Capture and Display all Your Typos

I'd type a blog entry right now but I've got kids to feed. I really want to tell you all waht's going on with me and unload these thoughts in my head, but I don't have the time. My day starts when I wake up and doesn't end till the kids go to bed. It's crazy. Sometimes it lasts till my bedtime if there's extra studying to do.

In the Spring I'll only have one class to take. It's teh lite @ the end of the tunnel.

Pictures are easier and faster to upload than explaining exerything.

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That's what it looks like when I'm wiping my keyboard off with a wet wipe.

MLK day and my Resume

I think Dr. King would tell me that I've got to be able to take care of my own family before I can take care of anyone else, so I resolve to get my resume in order tomorrow.

Think I can find a job that Dr. King himself would be proud of me for having? That would make me feel like I'm on the right path.

I've got three professors as references, a whole wheelbarrowload of skills, all my blogs, and good journalism experience. And it's bursting at the seams with text--I can't make the margins any bigger.

Putting all this education I've got under my belt has really upped my resume highlights. For the first time there are marketable skills under my belt, not to mention a teeny tiny award for news writing, that I can not only list, but go beyond listing them in a bragging fashion, all long-winded-like, and parse them down into exact, concise, clear, bold & brief declarations of experience in all the relevant fields of the career I want to pursue WHICH IS AWESOME!

But my job experience is a little lacking, only two student papers under my belt, as well as a bevy of retail- & customer service-related jobs that ended poorly (for me). As much as I rant about how mistreated I am and special me and blah blah blah, it sucks to burn a bridge, and it's worse to burn multiple. Not that any employer of mine would say I'm a bad person, but the more you get fired, the more you gotta play a song-and-dance of explaining yourself instead of proceeding smoothly into sweet quadruple figures per year of $$$-making yo (self-fulfillment shmelf-shmulshmillshment).

Late last night I was looking at Craigslist's jobs postings in the pr/marketing and writing/editing jobs, and straight away I came to a few that I'm totally qualified for and are in the Seattle area. Then I had to tell myself in a cowboy voice, "Whoo--o-oo-o-o, now hold on now, there, little pilgrim, you still need to finalize the contact info for your references and try to geeit that fourth one in there!"

I'm suffering from what psychologists refer to as Resume Over-Confidence, which inevitably leads to a fall into conclusions.

Happy (early) Martin Luther King, Junior Day, everyone. Even if you don't have a resume of your own to work on for the purpose of feeding and comforting a family, find someone close to you who needs help, and help them!

In my pursuits of career, a joyous family, and shmelf-shmulshmillshment, I will strive to remember the sentiment expressed by our good doctor here:

Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.

I think he'd laugh at this

Little Sister Tribulations

I'm sitting here next to BB on the couch with a big Tonka truck filled with five rubber balls representing fruits. Lucy is playing Zelda and in her own world. Mama is at work, makin that sweet bacon like a baus.

I'd add to that definition "One who exceeds at being cool in a way that requires practiced skill."

So BB, in utter defiance of all I do around here, esp. the vacuuming I accomplished three minutes prior, just starts fucking throwing the rubber fruit out of the truck with this backassward over-the-side hand and  motion. Onto the floor it lands, bouncing and scattered. I'm just like, 'Are you seriously fucking doing this right now, right in front of my face?'

But I said nothing. Keeping my cool, I just watched her throw them, planning my calm and self-affirming retribution.

What she wanted was the truck by itself to push around on the floor. So naturally, she had to have it emptied. Accomplishing that, she started sort of grabbing the side of the truck and going, "Eeh, eeh!" The general, "This is not right and you fix it for me," sound. So I put the truck on the floor for her.

She gets down off the couch and starts to push the truck away and out of my eyesight as I start asking her how that fruit is going to come off the floor. I had to raise my voice a click to get her to pick up the fruit. And when she did pick up all the fruit, I still told her, "Good job," and acted all excited and enthusiastic that she cleaned up this stupid shit on the floor that she shouldn't have thrown on there in the first place, but high-five her I did.

I start writing this blog about it directly afterward, and I look over at her and this is happening:

Dads Who Don't Change Diapers

1. Should Start Immediately 

2. Are Ass

If you're a dad and you don't change poopy diapers, you're a piece of shit. Your woman carried that motherfucker and shoved it out her vagina and now you won't even help to change a poopy diaper? Get over yourself. Grow the fuck up for two seconds and act like and adult and SLEEP IN THE BED YOU MADE FUCKWIT.

Why does the woman deserve this responsibility? Why does she deserve to never get a break from this shit? I don't care if the dad does work and provide for the family--he's still gotta change a motherfucking diaper. Did he not understand that kids don't go in the toilet immediately after they're born? Maybe he wouldn't have had a kid.

Oh wait, yes he would have, because he has no regard for human life other than his own and his cock will shoot sperm into whatever accepts it and is legal to shoot it into.

Reading this pretty funny list of top 25 mommy confessions, I get to:

20. Three kids and my husband has never changed a poopy diaper. He says he hates the smell -- like I like it?! I'm going to shove the next one in his pillow.

And I can't even finish the rest. I'm flabbergasted. Her husband is a waste of space. Now I'm even more sure that I'm an awesome dad.

Why do people marry such assholes?

Look at me, I'm totally awesome, look at how much I love my kids: