We named him after a Cajun shrimper we met on the coast because obviously, when I imagine him being able to speak it’s certainly with a Cajun accent.
“Laissez les Bon Temps Roulez!”

Feel free to send baby gifts.

We accept credit cards, personal checks and most importantly, gift cards for dog food.

Boudreaux comes from a long line of champion dock jumpers…which means for us, he can jump over my head while I’m trying to feed him.

He started out cute, cuddly and had sweet puppy breath. Within a week he became a 100 lb, foul smelling, voraciously chewing ding dong of a dog on crack. There is nothing on the outside of my house he hasn’t demolished…including outdoor electrical plugs. This long list of items includes water hoses, an expensive set of wicker patio furniture and cushions, and various toys. He also feels the need to dig up plants and shrubs and proudly destroy them at my back door.
I no longer plant flowers or decorate the house.
I have considered putting log chains on my tires.
On top of this, he has a strong affinity for smelling everyone’s crotch…or as Ella says, “crouch.”

The dog is possessed.

Around the age of five months, he began humping everything…and I do mean everything. He had a special affection for my daughters folding Spongebob chair. He humped for days and days until got pissed off and ate it.
He pooped yellow Spongebob particles for days.

This week he discovered the neighbors 20 lb mix breed. The multicolor hair, the petite frame and the ever constant presence of a female rear in his face was more than he could handle.

Picture if you will, Kristen Chenowith and Dennis Rodman.

Welcome to my world.

Rico and I have an ongoing discussion/argument about whether to cut his nuts off.

Obviously, I am all for it. Rico, uh, not so much.

It seems men have an aversion to cutting off nuts even when they are not the owners of said nuts.

I mean, I am pro-castration for any male who runs off and sleeps with the bitch down the road…man or canine. Agreed?

Snip! Snip!

Just sayin’

My husband likes it when I channel my creative side/neurosis on my blog because frankly, it whittles down the number of crazy phone conversations I have with him during the day….”Honey, did you see that drunk moose in the tree on the news? How do you think a moose opens a beer can cause like, they don’t have thumbs? And do you think if he had Patron does he want to take his antlers off? ” Which then leads me to signing that crazy song “Tequila Makes Her Clothes Come Off” for the next several hours and it’s not really appropriate to sing around a 4 year old. I speak from experience. They always repeat that crap at the most embarrassing time.

In an effort to get me blogging again, the hubs bought me a desk and a new computer and placed it in a semi-quiet place in the house. However, no place in this house is sacred enough to be free of Kool-aid  or “wipe my butt” requests…but I will try.

After all this time I wondered if anyone even came around to this site to visit in my absence. I have to say, I was pleasantly surprised. Several of you are checking in periodically…sending me emails to see if I died, etc. I also discovered that a lot of people are clicking in via google searches for different things that are just down right hilarious. Seems if you search different phrases you will be directed here for related content. Here’s some of the searches that brought people to my neurotic site and my response to them….

1.  My Sugar Daddy wants me to wear stripper heels…Yes he does honey. You are a gold digger. It’s your job to do what he wants in order to receive your gold. Did you honestly think he wanted you to dance on that pole with orthotics? It’s just not a good look. And honestly, all men want us to wear the stripper heels. They don’t have to be rich.

2.  Southern Girls gone wild…Similar to the regular Girls Gone Wild but with girls lifting their camouflage and rebel flag t-shirts to show the goods. The girls that are kissing each other are really first cousins and the stripper pole is waxed with lard.

3.  Ear Wax Fetish…Seriously, if you have an ear wax fetish you will not find what you need here. Try hanging out at the ENT’s office or a psychiatrist. If it was a belly button lint fetish I might could do something for you. Sorry.

4.  Southern Sasquatch…This I can help you with because I have seen the southern sasquatch. It was yesterday in the parking garage of Vanderbilt Medical Center. I was waiting at the valet parking counter and there it was. It went by twice. Once with a sweater covering it’s belly and once just baring all. It must be some type of mating signal.

5.  So Many Chicks so little time…I’m pretty sure I know who wrote this. I have a friend who is a lifelong bachelor and aficionado of woman. His job requires him to travel the world. Maybe he needs some help with time management. The only advice I have for him is one woman at a time. You are getting older. I don’t think your heart can take it anymore.

6.  Confucius Boobs…Seriously, a search for a wise woman with large breasts or an actual picture of Confuscious’ boobs? I am confused. Whoever searched this, you are a freak.

7.  Hot wife Sex Slave…Alright, you caught me. That is who I really am. Especially when you find me plunging one of toilets or taking out the trash in my yoga pants and stained t-shirt. I am sex-say….and probably stinking from being hot.

8.  Person with full diaper….People really searched for this and found me. Is it because I am a pro at diaper changing or that I am basically full of shit. Probably both.

