A marathon of brutality…


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The Littles teamed up and decided today was the day….

Of making the Giant go nuts and pull out her hair in absolute frustration.

Needless to say, I begged the Big Little’s mommy to bring drugs and make it stop. And that mommy was my hero. She showed up, drugged the crud out of the Little who decided teething needed an audience and then helped get said cranky Little down for nap.

And the Tiny Little was able to pull it all back together while the other mommy was here so he could finally earn that nap he had protested for four hours.

The only thing that would have made it better was if the mommy had brought me drugs (I love Tylenol too!). Or booze. Or frankly, a hotdog from Costco. I’m not picky.

Seriously Littles, we’re never doing that again, mkay?


I can’t believe I still wanted one so much…


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The other day I was touring Facebook, which is a really classy way of saying I was wasting time and getting nothing accomplished. But when you say touring, it leads people to believe you had a purpose in life.

Anywhoo, so I came across a little ad for Caboodles.

Like old school, but brand new from their website, Caboodles from the 80s.

80s Caboodles80s Caboodles

Who knew that Caboodles were still around?!?!

If you answered “me” you can go shank yourself! How come I wasn’t notified?!?!?!

So I did what any mature adult would do. I ordered one.

Primped & Polished

I almost ordered the neon pink one that looked just like the one I wanted when I was a kid but instead my parents got me this little yellow organizer that had no handle or lid or really anything that made it like a caboodle.

Wow, it still hurts…

However, I decided to be a grown up and I ordered a black case instead. Who knew they had so many “adult versions” of this beloved 80s gear?! And bonus, it’s got trays that lift up and stay up with hinges. None of those “where do I put this down at so I can get the other one out” moments like my friends all faced as children.


Saddest part of this entire post…I still love and use the yellow organizer my mom and dad picked out for me and my tiny hair accessories that were impossible to keep track of. Hello, remember the thousands of plastic barrettes you were required to have in order to represent every facet of your personality and mood?! I’m holding onto this little chunk of childhood and even pack it myself instead of letting those military movers steal it from me.

Yellow Organizer

It really is perfect. 

Damn my parents for being so perfect, makes it hard to hold a grudge about that unfulfilled Caboodle desire.

Just a FYI mom, it’s almost my birthday and I may need some Hello Kitty plastic barrettes to put in my Caboodle. So, let’s get you to Sanrio soon, okie doke?



Wasting time can be good, this was not…


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Have you ever read an article that is dressed up as “news” and by the end you are so lost, angry, frustrated or gobsmacked that you realize you just wasted ten whole minutes of your life on garbage?

This is not one of those times. But it is about one of those times.

I just ordered a new pair of pants from Gap. Now, we all know I love the Gap. I walk in and I just go a little bit nuts. Yesterday I read an article on a mainstream “news site” that says if I am over the teen part of life that I cannot shop at the Gap anymore. 

Well hell, now there’s no joy in my life. I will live in my pajamas.

First, do I look like I am trying too hard to be young? Is no one telling me this? Why wouldn’t they tell me this if it were happening?!? I may need new friends. Silly me, I thought a great pair of jeans was a great pair of jeans. I had no idea that straight up dark denim with no bells and whistles meant that I was a teenager.

I guess us old folks have to wear cotton with elastic. 30 is a rough age.

Second, those models are all over the age of this professional fashion author blogger’s opinion on what age can rock Gap clothing. Silly Gap corporate, guess they didn’t get the memo that they should only appeal to the ages of 13-19. The Gap even has a line of business wear and, despite what the professional fashion author blogger who got a big head says, last time I checked, there weren’t many teenagers going to the office.

But there were a lot of teenagers wearing Old Navy and smoking pot, not giving a shit what adults wear.

Third, if these clothes are all targeted for teens we have got to step back as a society and question why so many party dresses are being aimed at teens. They aren’t going to cocktail hour, they don’t need a little black dress with a flirty hemline. And they sure as shit don’t need to have their breasts spilling out of a v-neck.

We reserve those clothes for the “old ladies” who drink too much wine and show a bit too much as they walk out of a party.

And why the F^$K is there a maternity line?!?! Has teen pregnancy blossomed so much that we are accepting it as the norm?!? I really have to read the news more often. I still thought we encouraged our youth to develop a life plan, establish themselves financially and emotionally and THEN have a kid.

