Dear Bill O'reilly

Dear Bill,

I am a broke and desperate housewife who does not, repeat does not want to read about Vampires. Send me a copy of "Bold Fresh" and you can be my Edward.


I just emailed that to Fox News.

Don't be a boob Bill. You send at least one person a book every day. You know you wanna. Stay tuned to see if the Fox News people have a sense of humor or not.

*Insert evil laughter*

Popcorn, Pants (or lack of) and PandAmonium

I need energy. Bigtime. That and popcorn sucks. Don't you love how when you're sweeping popcorn kernels from the night before the broom somehow gives them enough momentum to rocket across the room with enough force to embed themselves into your molding?

Okay, not really. But that's how it seems sometimes. It almost makes me wish I had carpeting. Almost.

Not only does Mom have a bad case of the Blahs, but her three year old has a bad case of the Nekkids. I made the mistake of potty training her nekkid-style. It was easy, but now she's been pottytrained for a year and STILL needs to be nekkid in the house. Picture yourself walking up to my front door to see a bare butted toddler with an Albert Einstein hairdo racing across the room laughing like a rabid hyena, with her dishevelled mother trying not to slip on the wood floor in her fuzzy mismatched socks waving a pair of pants and yelling "Put these on right now young lady or I'll telling your father!"

I've so far had a brother and two friends walk into that scene.

Yup.

But now we have a new toy in the house, that Ma picked out all by herself from Walmart last weekend for her birthday. The TWISTCAR! www.twistcar.com.

Unfortunately I don't get paid OR anything for free for writing this review *coughcough*, but seriously, though funny looking this sucker is A to the AWESOME. It didn't take Ruby long at all to figure out how the sample one at the store works and I quickly found myself chasing her from the toy section, all the way to the shoes and back. She didn't want the Radio Flyer Red Scooter, or the Tinkerbell Tricycle. Nothing else would do so I gave in and coughed up the 45 bucks and elt her pick out her first helmet as well.

What made things even better was when we got home and she became distracted with a movie. I read the box, Lurch put it together for me (Because that's what you men do. Right? Right?) and made an even better discovery.

It holds over 130 pounds.

Yes. Guess who took that sucker outside for a trip or two around the block, wearing a way-too-small pink panda bear helmet and with her daughter running behind (with clothes on for once) laughing and going "BAD MOMMY! MY TURN MOMMY!" Quite a few heads turned, and quite a few neighbors giggled. Thank God this is a neighborhood with a sense of humor.

Whizzing around the block in a kids toy wasn't just fun, but good therapy. Everyone needs a some 'kid time" and trust me that did it for me after the nutty few days.. weeks, er, months I've had. So we can't take a physical vacation right now. It doesn't mean a small 10 minute mental getaway can't be in the cards.

Lurch promised me he'll go and get me my own by Spring, but I think he's secretely jealous that he's too big for one himself. Teehee.

Turn The Page

After a rather rough week of drama, nursing difficulties, and signing up on here this morning to feel better, just to find out I have my very first schizophrenic internet stalker, this could not of come at a better time. Nothing is better than when you are reminded how amazing some people are. Just about everyone in town has heard of the dog drama. Well it's hard not to hear about it, as we were pretty much shouting from the rooftops. Since the day we laid Sam to rest underneath our kids bedroom windows (Because he always loved watching Ma and was by her side every second. It seemed fitting.) We can't go to the grocery store without someone asking me about it or offering a hug. We're all dog people around here. You'll see dogs by their owners feet in bars, at the bank, the seafood market, beach, people bring their dogs to each other houses. Hell, I had 12 dogs at my wedding. When you lose one they pretty much get their own funeral.

Today I go out and get my mail. Bill, Junk, Bill, and two cards for Ma since she'll be turning three on Friday (Yippee! No more terrible Twos!). The kid loves cards so I immediately handed them over for her to rip open in glee.

While I was contemplating what bills to burnignore I hear "MOMMY LOOK! MONEY!" and think aw, My grandma must of slipped a bunch of singles in her card. But I look over and see twenties and FIFTIES scattered across my livingroom.