Sweet, huh?

Sometimes. Mostly all the time.

Me?  Hardly ever.

But that’s beside the point. Why else would I write a post called “Men do stupid stuff” if I wasn’t a turd?

And since both my kids are turds and have different baby daddies….I have to be the only common factor, eh?

Anyway, I need to get back on track.

Where was I?

Stupid Men Stuff….Oh, yeah.

Several years ago, someone wrote a book Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus.

Duh. Someone give that ding dong a Nobel Peace Prize. I could have told you that AND saved you $19.95.

I think all men do strange, unexplainable nonsense but I think Rico has them all beat…

For instance, this is my husband’s loading bench. It is located in the very old, very unfinished basement of my house.  It’s where he plays with his guns, loads his own bullets, scratches his manly parts and all other kinds of weird, testosterone filled nonsense.

I stay out of here as much as possible.

From afar, nothing looks amiss. 

Don’t be mistaken.

There is a whole bunch of nonsense going on here. Stuff so unexplainable all I can say is, “What the…”

Exhibit 1:

BLACK FINGERNAIL POLISH!!!!!

First and foremost, here is my missing black fingernail polish which I have been looking everywhere. I have accused my oldest daughter of “theft of a beautification product” which in my house is punishable by water boarding.

You don’t mess with Mom’s makeup people.

Notice to the side of the photograph is my four year olds Play Doh. This is an excusable theft as Play Doh is the root of all evil. 

Did you know Saddam had Play Doh in with his WMD’s?

Swears.

CUTE CHRISTMAS WRAPPING SCISSORS!

Is there even any words? At least they weren’t my Breast Cancer Awareness Pink scissors.

Thief.

Weirdo.

NICE CUTLERY!!

This WAS a piece of my nice cutlery. WAS being the operative word.

Who knows what in the hell he was doing with it. When I asked why he had it, he just replied, “I needed it.”

Really?

BIG CANDLE FROM WALMART CIRCA 2002…AND A BONUS

Seriously, I don’t know what I was thinking when I bought that candle fifty ‘leven years ago from the Walmarts. My house must of smelled really bad or I was on a compulsive shopping spree.

The added bonus to this hot mess is the can of 3M Dust Remover beside the candle covered in 10 years worth of dust.

BRILLIANT.

THE ONLY BOWL LEFT IN MY HOUSE THE KIDS HAVEN’T THEIVED TO MAKE MUD PIES AND LEFT IN THE PASTURE

Again, no words…and no bowls in my cupboards.

LIPSTICK…..OH, AND SPIT.

I am not too worried about the Clinique “Simply Gorgeous” because it is simply not in Rico’s color wheel. However, it is in mine and water boarding will have to ensue for this infraction.

Why lipstick?

I get the spit thing…but WHY LIPSTICK???

OUR WEDDING PICTURE???

Really?

Is it to gaze lovingly at a photo of that wonderful day or to laugh mockingly as he picks up my damn lipstick and smears it on some gun part???

(Cough, cough.)

Yes, 20 years ago.

As in, 1990. The year of the Milli Vanilli scandal, the Simpsons and Seinfeld television debut, the freeing of Nelson Mandela and the start of the Persian Gulf War.

I turned 18. My parents bought me a brand new car, a white Dodge Shadow, that was then dubbed by my friends as “A Freak of Nature”…cause there is no such thing as a white shadow.

It was a time of tanning beds, tight rolled jeans, sequined prom dresses and Aqua Net hair spray.

Now, if there was one thing I was focused on in high school, it would be the whole hair situation. Lord knows I wasn’t worried about my SAT’s or college admission applications but the big hair thing…well, that was important.  Hello?

And so the majority of my high school years were filled with hot rollers, a can of Aqua Net and a blow dryer…cause only maximum hair height could only be achieved with the aid of a dryer.

I never made senior superlatives, but 20 years later, they regretted that crap and bestowed upon me the accolade I should have recieved back in the day….”Biggest Hair.”

Yes people, read it and weep!

I had the biggest hair in high school and it has been confirmed 20 years later by my peers.

To reward me for all my effort and their lack of acknowledgement then, they bestowed upon me the most fitting prize, a can of Aqua Net Hair Spray.

I know you be jealous.

Circa 1990:

2010:

I have to confess that I have very little patience, especially for time wasted.

I have things to do. People to see. Kids to beat. Dinner to whip up. Laundry to wash.

People, do not be wasting my time.

This past weekend, Rico and I were going out to celebrate our anniversary. He had called and made overnight arrangements for Ella and since Rachel was gone for the evening, that meant we were actually going to have a whole evening out.  A night to include an adult beverages, no cutting anyone’s meat, the wearing of a push-up bra and lots of stripper smelling lotion from Victoria Secret. I even threw in a pair of heels for good luck.

