Where I Am

Hey all... I just thought I'd take a moment to share with anyone who might still be subscribed.

Jason and I have a new blog. So come by and check us out. It is by no means as exciting as "all of this" (big hand wave in this blog's general direction). But? It is mostly everything we've been up to lately.

Enjoy.

I Don't Have The Balls To Speak For My Entire Gender

I guess you can call this a counter point: In case you missed it, Dell Computers launched a new site directed at women. Meet Della.

Della is evidently pissing women off everywhere. And, those women are saying something about it. Loudly, boldly, and all over Twitter. Running the risk of offending somebody, I'm just going to go ahead and say it. Kindly shut up.

All day long I hear women bitching that marketing isn't directed at women. Women who make the majority of the buying decisions in households across the country. And guess what! When Dell does direct marketing at women they then bitch that it's insulting.

It reminds me of the pain reliever campaign that tried to speak to the mommy world and insinuated that maybe, just maybe they had back pain from carrying their little ones in slings all day long. Mommy's everywhere railed against it and how insulting it was.

Really? Was it insulting? Or did your back actually hurt from carrying that little bastard around all day long. Because I don't know about you, but my kid is heavy and my back is a mother fucker at the end of the day, thank you, I will have a pain reliever with my beer when junior goes down for the count.

So, yesterday I tried to dig in a little bit and find out what was so insulting about Della. I'm not going to name anyone here, because I'm not representing anyone else, I represent my opinion only. But I was told that this site assumes that we're not as bright as men. Really? Is that what it is saying? Or is it saying that we like things in pretty colors? Because that's what I think it's saying.

And guess what? I fucking love pretty colors. And, when I clicked on the button to build my own computer guess what that sonofabitch did! Just guess? It started asking me technical questions, just like I was, dare I say it? A man! GASP!

Yes, once you go to order a computer on this site it asks you all kind of questions about what you want your pretty pink laptop to have for brains.

I guess what I'm saying ladies, is please stop speaking for our entire gender. I never felt like Dell was telling me I needed to have a huge set to order from their site. I felt like they understood that yeah, I like my shit pretty. Just because I bleach my hair, have boobs and wear the color pink every fucking day of the week, does not mean that I don't understand the tech world. I don't understand the tech world because I just DON'T! So when the tech world gives me a site where I can pick out whatever I want, just like a man, but with pretty colors all around, well... I'm kind of pleased about it. When the marketing world realizes that yeah, my back kind of hurts from lugging my big kid around, well gee, thanks for noticing.

They never said that I was less of a man because of it. They just told me they get it and if I don't like it then I'm more than welcome to strap one on and use the regular old site just like any dude, or any woman who just doesn't dig the Della site.

And, someday I hope that I can stand up for our gender and say, "yes, I like to bake, yes I like Hello Kitty, yes I want a free spatula with that, thank you! And now, I don't give a shit how much ram I have, can I get on Twitter? Can I blog?" Because I'm just a dumb shit girl who likes what I like.

Just like all the fuss over Twitter this week with their change in reply views, I have this to say: It's all free folks! It's free! The Della site is a choice, you don't have to see it. Twitter is a choice, you don't have to use. And frankly? I think you'd bitch if they hung you with a new rope.

Let's take it down a notch and realize the intent was not to insult. So don't treat it like it was:



Oh and PS? I work in marketing. Shhh.

I'm back... Mostly

It seems like I left for a week and my whole blogging existence changed. I thought I stayed up to date on my Twitter at the very least while I was on vacation, but while reading the written orgy that was going between those bloggers that I am closest to, I realized just how wrong I am.

Very, very wrong, but not nearly as wrong as they are. Heh.

I have a To Do list at work that reads like a list of Hugh Hefner's book of blonde conquests, neverending, but special in every way. Also? A tad ridiculous and ego inflating.

I even did a few scenes for an informercial and as it turns out, I totally missed my calling and I should be the next Billy Mays, only better looking and less facial hair. Oh and with smaller boobs. And Billy never had to tangle with an orange construction barrel like I did.

Which, I'm going to be totally pissed if that barrel gets best supporting actor, because it also turns out that I'm a method actor who had to really get in the zone to pretend like spray cleaning products suck a big one and I'm all about the disposable wipes, bitches. So to get in the spirit of it, I had to think of that commercial where the chick cleans her counters with the raw chicken because that seriously makes me gag in the most major way. Yeah, I totally turned that mother out.

We also have the cleanest microwave in the world at work now. Even though I nailed each scene in only 3 takes or less. So suck that construction barrel. Also? One of the partners in my company was running around in that very same barrel yesterday, while donning black tights because he was the smalles guy that would fit inside.

Who needs a raise when you have that mental image. Well, technically? Me, but whatever.

Finally, I thought I'd wrap up this next winner of the Caldecott Medal (yes, I know, it goes to picture books, my point exactly) with a few observations I made while on vacation:

If you stay in a hotel that is next to a tent revival that features a man named Leroy Jenkins, you are in for some of the finest people watching you could wish for.

