Glade Plug-ins are a cock block

Someone once told me my house smelled like a Jolly Rancher.  I remember it well.  Let me clarify; my memory is like my hearing.  Very selective.  I remember someone once telling me I walk like I have a board up my ass, I remember someone telling me that when I talk my mouth moves like I’ve done several lines of cocaine (What?? Thanks!)  And who could forget the brother-in-law who told me the caloric content of iced cappuccinos from Tim Horton’s.  Dick.  Beyond that, I can recall bits and pieces of whatever the fuck I choose apparently- or whatever my sister deems really happened.  She, of course, remembers swimming out of the birth canal.  But the Jolly Rancher compliment??  It always makes me smile.

I have always had a candle fetish.  I like potpourri and incense and cinnamon and tend to impulse buy any new contraption promising to deliver strong scents.  Gone are the days of candles alone!  Wax melts? Scentsy? Wallflowers?  Oil warmers? Febreeze Noticeables? Glade Plug-ins?  Yep, I have them all.  And God forbid when I find a scent I like.  Then I must purchase the spray, the designer one-touch spray dispenser, the decorative things that look like gel, the melting candle cubes, and whatever else I have a coupon for.  I am sure I would give the marketing director at Glade wet dreams.  I wish I could say the same!

The husband does not bitch about much concerning the interior of the house.  Not that he can.  It is an unspoken agreement that it is my domain.  He does not complain about the quantity of candles I purchase; nor does he give me shit about how much money I spend.  Not the he knows.  Another unspoken domain.  But he does not (physically) pay the bills and definitely does not (physically) clean the house.  So we are both happy.  Except for the electrical outlets that I whore out to all my little smell good friends.

We have three kids and a dog.  I do not want my house to smell like we have three kids and a dog.  Therefore, I keep the 16-year-old’s door shut, a three wick candle (or three) in the kitchen, and random plug-ins throughout the house.  I strive to be accommodating.  I make sure I leave one attainable electrical outlet near each of our end tables to allow the husband easy access to our ever disappearing phone chargers.  He still gets angry.  Apparently it is a fucking inconvenience to reach BELOW my plug in and use the other outlet.  Of course, this is only when he is sitting on a certain part of the couch.  If the charger is plugged into the bottom outlet, it does not quite reach past the arm of the couch which causes the husband to have to tilt his head slightly to the left.  Which apparently hurts his fucking neck.  If I move the plug in to the bottom outlet,  this hinders his ability to smoke a cigarette in the garage while using his charging phone.  This also causes him to have to more pronouncedly tilt his head.  Yes- I realize that a longer cord for the charger might solve this issue, but

1.  I REFUSE to buy anymore fucking chargers.  We have had seven I-phones in the past year and I still have purchased three new chargers; two of which we have left that the five of us fight over daily.

2.  It would still piss him off.  Like he mistakenly believes that the electrical outlets are his domain.

My solution?  Charge your fucking phone before you use it.  The husband charges his phone like he puts gas in his car; only when it is below empty  or at two percent.

So tonight the husband moved my plug in to another outlet.  When I noticed, I moved it back.  I figured one of the kids had moved it.  Nope.  So we argued about it for a few minutes.  I tried to rationalize.  I pointed out the fact he still had an available outlet but made the mistake of pointing out the laziness I associate with his lack of understanding.  I know it was a silly argument.  No matter.  He is in bed and I am on the couch enjoying my last Bass.  I will meander upstairs eventually; but I am sleeping with my clothes on tonight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

i fucking hate christmas(and people who won’t call it Christmas)

I am in a pissy mood.  I don’t necessarily have a reason either.  Sometimes, I like to think that because I have not had a period for the last 17 years that grants me pms days whenever the fuck I feel like it.  What set me off? I had just finished making dinner and my daughter grabbed a can of soda from the fridge.  She asked if she could pour it in a glass.  Let me explain.  I empty the dishwasher almost as much as I do laundry.  I fucking hate it.  While I was making dinner, I realized that the dishwasher had reached its maximum capacity.  However, I pride myself on my dish loading skills.  The husband wholly believes I should never have to load or unload the dishwasher.  We have three kids for Christ’s sake.  I agree.  But they, like him, tend to fuck shit up so they do not have to do it again.  No one in my household understands the concept of rinsing off debris from plates before stacking them in the dishwasher.

“What’s the point of washing the dishes before we wash them?”

