I feel guilty that I haven't been blogging as regular as I used to. Not because it's hurting you, my bored and needy blog reader - but mostly because I enjoy to write in here so much. It breaks up my night and fulfills a desire to use big words that I can't use face-to-face on account of surrounding myself with idiots most of the time.

Don't worry. I don't mean you. I mean some other idiot. Ahem, moving on.

Today is Easter. This doesn't really hold a lot of meaning for me aside from finally giving into my Lent sacrifice (no Brussel Sprouts, it was torture) and an opportunity to remiss about memories of Easter past. And really that second part is a lie - because really the only memory I have is one from the 80's of getting an Easter basket with a Debbie Gibson tape in it. Lame I know. Seems to me that Easter is just another Christian holiday stolen by the gluttonous bastards at Hallmark trying to make a buck by secularizing everything and forcing you to spend gobs of your hard-earned money on shit that is bad for you. I think today alone I ate about ten pounds of chocolate. Let me also state for the record that I don't get Easter baskets anymore and the candy that I ate was mostly stolen from the stock I bought for my boys and from leftover "snacks" I packed on the airplane for Arizona. I'm ashamed at myself. My eating has gone from bad to badder to worsest. It's disgusting. I must try to get back on track lest I become one of those fatties at the pool wearing a swim dress and a barrel to hide my flab.

Like this girl even:


I mean, the 1920's (ironically enough, long before the portion size in this country got out of control) - they had the right idea. More fabric and less skin. And an ugly ass head wrap/bonnet too. In case seeing your hair might possess someone to have sex with you (before marriage!) right at the pool. I'm bringing this look back in a bad way. Don't be mad you didn't think of it first... while everyone else is wearing thongs and takinis, I will be sporting my chunkadunk bod in a 1922 edition bathing suit. Only minus the umbrella. Need both my hands to hold my cigarettes and my cheese steak sub. Moving on....



So yeah last week I went to Arizona. It's so beautiful there. Warm. Nice. Less bums. Less surprise snow storms. More trees. Family members that actually give a crap about my children. You know, stuff you take for granted in normal life. I actually looked up nursing jobs over there and apartments. I just think it would benefit my children, really. And my Seasonal Affective Disorder.

Don't laugh. I really do have that. You're so mean.

I've recently discovered that no matter how much you try, you can't fake feelings. Good or bad, negative or positive - you feel what you feel when you feel it. Ya feel me? Of course, you could live your whole life repressing said feelings in hopes that the truth will never surface and you never have to present yourself as the homosexual/serial killer/cross dresser that you are on the inside. But really - only you know how you feel about something or someone. I'm so tired of other people giving me advise on what's best *for me*. Or telling me statistics. Or using their own reference or story to pigeonhole it for the rest of us. I'm confusing you, I can tell. I guess what I'm trying to say is I try not to follow any real standard set of guidelines when it comes to what to do about my relationships in life. Growing up, all I saw was bad relationships between my father and mother, my stepfather and mother - my own boyfriends (some of them anyway). And you know, you can't let other people be your guide to your own happiness... you have to create it yourself. And if it means breaking a conventional rule - or going against what might seem rational - so be it.

I'm not making any sense. See this is why I don't try to get serious ever on my blogs. I should stick with things I know - humor, making fun of myself and meatloaf recipes. Oh - and quotes from 80's John Hughes movies.

Well, folks my battery is near death and I have you to blame. And all of the Asian pornos I was downloading in the background. Guess my multi-tasking has caught up to me. I am off of work tomorrow so I will be chilaxin' around the house, digesting rabbit shaped candy and trying to find a new place to live come July. Hopefully something with a yard and no downstairs neighbor to piss off/torment. If any of my blog readers happen to be wealthy property owners looking for a good tenant who pays the bills on time and may or may not scream loudly at night in the bedroom (with my children! You're so perverted!!), shoot me an email. Just don't judge me by my FICO. It's negative something, I'm sure.

If you love something, set it free. If it comes back to you - it probably forgot its expensive waffle iron and wanted to smear feces on your flat panel TV out of revenge.

I'm sorry for the delay in blogging. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. If it makes you feel any better, I had a big St. Patty's Day blog planned out in my semi-vacant brain. It had leprechauns and shamrocks and a recipe for a drink with Irish cream, corn beef (and Guinness), also a photo of me wearing only shamrock pasties and a red beard (run away with that one)...(or not) and every other Irish stereotype you can think about regarding the holiday. I even talked about the history of St. Patrick and how Americans take any celebration remotely religious and make it a secular season of excess potable consumption and debauchery. It was a classic, really. It's too bad I can't have a blog with sound, because I could have totally included a recording of my Irish accent that very much resembles a drunk pirate from the Middle East with a bad lisp.

Alas, I was/am lazy and the aforementioned blog was never even created. So what's new? I'm queen of the slackers. Besides, they say it's the thought that counts and I *thought* about writing it for you. So, there's that.