If you think you have fat thighs, go to Disney World.

If you think your kid is sent directly from Satan and that no kid in the world could embarrass you more, then hang with my kid at the Magic Kingdom, sans nap. I've never received so much pity in my whole life.

Not even when I crapped myself at work one day.

Oh and finally, let me just put this out there, flying AirTran is for chumps and sadists.

From The Legal Department

While checking my blog stats and referrals recently, I noticed this very nice lady gave me a ringing endorsement. And because "crazy" is not synonymous with uncaring, I instantly became worried for her and then for myself. Because sometimes crazy is a tad selfish.

I mean, here she is telling the world to read me all willy nilly. Has she thought about the implications of this? The potential law suits. The corruption and mayhem that could ensue?

So, because I was all wrought with worry for anyone linking to me, I consulted my legal team (me and a Sharpie) and we put together this warning or disclaimer, if you will. I encourage anyone who sends readers this way to think about posting this warning. If not for me then for the children. I'm not exactly sure which children I'm referring to, but children seem to need a lot of attention. And causes. People like causes for children. Especially hungry ones.

I get off on a little bit of a tangent about air-punching, which seems sort of extravagant AND I use the word twat and maybe even incorporate a zombie, but I'm pretty sure this will cover your ass in any court of law. And it's two pages because legal documents are supposed to be long. It makes them seem more important.




Notice the few places that I edited as well. Because editing happens in legal documents all the time. I even "borrowed" some language from those I consider to be brighter than me.

Oh and the "her" mentioned at the end is me. My husband calls me that.

We've Got Something That Will Turn Your Brain To Sh*t

Subtitled: Shit I threw up on Twitter this weekend.

I had been in this fantastic mood and frame of mind for a whole week. And while I was in it, it was like being on vacation. In the moment I was all, "there is no way I'm ever going to be moody or uninspired again!" In the flip of a switch, it was out. Seriously, it was like over the weekend someone flipped a switch and all capacity to put my incoherent ramblings together into a solid, magical thought was gone.

There were flashes of greatness like the conversation Jason and I had while watching the St.Pierre/Penn fight Saturday.

Jason: Is he walking out to the Foo Fighters?

Me: Yeah... Some people really think the Foo Fighters rock. And not just like rock, but FUCKING RAWK.

Jason: Meh.

Me: I see your point, if it were me I'd walk out to The Cult's Fire Woman. I mean, that would be bad ass, right? Like if I had a hood pulled up and I was all punching the air and stuff? ( I demonstrated air-punching.)

Jason: Yeah, that would blow people's minds, especially if you did a leg kick and fireworks came out of your crotch?

Me: Hmmm, I don't see a lot of pyrotechnics... Wait? Out of my what?

Jason: Your crotch, you know like Shania Twain.

Me: No, I don't know and why do you know?

And then there was the whole Journey, Pre-Game debacle. I mean, really? Were his eyes not the most uncomfortable thing to watch that you've ever seen?

I came in and sat down, bone weary from mopping the office floor for close to two hours. And then I heard the awesomely, magical words of "Ladies and Gentleman, JOURNEEEEEYYYY!" or something similar. And I had seen Journey in concert like two years ago, so I totally knew Steve Perry wasn't coming out, but I didn't expect the Asian guy from Big Trouble in Little China with his weird glowing, rolling eyes.

It was like nobody told him Steve Perry isn't dead and he was trying to channel him the whole time.

Me: Seriously? Is it just me or is this guy super creepy?

Jason: What is up with his eyes?

Me: I'm pretty sure somewhere Steve Perry is just sitting there, motionless, not enjoying the pre-game, because this asshole is trying to tug his soul into his body. How freaking rude.

Hey you know how you should get a Journey tattoo?

Jason: Ummm, sure?

Me: Just make sure it says Journey - and then underneath it's all, but real Journey. Fucking Rocking Steve Perry Journey. Fucking Rocking REAL STEVE PERRY JOURNEY because I'll never STOP BELIEVIN' - Not, Creepy Possessed Asian Guy Journey.

That's probably going to be a big tattoo. Wait! Where is my laptop this is PURE GENIUS!

Jason: No honey, it's not.

But he thought it was pure genius later when we were going to bed and I nuzzled his ear and whispered, "if punching koalas is wrong, I just don't want to be right."

Yeah, I even got a nose booger to fly out on that one.

Okay, I'm starting to feel better already. Mostly because it's obvious how awesome I really am.

Besides, if Bruce Springsteen can power slide into the camera man and make that RAWK! Then who am I to be moody?

Do you know what it is I'd like to say?

Because I'm not entirely sure that I do. I mean, I'd like to say that yesterday was the most offensive day that I've ever had.

Um, but that would be a complete lie. I mean there was the day that I told my best friend that it was time to tweeze because she looked like she had two dead cats glued to her forehead. Or the time I told her that if she ever went bald that she could just grow out those brows and brush them up over the top of her head and look like the Italian guy that's in all the movies like Goodfellas. (Who is Frank Sivero but there is not one good picture of him to be found).