I refuse to buy Cascade Complete.  Too fucking expensive.  I do, however, buy Cascade.  The off brands don’t seem to work as well.  Have you ever bought a generic magic eraser? Yeah- not the same.

So I questioned why the daughter needed a glass when she usually drinks soda straight from the can because the dishwasher was already full and the husband had just brought in 6 tumblers from his car that he toted his coffee to work in for the week.  Because God Forbid anyone(the husband) in my house uses anything(a  travelling coffee mug) for anything it was meant to be used for.

The husband gave me shit for giving my daughter shit (yeah- he understands) so I fell silent.  Because I am passive aggressive.  My best friend chose the next moment to call me, when I had already fast forwarded to all the reasons my life sucks right now; including but not limited to the fact that I need a vacation yet my husband gets motorcycles.

“Why did you call me?” I asked her.  Her turn.  She fell silent.

I tried to explain that she called in the middle of one of my “I’d probably be pms’ing if I had a period,” moments.  (God love Mirena!!)

I tried to assure her that it was NOT because she had told me a few hours earlier that she had most of her Christmas shopping done.  She has three kids too.  But they don’t count.  Because they are young and not demanding.  Her husband, on the other hand…

I am Jewish.  I do not like Christmas.  I grew up celebrating Chanukah (pick your own spelling!)  I never had the visceral experience of running down the stairs on Christmas morning and tearing into present upon present that Santa had delivered under an adorned Christmas tree.  Nope-Jews drag that shit out.  Over 8 days.  One year, before my daughter was born, the husband’s best friend gave each of our boys $100.  He gave kid #1 a hundred one dollar bills.  He gave kid #2 one $100 bill.  Kid #2 freaked the fuck out because he thought his brother received more money than he did!  Yup, sums up my thoughts on Christmas!

Two years ago, I asked the kids what they had gotten for Christmas the year before.  Not one of them could remember.  I told the husband, “No more! We are only buying them large, tangible gifts!”

And yet, I still find myself shopping Christmas Eve every year because we do not think we have bought them enough.

Another reason I hate Christmas?  Because my birthday is in December.  What a bunch of shit!  Every year I pray for cash.  So I can buy my ungrateful kids MORE presents.  Christmas music?? Pshaw.  Unless it is “Please come home for Christmas” by Bing Crosby.  The only Christmas song I love.

I am currently trying to arrange a Christmas get together for all of my high school friends and our kids.  Mainly because one of our friends works for Bath and Body works and I want to solicit her for discounted gift certificates.  Not necessarily for gifts; my candle infatuation is quite ridiculous.  But it makes a good cover.

“Just ask her! She’ll understand- she’s Jewish too!” my best friend said when I told her my plan.

She isn’t really.  She may have married a Jew but deep down she is as Jewish as I am.  Which boils down to CHEAP.

My other best friend agreed with I’ve- got- my- shopping- done best friend.

She has five kids- twins and triplets.  And I hate Christmas more?

I do, however, LOVE Thanksgiving!!

My white trash love story

I love summer.  I love the heat.  I love laying out.  I love the pool and the grill and my cheap above ground plastic pool.  I just turned to the husband to confirm the pool is plastic.  I guess it is vinyl.  Whatever.  It fits a few inflatable lounge chairs(equipped with cup holders) and a floating beer cooler the husband purchased this year.  Kid #1 found himself in trouble quite often this summer.  I found myself a very capable pool boy.( Having a man-child with ADD does have its advantages!)

This marked the first year the husband actually enjoyed the pool.  Probably because he bought the floating cooler negating the need to physically retrieve beer from anywhere other than right in front of his face.  It also marked the first year I enjoyed him being in the pool with me.  Probably because he bought the cooler ON SALE.

The husband does not generally buy stuff on sale.  I swear if he was ever subjected to the sheer agony of walking into a department store to purchase his own pair of jeans the outcome would be predictable.  There would be two pairs of the exact same jeans hanging in front of him.  One would be marked $20.00.  The other would be tagged $40.00.  He would do some simple math in his head and pick the $40.00 pair because they would be better quality.  Even if they were the exact same pair.  (Hey-he knew I was Jewish when he married me!)

The husband works outside.  In August we had a week of real scorchers.  He would come home, occasionally I would feed the kids, and then we would retreat to the pool with a 12-pack.  Or more.  And stay there.

One evening, the sun was going down and the rays were hidden behind one of our three ugly pine trees.  But we still had a few beers left.  The husband fell silent for a few minutes while gazing into the field behind our backyard.  I closed my eyes and aimlessly floated with a Bass in my hand until he abruptly interrupted my quiet moment of bliss.

