I don’t even know how long it’s been since my last post, mostly because my blog is being dumb and not loading for me. Huh. Wonder how long that’s been going on? Oh, there. It loaded. How nice.

So, I actually have interesting stories to tell you, but I feel like an asshole coming back and being all “Let me tell what has been going on with meeeeeee!” So, how about we compromise?

How have you been?

That’s nice. Let me tell you about meeeeeeee.

I hired a housekeeper and she ruined my life. I should clarify that it was just a one time cleaning deal so that you don’t all hate me. We are selling our house (no, really. I know I say that every few months, but this time I mean it. The sign goes up Thursday! THURSDAY!) and I’m a pretty crappy wife so I needed a professional to come in and clean the junk off the front of my oven (dude, my oven SPARKLES now! Like Edward’s skin!) and scrub the pee stains from the floor around my toilet. She did a lovely job, but while she was here cleaning I had to leave the house. It just would have been too embarrassing to be here while she scrubbed away my failure, you know?

I did something that I’m not proud of while the housekeeper was here.

I took the children to the McDonald’s play place. That place is just so wrong. I don’t understand why, but bad parents just FLOCK there.

Anyway, I totally could have handled the 2 hour trip at the play place, but then the kids made friends. When it was time for us to leave the little snot nosed brats told my kids that they come EVERY. SINGLE. MONDAY.

You can imagine what the past week has sounded like around here, right?

“Mom? What day is it? Is it Monday? Is tomorrow Monday? Are my friends at McDonald’s?”

Today was Monday, so I took them back to the play place just to shut them up and SURPRISE, their friends weren’t even there.

I made friends though. The mom sitting next to me couldn’t help but love me when my daughter shouted at the top of her lungs that she sure was glad that mommy sitting there (finger pointing at the lady directly next to me, totally in punching distance) wasn’t her mommy. Me: Oh God. Oh God. Cindy-Lu. Please go play.

The mom, thankfully, didn’t punch me. Instead she befriended me and told me all about her life and SWEAR TO GOD offered me a bite of her ice cream.

I blame the housekeeper for the sad turn my life has taken. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t be sucking on a stranger’s ice cream cone. (Okay, so I politely told the lady I wasn’t hungry.)

And, now it’s time for your daily weekly monthly dose of pictures of my children and Cleatus.

Also, if you follow me on facebook you’ve already seen a couple of these pictures, so I apologize.

The other night I was watching Grey’s Anatomy and one of the dudes had a big ol’ hickey on his neck and it got me thinking. Do women actually give men hickeys? I mean, do YOU give your boyfriend/husband/random guy from the bar hickeys? I’m fairly certain that I’ve never given anyone a hickey before. Am I a bad person for this? Should I add “Give Cleatus a hickey” to my bucket list? Or, better yet, maybe I should add “Give Michael Weston a hickey.”

As for receiving hickeys…do you? I mean, are you galavanting around town, dropping your children off at playdates, taking your son to soccer practice, doing your grocery shopping, and mopping the floors with HICKEYS ON YOUR NECK? Or, god forbid, elsewhere on your body? Please share. I must know.

And, because I’m asking for your hickey information, I shall share mine. I have had two hickeys in my lifetime. One was while I was in high school and it was most unfortunate. I was “dating” this boy named (oh God) Lester, which meant that a.) I heard quite a few jokes about Lester the Molester and b.) something was clearly wrong with me.

Let us go off topic for a moment here while I describe Lester. Lester was what we, back then, called a scumbag. Really, I know no nicer way to put it than that. He had no money and he did not bathe and he only owned two shirts. (I’m sorry, it was high school, there was no such thing as “compassion.”) One was a Green Bay Packers t-shirt and one was a band t-shirt (I think Metallica). How do I know these were the only two shirts he owned? Because he wore those two shirts every single day. But, because it would be totally uncool to be seen wearing the same two shirts over and over he would (OH DEAR GOD) switch back and forth between wearing them right side out and inside out. And, uh, he didn’t wash them in between wearing them either. He also had rather long, greasy blond hair (and this was not a time when long hair on boys was fashionable) and once an older girl came up behind Lester and me kissing and, noticing the long hair on both of our heads, said something about how she couldn’t believe two girls were kissing in the hall. (As if high school wasn’t hard enough…) My only excuse for dating this boy is that I think I was going through some sort of bad boy phase, and I just expected this greasy kid from the wrong side of town to be a bad boy. He really wasn’t though, because I once suggested that he come over to my house while my parents were out of town for the weekend and he acted all scandalized. So, since I couldn’t find any actual bad boys in my high school, I opted for a dirty boy. Next best thing, right?