See? Totally offensive right?

I mean I wasn't taking on the whole Jesus loving, anti-hip hop world, but it is really so few days that I do that anyway. Usually I just do that on Sunday. It's just me on the opposite side of the Fred Phelps camp, I'm annoying people in an awesome way and he's getting spit on. Usually by Jason.

Yesterday may have just been the most offensive day in my blogging history but given the mood I've been in for the past couple of months, I can give you a money back-guarantee right now that it won't be my last. Except that you don't pay for this shit, but you should start.

I'm on a mission to prove that words are just words and it's the heart behind them that is important. And trust me, peeps, there's a good heart here behind this saline.

My 'might just be an Atheist/Science is King' husband warned me I would be deemed offensive yesterday. And while I'm not an Atheist I just think that Jesus is truly my b-boy and he'd want me to think he was awesome. Because he was and is and we know he didn't drink Folgers too ;)

But it was this warning that my husband had in mind when I came upstairs laughing this morning and said "Can you freaking believe, I had a rude ass comment on my blog this morning?" I knew I was seconds away from a big fat told you so and possibly a replay of the UFC smackdown in the Booms' house. So I blurted out. "Uh yeah and can you believe it was on the posting about Crazyman getting slapped in the face? Have I done nothing right?"

So I've decided that I can't even get trolls to respond appropriately. I have utterly failed at being a good blogger.

So for that I apologize, but I will not apologize for zombies with 1/2 arms and shivs or for even saying that my son's baby-sitter has a meticulous house and bakes cookies, because how the fuck did I even DARE to tread on that ground, I ask you?

I was also unfollowed on Twitter yesterday too. By a person who JUST started following me that very day. If I knew how to get a hold of her I'd say "well obviously, you didn't even KNOW me!"

Because she didn't, so meh.

And would you look at this picture? I totally missed what I was trying to achieve:

Now that? Is totally offensive. I look like a blow-up doll that just figured out what her complete and total purpose in life is.

And for those of you that can view the Dirty Pirate Hooker's blog, you should scoot right on over there because there is a totally AWESOME cartoon by yours truly posted.

PS! I just got my new mini-laptop. My kick-ass husband left work early and came home with it to surprise me!

I Do Parties

First, let me start off by saying thank you to all of you who showed concern or shared your thoughts regarding the hand print on my sons chubby-ass face.

I'm totally going with my gut on this one. When I talked to her this morning she started to cry, again and Crazyman laughed and smiled at her and went to her with a big hug.

As it turns out, I may have just been jealous that I didn't get to slap him in the face and come up with a really good excuse myself. AND THAT IS FREAKING SARCASM PEOPLE. Don't file any reports or anything. I don't want to hit my kids, I just want to give them cookies until they are quiet and that is why our prison systems are chock full o' mama's boys. I love my kids, they are masters of all things rock.

And because blogging has like all this etiquette and stuff that just like everything else in life, I'm woefully lousy at, I didn't get a picture of the hand print so I decided to do an artist's rendering and you will note that I use the term "artist" loosely. Also? My phone is ringing off the hook this morning and I have all this proof-reading and editing to do (which is ridiculous considering the state of my blog) so I took all of 5 seconds to do this. It took me longer to get the cap off the marker than it did to draw it.

And because I'm like 95% of all other Americans I felt bad about his face and then felt bad about feeling bad and then decided to drink a beer or 7 and eat really bad tacos and have long detailed conversations with really nice bloggers that may or may not have called me out unfollowing them on Twitter. So here is a portrayal of my night last night as a whole.

You're very welcome.

Feel free to click on them to see them enlarged. I don't suggest it. And yes, I'm so available for parties.








Oh, you know it's a total curse being this talented.


Edited: Oh and I have no idea why my husband appears to have lost his ears overnight.


EDITED AGAIN: To tell you about the coolest hackers, EVER! I want them to come to my house for dinner. As long as they don't eat brains or me.

Regaining My Self Respect And Keeping Yours Intact

Please don't call the authorities - It's all sarcasm and again, I don't own a gun.


You may have noticed that Blogland is a special place. A place filled mystical fairies, possible hobbits and trolls of the nastiest, high school ice queen nature. Another magical thing about Blogland is that on a whim the tides will turn from blue to red and new rules and laws are made up. Out of nowhere some great voice will speak and say it's time to do this and bloggers everywhere do that very thing.

You may have noticed in the hollows and glens on Monday that it was Delurking Day. In my usual, go against the flow, sort of way I ignored it. I tend to go against the flow a lot because again? I hate myself and like to make my days as hard as I possibly can. It builds character and puts hair on your chest. And if there's one thing that all girls should have, it's a hairy chest.... Oh and a pony! Who doesn't want a pooping pony?

I didn't actually ignore it to be 'against the grainy'. I ignored it because the way I figure it (nice, Missouri-talk), if you want to read this luke warm mess and pretend that you don't, then you have that right. I mean you don't call your mother and tell her you're buying sex toys and porn, do you? I mean come on? What self respecting individual would admit that they read this? I barely admit that I write it. Mostly because I don't so much write it as I sit down and puke it out all over my keyboard.

