicago, refresh ourselves and change diapers in the hour between flights, and be in Houston by 9:30 that night. No big deal.

We touch down in Chicago, and two gates down was where we were supposed to board the next plane. On the way to the bathroom, I see that our connecting flight has been delayed by two hours. So, overall, we were stuck in Midway airport for three. Hours.

FAIL.

Not to mention that, since we had checked the weather and knew before leaving that it was supposed to be nice and balmy, in the 50s all week in Houston, so we didn't take any of our heavy winter gear. No gloves, scarves, hats, extra hoodies for jacket lining, nothing. And Redhead and I both smoke, so we took turns sitting with the baby to go outside to burn one before plane time.

When I took my turn, I was huddled in a corner out of the wind, smoked ONE cigarette, and when I came back in, the first two joints on all my fingers were BLUE.

BLUE, PEOPLE. BLUE.

Srsly fucking cold.

Also, somewhere in there I made a call to my mother, Ducky, to inform her that our plane was delayed. She needed to know, since she would be the one picking us up from the airport.

Much creative swearing later, I hung up. We waited some more, and FINALLY boarded the plane. FINALLY.

I had told my mother I would call her as soon as our tires hit the ground, since she lives close to Hobby, where we were flying into, and she could be outside by the time we got our bags and got out. And I did.

I like flying. It's a fun experience, for me. I just hate airports. Just thought I'd throw that out there. I'm sure many of you agree with me.

Navigating an airport that's busy at 11 PM is not fun. Doubly so when you have a very tired, very cranky infant. But, we made it to baggage claim, grabbed the big duffel bag Redhead and I were sharing and the carseat we had checked, and outside we went, my eyes peeled for the silver Mazda my mother drives.

Just as I spot her car sitting still behind people loading, she calls me. "Should I circle back around again, or park and come find you?" Stay right where you are, Ducky, we're coming to you.

Without warning, her doors are thrown open, and she jumps a little, squeals at seeing her grandbaby, and pops the trunk to put duffels in. She told me she was afraid that after having so many people around him, and not to mention not seeing Gramma Ducky in close to five months, she was terrified Daniel wouldn't remember her.

She need not have worried. She smiled through the back windshield at him while we were loading the trunk of the car, and his entire face lit up.

Before heading to Granny's townhouse, the paternal grandmother whose house I had grown up in, we stopped at Mamaw Wendy's, my maternal grandmother who chainsmokes and drinks beer all weekend long. Yeah, I come from that stock. Explains a lot about my sparkling personality, don't it? Lulz.

Daniel got hugged and bounced and generally spoiled rotten, when Ducky's phone went off. Big brother, Animal, was at the bar a few blocks away, and would appreciate a ride home. It was after midnight, on New Year's Eve, so everybody was starting to file out of the bars that close at 1 AM, and VERY drunk Animal needed a ride. Daniel stayed with Mamaw Wendy for more spoiling, and Redhead and I accompanied Ducky to go pick up Sir Drunk.

Animal was deep in conversation with someone of the female variety when we got there, so we ordered a round of drinks and waited. When he realized Mom was there, he rejoiced in the ecstatic way that only drunks can achieve, and again when he saw me. Laying eyes on Redhead, whom only my mother and younger brother had ever met, his face contorted into a savage scowl, and he snarled, "Who the hell are YOU?!?"

Animal, this is Redhead. "Oh. You're the carrot top." He then got much ragging for not being enough of a gamer geek and never having watched Science Fiction Theater 3000, or whatever the hell that show was. I don't know.

After drinks were consumed, back to Mamaw's we went, where little Daniel watched Animal like a hawk. He did not know what to think of the big drunk guy. After a bit of watching my mother carry Daniel around on her hip, I told her. "Put him down." What? "Put him on the floor, Mom." Giving me a strange look, she did as she was bid, and Daniel took off at a very fast crawl after my grandmother's cat.

Rejoice, for he doth crawl! He wasn't doing that the last time any of them had seen him. They were VERY happy to see he had progressed so far in the time since they'd last seen him. He has such a personality, and as I'm sure I've mentioned, he's so damned cute it's ridiculous.

