Archive for August, 2007

rant much?

Dear Dumbshits at the 4-way Stop out by the High School:

I realize very well that it is MY TURN TO GO.  Thank you, though, for all the encouragement to do so, what with your wild hand gestures.  However, maybe with your obvious keen attention to detail, since you are all very sure IT IS MY TURN TO GO…you failed to notice that  I HAVE NO WHERE TO GO BESIDES THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING INTERSECTION.  So, if it is okay with ya’ll three, you can go ahead and go if you want, but I’m going to wait another second so I’ll have some place to go.

F all Y’all,


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did ya hear that?

it was the collective exhale of thousands of parents across Texas who were dropping off their beloved offspring at school this fine morning after a long, wet summer. 

to those of us who are stay-at-home/work-at-home types, it has been a particularly trying few months, since the majority of the time it was either:

a) about to rain

b) raining

c) too muddy from the rain

d) raining web worms

and from there…


it was…

e) too damn hot to go outside

So, it is no wonder that the Boy was more than ready to don his new socks and drawers and tennies, slap that new burnt orange and black backpack (that has a million compartments and was a whopping 4.50 at walgreens!!!) on his back and hit the door running this morning. 

come to think of it, that sound might well have been the KIDS’ collective sigh of relief.

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Big Day

Today has been a big day ’round Casa de Yub.  We got my favorite Longhorn delivered safely to her new digs in Austin.  Well, “we” didn’t.  I had to work.  The Mr. did for reasons twofold: 

1) We hated the thought of the Longhorn moving all her shit all by herself in this heat and 2) He really really needed a College Freshman fix. 

Those two are like peas and carrots, I’m tellin’ ya.  So, anyway, he stopped by in Belton and snagged his girl and toted her along to our fine state capital to help the Longhorn out.  He also took her her bike and some pasta makings so she can try out her microwave pasta cooker thingiemabob. 

Today is also my Junior’s 16th birthday.  Yes, at 11:55 exactly 16 years ago, after finding out in the last days that she was breech, after what they call an external version (where approximately 6 people lube your pregnant belly up and with the help of the ultrasound machine, coax and wiggle and mush and push and squeegee the baby into the head down position.  No one on duty that morning had ever seen the procedure done, so I had an audience.  I’m sure it was pretty.  I had my eyes closed), then immediate induction in case the hard-headed infant had a mind to return to the upright position, only to have the cord prolapse, which then led to an emergency we’re-going-to-have-to-knock-you-the-hell-out-quit-crying-and-breathe C-section. 

Oh, and you know how they tell you that the umbilical cord can’t get a knot in it?

Her’s did.  


She was so scrawny compared to her older sisters.  Spindley.  Spidery.  Noodley.  Long, slender everything.  Long skinny fingers.  Long skinny arms.  Long skinny legs.  

And she was beautiful.

And she still is.  

Oh, there was that brief period of time from 5 months to about 18 months where she was a chunk monkey, but it didn’t last long, but those pictures of her when you literally couldn’t count the dimples and the baby rolls are some of my favorite ones of her.

At any rate, she is at Dad’s this weekend (She and I will sneak off next weekend and eat something yummy and shop and celebrate her 16-ness) and I believe Lady Di is going to put a few highlights in her hair <insert roll-y eye face here>.   I suppose after I took her to get her bushy eyebrows bushwacked waxed, highlights were bound to be next.  

She’s 16 after all.

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Dear Sonic,

First, let me say this.  I love you.  I really do.  I love your tots.  I ADORE your delectable cherry limeades.  I love the fact that I can sit in my car and your perky carhops deliver tasty treats to my eager hands.  Heck, I even enjoy your funny commercials with the homoerotic guys.  I love that you can have breakfast for supper and lunch for breakfast. 


I have one question. 

Why the heck do you have to put some sort of wacky sauce on everything? 

This morning, my Favorite Longhorn and I went to have our last eat together, as she is at this very moment motoring her way back to Austin, Texas.  I, as I am quite often a dinner for breakfast type, ordered your lovely bacon cheeseburger toaster sammich combo, so i could bring the tasty tots home for the Boy.  About 2 bites in I start tasting…

Barbecue sauce?

“Is this barbecue sauce?” I asked my Favorite Longhorn, wrinkling up my nose.

“No, it’s hickory sauce,” she said matter of factly.



And, to be fair, your colorful and appetite-stimulating menu did have small print over on that side (where only the driver could read it) about how the bacon cheeseburger toaster has tasty, yummy hickory sauce, so it isn’t your fault.  It’s mine.

There just isn’t a thing wrong with plain ol’ mustard.

Just sayin’



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oh boy

Guess what my sweet mailman delivered to me today?  A jury summons, that’s what!

Yep, on September 10, 2007, at 9 a.m., my ass will be in the jury selection room of our hallowed Justice Center. 

My summons was kind enough to offer some advice on what I should wear.  Apparently I am to don “clothing befitting the dignity and solemnity of our judicial system (no shorts, halter tops, etc.)

Now, by ‘etc’ do they mean no tube tops, too?  What about flip flops?  What about my jeans that have a rip the size of China on the left leg? 