If you wanted to comment on this crud, you would, right? More than likely you want to read it and then hang your head in shame as you click over to the next self-respecting blog. I don't blame you. I write it, hang my head, drink a beer and talk to my therapist. Then I climb to the top of the house with a shot gun, threaten to take myself out, randomly shoot out a few car windows, continue to drink until I start to cry. Cry until I become a big snotty mess, shove my hair out of my face and then climb back down to relative safety and go to bed only to do it all again the next day.

And speaking of mass suicide/homicide. American Idol started last night. I have watched this drivel every year since the very first, when I started watching it half way through the season. One night I was newly separated, drunk, feeling sorry for myself and had 3 channels on my 19" TV to partake in. Bleary-eyed, I started watching and didn't stop until now.

I turned it on for a few minutes last night and realized that suddenly I have a soul or something and I kind of value it and watching the judges tear losers to shreds seems not as much fun as it used to. Or? Perhaps it's just that it's schmaltzy and makes me feel like I'm covered in network, prime-time slime. Whatever.

I instead turned on America's Funniest Home Videos which my son adores and fondly calls VIDEOS and shouts and points and laughs at all of Bob Saget/Tom Bergeron's jokes, mostly because everyone has an audience and he's theirs. Well I should say that he's only Bob Saget's audience when Disney writers feed him lame ass lines, because otherwise, he's even lamer and more foul-mouthed than even, oh, say, me!

Now think about what I just said. I turned off American Idol to watch America's Funniest Home Videos - This is either a huge step forward or the biggest back slide in TV watching evolution ever.

Well my dear, non-delurking readers - It's about time for mama to grab the ol' shot gun and trek on up to the roof. If you need me I'll be slamming a 30 pack of Natural Light and shooting squirrels that remind me of Ryan Seacrest. I hope I have enough bullets.

I'm Kind Of Funktified

I'm thinking it's mostly because it's Monday, but that just makes me a whiny a-hole, because seriously, if you do something like look at Twitter or even open your ears at work, everyone is complaining about this shit and really? Didn't complaining about Monday go out of style with Garfield? Lazy-ass cartoon cat.

It could also be because I spent roughly 2.5 hours cleaning floors in my office yesterday only to have them be covered with dusty little footprints again by approximately 8:05 am. And that is because I evidently work with a whole slew (not half a slew, but a whole one) of butt faces that were born in non-footwiping barns. And yes I feel inherently better when I say something as mature and role-modelish as butt face.

Truly though there is something that is probably contributing even more to the Funkitification of Betsey Booms (which you know I'm funky if I'm speaking in third person because that is for suckers). If you know me then you know I freaking love burritos. I would eat burritos every day of my life were I not already eating tacos or chocolate. Burritos are the food of the Gods and if there is one thing that I could eat every.single.Monday it's a farking burrito. Monday's bring on the weekend hangover. Monday's should be renamed Methadoneday (who knew I could reference Methadone so many times in a week? And if you say Methadoneday out loud, it's just fun and Spanishy sounding). The one thing I love for a hang-over is hands down a burrito. So when my boss sheepishly walked up to my desk and pulled the old "I hate to ask and it's outside the realm of your job description" bit and sent me on an errand to come back with freaking FIVE burritos in less than half an hour, I basically wanted to stab myself in the eye because not one of those FIVE burritos would be sliding down my sleepy, hating life throat.

I realize there are bigger problems and worse days, people, but this is MINE! And because of this I'm going to be a big, whiney loser and continue to butcher the English language with my mostly's, seriously's and poorly thought out run on sentences. That? And I'm rebelling by changing my blog design while I'm AT WORK.

So take my passive aggressive shit and move on buddy!

Yeah, I showed them.

Oh and PS - I would love to hear this post in a dramatic reading fashion, because then we'd really see how self-involved and ridiculous it is.

What Am I Missing?

Updated: Please Note: If I linked you it's because you don't suck! Promise.

I read some very popular blogs. There are a few that I totally get why they are up for awards, even if I find the award itself dubious at best (I mean once you win that prestigious of an award is there anywhere but down to go? Heh.) and find myself annoyed by the amount of pandering for votes that is happening on some blogs and Twitter. I've even voted, which I've never done before and now feel kind of dirty about doing. Not that feeling dirty is always a bad thing but I imagine that this must be how most of the people with Palin stickers still on their car must feel or this guy.

Lately I find myself cruising around blogville looking for some fresh reads. I can't explain why I've never been drawn to reading some of the more popular blogs. Well let me correct that, because I can totally explain it now that I've given it a shot.

Dude, they suck (please note I'm at least classy enough to not link to the suckage). And the more I dig into the blogs that are all linked together the more I find the incestuous nature of them to be very reflective of the high school social scene. And seriously? There is one blog in particular that is so dry and hokey that I'm pretty sure this blogger is skating by on his looks alone and the fact that he is just sensitive enough to be a dad who writes about being a dad. Big deal.

