Army of Mom

So this is how liberty dies ... with thunderous applause.


Monday Manifesto

Yeah, I'm sitting at the computer in my red Hawaiian print pajama bottoms, Kasey Kahne t-shirt and wearing a Florida Gators hoodie (with the hood up). Yeah, cuz I'm that kind of cheap-not-wanting-to-turn-the-heat-up-kind of gal. *sigh*

I opted not to ogle any teenage boys or warp any young minds today by skipping out on substitute teaching so I can catch up on writing (stories due today and Dec. 10, oh cripes) and then try to get the house clean and food cooking. Oh crimedy. (What does cripes and crimedy mean, anyway? Yeah, I'm sure the definitions are a mere Google search away, but who has time for that useless stuff?)

I have shit to do today. And, I gotta procrastinate by blogging, so the deadlines will loom closer and larger and thus make me work harder. Right? Right.

So, I'm thinking today - ok, really it was yesterday - that the local police department probably has a little binder with my name on it. Inside are all the times I've called about stranded motorists, suspicious Kirby salesmen and the pedophile who lives around the corner. They've pretty much stopped taking my seriously, oh, about nine years ago, I'm thinking. Seriously, my caller ID comes up on the 911 line and I'm sure the operator just rolls her eyes. I'm surprised she hasn't said "Ok, Mrs. AoM, what is it this time? Someone broken down in the road or another suspected drunk (sic, should be drunken) driver? None of those? Ok, so are the crackhead's kids setting off fireworks again? Or the Bumpus hounds barking again at ungodly hours? No, not this time? Well, certainly the neighbors behind you must be tossing pizza in your backyard again ..." and so it goes on. There are also a few choice complaint letters in there about the 5-0, too. Cuz I'm on the down-low ... or is it low-down? I can never remember my gangsta terms. Therefore, my street creds are right down the drain.

But, all this just makes me want to stalk Jen Lancaster because we would so be BFF. *sigh* The whole living in Chicago things would make it hard for us to go grab Starbucks and then eat danishes till we can't walk, but, seriously. Aside from the excessive drinking and cursing *ROFLMAO, ok, I can't even type that with a straight face* we're two peas in a pod. Like Forrest would say, we're just like peas and carrots, us two. Because it was my husband who was teasing me for calling the cops again yesterday, but seriously, who goes around trying to give people a crappy old dustbuster thing as his intro to trying to sell you a Kirby vaccuum cleaner while wearing black sweatpants. Seriously. I don't buy anything from someone wearing sweatpants unless it is a gym membership. *ha ha* That would imply that I walk into a gym. *smacking my fist on the ground now in laughter* I forgot to mention that if you don't read Jen's books, you wouldn't know that she, also, has a penchant for calling the cops about all sorts of things, too. *sigh* Peas and carrots, people.

*deep sigh*

Ok, gotta get my cold fingers to dance across the keyboard and whip up some great article about drilling for natural gas. Then, I'm going to work on Hurricane Ike re-construction and how church administrators can find the best benefit packages for their staffs. Yes, one and all, rub down the goosebumps. I could be instructing YOUR children today. So, be glad that I'm here.


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