I've been called ugly, pug ugly, fugly, pug fugly, but never ugly ugly.

AAARRRGGGRRRRRAAAAWWWWWRRRRLLLLLLPPPFFTTAHHLLSAAAPDAAOOOG!

That is the sound my brain is making inside my head this morning. It's mad at me for making it try to do a funny-as-shit blog when it's not in the mood. Not really, that's the clean version. Even I don't think you can start a blog with blogdamncocksuckmotherfuglyassmuncher! You just can't. What if a kid googles "assmuncher" only to have my dirty blog pop up with the word "fugly." I'm all about the families!

But back to me. Yeah, Me! ME ME ME!! Because this is the one place in the whole wide web that is for moi. (French is sexier, admit it.) I mean, unless there's some site dedicated to my awesomeness and filled with stalkery goodness that I don't know about--this is it. Trust me, there's no such page. I've googled myself plenty. And you can't run a stalker website of worship without proper tags.

This blog is the friend I get to gripe at when I don't feel like explaining every juicy detail of my bitch-a-thon. That's fabulous, because I know it won't ask questions. It won't say, "Hey, back that up a minute...where does the banana come in" or "so why were you googling yourself?" Nope. I just get to lean back in my folding chair and type away about anonymous douchebaggery that has been done upon me.

First off, let me just say that on Cyber Monday it is implied that the sales should last until Monday is over...not until say, 8:59 p.m. Seriously, I missed out on a reeeeallly good deal on a Christmas gift for the hubby because some A-hole at Amazon flunked the bit of 2nd grade math and science that told him how long a day lasts! Also, that Super Saver Shipping crap gets ya. I had one thing I was going to get and then that friendly little message pops up to say "Spend 5 more dollars and you get free shipping!"

So I go on my quest to find something that qualifies, because you can't just spend any regular 5 bucks you have to find Super Saver Shipping items to spend your $5 on to save $5 on shipping. I got so frustrated that I came back to it after dinner and the sale price was $43.99 instead of $19.99. Fartmonger!

Okay, so now I'm spending all freakin' week looking for stuff online to show my appreciation for my spouse and SHAZAAAM! Defeated by Cookies. You know how google "remembers" recent searches? Well a certain someone googled another someone and he wasn't looking for my well-deserved website shrine. Let's leave it at that. And this...

Douchebaggery!

Now I've got to pull the boogers off my son's face and go to the gym where I can run away from my problems anorexic-style, on an elliptical machine.

Hey! No guns at Thanksgiving!

I'm back from vay-cay! We got in around 4 o'clock Saturday afternoon so that Sunday we could have pizza-eating, Guitar Hero playing, recovery time. I'm rested, about 90 lbs of turkey and fruit salad heavier, and ready for Thanksblogging.

Before you ask me, "Cassidy, did you get drunk at your parents' house on Thursday, then take off your bra and hide it in their bathroom?" Let me just say this, yes. Let me also say that Merlot and gingerale make a tasty homemade wine cooler. And when you run out of Merlot? White wine and gingerale make a lovely champagnesque drink.

It was a decent trip. Eleven hours in the car isn't my ideal beginning to a holiday getaway, but it wasn't the worst car ride I've ever had. Michael only had a cold to spread to his relatives this time instead of the super flu. That was a plus. Although by Wednesday morning I sounded like I had throat cancer. Overall, both my dog and my son were rather well behaved in the car. Along the way we got behind a semi that had this paint on the back:



Overall the holiday was a smashing success. For most folks the T in T-day stands for "turkey" but I'm all about the Thanksgiving casseroles. I load up my plate with green bean casserole, baked corn, my mom's cheesy broccoli & cauliflower concoction, and most importantly the fruit salad.

Oh my blog, it's the most fantastic dish on the planet. It's a mix of cherry pie filling with Cool Whip, pineapple, mandarin oranges, and other sweet stuff mixed in. It's a big bowl of edible heaven that I could very well eat every meal for the rest of my life. And I try the whole Thanksgiving week. Breakfast? Fruit salad! Lunch? Turkey sandwich and fruit salad! Dinner? You betcha, fruit effin' salad. It's one of those dishes that I would sacrifice my dignity to lick the bowl clean after it's all gone and get it smeared all over my forehead.

Here I am slaving over a hot stove to make a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner for my family...


Nah, I made my sister-in-law and mother do all the cooking this year. I just stole that apron for a quick cameo on le blog. Festive, isn't it? Oh, and you like the socks a top my leggings? I was polite enough to remove my rock star boots at the door.