I kept reading other bloggers writing about the "high school" scene of blogging and how shallow it was and I'll have to be honest, I just didn't get it. I realize it was because I was reading some awesome blogs that I don't even need to link because trust me, these girls know I think they are awesome. They aren't popular which is why I'm not linking to them because, man, I just said you aren't popular, but they are real and honest and funny.

I went so far as to try to read one blog that was up for an award, I even subscribed to it because, seriously, could that many people be wrong? And the answer is a solid yes, they can be, which entirely describes our previous two presidential elections. I read this person write annoyingly in fictional third person and thought I'd scratch my bleeding eyes right out of my head. I couldn't unsubscribe fast enough.

Now you can say I'm just bitter, but that's not the case (I am a little bitter about the fact that I'm sitting here listening to an odd coffee house version of TLC's Don't Go Chasing Waterfalls). I'm not even a blip on these people's radar which is why I have the gonads to write this. What I am is not bitter but disillusioned and I now understand why so many people detest the "mommy blogger". The mommy blogger is fine. The super popular, talentless mommy/daddy blogger is just farking annoying. It's like the captain of the football team or cheerleading squad can write about how their little one drooled and crapped themselves today and the world falls at their feet. But if I wrote about how I drooled and crapped myself I'd get nothing more than a collective, warranted "ewwww". And granted, I write about the very same things and I read a lot of people that also write about these same things, but! They do it well and they are funny, so freaking funny! I may not do it well or even be funny, but I at least have enough self-awareness to know what the deal is. I'm not kidding myself.

So what is my point? Well, I have no point, I'm just sorely disappointed and fully aware that popular bloggers don't rock out with their cock out so much as they suck out with their luck out. Or something.

I guess I'm just calling it what it is. LAME.

Finding My Niche

Last night when I got home I walked into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of wine. I then started plugging balls of cookie dough onto a cookie sheet.

As I was sipping my wine and scooping cookies out, my husband sat at the kitchen table, cook book in front of him, making out a list of meals and groceries needed for the next two weeks.

"Did you read my blog today?", I asked him.

Without looking up he replied, "No, sorry babe, I didn't."

"Oh, well, I guess you didn't see that someone wrote me about using the word retard."

And then my husband did something I've never seen him do. He put down his pen and looked at me with concern. I had his attention. I felt his eyes search my face as he said, "Oh, really?"
And next to him at the table sat my 9-year old daughter. I had her full attention too. Which is good, I needed her full attention.

"Yeah", I said with a sigh. At that moment, I knew that tray of cookies didn't stand a chance. I was eating the whole thing.

And I did.

I explained to him what I wrote and my daughter listened. He nodded and then winced when I told him that I had mentioned Jadon's issues in it. Sometimes we do forget what our lives would look like today if he was still with us.

I told him about how I wrote about how they thought Monkeygirl might have Down's Syndrome when I was pregnant with her. I watched her face carefully. It didn't change. I breathed a sigh of relief. I'm not even sure why.

As my son tugged on my pant leg and the wine went down easily, I looked at my daughter and told her how that word is not to be used to describe anyone. And while she can use any word she wants to describe herself that isn't one I would use for her or anyone else. She nodded her head. That's what she always does. She's so sensitive, I think a quick nod is all she can muster because she's always so overwrought with feelings.

Later in the night she came in the room, with a pout on her face. I asked her what was wrong. She wouldn't say. I asked her again, bracing myself for whatever she might reveal.

Turns out, she was upset because I told her she couldn't wear sleeveless shirts anymore because the weather has turned cold.

And that told me what I needed to know. My words don't have an impact on this world. And that is a relief in some weird way.

I spent the rest of the night analyzing something. And if you haven't seen the movie Clerks 2, I apologize. Well no, I don't because there is a donkey show scene that you really can exist without ever seeing and be absolutely, perfectly fine, but...

They have an entire conversation about the term 'porch monkey'. In the scene he uses the term and the other character's eyes bulge out of his head and he then explains that you can't just go around saying porch monkey. He says it innocently because his grandmother called him a porch monkey because he played on the porch as a kid. Anyway, he gets indignant and declares that he's taking Porch Monkey back! They can't do that to his term. They can't make it dark and hurtful.

I laughed so hard when I watched this scene. Mostly because I have some poor sense of humor issues, but really, because it hit home with me and I agreed with it.

And then I thought, well why would I think that taking porch monkey back was okay but I would never say the "N-word" in any way other than I did the other day when I wrote about the Obama sign that had been defaced.

Why? Because the words porch and monkey are innocent. The word retard is innocent. They weren't created to be derogatory, they were misused and turned that way.

I know people who can turn a phrase better than I can. And I know people that use their words for powerful and wonderful things.

But to my credit? I can take a word and turn it back to what it should be.

Just a word.

The One Where I Finish Turning Off My Readers

I'm sure you've noticed recently that I went out on a limb and I used the word retarded to describe myself. Being the uber-sensitive, easily hurt person that I am, I thought about this before I did it. I thought a lot.

