Honestly, who the heck lets their seven year old girl child dress like a slut and dance like that in public? And then posts it on youtube so that anyone and everyone can copy it on their hard drive? Last time I checked, that song "Single Ladies" has a sexual undertone to it. Burlesque wear and pre PREpubescent girls should not be used in the same sentence. And the dancing, holy toledo the dancing. Yes, the girls do have talent and can do moves that would be hard for a lot of older girls taking professional dance lessons. But that does not excuse the fact that they're shaking things that they don't even have and dancing suggestively. I would like to know what was going on through the parents heads when they saw their girls practicing to that song and then saw the outfits.

The outfits kill it, I mean if they were wearing loose jeans and fitted tops the dance would look halfway normal. And I say halfway because there are a few parts of the dance that are suggestive no matter what way you look at it. But other parts of the dance are okay and would look much better on a child who was wearing a bit more clothing.

Seriously! Geez, I called the auto repair shop to get the estimate on The Hubby's truck. The guy answers the phone and when I tell him what I want he goes: can I call you back in 15 minutes? I'm in the bathroom.





EEEEEWWWWWW!

But the cat was already dead. Not really, but yeah. See, in my random caribbean island of birth there exists no such thing as spaying or neutering pets. For that matter, pet food is nonexistent and vets are only there to provide forms when someone wants to take an animal out of the country. So most people's forms of pet natality control is laying out a bunch of traps and killing them. Mean, sad, but true. And the butcher on the corner was most interested in keeping the cat population in the neighborhood under control.

That said, one beautiful spring morning we woke up to a dead cat in our garden. We being curious kids with nothing else to do started poking and prodding the cat. You know, for fun. It was a beautiful orange sherbet tabby and it's eyes were wide open and staring off into space. Or so I thought. Apparently the cat must've been only paralyzed because it started to stare at me. No one else saw it, but it kept on looking at me and freaking the heck out of me. Not sure what happened to the carcass of the cat. I'm sure that it eventually died off and was stuck in a garbage bag by one of the adults and then thrown in the trash.

There I was, I couldn't have been more than 5 maybe six and was still peeing on the bed. My sister also did it but she's older than me by two years. She was seven maybe eight. Some crazy neighbor lady told my father that she knew a surefire way to get us to stop peeing the bed. So he decided to give it a go. So that night before bed that lady, some random man, my father, sister, and I all piled up in our one bedroom apt. The lady brought over a 5 gallon can of crisol (kindof like crisco). Then my dad took the caldero (cast iron pot, hispanic people make their rice here) and put it on the stove and heated it. Once the caldero was very very hot, they took some rags and placed it inside the can of crisol. They then placed the crisol in the middle of the room. Then the crazyness happened.

Pee on it.
say what?
You heard me, pee on it. It'll make you stop peeing the bed.
Uh, no thanks. I'm fine, really. I don't fly like that.
Pee.On.It.Now. And make sure that you pee inside the caldero.
------
so, there I am, in my innocent childlike innocence and I have to pull my pants down in front of these people so that I can pee in a hot caldero? I'm pretty sure that if The Hubby knew how eager I was to please others when I was younger, he'd want a refund of some sort.

So.... I hovered over the can and peed. I'm pretty sure you all know what happens when you put an empty pot on the stove and then add water to it after it gets hot. There was steam EVERYWHERE. And it hit me. there. Gosh, that was a lot of steam generated. Cuz you know, they wouldn't let me go to the bathroom beforehand and I had a lot to empty.

There was no neosporin for my burned insides, just a: take it like a man and stop crying.
And then it was my sister's turn. Oh boy, that was not fun. Correction, it was fun for me. She was smart, she did a drive by type of thing and wouldn't stay over the caldero long enough to feel the burniness of the steam. Not even when the adults threatened her with the big mama belt.

I did stop peeing the bed, I'm not sure that it was definitely that incident that caused it to happen although if they threatened to burn my bits again I would've probably never peed again. My sister went on to have a successful bed peeing career. I think she stopped when she was about 12. To this day, they still credit the caldero recipe for my stopping peeing on the bed. They say that because my sister didn't do it right, is the reason she kept on peeing.