Sexy Mrs. Clause aprons aside, the whole holiday was actually pretty fun. I played games, ate a fuckton of food at two Thanksgivings, and had a nice 2nd first birthday party for Michael. I only had to use code with Liz once to scootch out of the room for a break from the family. We retreated to look at her snake round-up camping trip for the zoo while my mother-in-law and her new husband discussed the relative offensiveness of Chinese lanterns to Confederate battle flags.

That was after I won the challenge against Liz in using all of my sons alphabet blocks to make a crossword puzzle. See?



I'm such a dorkataur.

I just don't want to disgrace the peacock.

Today's my last blog for about a week, so I wanted to go out with a bang! As you may have noticed, I've redecorated. I tried to keep it personal, as always, by incorporating either a picture I took or one I drew. I drew the peacocks, but I flat out stole the photo on the sidebar.

What? There aren't a lot of peacocks running around Louisiana. Even if there were, it's not like they'll respond to "Hey, sit still while I set my camera to macro." I think it would, more so, involve me running awkwardly at it while it screams a "brawwwkllwaaa" sound and I make a"whoaoooaaah" sound after tripping.

Alright, today involves much housework and packing. That means you may get multiple blogs today. We all know how I love to blog instead of doing chores, homework, take care of my baby, etc. It's my favorite form of procrastination. We'll see. I don't know if I'll even have the time to procrastinate.

But I do still want to blog about the Mobile International Festival. And trust me, you want to read about it. There were Kenyan acrobats, Thai singers, and more middle-aged, belly dancer cleavage than is probably safe for human eyes.

Look sherriff, this is not just a local story. This creature has been spotted across this country.

It's so cold in my house right now that I'm wearing leggings under my nightgown. As if the nightgown itself wasn't sexy enough, I had to spice it up with some spandex! It's not a piece of lingerie, it's more like this:
with these underneath

If only I had some curlers! If there was a fire in my house--first off, I'd run to it because I'm so damn cold--I'd have to steal Dom's robe before I'd go outside. Is it weird that I think about those kinds of things? If I was forced from my home in the middle of the night for some disastrous reason, are my p.j.'s decent enough for public? Speaking of embarrassing--yesterday I called the number that I had written down as my doctor's office and asked for an appointment for my annual Pap Smear only to have the voice on the other line tell me that I had dialed the Sherrif's office. True story. This shit happens to me.

Anyway, It's really not a matter of fashion. It's more like, Are my bazoombas visible right now? I don't want the whole neighborhood to be "linin' up the block just to watch what I got." You know? I definitely don't want to be vulnerable out in front of the crazy FEMA trailor couple.

They're ALWAYS fighting. They obviously hate each other and just stay together for convience and someone to scream their frustrations out at. I just want to leave a Post It note on their car that says "Break up already!" Yesterday I heard her yelling, "You don't understand! I hate this fucking trailor!" Okay, first, yeah I do. I hate your fucking trailor. It's the hellacious redneck view from my front door and your bitching is all I can ever hear outside. So then he replies, "All white people are psycho just like you."

Whoa, back that crazy train up a minute. I am not nearly as crazy as your trashy girlfriend who is obviously just frustrated with the construction taking waaaaay too long. Seriously, are you guys trying to finish it with telepathy or something? Also, aren't you both white people?

Sorry, that chunky paragraph was just for them. That too would go on the Post It. And, "Don't park your car right behind my driveway." But then they'd know it was me. Eh, I feel bad for the girl. She was nice enough to come tell us that the dome light was still on in our car. And her boyfriend sounds like a genuine Slidouchebag. He was making laps around the neighborhood at about 80 m.p.h. after their fight while she was looking for her dog. I think he was trying to hit either.

The next time they decide to include the whole neighborhood in on their "private" affairs I'm busting out the popcorn and watching from my front porch with a giant foam finger that says "Go Psycho White Girl!" And if they wake up my baby? They're getting a poopy diaper in the face.

You really want some space, or are you and I going to go get drunk?

As you may recall from previous blogs this week, I went out on the town with the girls Saturday night. And by 'girls' I don't mean my boobs. Those are ladies. I mean the other stay-at-home moms that want some time away from changing diapers and whiny husbands and children. It wasn't filled with nearly as much alcoholic fun this go-round because, after a sit down with myself figuring out who I am in this relationship, Margarita and I have decided to see other people.

Margarita's an enabler. Margarita always wants me to do things louder and without thinking. If I'm out with a drink, I need it to be a good liason between my brain and my vocal chords. I don't need Margarita shutting off my filter and having me blurt out my bra size and sexual curiosities. Okay? That's why I took Rum out on Saturday.

