When I was seventeen,  an eye doctor, who smelled strongly of old spice and good tobacco, told me that I would eventually lose sight in both of my eyes (one already being 95% blind since the early eighties) thanks to macular degeneration.

When I was twenty-three, a specialist, who smelled of Hugo Boss and good leather, clarified the other diagnosis with one semi-insulting query:

“Were you raised on a farm?”

Turns out that the aforementioned blindness in my right eye was not caused by any sort of degenerative eye disease so much as by a nifty little thing called toxoplasmosis. (You know… that thing that gives you an excuse to pass over the kitty litter duty during pregnancy.)

This new diagnosis was great in the fact that I would not be going blind.

Gross in the fact that, somewhere along my hazard-filled, unsupervised, Lord of the Flies-esque childhood, I touched poop.

Ewwww.

Being blind in one eye, as sucky as it is, does have its advantages, however. For starters, I get to load my kids off on the nearest sucker with two working eyes whenever some super-duper-so-fabulous-oh-mom-I’m-so-flippin’-excited-I-could-pee-myself-and-can-I have-popcorn-please cartoon comes out in 3D. (Neener. Neener.)

And then there’s that no-doctor-worth-his-Hugo-Boss-prescribes-a-blind-chick-contacts need for the super-hot-slutty-librarian glasses.

Thirdly…

Well…

Ummmm…

Uhhhh…

Aren’t my new glasses just too cute?!@&@?

choosy moms, 2009.

Yesterday, while making what can only be described as the first among the hundreds of thousands of the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that will be created by my hands over the course of this summer, I found myself spending a significant amount of time contemplating the following conundrum:

If I were making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and only had one knife, no paper towel/rag/shirt, and a cold (thereby deterring any preemptive utensil-licking) , would I choose to put on the peanut butter or the jelly first? Either choice, as anyone who has ever made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich knows, results in leftover residue from the other in the jar.

Given the circumstances (and my adamant refusal to explore the reasons behind me being naked and in a bubble making sandwiches), my initial choice was to put the jelly on first… After all, I use the jelly in many more instances where peanut butter residue would not be a welcome nor expected guest than I do peanut butter.

Especially considering that I mainly use peanut butter for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

And one expects jelly on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Even if you are naked and in a bubble.

And then I remembered that jelly needs refrigeration whereas peanut butter does not, and quickly changed my choice. (A little cold peanut butter on my morning toast is better than fungi in the brain any day, I say.)

Satisfied with my answer and duly impressed with my ability to apply logic to even the most mundane and random topics, I began putting away the bread, the jar of peanut butter, and the squeezable bottle of jelly from the day’s lunch…

And reveled in my insanity.

“What’s the fundamental difference between my mother and yours?”

“Humph. Loaded question,” he says.

“Seriously… What is it?”

“I dunno,” he shrugs his shoulders.

“The fundamental difference between our mothers is that my mother knows that the voices in her head are a byproduct of an overactive imagination and a misspent youth… Your mother just thinks Jesus is calling. ”

Peter was in town this past weekend (For those of you not knee-deep in the quagmire that is my life right now, Peter accepted a job back in our hometown in Louisiana a couple of months ago and has been living and working there in the meantime while me and the brood are still here in Alabama awaiting the end of the school year.) accompanied by what can only be described as the verbal equivalent of a powerpoint presentation on the potential benefits and possible gains of living with Satan until such a time that a new house can be found.

When asked why in all that is holy I should live with his mother (even if she does give me leave to buy whatever I want), he pulled out what must be the trump card hidden away in the sleeve of all grownass men still tugging about on the umbilical cord:

Just think of all of the money that we can save.

[And now, ladies and gentlemen,please turn to page 125 in your hymnals and join the Shakespeare Choir in singing the age-old classic, What the Fuck You Talkin' About, Willis?]

The man actually wants “us” to live with his mother.

He wants me to live with his mother.

Live.With.His.Mother.

Yeah… that chill running up the back of your neck right now?

Comes hand-in-hand with Bible-Carrying-Mother-in-Law Satan.

The same Bible-Carrying-Mother-in-Law Satan who once explained to me that should her son ever cheat on me, I was to forgive and forget because “those little girls just throw themselves at him, and he can’t be expected to be perfect.”

[Can I get a *bullshit cough* from the congregation, please?]

He left yesterday to get back to Louisiana, work, and the bossom of his youth.

I googled divorce attorneys.

Who, by the way, are much cheaper in Alabama than Louisiana.

And just think of all the money that we can save.

Of course…

I could just ignore her and suck it up for a bit until something affordable comes along…

“What’s the fundamental difference between you and me?”

“A vagina,” he says.

“Besides that…”

“I dunno,” he shrugs his shoulders.

“The fundamental difference between you and me is that when I finally snap and serve you up a big helping of  my special “fresh out of the car trunk” potato salad, I’m smart enough to get away with it. And you? Well… you’ll just think that Jesus is calling.”

We interrupt this irregularly scheduled programming with a special message from Google:

“…ladies and gentlemen of the web, due to the large volume of sheer awesomeness put forth via this blog (as determined by search engine results, advanced algorithms in inane topicity, and the swimsuit round) we are very pleased to announce that Judith has been crowned Queen of the World. Thank you.