I stopped using the word retard for a very long time because too many people associated the word, for obvious reasons, with the mentally challenged.

I get that. I get that it is used in a hurtful manner and I would never use that word to describe anyone other than me, or my husband at times. And only because he has issues. He lives with me and loves me.

When I use the word I'm not even using it to say that I'm mentally challenged. I'm using it to say that my thought processes at that very moment were retarded in their development.

So when an email popped up in my inbox just moments ago that addressed my very usage of the word, my heart strings just about popped straight out of my chest. I expected it to happen. I had attempted to take back a word that has been so dirty and hurtful and use it in a light hearted way because, well, because I challenge society and stigmas like that.

The email I received was very thoughtful, kind and from the mother of a boy with Down's Syndrome. My response was this:

Hi "super mama of a very lucky little boy",

Thank you for the extremely thoughtful response to something that could be viewed as horrible.

I realize that. If only you knew how much thought I put into the use of the word retard and let me tell you why.

I would never use this word to describe anyone other than myself. When I was pregnant with my daughter I went through tests and sheer torment because they thought she was going to be born with Down's Syndrome. I wasn't tormented because I thought she might have it, I was tormented that I didn't know. And I wouldn't have the test to find out.

And then many years later I gave birth to my son who had so many problems, we can't know if he was mentally challenged or not. Chances are that he was deaf and we know he didn't have a left lung among many other things.

I put absolutely no stock in the word retard, none at all. Which is why after questioning my use of it, I thought to go ahead and say it anyway. My inclination was that it would take away a stigma.

Children with Down's Syndrome are NOT retarded. They are beautiful and wonderful. Mental retardation is just that. A mental retardation. I use the word retarded as an adjective as in my thought processes are obviously retarded at times. And again, I have to explain that the process is retarded in it's development. I don't think things through.

Again, thank you for your kind and thoughtful note. Retarded does not mean the same to me as it does to you and that is again, why I relented in my hold on using it on my blog.

Please accept my apologies on hurting you. I know your little man is wonderful and what an awesome mommy he has.

Betsey

With that being said, if I was viewed as being thoughtless or hurtful, well that is the chance I took.

And a chance I won't take again. My apologies.

Suckdom of Legendary Proportions

Look, there are things that I know I need to be doing. When there is pressure, I tend to procrastinate even worse than usual. This leads to things like my sock zombie riding around in my purse with me since Tuesday. Right next to the camera that is supposed to be taking pictures of the little cutie that my lazy ass hasn't even named yet.

A fucking zombie without a name. How I've shamed the undead. And how the people checking me out wonder just what kind of a weirdo walks around with a stuffed zombie in their bag while trying to dig my wallet out to pay for that 20-pack of Michelob Ultra.

And just yesterday, I was given this awesome 'yeti in a monster truck' t-shirt from someone that I recently interviewed here at work. This shirt rocks hard core and did I get a picture of Crazyman and his Yeti Redneck? Um, no.

When the pressure is on, I shut down. My photography drive dies along with my motivation.

Go on, tell me how much I suck. I can take it. I'm a big Betsey.

Well blogging sometimes feels like a pressure too in a weird way. At 4:00 this morning I was struggling to reclaim unconsciousness and my mind wandered to all the posts I SHOULD be putting out there but obviously I'm not. Instead I put some real time into some contrived post about how I idolized Barbie as a kid.

Because really? You can't fucking tell, can you?

So instead of being a complete tool, I thought I would throw out there what a lazy asshole I am. And really, when you are a lazy asshole recognizing that fact and owning up to it is extremely important and possibly your only redeeming quality.

If I come back in here tomorrow with no pics of my nameless, sock constructed, brain-hungry monster then it's official that I will go down in Suckdom History. And just so you know, joining me in suckdom history will be George W. Bush, the person that invented panty hose and the bitch that flipped me off on the highway the other day. Look assface, I don't care if I did almost run you into the divider wall and then flipped you off when you honked at me. You have some nerve and the song on my radio sucked. How the holy hell was I supposed to go on driving while listening to that shit? I don't care how much they play that fucking Handlebars song by The Flobots. It still blows. So put that song into suckdom history too.

Also being neglected in my world? The load of underwear in the dryer that my husband threw in the other day, that I was supposed to remember and therefore take out and fold and then put away. His towel embraced, naked ass kindly reminded me just why he was walking around the house, one untuck away from the Full Monty as I was wrangling our kid out the door this morning.

So I'm off to ponder just how bad I suck at life and take some pictures already. But I promise you...

They won't be good.

Judgment Day

You see my title up there? Yeah that's right, it's judgment day. And I probably judged you for just a moment if you spelled judgment with two e's because I do that shit all the time and you just made me feel better.

J started this Judgment Day movement and I jumped on the Judgment bandwagon. So sue me.

My mind is reeling because truly opening myself up makes me feel like a fish filet. What the hell does that mean? Who cares?