Someone was getting lucky tonight.

 Before we could leave on our rendezvous, we had to make a trip to a large home improvement store to purchase blinds.

Sounds easy enough? But NO.

You see, Saturday was rumored to be the last nice day of the season and apparently a lot of said home improvement store employees called in, ehhhmmm, “sick” Saturday thus creating an overload of work for the remaining few employees that actually showed.

It was like Senior Skip Day in high school…but like with sick days and retirement.

Anyway, I needed blinds. Custom cut blinds. And since I was raised Southern and polite and all that crap, I asked for help and waited. Smiling sweetly….cause that’s what us southern girls are supposed to do…ladaladaladalada…..yes, ma’am and all that baloney.

I waited….and waited.  I politely asked again and waited. I smiled and said things like “thank you” and such. Employees kept walking by, occasionally trying to call for help. After awhile they just started to ignore me.

30 minutes….tick, tock, tick, tock.

I am still smiling sweetly but there is steam coming outta my ears.

Daylight was wasting and I had to come up with a plan.

What to do???

And then it came to me! You know how they have a gazillion security cameras in that place like someones gonna try to put a table saw down their britches, well, I figured if they saw me all sprawled out in the aisle like I was dead or having some kind of convulsion, someone would come see what was wrong with me and get my blinds fixed…PRONTO….because I am either very medically ill or very mentally ill, either way, they would want me gone.

So I did it. I sprawled my sweet southern ass right there in the window treatment aisle of the large home improvement store aisle.

My husband thought I had lost my mind.

After telling me to get my you know what outta the floor, Rico let me know that he didn’t think it was to funny…seems he doesn’t share my sense of humor/intelligence/wittiness/charm/mischievous attitude.

It was still worth making him blush.

Thanks for 5 amazing years, I promise I will embarrass you even more on our 10th.

Love,

SFM

Since Blogher has removed my advertising and because I am getting accosted by the locals due to my hiatus, I have returned to the blogging world.

And since I have returned, surely this is worth a free 6 inch Cold Cut Combo at Subway?

Huh, Shelia?

Huh????

Anyhoo.

This summer has been trying to say the least. There are many things going on health wise.  We are also are in the middle of a home remodel, which I will expand on in some later post…cause you all know Rico had to put his own little flair on it just to drive me nuts.

I am just glad to be back! I plan on blogging at least two, if not three times a week. I will post links to my Facebook page to keep you all updated or you can join my RSS feed above and be notified in your email box.

So, you ask? What was I doing all summer that I couldn’t take a couple minutes to post on my blog??

1. I decided to take a sabbatical to master the art of cooking the perfect homemade pizza. I have succeeded. It is one of the reasons I have gained 10 pounds. I will share the recipe with you soon but your hips will curse my name forever.

2. I had to wear a Nacho Libre suit most of the summer to break up the wrestling matches between my two heathen daughters. And let me be the first to tell you, girls fight dirty. I only had to tap out twice to Rico and that was for a pee break and a ham sammich.

3. I went to watch a Roller Derby match and I instantly knew I missed my calling in life. If I was only 10 years younger, I would change my name to Blondie DaButcherKnife and it would be on like Donkey Kong.

4. I saw Jimmy Buffett in concert and have spent the rest of the summer trying to persuade my husband into selling all our earthly possessions and becoming beach bums in Key West. I have it all planned out. He can bartend and I will open a hot dog stand on Duval Street called “I Dream of Weenie”. How could it not work?

5. I have also spent the summer arguing with my husband that I do not have delusions of grandeur, that I do not need medication and that I am stable enough to drive and keep the children by myself. I also do not know why he always feels the need to smell my drinks.  Seriously, he gets on my nerves with all this responsibility crap.

6. I almost converted to Catholicism in an airport in Rochester, Minnesota. I would spill the beans about this story but it is too good not to make it into a regular post. All I will say is that is involves a priest, a cell phone, David Beckham and me.

7. Since my children have argued about everything this summer from who has biggest booger to who has the most marshmallows in their cereal, I have built a shrine to my now defunct uterus and sing praise and worship hymns to my sterility.

Love,

SFM

Snakes.

Mice.

Driving across large bridges.

My daughters becoming strippers.

The demise of MAC Cosmetics.

Salmonella.

Parallel parking my SUV.

Forgetting to renew my subscription to People Magazine.

Some are relevant but most are silly.

However, they are real to me and since this is my soap box, I get to share my neurotic symptomology with all of you.

Yesterday, Glenn Beck announced he was suffering from macular dystrophy and would likely be blind within a year.

Now I have a new fear.

I don’t want to go blind.

 Never, ever, ever.

Most of you probably think it’s because I would be unable to adapt, because I wouldn’t see my girls beautiful faces or be unable to drive.