But maybe I was wrong. I mean, this was an article by a professional fashion author blogger.

So I just have one thing to say to this professional fashion author blogger. Go shank yourself. I just ordered these:


and I’m going to rock them until I’m 60. And maybe beyond if I retire in Florida or Arizona. These pants are probably pretty popular with the senior crowd in those communities. I could golf in them. Or just sit with a Golden Girl, either way I’m good.

And that’s when I realized I wasted ten minutes of my life reading the article and pondering if people were pointing and laughing as I rocked my Gap denim and shirts. At least I realized one thing about myself from this wasted time.

I don’t care. Huh. How about that? The professional fashion author blogger has literally no purpose in life than to waste everyone’s time.

I will need sweatpants. Very loose sweatpants…


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So I’m going to the Melting Pot this Saturday, for the first time ever. I’ve heard it is quite an experience; I love melted cheese and the concept of dipping foods is pretty much heaven for me.

Sometimes I make food just so I can eat certain sauces and dip away. Like when all I want for dinner is ketchup. I mean, as an adult people think you are a freak if all you eat is ketchup. So I have to bake myself Mickey Mouse chicken nuggets and use them to shuttle the ketchup to my pie whole.

I need psychiatric care, just so I can say to a group “Hello, my name is Heather and I am addicting to dipping. Sauces.” I can’t forget to add that last part or they’ll make me go to a tobacco support group instead. But that may be a good thing since I could get the whole group off tobacco and onto ketchup. Ketchup has to be healthier than tobacco.

So back to the original topic. Why haven’t I been to the Melting Pot since this restaurant was obviously designed with me in mind? Because I married a guy who loathes most cheese ( he’ll eat mozzarella and swiss, if he’s in the mood) and he isn’t a huge fan of dipping food into things. And don’t even get him started on the fact that they are charging you money so you can cook your own meat at the table.

The Hubster is quite the weirdo.

So anywhoo. I will be fasting on Friday and all day Saturday so I can get ready for the extravaganza that my Saturday night will be.

And then I’m going to pack sweatpants because the hour drive home from the restaurant will be brutal.

All Mine!

It’s mine. All mine. And if you touch it, I will shank you. No one comes between a fat kid and her food. 

Someone’s building a defense…


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I spent Shank You Sunday throwing an Easter egg hunt and hanging curtains.

It was pretty freaking exciting. Which is so lame, I may need to shank myself.

Not the Easter egg hunt. That part wasn’t exciting for me. Mostly because I have no kids and partly because I had to be trapped in my car with 128 pieces of fried chicken.

That is just too much chicken smell to smell good.

Thankfully there were great adults to laugh with. Or at. Your choice.

(You know people are going to be looking at their spouse tonight asking if it was them I am laughing at.)

The curtain hanging was the exciting part.

The Hubster was dragged around on Friday evening through Home Depot. He is now officially Will Ferrell in Old School. 

Thank God for the convict Martha Stewart. Her curtain rod line made out of wood is gorgeous and her curtains are quite the steal.

And you want to know the best part? The Littles can hang from them without them falling and cracking open a skull.

Ask me how I know this fact.

Anywhoo. So the Hubster is putting up curtain rods with very little help from me. Basically, I ran out of motivation somewhere during the egg hunt and the two-minute drive home. But I did make sure to come in just after the Hubster completed something to ask if he could do it another way.

I like to live dangerously.

The Hubster was either in a great mood or he is laying the foundation for his defense of how he couldn’t possibly have shanked his wife to death; he’s too nice of a guy.

So the Hubster was kind enough to not strangle me and just put it how I wanted it all.

And then he offered to go get us McDonald’s at 8:15 at night on a work night since we hadn’t eaten anything.

If you all don’t hear from me one day, send out the bobbies. I’m probably in the back yard.

And refer back to this post during his trial.

Just an FYI for those who are f_king stupid not cranially blessed in life, no one in this post feels like their life is threatened by their spouse. They do, however, feel their life is threatened by the truly stupid humans in the world who believe every.single.sentence that is written on the internet. 



Lola’s flipping the bird…


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So you know how everyone does that Throwback Thursday?