I'm a 31-year old, bleach blonde on my second marriage. I have 2 kids, but I've given birth to 3. That alone defines me every day of my life and eats away at my guts. I don't give a shit what anyone thinks about the fact that my son's ashes are still in my bedroom. I'm never giving that little guy up. Never.

I spend most days struggling with the fact that I'm sure I did something during my pregnancy that caused his death.

I stress out about the color of my hair. A friend of ours once said my hubs ex-girlfriend had "chicken fat yellow hair", instantly I wondered if anyone thought that about me.

I'm white trash. I never knew it growing up. I thought my family did just fine. My real father was an abusive alcoholic who left this world Leaving Las Vegas style when I was just 16. I've let that define me for way too long. He beat me and all his wives, at the age of 10 I refused to see him ever again.

My grandmother (his mother) called me a crazy, brainwashed brat. I let that define me for way too long as well.

I let everyone else in my life define me for most of my life until now. I always just wanted to fit in and as a result I was a total chameleon in High School and hung out with everyone, even while rocking my bizarre hair colors that I was self-conscious of.

I met my ex-husband and my husband the same night. Does that make me a whore? No, but sleeping with my husband the night before meeting my ex-husband's parents just might. Or while his ex-girlfriend was sleeping upstairs, we did on the couch in his living room and then had to rinse the cover of the futon out in the kitchen sink.

Whatever. I was madly in love with my husband from the word go and the fact that he was a wild ass didn't stop me from living my life, I tried to move on, but I was always, always, always in love with him. And the fact that he was dating my friend didn't stop me either.

I think I'm a good wife. I try very hard to be but I'm scared to death of losing my husband over something stupid, the way I lost my stupid real father. So I'm on my hubs ass, a lot. Both Jason and I fear remaining white trash for the rest of our lives but I have gotten to the point where I just don't care what most people think.

Until? I see they are looking at my tattoos. I know everyone in this world judges me by these things I've put on my body. And I hear people say your body is a temple blah, blah, blah... My body is organic matter that is going to rot and decay and fall away. If I want to put some fucked up piece of art on it that will be there until I'm old and wrinkled, then so be it. I see it as hardly any more than changing the color of my hair or my shirt that day. I don't think all tattoos have to mean something and I'm annoyed when people ask me what mine mean. Mind your own fucking business. If you needed to know, then I'd make it obvious. Otherwise? It's between me and my fucking skin. And yes! That's how I really feel about it.

And finally? My ass has been at the center of my life for most of it. If any comment is ever made about the way I look, it is usually about my ass. It's been called fat and it's been called big. But always by women. No man has ever made a negative comment about my ass. At least not to my face. And I don't think one day ever went by in Jr. High or High School where my ass did not get grabbed by some pimply faced butt head. So I'm very sensitive about my ass and it still bothers me to this day when my hubs grabs it.

So what do I judge people on? Well I'm really not very judgmental at all. I'm a huge hypocrite because if you are judgmental I think you're an asshole. I respect your right to be that way, just take it somewhere else. Like away from my kids.

I hate bullies, if you bully I will turn around and dish it back, even if the person you bully is someone I think is an idiot.

I think Republicans are freakish. You have every right to be one, I just think you're bizarre.

What I'm about to type next is going to kill me. It's absolutely going to kill me to say it, but here goes. I have friends who are overweight. I have my entire life. My mom always told me "don't pick on anyone because of their weight." This colored my life so entirely that my mom then told me that I "bring every fat kid home from school and make them my best friend".

Yeah, I was confused too. But I just never saw any of my friends as a weight. I still don't.

But here is the tough part for me. When I see an overweight person in one of those motorized scooters at a store? I just think they are lazy and gross. More than likely they have a health issue, but I assume it's because they don't take care of themselves. But then when I have no liver or breast cancer, I will think I deserve it for drinking and getting breast implants.

I think that people who judge others for being gay are disgusting trash. They make me absolutely sick to my stomach. I think that when someone calls a transgendered person a he/she they are rude assholes.

And people who wear crosses around their neck scare the shit out of me.

So there you go. Judge away!

And On It Goes

I know it's been all sorts of lame in these parts lately. And how do I know this? Besides from my acute self-awareness that is especially keen on my total suckage, the small numbers of people actually entering my give away of an apron that will be made with my heart and soul, is a big tip off.

Seriously? If you haven't entered, do it now, bitches. And then again every day until the end of the week? Or? I'm just going to give it away to whoever kisses my butt the most. A girl can always use a little ass-kissing.

Speaking of ass-kissing or licking rather - I promised someone that I would TRY to get a shot of the face that resembles a cat that just licked it's own ass at a wedding that I attended this weekend. I wasn't able to...

But enough about the bride, back to me or Mr. Booms in this case, looking dapper in his suit:



And me in my borrowed dress:



And my friend, Angela, seeing my boobs for the first time:



And then she got over the excitement:



And then the mourning began. He's just on the verge of wiping away the tear that he shed over the marriage of one of his best buddies...



In between beers, Mr. Booms showed me some love:



And then continued drinking... a lot:



Never one to let photography take away from my partying and drawing of dirty pictures, that's pretty much it. On top of that? I was so lazy I didn't even bother to remove the red eye. Yes, I'm possessed in every single shot.