“Baby, if that pine wasn’t in the way we could get another hour of sun,” he declared, climbing out of his lounge chair.

I giggled, silently pleased he was getting OUT of the pool to pee.  And then I heard the chainsaw.

Maybe I should have been concerned that the husband chose to operate a dangerous piece of equipment 8 beers in.  Maybe I should have considered the ramifications of him chopping down a tree that directly affects the amount of sunlight that filters directly through the window in front of our kitchen table.  Maybe I should have been worried about what the neighbors thought as the tree brushed against the power lines on its way down.

Nope.  We had one more hour of sunshine! (And no power!)

The ironic part of the story is that my husband is a lineman.  Thankfully, he works for a different power company than the one that supplies our electricity.  Thankfully, that power company is less than a mile from our house.

The trouble truck pulled into the rocky road between our house and the neighbor’s.  (We have about an acre.)  The husband, back in the pool, starts shooting the shit with the guys sent out to fix the problem.  They’re talking back and forth while I’m still floating in the pool.

“You think I should put my bathing suit back on?” I asked the husband.

The pool is now packed away.  Summer is officially over.  Thank God for vitamin D and college football.

Our doorbell sounds fucking stupid

I hate clichés. I hate them even more when they turn out to be true. Or apply to me. Paybacks are hell. That would be an apt description of my summer with my 16-year old, kid #1. The husband and I have been tried on all levels. We have caught him smoking pot, lying about smoking pot, influencing his TWELVE year old brother to smoke pot, and stealing our car. Actually, the police caught him stealing our car. I am deaf in my left ear and like to drink beer. The husband likes to drink beer. This apparently inhibits our ability to be awakened in our solid state of slumber regardless of numerous incoming calls to both of our cell phones and even our home phone(yes, we have a landline!)
So the cops ring the doorbell. Let me explain our doorbell. Our doorbell broke. The husband replaced it. With the WORST doorbell ever. It kind of resembles church bells and sounds exactly like the alarm he sets on our computer every night. His alarm goes off at 5:00 am. Then 5:15. Then 5:30. I hate my husband most mornings.
So said night of kid stealing car and neither kid nor cops able to get a hold of the husband or I on cell phone or landline, the church bells go off at 2:30 am. The husband gets up and tries to shut off computer. He mistakenly thinks he needs to get ready for work. Church bells go off again and he realizes it is not the alarm. The he throws on a pair of shorts and goes downstairs. At this point, I am still discombobulated. Not for long.
The husband answers the door and the cops ask if he is missing a car. Husband looks into driveway.
“Why yes, sir, I am”.
“Are you missing a kid?”
And kid #1 walks out of the back of the cruiser. The husband was tired and I am not sure of the exact exchange. The police handed him a plastic bag with kid #1′s belongings, including but not limited to our keys, his phone, some screens, a bowl, and some marijuana. The car, our Saab, see My husband and his beaterPermalink: http://thefbombmom.com/2013/03/11/the-husband-and-his-beater, sat parked in front of kid #1′s friend’s house awaiting our retrieval. At 2:30 in the morning. When the husband has to leave for work at 6:00 am. We sat at the kitchen table trying to wake up and soaking up the severity and the sheer luck of the situation that had just transpired. We knew we had to leave and pick up the Saab. Meanwhile, kid #1 walks upstairs. With the bag. Including his pot.
“Did he just walk upstairs with that bag??” I asked the husband.
Yes. Yes, he had. The husband corrected that situation immediately. And then we begrudgingly left the house to pick up the car.
Okay. A couple of thoughts here.
#1. I am still unsure of how I feel about the cop sending the kid home with drugs. Don’t they pour them out or something? On the other hand, Kid #1 does not even have his license. I am relatively sure it would have cost an arm and a leg to try to get him out of the numerous tickets he could have been issued. No ops? Possession of drugs? Drug paraphernalia? Curfew? He (WE!!!) is lucky. Almost too lucky. What is the lesson learned here?
#2. The husband and I are guilty of every infraction that Kid #1 got busted for. BUT that was more than 20 years ago. And we never got caught.
Sigh. It fucking sucks being a parent sometimes!! There is more to this story but I’ll save it for next time. I hope you appreciate my hiatus. Because I fucking hated it.