I take the card she opened and it read "Dear (Ma), Happy Birthday! We all hope you can use this to go towards getting a new puppy of your very own. We love you! Signed - Your Friends and Neighbors."

I picked up the bills Ma scattered and counted them up to FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS!


GHA!


They didn't even sign any names on the card! I immediately burst into tears and dialed my hubby at work. It didn't take long for his voice to break too. Amazing. Now we can really go find a pup, from a breeder with papers and the whole shabang, without using our entire tax return on it.

Now, how do you pay back when you don't know exactly who did it? I guess I'll have to throw the whole neighborhood a pig roast or something (my Lurchie is rather famous for his pig roasts.) I don't know. I'm a firm believer in Paying It Forward, so now I can't wait for the next opportunity to do something nice for someone, whether it be in the store or on the street.

This is what a good community is all about folks. It's been almost an hour since our mailbox blessing and I'm still shaking in happiness. If you are one of my readers, I thank you from the bottom of my emotional mommy heart and you can tell whoever else pooled in.. THAT YOU'RE ALL CRAZY! Nuts I tell you! Was it so bad to at least SIGN it? No really, I love you better than chicken soup.

When I read Ma the card she did her awesome dramatic gasp and said "I get puppy NOW Mommy?"

Yes sweets. You get puppy now.

Yes, You Can Put A Price On FUGLY

America is in bad times. Homes across the country are being forclosed on and a house once worth 200,000 is not even worth half as much these days. Well. Except here. I live in an area known to many as The Hamptons. Playground For The Rich and Famous, Oceanside McMansions, ect, ect. Whatever. Although the Real Estate Bubble Of Doom has popped virtually everywhere else in the country, sadly it has not here. Here, you will still find homes in the millions and I'm not just talking those beautiful 300 year old homes, nono. We have giant shoebox and penis-looking monstrousities erected (giggle) all over the place. The "Modern Home Look" has hit my town over the past few years worse than a high school herpes outbreak.

Don't Believe me? See for yourself:

Have millions of dollars and no idea what to spend it on?

Well do you like Breasts?



Hate Windows?


Love Drugs?


And according to one Real Estate Angency.. for 1.5 Million Dollars you can buy your very own Badly Focussed Sunset:


And these are the "Not So Bads". I'll have to take a trip around town armed with my camera to get some shots of the truly bad ones and believe me, I will. Every Saturday I will post The Ugly Hamptons Home Of The Week for your disgust and amusement. Anyone else who has a good example of a House Gone Wrong is more than welcome to send it to me at rabidotter19@yahoo.com .

Don't Mess With Mama

Life isn't always Fun And Games in this house. Every now and then someone comes around who lacks enough brain cells and gets to close to my brood. When this mama smells fear or evil, she bites. And trust me, I am not up to date on my rabies. The foam that comes out of my mouth every now and then is like a sign that says "Oh Shit! Run Motherfucker RUN!"

Women are also catty bitches. It's the reason why I only hang out with a very choice few. If I could make up a test a woman has to take in order to hang out with me I would. Then again, what's stopping me? Hee.

It's also amazing that it's easier to adopt a child from China than it is to adopt a dog from a local Shelter or Rescue. After losing our old boy of over 100 (doggy) years in November we finally decided it was time for a new ball of fur in the house. (Of course, other than KiKi the Psycho Cat.. I'm becoming rather convinced that she's half http://www.montauk-monster.com/.)

I went hog wild on Craiglist and Petfinder for a few weeks until I found a pretty little girl. Half Beagle, Half boston Terrier, One year old. PERFECT time for my little Mas birthday. I made arrangements, filled out the application, and the lady told me to come on over and get her on Monday.

Ma was doing to Puppy Dance all the way to the car and after picking out Doggys First Toy, we were on our way on the hours drive. When we arrived I bounded into the office and announced I was there to take my baby home.

"I'm sorry Ma'am, I guess you didn't get my message." Said Shelter Lady.

*Insert confused look* "What happened?"