Yeah, I’m totally over looking at my Facebook stream and seeing a bunch of pictures of people I can’t even begin to identify.

Who started this stupid trend? I want to shank them as hard as I can.


So I’m starting my own thing; Fuck Yeah Friday!

And I’m going to do anything I want to on this day. You know, just like any other day. Except this day is titled with fuck so you know it’ll be fun.

Watch out, Shank you Sunday is coming soon.


And here’s Lola flipping the bird to Throwback Thursday.

Well holy crap, someone has already asked why I’m using a Twitter trending tag. Ummmm, because I don’t know how to use my twitter and didn’t know it was a trend?!?!

If someone already used Shank You Sunday I am going to be ticked.

Stay tuned.


Thank you baby Jesus for small miracles. No one has ever used #ShankYouSunday. We’re in business.

Fuck Yeah Friday! is for losers. Don’t do it. Join me on Sundays.

And FYI, if you’re trying to beat my tweet, you can go get shanked. I am OFFICIALLY the first person to tweet #ShankYouSunday. 

It’s nice to be first and even better to be last….man standing, that is. 

Somebody needs to be shanked…


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So today I log in and check out last week’s most popular search term to find my blog. And I stumbled upon this little nugget of god awful:

shank english bulldog

English bulldogs are the cutest little squishy pies in the whole world. The fact that you want to shank one means you are an actual sociopath.

Pissed puppy Lola

YOU want a piece of ME?!?! Bring it!

Now go see a therapist. Before Lola makes you.


Holy craptasticness….


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I have decided my new word to interject into daily life will be craptasticness.

Craptastic just wasn’t cutting it anymore.

I like to use it as a noun, for example:

Craptasticness needs to just walk away or get shanked.

You can use it as an adjective:

The craptasticness of this pizza is unbelievable!

I suppose you can use it as an adverb, but it gets dicey and frankly my brain hurt trying.

My brain is of epic craptasticness thanks to my head cold.

It doesn’t have the appeal of shank and it isn’t as easy to use since it doesn’t roll right off the tongue. But I find it fun to pair the two words together.

Holy f_king craptasticness, do I need to shank you?!?!

It just calms me down. I mean, how could I shank someone when I’m yelling out this statement? I can’t.

Saving lives once again.

You’re welcome.

I need to rethink my menu…


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Today was quite an active day in the Land of the Giant.

We started off strong with a base lockdown that resulted in a multitude of phone calls and message alerts sent throughout our group of daycare providers. Official word is that it was a car backfiring.


But according to the Kitsap Sheriff they searched all the area around the base for shell casings. You know, several thousand square feet of woods in a matter of minutes. I mean, why aren’t these guys looking for the Malaysian plane?!?!

Methinks we will never get a real answer, but that may just be the government conspiracy theorist inside of me.

It’s tough to put her away once she is out running on the field.

Anywhoo, we’re going to just nod and say I bet it was Mater trying to tow Lightning McQueen that caused the noise.

*Nods her head and moves towards the candy jar on the counter*

The Big Little decided to add some laughter to our day. She was running as fast as her chunky little legs would possibly allow her to when all of a sudden she roared this tremendous amount of gas out of her tuckus.

She stopped dead in her tracks and turned around with wide eyes. She whipped her head around a few times and then decided it was her imagination.

So she runs as fast as she can and once again, another load comes out her rear.

Stop. Whip around. Look at everyone who is clearly across the room and not close enough to make that noise. Nothing. Can’t find the source.

So she tries one more time to get that sprint going and another fart breaks the silence. This time she stops, grabs her diaper and drops to the floor like a Victorian lady discovering a nude male in her bedroom.

And she just lied there.

And lied there.

And lied there.

All while holding the back of her diaper.

I think she thought an organ came out or something.

So I eventually stop laughing and make my way over to her and she just stares at me in distress. I flip her onto her belly to check for poop and there’s nothing.

I tell her she can get up, it’s ok.

She gets on her hands and knees to get back up and another gas bubble flies out. She hit the ground like it was a damn grenade.

And this time she says “f_k it, I didn’t want to run anyways!” and stays down. I was kind enough to give her a book to read.

Poor Little, she doesn’t even know the horror that awaits her at lunch.


Did it, motherfucker!

The Giant takes the win.


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