2 big bottles of Jergens for Christmas…

I love my kids. Most of the time. This past year has been trying. My daughter, kid #3, is hitting puberty WAY too early. I never should have allowed her unrestricted access to her massive consumptions of milk. Yesterday she asked me for a bandaid to cover a zit sprouting in the corner of her nose. She’s 9. WTF?
My 12 year old boy appears to be the most even out of the trio. Kid #2 performs well in school, generally does his homework, and wrestles. He has a great sense of humor. During his off season last year, he took Taekwondo with kid #3. When it came time to graduate from white belt to yellow belt, they both were expected to pass a test that included kicking a board in half. He was very proud. While I was upstairs putting laundry away one day shortly after, I overheard him bragging to his brother’s friend that he broke the board. The kid scoffed, “I’m a yellow belt too! It wasn’t that hard…I broke the board too”.
Kid #2′s response?
“Yeah, but did you break it with your penis?”
And then there is my 16 year old. Full fledged teenager. Full fledged hormones. The reason I hardly posted in April. The reason gray hairs pepper the husband’s goatee. The reason stress hives dot my wrists.
Kid #1 is a sophomore. He frowns upon organized sports. He bitches about cleaning his room and searches the internet for insightful essays he can post on Facebook about why cleaning your room is unimportant instead of completing his homework. Of course, I only see what he wants me to see on his Facebook page. He has not yet deleted me, but we assume a limited friendship. He thinks he can outsmart me. Back when he was young and untainted, he befriended several of my friends. He forgot to limit some of said friends. (Thanks SD!!)
One day last year, Kid #1 ‘forgot’ to turn in 7 assignments and brought home an F on a progress report. His punishment? Leave your Iphone on the table. I had an unexpected day off and began cleaning house. While I Windexed the counter, his phone vibrated and a text message popped up. I called the husband to tell him I thought kid #1 was smoking pot.
“Why do you think that?” the husband implored.
“Because he just got a text message asking if he wanted to smoke some pot after school,” I replied.
Now, the husband nor I were angels when we were in high school. Parenting 101 fails to explain the proper method of dealing with situations you once created for your own parents. Yes, paybacks are hell.
Fast forward a few months to a typical evening at the dinner table. A friend of the husband’s had temporarily moved into our basement. Kid #2 was at a friends house. My daughter, blissfully unaware, sat innocently devouring her grilled chicken. Kid #1 declares he wants a lock for his bedroom door.
I immediately tensed my shoulders, envisioning incense and hookah bowls. (I did not find either of those until a month ago).
“Why do you need a lock on your door? You don’t need a lock on your door!” I quickly countered.
“Well,” he cleared his throat, “You know how I like your lotion?”
Silence. I had repeatedly found bottles of my lotion, sometimes scented; other times fragrance-free, littering his nightstand or computer table. Did I really naively believe he was replenishing his dehydrated elbows?
The husband and his friend fell silent, too. Briefly. Then erupted into fits of laughter. I do not know what the husband found funnier; the fact that his kid just told us he likes to jack off or the fact that I was rendered speechless. A fucking first.
I finally gained my composure and waited for the boys to stop laughing.
“Why don’t I just buy you some KY?” I asked Kid #1, trying to make his comfort level match my own. No shame.
“Nah- I’m kind of a dry guy, ” he boldly replied, much to my horror.
I bought him a lock the next day.