Rum's a boring, fruity, fucker. You ever go out with a friend that's too timid to make any decisions or speak up and just shrugs any time something might be interesting to him or her? Yeah, that's Rum. That's me on Rum because when I ingest it, I become Rum's boring ass proxy. I only had 3 drinks the whole night and I wasn't feeling buzzed with any of them. It made me really miss Margarita's wild side, you know?

I did manage to fall off the curb of Heidelberg's though. That was completely sober. But again, classic Cassidy behavior...especially since we were trying to make a quick escape from Geraldine's new stalker.

He seemed normal at first and I even felt bad that he bought a round of drinks for a table of married women. But I certainly got the "creepy dude" vibe after this conversation:

Geraldine: "The three of us met online and now we're friends, we babysit for each other, and even work out at the gym together."

Stalky Creepsmith: "Oh, what gym?"

Geraldine: "[actual gym name]" (of which she instantly regretted mentioning)

Stalky Creepsmith: "Which one? [Location A] or [Location B]"

I just got the feeling that I was going to be running on the treadmill one day and have Mr. Creepsmith wave a jolly "Oh, didn't realize you worked out here." I would probably trip, land my face on the track, and be promptly shot out onto the floor via conveyor belt. Not that I'm terribly worried about my own safety, he was all about G-dawg. He even gave her his card after trying to shoo Kelly and I away from the table. By the way "Stalky Creepsmith" is a step up. His real first name was Quitman. It wasn't a codename either. We saw the business card.

Long story short, one shit-hole karaoke bar and a near DUI arrest later abd we found ourselves at some honky tonk joint that played a combination of AC/DC, Country, and Booty Rap--of which everyone still line danced to. They even had a mechanical bull and a stripper pole. Totally a step up from "T's Toothless Karaoke Lounge." Seriously, the door hadn't even closed behind us before we walked right back out. It was a tiny room so filled with smoke that it made a fog that rolled off it's whopping 3 tables. And yes, there was at least one toothless man.

If Margarita had been around, I probably would have been singing karaoke on the bar and later been heaved off of a mechanical bull.

I'm Gene Simmons, and I wear more makeup and higher heels than your mommy does.

Well, I'm not rollin' in the dough I made from the casino on Friday night. In fact, I was down $10 in 20 minutes playing the penny slots. It wasn't even the Monopoly slots with the fun bonus games. Nope, I could have had more fun setting my Hamiltons on fire.

I blame old people.

That's right. They're are putting me on a level of pissed off that only an internet wide campaign against the elderly can rectify. And before you start whining "But Cassidy, they're old. You should respect them in their dying moments..." hear me out. I'm not talking about the Grim Reapers next poker buddies. I'm talking about the early 60s to late 70s bracket that think they're owed something for making it to said decade. No, I'm mad at the Grams and Gramps that are always pissy with me for being in their bubble of, say, 50 feet?

I'm through with that shit. I've seen too many Granny boobs to just be Zen about old men stealling the good slot machines and scowling at me. Naked Grandma even glowers at me for using an electrical outlet in the locker rooms. There are two mirrors with outlets at them and she doesn't need either of them. But she decides to put all of her hair gel and crap right next to me while she washes her bathing suit in the buff and while giving me the metaphorical finger?

Plus, old people are responsible for this:


After brooding about the slots, I did finally have the balls to play a table game. So then Dom and I gave all our money to the dealer at the roulette table. At least that was fun. That and being in the same hotel/casino as KISS!

Well, Mini KISS. They're a KISS cover band of dwarves and they were playing at whatever casino we were at. Blogdamn, I can't even remember where we were? I wasn't even drunk that night.



I think the one on the far right is Asian. Their lead singer is actually a girl, too. Our group said they saw them walking in carrying guitar cases, but I totally missed it. I may never again have the chance to see Gene Simmons's 1/2 doppelganger in person again!

Hello, Sleepy Bird! Oh, sorry. You go back to sleep, Sleepy Bird.

Wow, I haven't been tired like this in a while. I stayed up to watch the new "Robot Chicken Star Wars" episode. I guess 10:30 is too much to ask for these days. Especially after being out late on Saturday. I got 8 hours both nights, but maybe it's just the shift in time slots that's got me dragging ass. Anyway, a gallon of coffee and much eye rubbing I have decided to go ahead and blog, despite my complete inability to spell and or proofread it once I've finished. I've also spent several moments just staring at the screen without realizing it until I got jerked awake again by Michael banging toys on the floor and singing his rendition of "AAHHHH MMMMAAAAA OOOHHHHHH!" It's a classic.

But it's just a blog to tell you that I'm not blogging today. It's way more than my brain can handle presently. Well, have a great day. I've got some good stories to share from my weekend excursions, so keep coming back.