So I didn't want to disappoint you by ending the wave of loserish lameness I've had going on around here. Glad I could keep up the sucky work with another sucky post.

Happy week.

I Have No Desire

I just have absolutely no desire to blog these days. Oh maybe I have the desire, I lack the drive perhaps. Maybe desire is just too strong of a word and I'm just entirely over thinking the whole thing.

Whatever.

It could just be that I've been writing about my boobs for so long I'm lacking any substance that doesn't consist of mammary and saline. Whatever the case, I'm a fucking lame wad.

I think I'll just go and over-bleach my hair some more.

Oh, and just so you know, I bought a few bras yesterday and the C's that I asked for are pushing the D mark pretty hard core. If I'm not careful I border on obscene.

Sigh.

Whatever.

Have a dry hump day, y'all.

Everyone! Quick! Touch Your Boobs!

Hey everyone, it's J, here to fill in for Betsey Booms!

I thought since I am here today due to BB's new ta-ta's, I would keep with a 'breast' theme.

Though, this one isn't as fun as new fake boobies. It's actually a very serious subject. It's about IBC, Inflammatory Breast Cancer.

Inflammatory breast cancer is an especially aggressive type of breast cancer that can occur in women of any age (and, although extremely rarely, in men). It is unique because it often does not present with a lump and therefore often is not detected by mammography or ultrasound.
Inflammatory Breast Cancer (IBC) causes changes in the nipple and the surrounding areas. Invasion of the local lymphatic ducts impairs drainage and causes edematous swelling of the breast. Because the skin of the breast is tethered by the suspensory ligament of Cooper, the accumulation of fluid causes the skin of the breast to assume a dimpled appearance reminiscent of the peel of an orange. Other symptoms include rapid increase in breast size, redness, persistent itching, skin hot to the touch. IBC often initially resembles mastitis, and is sometimes misdiagnosed as an insect bite.

One of my good friends sent me this video, and I hope you all watch it.

I was going to post about when I got my nipples pierced...... but yeah, I thought this was more important.

I did, yes, get needles stabbed into my nipples and put rings through them. They were hot. :)

Looks like we have the next Pam Anderson here...

Hey everyone! It's J. I know BB doesn't usually blog on the weekends, but I wanted to pop over here for a second to let you all know how she is doing.

I just talked to her and she sounds great. She said she isn't in too much pain, the doctors hooked her up big time with the pain meds! (I will let her tell you all about it when she gets back.)

She also said they are insanely swollen, which is to be expected. This morning she did get out to the store before her appointment to see the doctor, but I am guessing Jason is doing all the driving considering the pain meds she is on and the fact that she can't raise her arms very much!
The doctor said she looks great, and is healing really well.

All in all, BB is great, enjoying her new boobies and relaxing at the house this weekend.

I will be back here Monday, and then I believe Kara will be here Tuesday and Allie Wednesday. (Unless BB gets back here sooner, she said maybe Wednesday.)

Lotsa Love,
J

Update!

Hey everyone, J here, coming to you live with an update on BB's brand new ta-ta's!

I just got done texting her and she said everything went fine and she is feeling great. I asked her if she was doped up (duh) and she said 'Of course!'.

I also asked her if they were huge, and she said she doesn't know, and won't until tomorrow. *sigh* I was really hoping for jugs pics.

As far as I know, DPH should be here tomorrow. I will be back Monday, then a few other guest bloggers to take over Casa de Booms until Betsey returns!

Outta Here

With Monkeygirl returning from New York and starting school next Tuesday. And with Crazyman wrapping up at his current sitter and starting at the new one on Monday I'm not going to be around for a few days. It's time I acted like a proper mother and readied my children for the world. This isn't to imply that I haven't readied them for the world before now, I mean we do make Monkeygirl pay rent and Crazyman has to work those odd jobs to pay for his diapers. But I'm being maternal and you know, prepping them.

Things like "meet the teacher" night which to me just sounds like take a gander at your impending doom, nice teacher lady and back to school shoe buying will be filling up the next few days. In there I also will be doing laundry, making my grandmother an apron, cupcakes for my grandfather and celebrating a little thing called my birthday. By celebrating I mean crying alone in the shower and drinking heavily while I mourn the loss of my youth.

So you won't be hearing from me. Mostly because I'll be calling my doctor and demanding Valium after trying to spend that much time organizing children. And I don't know about your doctor's office but mine tends to have long hold times on the phone. It eats into blogging time.

I could be exaggerating or drunk already. Who knows and who cares.

I just ordered 4 tops and a pair of shoes to celebrate my aging. All of the tops a little larger than usual to account for the growth spurt my chest will be having in 22 days. After that I will be calling an entirely different doctor's office and demanding so much more than Valium.

What I'm trying and not successfully conveying here is that I won't be around until, oh say, Tuesday. It is then I don't at all promise to try to fill the void that will exist until you can read more of my entirely sensible thoughts.

Or something.