The night wore on and on, and everyone was exhausted, so we said goodnight. Daniel was going to be staying with Mom for the night, because she had not had a chance to move the crib to the townhouse, and Redhead and I would be staying with Granny and Ginormous Little Brother. We made it in around 3 AM, collapsed in the full size bed my brother had abandoned for the night, and slept until almost noon, with no infant to wake us at asscrack o'clock.

The next morning, or afternoon, whatever you want to call it, we woke up just as I heard my little brother downstairs ask Granny, "When do you think they'll wake up?" I called down that we were awake now, and we shuffled downstairs to fill ourselves with coffee and step outside for a cigarette.

The rest of the week passed in a blur, with a few notable moments:

• Taking Redhead to Galveston. He had never seen the ocean, much less seagulls or pelicans or a sandy beach, and I had to rectify that. He fell in love with the island, and asked me, "If we move down here, can we live in Galveston?" Um. No. Rent's hella expensive, and it ain't worth it. He loved chasing a seagull on the beach, and picked up a handful of seashells that actually washed in from the ocean, ya'll.
  
  
• Palm trees. There were looooots of palm trees, which Redhead had also never seen. He was like a kid in a candy shop every time he saw one. "Look! Palm trees! Can we have one?"
  
  
• Shooting with one of my #GBC buddies, Tomcat. He hosted us at his range, and let Redhead and I shoot til he ran out of ammo. Glock 30, a little Ruger .22, and two AR-15s, once chambered in 5.56, and one that was suppressed .45. Verrah noice.
  
  
  
  He had never shot an Evil Black Rifle before, and he says he thoroughly enjoyed that zombie popper.
  
  
• Letting Redhead eat REAL Texmex, not this fake chain shit they serve in Missouri. Best damn fajita tacos I've ever had are in a little taqueria in Pasadena called the Ranchito. Omnomnom. Good shit, yo.
  
  
• Drove from Pasadena, TX, to Brenham, TX to meet my Aunt Sara for lunch, because she just had to see "her boy". She held him the entire time, feeding him tomatoes from her salad, and he ate half of her baked potato soup. More spoiling.
  
  
• Lunch at the cafe where my mom works, where Daniel got lots of attention from all my mom's customers, and he ate a LOT of grown up food. Boiled carrots, broccoli, and cauliflower from the buffet line, chewed on some chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes, and french fries. Om nom nom nom. Daniel likes eating grown up food like nobody's business. My mother also announced that Redhead was going to eat a REAL chicken fried steak, not that deep-fried cardboard that they serve you at Country Kitchen in Warrensburg. Said chicken fried steak was bigger than his head, and he managed maybe 1/3 of it. He has the appetite of a bird.

We drove around and I showed Redhead Pasadena and South Houston. We had a lot of laughs, a lot of fun, and my family was glad to finally meet the guy who had given them a grandson/great grandson/great nephew/whatever. Ben and I thoroughly enjoyed the warm sunshine and 50 degree weather, taking walks and spending as much time as we could outside. Redhead's mom called to say it had started to snow up here again and sent pictures to my phone as proof, and we were dreading returning to it. Especially due to "blizzard-like conditions" we were supposed to have the night we came back up.

That was complete with a three-hour drive from Kansas City back to Warrensburg. Almost three times as long as it takes to make the trip under good conditions. The entire drive I was whining about how I never should have gotten on the plane.

Alas, I did, and I'm back home now, enshrined in classes and daycare and homework and trying to find a job. Financial aid comes in next week and I'm going to buy a car from a dealership where Former Roommate got his little gas-saver for $1800, with only 90k miles on it. Very bare-bones model, but it's got working AC and heat and a CD player. Not gonna argue with a deal like that.

Now. If only the weather would warm up.

How about some pictures? Ya'll want pictures? Okay.

Also while in Texas, Daniel figured out that bath time is FUN. You can slap the stuff in the tub and this wet stuff SPLASHES YOU. It's AWESOME!







Daniel is just growing so damned much. When school let out for winter break, he wasn't crawling. Now that classes have started back up and he's back in daycare, not only is he crawling, but he's pulling himself into a standing position using furniture. Pretty soon he'll be furniture-surfing, then before you know it, walking.

They really do grow up fast.

And now a giggle-worthy video.



Whoooo. More later. I'm pooped from writing all this stuff. Maybe now I can get some sleep.

Night, ya'll.