Well yes, that would be part of the fear, but I know I would adapt and my memory would serve me well in remembering faces, colors, landscapes and navigating.

The MAIN reason I am scared to death of going blind is my husband.

He would then be in charge of the task of dressing me.

Holy Crap.  (Shudder) It makes me just nauseous thinking about it.

I mean, he’s a great dresser. He has good taste in his own clothes.

But for me…..eehhmm, well, not so much.

You see, I like to dress like this…

And he would like for me to dress like this…

Not just in the privacy of our bedroom…but out in public.

Uh, yeah.

You see my concern?

I can NOT be walking around in stripper heels, wearing a trashy outfit from cheapstrippers.com while trying to read the braille version of Garden & Gun Magazine.

It just can’t happen folks.

Tonight won’t you all join with me in prayer to the patron saint of eyesight, Saint Lucy for the preservation of my eyesight?

Thank you Jesus.

Amen.

Derby week in Kentucky is a fabulous time. Everyone is trying to figure out which horse they’re betting on, which hat they’re wearing, whose Derby party they’re attending and making sure they have all the ingredients for a Mint Julep.

It has been pouring rain here in the Bluegrass since Friday but for a few minutes on Saturday afternoon, the sun broke through and we all got to sing “My Old Kentucky Home” with a little sun on our faces.

This Derby has been bittersweet for me in that severe flooding has occurred in Kentucky as well as in Tennessee.

Many people have died. People are stranded due to flooded highways and interstates. Homes have been evacuated.

Kinda puts things into perspective.

My husband has been out since early this morning….working claims, helping people move furniture out of flooded basements and tonight, helping a good friend salvage his belongings before his house is taken over by the Green River.

The water is so high they had to canoe to his house.

Things can be replaced. Houses can be rebuilt.

People can not.

I pray tonight that all these guys are safe…especially mine.

This is my 3 year old, Ella.

A.K.A. Ella Bella, The Puddin’ Pop or The Turd.

Thanks to Dora, Ella speaks alot of Spanish and that’s great because being bilingual will greatly enhance her employablilty later in life.

However, here in my Casa, we don’t speak el Spanish.

My Spanish vocabulary is limited to: Taco, Enchilada, Burrito and Tequila.

People, I have my priorities straight.

For the last couple weeks, Ella has been saying “Asshole” and every time she says it, I fuss at her, wash her mouth out with soap and tell her she is going to hell.

Well, not really. But I do fuss at her and tell her it’s not a nice word and to please not repeat it, especially in front of Nana.

PLEASE LORD, NOT IN FRONT OF NANA!!

Much to my dismay, she kept saying it over and over and over.

Yesterday while she was watching Dora, I overheard her repeat a word in Spanish…and it sounded just like “asshole.”

For the last two weeks I have been emotionally scarring my three year old for saying a Spanish word.

And if I knew what word she was actually saying it would be a whole lot easier to plead my case with her therapist in about twenty years but I guess I will just have to say, “NO COMP-RAY-HEN-DAY AMIGO.”

What I wanted to be when I grew up. Where I wanted to go. Who I wanted to be.

Silly dreams.

Fun dreams.

Like, in first grade, I wanted to be Dorothy Hamill.

Then I went ice skating and realized it was nothing like roller skating.

After falling on my butt a hundred times, I came to the conclusion that crap was harder than it looked, the Dorothy hairstyle made me look like a dork, and since I was well into my “chubby” phase of life, the leotards were not that flattering on me.

That dream went up in smoke faster than you can say Cheech and Chong.

Other dreams came and went.

Being picked to be in a music video…like Courtney Cox in that Bruce Springsteen video?

Yeah, that would be my one way ticket out of this one horse town.

Or being a Fly Girl on in Living Color?

But yet again, reality slapped me across the face when I realized I would never have a J Lo booty and my dance skills looked like a cat having a seizure.

Singer?

Nope.

Actress?

Nope.

So, I lowered the bar.

I came up with a dream that required absolutely no talent, just luck.

Pure luck.

I started playing the lottery. Playing mainly when the Lotto reached gazillions of dollars.

Cause who wants to just win a mil? After taxes, it’s like nothing. I needed big money to fulfill my dreams.

Big house, big pool, cabana.

Yeah, having a pool boy was my ticket.

Finding the right pool boy would be my only dilemma.

And so after watching Ricky Martin sing Livin’ La Vida Loca at the Grammys years ago, I had my cabana boy picked out.

Dark, tall, handsome.

He could sing me songs while he was slathering me with oil.

Ahhh.

Today, Ricky announced he was living his life as a “fortunate homosexual man.”

And though I’m happy for him, my dream has died.

I am 38 and have no hope for a Latin pool boy.

Rico has promised to sport a banana hammock and fan me with palm leaves when my winning ticket comes in,but it’s just not the same.

R.I.P Ricky the Pool Boy.