I’ve decided to make this a confession week here on my blog by exposing my few personality flaws. If this idea goes like 99% of all of my other blog ideas, that means this will be my only one. So, enjoy! What I’m about to tell you is a pretty shitty part of me. I’m embarrassed to admit I can be this kind of asshole. But I can.

I hate it when people stand at busy intersections with buckets, wanting you to donate money to them.

It makes sitting at the red light so uncomfortable while you casually try to avoid eye contact with them as they tramp up and down the stopped traffic.

I was a cheerleader once (OMFG! you say. I know, unreal.) so I know about going to trumped up competitions that mean absolutely nothing and needing to raise money to go. But we did something for that money. We washed car windshields in parking lots, we sold Boston butt barbecues, we hawked candy to students for a buck. We didn’t stand on a street corner in skimpy pleated skirts, looking for a handout. Something about that smacks of whoredom, don’t you think? Hell, even whores do something for the money, so it’s like it’s even worse than being a whore.

I guess that’s my middle class work ethic coming out, and perhaps the reason I will most likely remain middle class my entire life. Money is earned! Through hard work! And sacrifice! It’s the American dream: Work hard, pay 30% of your salary to taxes and health insurance, and mortgage yourself to death so you’ll always be working hard for money.

I’m not entirely heartless to these organizations standing on street corners, though. I do feel sorry for the Little League boys who are going to championship tournaments and want money. Shit, we won’t even let kids ride bikes without helmets, much less go door-to-door in the neighborhood, asking if anyone would like their lawn mowed for a donation for their trip.

And those firefighters on street corners (and sometimes parking lots), doing their Fill The Boot charity drive? That doesn’t piss me off at all. Except I wonder if they realize they would get SO MUCH MORE in donations if they put their sexy firefighters out there, shirtless. Oh hell yes, I’d throw my grocery cash at that, baby. What other sensual excitement does a suburban mom get when she is out running umpteen thousand errands on a Saturday afternoon? None.

The latest group at the usual intersection of whoredom, I don’t even know who they were. They had a cardboard box sign taped to their bucket saying, “Please donate to our building fund!” Because I am trying to overcome my pre- Christmas ghost Scrooge-ish nature, I thought, hmm, I wonder what they are trying to build? An orphanage? A new animal shelter? A local Publix? I could really get behind a Publix!

It turns out they were a church group wanting us to help “build to God!” Huh. I bet Noah was worse than a prostitute and that’s how Noah built the ark; by standing at the market square intersection, rattling his stone cup at people passing by on their mules.

Without a cell phone to fake text on, how in the world did the pre-biblical people pretend to be too busy to notice him?

Do you often find yourself wondering what life with all boys is like? You do? Oh goody! I can certainly satisfy that curiosity!

Life with all boys is a 12-hour rainy Sunday where the three boys rotate turns on video games.

The end.

So imagine yourself living with single-cell amoeba and you’ll get the picture.

ameba |əˈmēbə| (also amoeba)
noun ( pl. -bas or -bae |-bē|)
a single-celled animal that catches food and moves about by extending finger-like projections of protoplasm. Amoebas are either free-living in damp environments or parasitic.

See what I mean?

Point #1 – When the amoebas are not playing video games during the summer, they are eating. In fact, the largest amoeba of the house that goes by the name of Wally ate the last Oreo cookie in the box. I do not thank him for this. I have PMS, which means it is time for me to sabotage an entire month’s worth of exercise and fat-free Greek yogurt breakfast by stuffing myself with partially hydrogenated oils for two straight days.

Point #2 – These amoebas of mine do move about by extending finger-like projections. On the PS 3 remote.

Point #3 – We can tell Amoeba Wally is the free-living one since he moved us to Mobile, certainly a damp environment if the 362 days a year of 95% humidity is any indication. And certainly the smaller male amoebas are parasitic because they ate the other half of the Oreo cookies. And they didn’t pay for them. Hell, they didn’t even go to the store to get them. Completely parasitic.

As a complex organism, I don’t understand how they can sit all day and play video games? Can someone please explain this phenomenon?