Anyway, back to the hickey. It was Christmas break and Lester was no where to be found seeing as how he lived way across town from me. I was hanging out with some neighbor boys (who, come to think of it, were actually “bad boys”) and I ended up making out with one of them the night before we went back to school. And he totally gave me a hickey. I’m pretty sure Lester saw it, but because he was actually only dirty and not bad, he never said a word about it.

I am an asshole.

My second hickey was courtesy of my soon-to-be-husband, Cleatus, and when I say “soon-to-be” I fucking mean WE WERE GOING TO GET MARRIED IN TWO DAYS. And the bastard gave me a hickey. Like it was a fucking wedding present.

The worst part is, Cleatus and I were totally just goofing around, tickling each other and play fighting when all of a sudden he said something like “Wouldn’t it be funny if I gave you a hickey right before we got married?” and I screeched something like “I will fucking kill you” and then he held me down and gave me a hickey. He swears he didn’t mean to REALLY give me one, but y’all. I had a hickey on my wedding day.

Cleatus is an asshole.

Now, spill. When did you last give/get a hickey?

Today was Picture Day at the preschool and Cindy-Lu was so excited. She helped pick out her “dress up” clothes and only got pissy one time when I vetoed the Cinderella princess costume. She sat still and let me brush her hair and fix it all pretty and she promised to wipe her little snot nose before it was her turn to get her picture taken.

I picked her up after preschool prepared to hear all about the big moment and watch her model her “cheeeeese” smile for me, but instead she was brokenhearted.

“Everyone else got their berry own comb but me!”

I assured her that she probably had a comb in her book bag, but a quick search proved me wrong. She went on and on about how those other kids had a comb and she didn’t and it basically ruined her little sunshine filled day. I insisted that they must have just missed her and it was an accident, but she was still pretty upset about it.

I didn’t pass out a comb after I took this picture. I handed out candy. Bribery. It’s what all the best parents do.

At dinner we were talking about our day and I mentioned her pictures again and asked her to show me how she smiled.

“I don’t think I did a berry good job at pictures. I didn’t get my own comb.”

I excused myself from the table and snuck to the bathroom to grab one of her Daddy’s combs. I hid the comb under my shirt and snuck it out to the coat rack.  I stuck the comb in her coat pocket and went back to dinner.

After dinner I mentioned that maybe the teacher put her comb in her coat pocket. She took off to look for it and moments later I heard “A-ha!”

She came barreling into the living room full of giggles and showed me her “berry own comb.”

She held it up in front of her face and exclaimed, “What the heck do you do with this thing anyway?”

Twenty-nine days! That’s how long I’ve been living life without writing about it. Well, I still write about the food I eat, but I haven’t been writing about, you know, my vagina or my kids or my bastard husband. I’m not going to lie, I haven’t missed the pressure of feeling like I should write something, but I have noticed recently that while I’m going about my day I’m writing blog posts IN MY HEAD. Clearly, I miss this blogging thing. Not that that means I will update regularly again. Don’t get your hopes up, is what I’m saying. You know, if you are even there anymore! And I wouldn’t blame you one bit if you weren’t!

In other non-blogging news, my most recent written in my head blog post was about how I’m a total douche-bag. Yesterday it was cold and rainy and slippery outside, so what did I do? I decided to get the mail, because like I said, douche-bag. Out I go, wearing my pajamas (because if I am at home, I am in my pajamas. Always.), snow boots, and winter coat. I was looking hot is what I’m saying. So, there I am, at the mailbox when the neighbor comes outside and just stands on his front porch and stares at me. Weird, right? I just ignored him and turn to walk back up the driveway and did I mention it was icy out there? My feet start sliding around and I’m trying desperately to hang on to the mail and keep my balance and save face in front of the asshole neighbor, but no. The next thing I know, I’m laying on the ice, which is rather wet and cold I might add, on my back with my feet up in the air. I don’t know how to react so I just…laugh. Loudly. The neighbor proceeds to tell me that it’s slippery out there (big no shitter, right there) and I should walk in the snow.

So, yeah. That was humiliating.

And, really, I think that’s all I’ve got. A month away from the blog and I come back to tell you that I slipped on some ice. Scintillating, isn’t it?

Here, have a couple pictures:

Cindy-Lu, who happens to have just turned five, looking all pretty and smiley to hide the fact that she is actually an angry, hormonal teenager who would like to roll her eyes at you and then eat your face off.

Eeyore, who is still the sweetest kid ever even though he still hasn’t quite perfected his aim while peeing standing up,  looking irritated with me for insisting that he stand still long enough for me to snap this photo. And probably also irritated about me telling the internet he has bad aim.