That's such a crock isn't it? "It's the thought that counts"? That's totally not true. I mean, at least not as far as gift giving is concerned. "I thought about getting you a diamond ring, but instead I just napped. I thought about it though". Super! Can I wear that thought on my finger and brag about it to my friends?? Maybe for Christmas this year, I will just write down some thoughts of gifts on a piece of scrap paper. Then, instead of sending Christmas cards (which I don't even bother with anyway), I will just send you my thoughts. Ooooo, a post card even. With a picture of me on the crapper wearing a santa hat. Yes, yes - this idea is getting better and better. And then on the other side of the card, I will put what I thought about getting you but then never got around to purchasing (or an equally disappointing secondary gift that in no way lives up to the thought itself):

"Merry Christmas & Happy New Year; I thought about getting you wall-to-wall carpeting for your basement. Instead, here's a carpet square I stole from my kid's preschool". Love, Jess.

"I thought about getting you a $200 Gift Certificate to Ruth Chris. Instead, here's a recipe I made up just now for Salisbury Steak". Happy New Year. Love, Jess.

Man, this will be the best Christmas for me, ever. Well, for my wallet, anyway. Not a great Christmas for you though, Chester.

You ever take a shower and then you have to poop not long afterwards and you think "man! What a waste. My butt was clean for like 10 minutes". Yeah, me neither. Ever. I don't ever think that. I probably talk about pooping and farting a little too much for most normal people to handle. But it's seriously a fact of life that everyone does it. Even Angelina Jolie poops. She does. It's hard to picture, isn't it? Cause I know you're trying to imagine it right now (or now you are)... True Story: There was this kids book called 'Everybody Poops' that I first read sometime in high school. I think a friend got it for me as a joke since even back then I was crude and disgusting. At any rate, the book was all about how everyone and everything living in this world poops. It was disturbing, but mostly entertaining. (hey! like every show on Vh1!) I've thought about buying it now for my own kids, but I can't decide if Wesley would like it or think I'm a weirdo. Or he'd laugh and want to take it to show and tell next week at his catholic school. Where (I'm not even kidding) they have a whole list of rules about what you can and cannot bring for show and tell, lest you provoke some child to commit a horrible, horrible sin. You know, nothing with guns or blood/guts... or Satan. There goes half my kids toys right there.

I'm kidding, geesh. He doesn't have anything with Satan. They don't even make Satan toys anymore. Those Bratz dolls came pretty close though.

Man, I'm so glad I don't have any girls. Have you seen the clothes they make for girls nowadays? Everything is super slutty and borderline trashy. I saw a prom dress last year that was a halter top with the ENTIRE BELLY exposed. Really? For a formal? Nothing screams 'I'm losing my virginity' on prom night like a half-bikini ball gown. I hope they sell it with an IUD and an antibiotic. And one of those chastity belts. I'd totally make my daughter wear one of them on prom night (can you imagine *that* argument?). And if she's even remotely cute (which, she would be - come on, look at how gorgeous I am), she's getting some thick braces and bottle cap glasses. Even if she doesn't need them. I'm TOTALLY SERIOUS. So yeah, maybe it's for the best that I have only boys...I mean, I sorta want one so I can play dress up, slather on the make up and do up her hair up like my own personal human baby doll. I mean that in a non-sicko way. But if I were truly being honest here, girls are so caddy and horrible... emotional little monsters. I mean, I know - I was one once. A girl. I mean, I'm still a girl - I'm just an old, old girl. Elderly girl, even. I think you get what I'm saying. At least you would get it, if you would focus on me for a change and stop getting distracted by the shiny stuff near your computer.

Still with me? Oh, goodie.

I probably should get to bed soon. It's taken me two days total to write this blog and it's not even a masterpiece. Today at work we had to 911 an old crazy broad out because she couldn't breathe. She came into the center that way! I swear, people just like to get rid of the crazies they live with, ya know? They're all 'Grandma is so crazy... and she's near death! Send her to that day program so she can die on their watch!!' Which essentially means I'm just passing the buck to the EMTs and the hospital, because - let's face it - once you've done psych nursing for more than a year, you barely know how to open a band-aid without assistance, let alone resuscitate someone back to life. I had to turn the oxygen tank on today and it took me almost an hour (while reading the handy pamphlet provided by the wizards at the oxygen tank company) to do it. Sad, no? I'd be wallowing in my lack of advanced nursing skills if it weren't for the fact that I never again have to do nights or holidays or operate a vent. Or change a poop bag. (Except, you know - for when the time comes and I get my own, I suppose. I'm hoping that by the time I'm in my 100's, they will have invented some magical pill that you can take and the poop will just evaporate before it comes out. It could happen! It could! Hey - wait, how did I get back on the topic of poop?)

If you have any ideas about a blog topic on which I should write, feel free to tell me. And stop yer whining about how you can't leave a comment without signing up, blah blah blah. Just figure it out, ok? Do it for the orphans! Maybe I'll write about Easter next time and keep up the generalized theme of holiday ruins. Easter's my birthday this year, ya know. (So much for subtle hints). Not much time left for gift-buying, so you'd better get on it. And instead of putting a lot of thought into it (see above), just put a lot of cash money into it instead. It says "I care" without the hassle of emotions and love and stuff. You know what I mean....