Also, were you aware of single-cell amoeba shopping? It exists. It goes like this:

Need new pair of school shoes.

Proceed to one store.

Try on three pairs of shoes.

Pick one pair.

Buy it.

Return home.

Or, for an alternative example:

Need new underwear for school.

Proceed to one Super Target.

Pick out a package of underwear.

Buy it.

Return home.

What the hell is that? That is not how you shop for underwear! First you go to a nice department store and then promptly shit your pants when you see the price for such a tiny garment. Then you drive to three different discount stores that buy department store brand panties. You buy discounted panties. You take them home, wash them and then realize they are all crack-crawlers. You go shopping again, opting for a different style of underwear and then call upon all Christian saints that these will not turn out to be crack crawlers too. You take them home, wash them, then realize they are all crack-crawlers too. You go to Super Target and buy packaged underwear.

THAT is how you shop for underwear.

At least I think that’s how you do it? Do I even remember real shopping? My mother calls and tells me of the shopping weekend she, my sister and my nieces had together. I was not invited along. Apparently I have been exiled to the Land of the Lost and am no longer worth taking on real shopping trips.

This must be the beginning of my devolvement from complex-cell human to single-cell amoeba.

The good news, though, is that I can stop waxing and am now allowed to scratch inappropriate places whenever I want.

Tonight Wally’s company is hosting a party at our city’s minor league baseball stadium, complete with air-conditioned field-level box, food, and beer. Sounds awesome, right?

It is! Except it’s 51 days into summer vacation and I’m not sure I remember how to speak of anything other than Harry Potter and Super Mario brothers.

If you follow me on Twitter (all the cool kids do) then you possibly saw this tweet:

Well, people, it happened. I shit a Patronus not thirty minutes later because the Harry Potter questions NEVER END. (And I know you’re curious – my patronus is a porcupine. Ouch.)

But in less than 12 hours I need to recall how to have adult conversations. *Blink Blink* I’m pretty sure that isn’t defined by patronus shitting conversations or the latest entry into Mariowiki.com. Maybe someone should warn the employees about me ahead of time. Someone like Wally. Yes, he should explain to his co-workers that he is practically the only other adult I’ve had to talk to all summer. When his co-workers find that out, they’ll probably pass around a baseball cap and collect pity money for me.

Actually, that would make me feel better. I could buy another bottle of vodka and have wonderful conversations with the voices in my head, voices that DO NOT talk about Harry Potter or Super Mario. Instead, the voices talk of interesting things, such as the constant state of mess in the house, what’s for dinner, and whether I’ll ever meet a movie star in real life and would they think of 140 lbs on a 5′ 8″ woman as fat when compared to anorexic starlets.

Really, what am I suppose to talk about tonight?

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Other news not involving the voices in my head!

The Mouthy Housewives are hosting a party at BlogHer!  RSVPs will open this Thursday, July 15th, (that’s today) at 12:30 pm EST; follow@MouthyHousewife on Twitter for the link!

And if you’re a brand or know a brand or even know what a brand is, The Mouthy Housewives still have limited spots left for sponsors. Please email us at: themouthyhousewives@gmail.com for more information.

I can’t avoid these grocery-slashing budget bloggers, even if I try. Thanks to The Great Recession, they’re very popular. I don’t even search them out, but somehow they find me.  I’m reading one of my regular, completely unrelated to grocery budget blogs and bam! there they are. Browsing the Sunday paper and bam! there they are.

And I still don’t understand how these people slash their food budgets so drastically either. It’s just like me and quantum physics. I really can’t wrap my mind around how it works, but damn, that shit is so fascinating and I can’t stop trying to understand it. I can’t get our groceries under $600 a month (though this includes things like toilet paper, eco-friendly cleaning products and Ziploc bags), so How? How? How?

You know the saying, though. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em!  So I did. I’m now a budget grocery blogger.

I decided to emulate all the budget bloggers who say you can feed your family healthy foods for cheap, some say only $50 per person per month. Oh boy, think of the extra money we’ll have to pay off our mortgage!

I went to the grocery store armed with coupons and sale papers to comp, just like they tell you to, and here are the results:

Payton – enjoy your healthy foods, all fifty dollars worth. Make sure it lasts an entire month!