Linda is a stupid name for a cat

Happy Mother’s Day!! I usually love Mother’s Day. I make the husband take the kids to his mom’s house and I attempt to get some sun and drink some Bass in peace and quiet. Not this year. The high today was 54 degrees. What the fuck? All of the men I know do not care about browning their skin. Yet fathers get their day in the sun in June. So unfair. The husband kept asking what I wanted for Mother’s Day this year. I said, “Nothing! I just want the kids to clean their rooms!”
I should have been careful what I wished for. One out of two isn’t bad, right? I got nothing and the kids didn’t clean their rooms. Kid #1 texted me an r-rated e-card. Does that count?
I did, however, inherit a dog last week. A Pomeranian. Kid #1 kept texting me pictures of a kitten he wanted to bring home. He promised he would take care of it. I hate cats. And litter boxes. And cat piss. And blatant lies. No child of mine would clean a litter box on a schedule that would coordinate with my fervent dislike for cat smell. I told him no and happily ignored his ensuing and multiple pleas for me to reconsider.
My daughter wanted a cat once several years ago. So I begrudgingly relented. A friend of a friend knew someone who wanted to get rid of their cat. That should have been my first clue. The reason I was given? Said cat did not get along with the owner’s other cat. So I surprised my daughter one day and came home with a black and white, part Siamese cat.
“I want to name her Linda,” she said, trying to cuddle the petrified cat.
“Do you mean Glenda,like the good witch?” I tried to clarify.
“No. Linda!”
Ummm… okay. Linda let my daughter pet her 3 times before she darted to our basement. Where she stayed for the next 6 months. Every once in a while, one of the kids would attempt to retrieve Linda from the basement. Linda liked the comfort and solitude of the basement; which she made apparent by pissing on the daughter’s bed. And in her closet. And under her bed. She happily retreated to her basement after thoroughly pissing me off.
After about a year with this fucking basement cat, I had had enough. I knew the cat had lived inside and outside at her old owner’s house so I figured she could use some fresh air. I had the day off work, so after the kids left for school I released Linda. I bid her farewell and went about my day.
A few days later, I was in the kitchen making dinner. The husband came in to sample and squinted out the back door. He pulled the sliding doors opened and yelled at kid #1 to get off of the fence he was hanging over.
“I think I see Linda, Dad!” he yelled back.
“Linda’s in the basement…” his voice trailed off as he saw the look on my face.
“You didn’t,” he turned to me. It was not a question.
“But it’s been 3 days! No one even noticed!” I tried to defend myself.
So in came Linda. Again.
I permitted this nonsense for a few more weeks before I started calling shelters. Apparently I am not the only person who fucking hates cats. All the shelters were full. I had zero takers on Craigslist.
I called my dad to bitch about the futile situation. I’m so glad I did. He came up with a fantastic idea. The woman that lives in the house behind him has cats. Lots of them. And a “Humane Society” sticker on her front door to boot.
“You can walk over to her house and say you found Linda in my yard and ask if it belongs to her,” he suggested.
Game on! I loaded the cat in my car. She was part Siamese so she meowed quite loudly. Kid #3 ran to the open upstairs window.
“What are you doing with Linda?” she cried down to me, sobbing.
I rolled my eyes.
“You guys don’t even like the cat!”
I started the car and made it around the block before that piece of shit broke down. The husband had to come rescue me. Kid #3 was only 4 years old at the time so of course she came with him. And of course she was still crying.
I finally made it to my dad’s house and proceeded with our plan. I knocked on the neighbor’s door and she fell in love with the ‘homeless’ cat and immediately welcomed her with open arms.
Needless to say, we do not harbor what I would call a cat-friendly home. So after all the trouble kid #1 went through sending me pictures and videos of the kitten he HAD to have, he comes home an hour later with a Pomeranian. The same friend of his whose cat had kittens also owned a dog that did not get enough attention. Probably because of all the fucking cats.
His friend’s mom idled in her car waiting to talk to me as all 3 kids AND the husband stuck out their lower lips as they fondled the admittedly super cute Pomeranian. For a second, I actually felt authoritative. But then again, everyone knew the responsibility of the dog’s grooming, access to food, and veterinarian visits would solely depend upon me.
So again, my first logical question for his friend’s mom was, “Why are you trying to get rid of him?”
The mom said the dog did not get enough attention in her house and that Pomeranians are needy little fuckers. Or something like that. I sighed. The dog is 4 years old, potty trained, and named ‘Buckeye’.
I am a huge Ohio State fan. But Buckeye is a stupid dog name. He looks more like a Chewbacca.
photo

s
But I guess it’s better than Linda.

And I just can’t seem to quit smoking….