You may now return to your crownless sanity-clad blogs already in progress. ”

P.S. This totally counts as a Wordless Wednesday.

P.S.S. I look really good in a tiara.

P.S.S.S. Post scripts are really fun.

P.S.S.S.S. I’m stopping now. I promise.

They stuck me with all of the kids again, so mine’s pretty much closed for business (permanently)…

But since I can’t speak for the rest of you breeders, I thought it best to warn you ahead of time. For more Weekly Winners, be sure to pay a friendly little visit to Sarcastic Mom!

Dear Guy Behind Me in the Walmart Checkout Line,

The fact that you thought it appropriate to reach up and touch the tattoo on the back of my neck without warning (or invitation) really creeps me the fuck out.

Sincerely,
Never Has Taser When She Needs It

Dear Starbucks Employee Who Handed Me Stack of “We Screwed Up Your Order, Have a Drink on Us” Coupons for No Reason,

I love you.

Eternally,
Caffeine Makes Me a Happy Girl

Dear People Who Write Grey’s Anatomy,

WTF, dudes???

Regards,
Thinks That the Whole “Smashing All the Bones in Someone’s Face in Case Contract Negotiations Fall Through” Plan is so Daytime Emmy

Dear Lady Who is Making Left-Hand Turn at Busy Intersection,

“Creeping” is only acceptable under one circumstance—every other instance is just plain douchebaggery.

Your friend,
Hoping to Run into Clive Owen Someday


Dear Showtime,

I.Told.You.So.

Love,
Nobody Ever Listens to Me


Dear Woman in Restaurant Who Huffed in Annoyance,

Common sense would suggest that had you NOT wanted your pretty little ears to be subjected to noisy children, you would’ve chosen a venue that didn’t offer crayons with their menus.

Regards,
Pinches Her Children to Make Them Scream Even Louder in Hopes That Your Head Will Explode

Dear Cable TV Provider,

Thanks for offering such a  wide selection of adult programming… as well as no option to remove any of it from the guide.

Your loyal customer,
Can Think of Nothing Better Than Scrolling Through 95 Channels of Horny Housewives in order to find Noggin

Dear Lady at Workplace,

Why, yes! Asking me if my kids are “mixed” is entirely appropriate… If I bred dogs.

Yours truly,
Desperately Seeking Labradoodle

Dear Self,

You totally wrote this post just so you could use the word “douchebaggery”, didn’t you? Awesome.

xoxo,
Judith

Huntsville has a really great arts festival every year called “Panoply”, and this year’s was held the last week of April. Since the weather turned out nice and hot, we got a chance to attend. There were loads of free activities for the kids as well as the $7 ice creams to make up for it. Good times, good times.

Hey there! No time long blog, eh?

But to be fair… I totally warned you in a “Caution: Coffee is Hot.” sorta way.

And coffee is totally hot, don’t ‘ya know? But before we get into a whole post about the necessity for stupid human warnings and the impact that they have on society, I thought that we should go over a few things…

Namely, my new shoes.

(If you’re reading me through a reader right now, you cannot see my new shoes and are therefore the outcast in this conversation. That makes you the stinky kid. And nobody wants to be the stinky kid, right?)

My new shoes make the whole place look different, don’t they? Magic shoes are awesome, let me tell you. (Although they would be much more awesomer if they could shrink asses as well…)

And while I loved my old template (and the one before that, and the one before that), I decided yesterday that I needed something new to hopefully encourage me to post more often.

And by the looks of it, it’s totally working.

Although I make no guarantees.

A few things to note:

• I’ve added AJAX commenting, so you can see the comments and add your own without leaving the homepage. (Lazy folk unite, yo.) Update: Totally ruined the loading time… and I’m too lazy to wait. So ixnay on the AJAX, okay?

• Sidebars have officially become “not-on-the-sidebars” (which are hipper, by the way, and I’m not just saying that because I have them. Really.).

• I need more questions for my faq page, so ask me something inane. (Yes, I realize that a lot of you emailed me questions ages ago that I never answered, but I lost them. Lazy folk unite, yo.)

• I’ve added a Social Whore section which has all of the updates from my twitter, last.fm, ALL of my blogs, goodreads, and et cetera on one page, thereby making stalking Judith an incredibly passive sport and easier on the joints. (Lazy folk unite, yo.)

• Ads, which I will be handling on my own since that woman with the leather corset and whip who complained that I wasn’t posting often enough threatened dire consequences (Under normal circumstances, threats from a lady with a whip would be the cherry-topped highlight of my day… But the fact that she was a chick from BlogHer and was totally serious about the not posting bit (Lazy folk unite, yo.) kind of ruined it for me. Damn bureaucrats.), are now included.

• And taking into account the super-duper-wide posting area, I’m pretty sure that I can get away with skipping on the words every once again and just posting a really big picture. (Lazy folk unite, yo.)

Comments, criticisms, suggestions, and faq submissions totally welcome…

Just as long as you don’t tell me to update my “about me”.

Because I’m getting to that.

Eventually. (Lazy folk…)