Actually, Son, by the time I add in 10% sales tax, your monthly food allotment went over by $5. Oh well, I’ll just make it up next month. You’ll get $42.50 in food in August. Sorry, I know you are a growing child and all, so it sucks to be you.

What was that backtalk about hunger pains and needing fuel to play and grow? Show some gratitude, mister! You would have only half of those grapes if I didn’t get them on sale for .88/lb this week. And the blueberries on sale for $1.50! And the green onions for $.67.  Sure, I could have stretched things an entire $.78 more had I not purchased the Omega-3 eggs and just gotten you store brand  eggs instead. But Omega 3 is brain food and I need you to make a lot of money as an adult to support my retirement. You see how mom is always looking out for your best interest? You’re welcome.

What? What’s that you’re saying now? You can’t make fresh fruits and vegetables last four weeks because they’ll go bad?

But I don’t understand? Where did I go wrong? Let me review the math.

$50 x 4 x 12 + E x YZ/MC x XY/52 + planning sheet x data tables + 64 hours of my time comparing Bruno’s ad to Wal-Mart’s regular price/coupon stacking – 0 coupons for fresh fruits & veggies = $200 a month on food.

Huh. It sounds pretty in theory. I don’t understand why it isn’t working in real life? Well, moving on anyway!

Parker – here’s your $50 of food. For the month. Make it last!

Aren’t you lucky?! Unlike your brother, you got a lot of meat!  It’s because you’re my favorite. This week.

What did you say? It’s a lot of meat and little to no fruit or veggies? Maybe you could barter some of the meat with your brother for some fresh fruits and vegetables. I don’t know. You’re kinda on your own with this.

What’s that? If you take some of your brother’s fruit and veggies, then neither of you will have anything close to proper daily servings, and it still won’t last a month anyway?

Crap, where are my miscalculations?! Let’s see…

$50 x 4 x 12 + B=2V/XYZ x cucumbers + tomatoes from our garden( 3 fruits + 4 veggies + 8 grains +  2 dairy) >$200.

Man, I still don’t know where I’m going wrong?

Dear Saruman, Lord Voldemort, and all other imaginary and mythical creatures with evil powers,

I’m onto you.

Just as I begin to feel remorse for my previous post, as I’m halfway through waxing an unusually poetic blog post in my head, detailing the exalted glories of raising two boys and wearing my readjusted rose-colored 3-D Disney/Pixar glasses, you make your move.

We’re driving home from a wonderful afternoon where the boys and I bond over another animated summer movie when Parker spills his large movie theater drink up under the driver’s seat. And if that wasn’t enough for you, Yosemite Sam, the Wicked Witch of the West, and Count Dracula, to make your point, you make sure I discover my youngest son left his six-month-old DSi up under my seat also.

Baby Jesus has accepted your declaration of war.

Dear Baby Jesus, Tinkerbell, and all other imaginary and mythical creatures with superpowers,

Help.

I’m sure this is where I ask you to grant me the serenity to accept things I cannot change. Things like Parker throwing giagantic fits because Super Mario Galaxy 2 continues to thwart his quest for world domination, or whatever the hell it is you do on that game. All I know is it involves stars with smiley faces and running around on the tops of planets collecting things before it rotates and you fall off. And fit-throwing. It involves a LOT of fit-throwing. Sometimes it involves banging the Wii remote on the floor, which then involves confiscation of said remote and the loss of game privileges, which then causes more fit-throwing.

I can’t seem to change ANY of that. So how do you advise I accept that? I’m really hoping you say this serenity/acceptance thing involves BURNING THE GODDAMN GAME DISC!

Next up, I’m supposed to ask for the courage to change the things I can. Like how Payton comes and tattles on his brother ALL DAY LONG, no matter how many times I tell him to stop tattling. I can change that if only I had the courage, right? It does require a lot of courage to use a cattle prod on a child. I don’t know if I have it in me, but perhaps with some liquid courage I could? I don’t know. Is downgrading to an electric flyswatter an option?