I'm not so sure. Anyone know the number for international CPS? I'm pretty sure that incident would qualify my father to get his parental rights terminated. Or at least get him sterilized or something. And then katie wonders why I'm this messed up.

So, I'm watching judge judy and in the case the woman's complaining how the ex put lawnmower oil in her gas tank resulting in expensive repairs and such. All of a sudden, The Hubby, who was folding laundry while I sat on my butt and watched TV blurts out:

I did that once and continues to fold laundry.
whoa, back up here. you did what?
I put something in a lady's gas tank. except that it was sand that I put in there.
when? why? tell me! at this point am teethering on the edge of my seat. Judge Judy aside, my goody two shoes husband did criminal mischief. I've gotta get the details.
Oh, it was nothing. It was a lady that my dad used to date. She treated him badly and I put sand in her gas tank to get even. I was a teenager at the time.
did you tell anyone?
no. over in (insert the name of the island town he used to live in), if anyone'd learned I'd gotted beat up badly. So don't tell anyone.

point taken husband. The words: my husband commited random acts of criminal violence will not cross my lips. I pwomish that I won't blog about it either. I pwomish

Seriously, he's so goshdarndeddumb it's not even funny. The day started innocently enough, I went to pick up the kids at the sitter yesterday and bent down to say hello to duckie (that's gonna be The Child's new name from now on on account of how he scrunches up his lips). He was sitting in his little chair. He turned and looked at me, then turned right back to laugh and smile at the sitter and her granddaughter. He didn't glance back at me. Even after I picked him up and put him in the carseat, it was as if he'd rather be somewhere else than with me. Just like his older brother. It hurt, but I didn't let them know that it did.

When I went home, I told The Hubby what happened and instead of a little sympathy or even a there, there; all I got was:

Well, now you know that you're not duckie's god.

WTH does that even mean and what does it have to do with the fact that as a mom it hurt that my child would prefer someone else over me???!?!?!?! Seriously, what the heck is his head filled with, eucalyptus leaves? I couldn't talk to him, just ignored him the rest of the evening. Thankfully he had to leave to do some work and I didn't have to be plagued with looking at his sorry behind. He did try to call me later on, probably to tell me to record some stupid construction tv show but I didn't pick up. He knows that I haven't been in my right state of mind and he goes and throws this at me? It's like he's telling me to go completely crazy. It's things like this that make me wonder if I wouldn't be better off just being a single mom.

If someone can shed some light as to what the heck he meant by that, by all means please do.

Please be advised that your cashier might have the mental capacity of a coffeemaker.


Seriously, I went there to cash one of my WIC checks (we really wouldn't be able to get by without them) and to those that aren't familiar, a wic check usually consists of: 2 gallons of milk, 1 pound of cheese, 2 bottles of juice, cereal, peanut butter.

Anyways, I went there and got all the stuff in the check and went to the checkout. I had two eight ounce packets of the wic cheese which is the only way you can get the cheese at this particular walmart since they don't have the pound packets. But I digress. I was confronted by the cashier and told that because my check was for ONE POUND of cheese, I could only get one EIGHT OUNCE pack otherwise I'd be taking more cheese than I should.

Let me do the math for you: one pound equals 16 ounces. 8+8=16. That means that two eight ounce packets of cheese are the same as one 16 ounce packet of cheese. I was totally embarassed for her. She wasn't an elderly person, nor an overly young lady. She was around my age (halfway to 50 if you're keeping track) and seemed smart enough on the outside (at least smart enough to wear about a thousand dollar's worth of gold chains around her neck, five inch perfectly manicured nails, and a hairdo that would set me back at least a hundred big ones) so I didn't understand what her problem was. Yes, the manager had to be called and yes, everyone in the line and the manager were looking at her like she'd grown three heads. I didn't yell at her or anything, I was just completely dumbfounded that she could somehow think that eight ounces equals one pound.