"Well, we were in contact with one of your references who said you mistreated your last dog and refused medical attention."


Yup, we are some big bad puppy abusers. Can't you just feeeeeeel the evil eminating from this picture?


WHAT? Sam was a big happy Shephard Mix, but at 16 his mind was starting to go, his arthritis was being sucky no matter what medicine you gave him, and like any other 16 year old, he looked like his groomer was the Cryptkeeper. When Lurch took him to the Vet for his Rabies Booster the Doc said "Well, I can give it to him, but at his age his body probably won't handle it. I think he only has a few months left anyway so it may be better to put him down."

My husband thought, and thought, and made the decision. He came home that night with tears in his eyes. Sam was his best friend for 16 years and the only thing my wonderful husband fought for when he divorced his crazy bitchex wife. Our good friend who was a vet tech told him at the office "Don't worry, I'm so sorry, I'll take care of everything." and wouldn't even let Lurch pay the 40 bucks for the euthenization.

Well, NOW, the same friend made a report that, GET THIS, my husband ABANDONED OUR DOG THERE and sent it to Animal Control. THEN when the Shelter Lady called her for a reference (Because stupid me thought it was a great idea to put our damn vet down as one.) She fed her a bigger load of shit than.. well a shit factory that make shit statues. I was shocked, but what's worse is my poor little Ma had to be told AT the shelter "Sorry, Doggy's not coming home with us." The look of misery and horror on my little girls face is forever burned into my brain.

The past two days I've been feeling very much like Dr. Cox on "Scrubs". Mama hawk is on the warpath and every phone call she made to a person responsible for hurting her little girl made fur fly. Papa Bear Lurch was on the same war path. By the time he was through with both Shelter Lady and the Dog Warden they both hung up crying. The only person left on our list now is Vet Lady, who never again will see me without shooting sulfuric acid out my eyes. The shittiness that takes over bored women trapped in a small town is amazing, which is why I'd do anything for my guy friends and consider myself One Of The Guys. Never again will I trust a vagina carrier as far as I can throw them.

On a high note, I'm going to find my kid the most kickass guinea pig ANYONE has ever had. And the day we do get a new dog (from a STORE) I'll be mailing out pictures to Shelter Lady, Dog Warden AND Vet Lady of us holding our gorgeous furry thing and flipping off the camera, with a little note that reads "Thanks anyway!" On the back.

Boozya.

Interview With The Easter Bunny

Ladies and Gentlemen, guess who was given Exclusive rights to interview the Furry Big Man himself this year, but yours truly. Many have pondered about the private life of the Mr. Bunny, what goes on during the other 364 days of the year? Is there a lot of Rivalry between him and Jesus for attention? WHY give EGGS? After a sitdown at a classy local cafe to dine over green salad and alfalfa pellets (I passed on the alfalfa.) I am here to share what everyone has been dying to know.

Me: "Good Afternoon, Mr. Bunny."

EB: "Just call me EB"

Me: For Easter Bunny?

EB: No, my first name is Ernie. Not that anyone cares. Esther is my wife.

Me: I see E... Ernie. So. How did you get into your current proffession?

EB: It was actually the tooth fairy's idea. We were sitting around playing Quarters and having a few and were bitching about Santa not showing up for Poker. He claimed the wife wanted him home that night. Whatever. Since he gets to go out and give presents to kids to celebrate when Jesus was born, I decided to give out crap the day Jesus died. Boy was Clause pissed but I thought it was funny. I've been doing it ever since.

Me: That's interesting

EB: Not really. But I'll tell you one thing... back then the tooth fairy had a SMOKIN' body. Waiter, can I get a jackrabbit and coke? Get it? Jack, RABBIT? Yes I'm awesome.

Me: So, why do you give out colored eggs every year?

EB: We used to give out scissors and small bottles of paint thinner. After a high profile lawsuit I switched to eggs and bubbles. Now I mainly give out plastic eggs because kids these days are allergic to the real thing. That and PETA gave me Hell. Fucking idiots. I gave all my Chickens to KFC just to spite those tree huggers. Cigarette?

ME: No thanks.