And now Santa Claus, Merlin, and the Good Witch of the North,  I believe this is where you grant me the wisdom to know the difference. The difference between what I’m not sure because, oh my god, the fits, the tattling, the fighting, the messes they make between the hours of 8-3 that I am no longer use to dealing with! We’re talking differences between the second and fourth circles of hell, aren’t we?

So dear Gandalf, leprechauns and unicorns, as you can see it’s a desperate hour for me. I have been deeply tempted to read Twilight so I can mentally escape it all.

Save me.

It’s like 105 degrees outside and I’m sitting here drinking hot chocolate. I’m sure that means summer vacation finally broke my tenacious hold on sanity. Take heed, reader, this is what happens when your kids do not want to do ANY summer camp-y events…

Hey boys, do you want to do a karate camp this summer?

NO!

Okay, how about we just go see Karate Kid, then we’ll talk about Karate Camp?

NO!

Hey boys, do you want to do a painting camp this summer, it’s only a week?!

NO!

Hey boys, do you want to stay home and do a Mom Makes Us Do All The Chores camp?

NO!

Fine then! I’ll just ship you off to Camp Granada!

…and then *KABLAMO* there goes your sanity and you find yourself drinking hot chocolate on an insufferably hot summer day. I consider it practice for day-to-day life at a mental institution, really. I need to prepare for ridiculous daytime activities, like making myself a name tag out of popsicle sticks.

(True story: I had to do that once, which is how I know it happens in mental institutions. It was at a MOPS (Moms Of Preschoolers) meeting way back when I was a wet behind the ears stay-at-home mom. They had us make nametags with popsicle sticks and beads. It was then I knew those religious fuckers were insane and the “meeting” was just a front for involuntary committals.)

So I spend most of my time arguing with the boys that it is WAY past time for the TV and video games to turn off. If a psychiatrist were to witness my arguments, they would see me repeatedly arguing WITH A WALL. And then the screaming and hysteria when I turn the TV off myself? Fits right in with the noises found in an insane asylum. But that’s not the only reason I’m convinced I’ve mysteriously ended up in an institution.

I’ve become obsessed with crafts this summer, though I do draw the line with popsicle sticks. I say that, but I’m actually lying, which insane people happen to do quite often. I erased the line when I discovered this popsicle stick craft. I’m going to make those motherfuckers in time for Christmas.

And after that, I’ll be promoted to Level Two Mental Institution Crafting and will make this craft and possibly do this to a lamp. On the condition of good behavior, of course.

Then comes Level Three, which is where I transform my oldest son’s room into a Pottery Barn magazine spread, all through Goodwill, Craigslist and a gallon of navy blue paint. Except forget the sail and surfing theme, because why would my nine-year-old Payton want something typical like that. He wants a cat-theme room. Awesome. I get to figure out how to masculinize a cat-theme room. I don’t think I’ll ever make it out of the nuthouse.

Whoever put modeling clay into my first grader’s end-of-school treat bucket? I’m going to kick your ass come August. I just spent 15 minutes scrubbing its residue off of my table and that was after I hunted down a playdough spatula to scrape the clay up.

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SOS! It’s the first day of summer vacation. I’m pretty sure I’ll blow my entire wad of KEEP KIDS BUSY activities by the end of the day. Then it’ll be a downhill life of referring fights over video games ALL SUMMER LONG. God, I love this time of year.

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Have you heard the news? Kelcey had her twins last week! However, I’m disappointed she didn’t pick Payton and Parker’s favorite names: FartBreath and ButtFace. It’s what they call each other ALL OF THE TIME, so I assume those are their favorite names. The Mouthy Housewives had some hilarious people give Kelcey advice on raising twins, biological or Irish. And how convenient, I’m giving advice over there today too. Don’t let your husband boss you or your fallopian tubes around! Feel free to add your opinion. Fallopian tubes and/or uterus not required.

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I must admit to you that I have been horrible at reading and commenting on other blogs lately. (I told you I was a blog asshole.) Do you have any news? Better tell me know before I lose my ever-living mind this summer and am incapable of coherent thought. Or at least thoughts that don’t involve words like “buttface” and “fartbreath.”  I invite you to violate the Blog Etiquette Book and put a link in your comment (you are going to comment, right?) for me to read. Please. You’ll be doing your part to save my sanity, and just think how many points that will score you with God.