They apparently don’t realize that I don’t really have “grown up clothes.”  I’m just not that much of a girl in that way.  I don’t love to shop.  I don’t love trying on clothes.  I didn’t even when I was chrisyub 1.0 (a.k.a. young and cute chrisyub).  Most of my shoes are of the athletic variety.  I have no high heels.  My closet is dismally empty. 

And I’m fine with that because I don’t work outside the home and the only people who see me on a regular basis have to love me, regardless if I am wearing tee shirts with bleach stains or the hoodie that is so old it is disintigrating.

No wait.

I’m lying.

I did have to buy some slacks and a few tops for the College Freshman’s high school graduation, being that we were going to be rubbing elbows with her mom and grandmother, I wanted to look nice and all.

So, I do have some slacks and some teacher shoes (a.k.a. the most comfortable shoes in the world!)

So…that should cover me for one day.

If I get selected, I’m screwed.

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The Mr. works with a chick who would LOAN us ROOSTERS AND GOATS! Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket

Wouldn’t that be fun?  And the goats could eat the grass in the back backyard and the chickens could eat all the dadgum webworms and I could wear the Mr.’s old overalls for a few days and play farmgirl.  Ohhhhh, yes.  I’m tingly it sounds like so much fun. 

Chickens are fun.  I had chickens as a 4H project when I was a senior in high school.  I was living the high life, shacked up with the King in the Home on Wheels out in the country and we had us a chicken coop type thing, so I decided I’d get me a bunch of chickens.  A gaggle.  A flock.  Whatever.  I wanted chickens, so off to the feed lot I went.  Those chicks were about the cutest dadgum things EVER.  I loved them.  There were 25.  Did you know chickens will eat human food?

Well, they do.  And mine loved spaghetti.

If you’ve never seen a chicken eating spaghetti, you need to go find yourself a chicken and do so immediately. 

I don’t know how many hours I spent out there feeding spaghetti to those chickens, but soon my chickens were sleek and fat and roaming about our majestic country estate our rental property overlooking a dried up stock tank and across the highway the “Club,” Glen Rose’s only public establishment where one could consume adult beverages and rub belt buckles while dancing to one dismal band’s catterwalling after another. 

I told you… I was living the high life.

Anyway, back to the chickens. 

About the time the chickens were good and fat on spaghetti and about the size to either: a) start laying eggs or

b) start getting eaten…

I woke up one morning and the King’s ferocious dog, Jigger, who before had never even raised an eyebrow about the dang chickens…

Had overnight killed every. single. chicken. 

It was awful.  Dead chickens here, dead chickens there.  By the tree.  By the car. 

A chicken massacre it was. 

But then I got to counting.  There were only 24 dead chickens. 

Then I heard a rustling over by the coop.  There was one live chicken.  A little banty hen who had apparently seen and heard the massacre while hiding under her nest or something because lemme tell ya.

That chicken was crazy as a loon after that.  Crazy as a loon.

But my loaner chickens will be safe because all in the way of dogs we have is stupidass Jack, our wirehair dachsund who has an obsessive-compulsive disorder and has to be licking something every minute…when he isn’t barking…or chewing the fleas on his ass.  Anyway, he won’t hurt a chicken.  That would require running and he’s too fat. 

If anything, maybe the chickens can chase Jack around…all karma like for their long-lost chicken brothers and sisters of yesteryear.

Yes.  I think this will be fun.

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The Waiting IS the Hardest Part

Y’all remember my friend’ s son David?  The big ol’ Boy who put a face to this war for me?  Here, I’ll just show you, so if you don’t have someone to put a face with the war, now you do, because I think that is important.  Meet David:

He’s about 6’9″ and while he can look like a real badass in some of the pictures i’ve seen, full of bravado and kickyerass, and here, take a look at this roadside BOMB I AM HOLDING…

but when he smiles…when this kid smiles he has the most twinkley eyes.  Thankfully, there are still some pictures of him smiling that smile, even though he is in a place where it is 130 degrees and it is dirty and people shoot at you and try to blow your shit up…

because that is your job.

Well, every single day since he has gone back, his mother and I hold an internet vigil, waiting for the smiley in the corner to announce “david smith has signed on.”  On mornings when his mom isn’t on, I will often have a chat with him.  We talk about drinking beer, what he had for dinner, what he is going to do when he comes home, his sciatica, and sometimes, but only just a little, we will talk a bit about his work.  He doesn’t talk much shop with his mom, as I am quite sure he doesn’t want to worry her.  

because he is a sweet boy like that.

Yesterday she told me of a particularly touching conversation they had via IM, one in which he thanked her and his dad for all the things they’d done for him, etc.  She told me it made her cry.  It made me cry.  And it makes me cry thinking about it.

Anyway, it isn’t easy when the very machine that makes it possible to have regular contact with your kid who is over there is the very same machine that bombards you with the daily news from Baghdad.  But you can’t not read it.  I sit here and read every scrap of information about the roadside bombings that kill our guys…about the explosions that kill their guys…and about the suicide bombings for “ethnic cleansing” killed at least 250 people.  

Yet, I tell this mother of this sweet boy…

Don’t read it.

I’m so full of bullshit. 

And here I sit, one eye doing this and the other eye keyed in to the lower right hand corner of my computer.  Just waiting for the smiley to manifest and announce ‘david smith has signed on.’

(which he just did <insert smiley face here>)

Someone tell me war doesn’t suck.

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