EB: Suit yourself.

Me: So, people have been trying to make Easter more about Jesus and less about you. What are your thoughts?

EB: Can't say I blame them. Jesus was awesome. He voluntarily allowed himself to get nailed to pieces of wood for Christ's sake (No pun intended). Chuck Norris and Jack Bauer put together wouldn't even mess with J Dog.

Me: Are you planning to continue your Easter ritual forever?

EB: Eh, when I get tired of it I'll hand the business over to my cousin Herb. He's a guinea pig with a small cocaine poblem but all he'll need is a pair of longer ears to pull it off. Listen babe, I gotta get going, I have a 3:00 at the dentist and if I don't go the wife will have my tail.

Me: No problem Ernie.

EB: Here's my number, we'll go out for a few drinks sometime, paint the town.

Me: I don'tthink my husband will appreciate that.

EB: Yeah whatever, he's a pussy. Tell him I told you all about how he was getting Easter Baskets into his twenties. Or at least save it as blackmail next time he pisses you off.

Me: Will do.

Sweet Jesus She's Back

And by she, I mean me. Yes folks, I was evicted with the demise of my old domain and had to set sail for new land, which brought me here. Let's call this a literary clean slate.
What, you say? Who the hell is this chick, you ask? If you're new I'll begin with a little background; let's call it my condensed autobiography:

My life began like any other. I was born in the small jungle village of Akaleekiewakwaka in the year of 1984. At four days old I was abducted by Dingos and rescued by a mother condor, who after losing her nest of chicks to a Typhoon raised me as her own. At five years old I left the nest in search of food and was discovered by an explorer, who took me back to the states where I became part of a travelling carnival and made millions as "Tikiki The Wild Jungle Girl."As an adult I left the carnival and invested most of my profit in a company that swore it's diet colas tasted just like regular. Alas, the company ended up beeing a scam and they fled to Nigeria before I discovered there is no such drink in existance.
Broke and Homeless, for two years I washed windows on a busy city intersection by day, and moonlighted as a fake psychic until enough money as made to fly to Nigeria to find the scam artists who wronged me. After three years of searching I found the villians and with the help of the government and a voodoo witch doctor I befriended apon my arrival to the country, the men were all transformed into small adorable rodents, who were sadly eaten by stray dogs before my money was recovered. Though still penniless, my revenge satisfied me and I returned to the states in high spirits, met my husband and settled down for a life of quiet solitude, but secretely in wait for the day I recieve the call to undercover service I promised Nigerian Authorities in return for their help in the past.


Translation: I am a stay home home mom to three children. One furry, two not so furry - with a shortage of Normal Pills and an abundance of spare time.




And spare time can be a deadly thing.




(I know, the bottle says "shrit" and not "shirt". I decided it gave it character and kept on purpose. No really. I did.)



What else would you like to know? For starters, I swear. A lot. Especially here on the magical internet because I have to watch my mouth nowadays in front of my 3 year old darling daughter, who will repeat anything you say better than an obnoxiously expensive parrot.



By the way - She's about to turn three, her first word was "Beer", and she's awefully cute, if I do say so myself:

We shall call her Ma.

Good morning, Ma.


Then we have the slighly newer spawnaddition to the family, we shall dub for this purpose, Moo.

Moo is a mad scientist in the making.

The furry child I mentioned earlier is KiKi the Psycho Cat.

I won't even get creative with this one. She's fucking nuts and won't stand still long enough to get a decent non-blurry picture taken of her. Though evil looking, this is the best shot of her in existance. She is a masochist who allows Ma to drag her all over the house by her fluffy psychotail and seems to enjoy it.

And then there's the spermhunk responsible for bringing these beings into the world (well, everyone but the cat.) Lurch. Isn't he cute?

(He's the one with the tie. Heh. Heh.)

So there you have it. Our hip happy family. So sit back, have a drink, laugh, cry, comment during the upcoming weeks as I get this thing rocking. Don't ask, don't tell and we'll party like it's 2009.

P.S - I know, I know, the layout's rather nekkid. I'm working on it people.