April consistently proves to be a busy month in my household. Easter, birthdays, and spring break usually equal an eventful few weeks. This year was not an exception.
Easter fell early this year. I volunteered to host dinner because I ALWAYS volunteer to host dinner because then I can drink beer.
#1. I am a responsible parent and do not drink and drive. With the kids, anyway. Ever.
#2. No other family members usually offer beer at family functions. And if they do, it usually does not meet my standards. (Bass; or any other dark beer).
I should mention a few points here. Both of our families enjoy coming to our house for family functions because deep down they really want to drink too. (Don’t family gatherings naturally equal a deep desire to imbibe?) And even if they do not drink, the atmosphere is always more relaxed.
I remember attending a birthday party for one of my nephews before my sister graciously moved to Florida. My husband did not attend because I do not make him attend anything my sister and her douchebag husband host. I shall explain that dysfunctional relationship in a future post. My dad also attended said birthday party. About halfway through, he asked if my daughter could stay the night with him after the party. I said, “Sure!” and went to hunt down the douchebag to get a beer.
He studied the fridge much too intently before handing me the only beer the refrigerator contained. Bud Light. I shook my head, disgusted.
“No, thanks!” I futilely tried to feign politeness.
“Are you kidding me? You’re an alcoholic!” was his stupid response.
Instead of warning him, “Yeah, you grow up with my sister and see how much you drink!” since his marriage will certainly be affected sooner or later, I simply looked at my watch. Time to go.
I guarantee the douchebag has never drank a Bud light at my house. He beelines for the stocked garage refrigerator at my house every time he visits. It does not contain cheap beer.
Easter dinner just consists of the husband’s family. For obvious reasons. My Jewish family does not celebrate the resurrection of Christ. And yes, I just asked the husband while I was typing whether Easter was the resurrection or the birth of Christ.
The good Friday before Easter also marked the first day of the kids spring break. Years prior, we have gone on vacation. This year, their very short spring break started the Friday before Easter until the Wednesday after. The husband was scheduled to go back to work (YIPEE) on the 10th of April, so he and I decided to go away just the two of us for a few days.
The husband had surgery on his elbow and convalesced at home for 3 months. More accurately, he built himself a motorcycle. I think he agreed to go on a quickie vacation with me so I would like him again.
We decided on a few days in Chicago. We decided the night before we left. On Easter. My mother-in-law took the kids home with her after Easter dinner, and the husband and I left for Chicago Monday morning.
Chicago is such a fun city! The 6 hour drive was not too bad; mostly flat and not very scenic except for the hundreds of wind turbines through Indiana. And the freeway signs once we entered Chicago.
Fist of all, I made the husband Google how many drunk driving arrests were issued in Chicago per year. How the fuck do you drive drunk in Chicago?? It’s hard enough sober! Secondly, the freeway alerts blared the number of traffic deaths so far this year in the city. When we arrived on Monday, the first day of April, the sign proclaimed 222 deaths. The husband and I meandered around the city for almost 2 days. Every time (fucking often!) we heard sirens, I would say, “224!”
I know, I know…that’s morbid. Bu when we left, the sign read 226 traffic deaths so far this year. Essentially a day and a half later!
We ate well, we drank well, and we did other things well!
We came home and immediately celebrated my father-in-law’s birthday, kid #3′s birthday, and the husband’s birthday. (All within 6 days!) The real reason to celebrate?? The husband went back to work!
While we were in Chicago, he found several things he liked at the local Eddie Bauer store. “We” agreed everything he bought should be considered his birthday present.
I still felt obliged to get him something on his birthday. But what the fuck do you buy someone who buys himself whatever he wants?
I decided to blow up a picture I had taken of his motorcycle. It is, no matter how bitter I am, beautiful. The only pictures I had taken were on my phone, though, and were not good enough quality to enlarge to a poster size.
A great Father’s Day idea! But I still had no idea what to get him for his birthday.
So it is Wednesday morning. The day of his birthday. His first day back to work. I have dicked around on the computer trying to enlarge the un-enlargeable photo to the point where I am going to be even later to work than usual. The doorbell rings. Aaaaahh… the UPS guy!!
I grabbed the two packages off the front porch. I knew their contents contained parts for the husband’s motorcycle. Boxes had arrived daily for the past 3 months. I inspected the perfect-sized cardboard and knew they were the solution to my dilemma!
Yes. I sure as shit gift wrapped both boxes and left them on my kitchen table!
Watching him open his gifts later? Priceless!
He opened the first box and pulled out a chrome kickstand. His first reaction?
“How did you know?”
And then he started laughing. And remembered he married a Jew.


Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Grab My Fucking Button

The FBomb Mom
<div align="center"><a href="http://thefbombmom.com" title="The FBomb Mom"><img src="http://thefbombmom.files.wordpress.com/2013/09/blogbutton.jpg" alt="The FBomb Mom" style="border:none;" /></a></div>
Stiletto Graphics

Blogs I Follow


Server Scorned

Hell hath no fury like a....

Warning: this blog contains verbal ejaculations, and is intended for mature audiences with funny bones only. If you consider any advice as useful you are in the wrong place.

2 Chicks and a Baby

2 Women, 1 Family, 1 Love, Our Experience.

Playing Your Hand Right

Showing America how to Live

Blatant Disregard

We Don't Care if You Don't Like it

MyADDMoment

Random Thoughts From A Random Human Being

Ben's Bitter Blog

"We make bitter better."

WordPress.com News

The latest news on WordPress.com and the WordPress community.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 31 other followers