I watched Food Inc on PBS last night and, I swear to God, all I can eat now is grass clippings from my yard.

Of course, that was my lunch. For breakfast I had bacon and pancakes. But if the bacon was processed by Smithfield, I’m going to make sure I contract a terrible case of diarrhea to get it out of my digestive system since I swore I would never buy Smithfield products again! I would just make myself throw it up, but, uck, I HATE to throw up. I could never be bulimic.

I’m now terrified of genetically modified foods. And also of Monsanto and Round Up. Never buying Round Up again either! I can’t since I now eat my grass clippings. I’m pretty sure we’re all going to mutate into rabid wolf people who chase Will Smith all around New York City.

I’m never eating a hamburger in a restaurant again. They taste like shit any way, probably due to that mysterious “hamburger meat filler” treated with AMMONIA Food Inc. told me about.

I really don’t know what to do about the movie’s revelations but I find myself fervently wishing we had a Whole Foods so I could spend my Whole Check on high-quality meats.  And if you thought I obnoxious about artificial food dyes, watching this movie has only taken my food snobbery to a new level.

You know that sodium benzoate preservative is bad for you too. It’s linked to BAD BOY CHILDREN BEHAVIOR too.  That preservative is everywhere.

The BHT preservative has been linked to the same BAD BOY BEHAVIOR problem too. It’s in almost all cereals, even the ones without dyes. So even when I manage to find a cereal that is dye free and doesn’t have high fructose corn syrup as one of the first 5 ingredients, I see that BHT at the bottom.

There’s also the high fructose corn syrup debate.

So pretty much our whole food chain in the U.S. is fucked.

(Don’t you just love good news?)

I guess I’ll have to turn in my resignation to both of my jobs. Who has time for a job and making money when it’s clear I must spend all of my time growing my own food, slopping my own pigs, grazing my own cows and chasing down some damn free-range chickens? And since I have to make almost every single food we consume from scratch, this means when I’m not outside dodging cow patties I’m in the kitchen preparing food.

Shit, I’m going to have to birth more children to help with all of these chores!

Wait. Isn’t that kind of lifestyle the reason why women died in their 30s?

Great, now I have to make time to sew my own shroud before it’s too late.

I have several points of randomness I want to make, and thanks to my new employment status, I don’t have time to turn any of them into a full-fledged post. I’m sorry.

Late this morning, after work (sort of), I decided to sit outside while writing my Mouthy Housewife advice for the week. It’s such a beautiful, sunny day!

And so I did. Sat outside. Without sunscreen. And got sunburned.

Yes, I hear you, oh Ancient Irony of the Universe. I hear you LOUD AND CLEAR.

In other superficial news, you may find me blogging even less. See, I’ve had an epiphany. Or maybe it was something I ate. Either way, it happened.

Wally and I were in Wal-Mart last week and walked by the small book department. As I derisively gazed at yet another vampire novel, I noticed a new Jodi Picoult book with an attractive cover beside it.

I picked up her book and read the flap. It’s a book about an autistic child who is accused of murder.

And that’s when it came to both me and Wally. (Okay, the idea came to him, but I’m claiming half credit AND half of the earnings. If it weren’t for my great need to mock and ridicule vampire novels and choose a book by its cover, he wouldn’t have had the idea either.)

We’re going to write a book together.

About an autistic vampire.

We will soon be fucking rich, people. We’re tapping into the pop culture hysteria and the medical hysteria. It couldn’t be more perfect.

Now onto my last random point.

It’s been a long time since I’ve blogged about my vagin@. I can feel it seething in resentment right now. I needed to make amends before anything serious happens, such as incontinence or a yeast infection.

So I wrote a bunch of stuff about my vagin@ and sex after motherhood over at The Mominatrix. You’ll probably need to smoke a cigarette after reading it. I guess that means my vagin@ could be hazardous to your health. Shit, don’t tell Wally! At least not until we get this book written and I get half of the earnings.