Nicole Locher is my hero.

Don't know who Nicole Locher is? Well, by all means, let me introduce you to her… Well, not her, exactly, but her clothing line:

Pretty little shirt, eh? Delicate and feminine with the added beauty of vintage-style embroidery.

It also says "will fuck for shoes".

See? Right there. will fuck for shoes.

There isn't a single shirt in the line that I don't covet more than chocolate-covered orgasms. And trust me, I covet chocolate-covered orgasms. A lot.

Unfortunately, while I have no doubts whatsoever at all in my ability to somehow manage to display these beauties as properly as they deserve- even in a normal toddler-inspired-and-appropriately-censored daily routine such as my own (see proposed schedule above); at $87 bucks a pop, they regretfully must forever remain on my Thou Shalt Covet Forever (Or At Least Until You Somehow Miraculously Become a Popular Blogger and People Actually Start Paying You to Write About Kotex Diapers and Busted Vibrators– Which Ain't Never Gonna Happen Because You Suck) List.

Unless, of course, you want to buy me one.

Then I'd totally give you that hand job.

Or send you naked pictures of the hubby.

Whichever.

On a cheaper note (although one must wonder how much cheaper one can get than giving up the goodies for a shirt…), OHMommy is giving away a pair of fabulous shoes from a surprising source. You should check it out.

No fucking required.

I'm always extra-polite to people who live inside those little speaker boxes at fast food restaurants.

There's always that chance of them doing unmentionable things to my happy meal, of course, but for the most part, I feel a little sorry for them.

They live in little speaker boxes, people.

Now don't get me wrong, this whole "feeling sorry" business isn't something that's based on the reality that they spend their days schlepping about in old french fry grease and horrifically-calorized* meat-like patties (although one must admit that that sounds quite dreadful)… But a job's a job and your dollar spends just as well as mine does.

It's more like a…

I spent six long years toiling away in the fiery pits of retail hell, myself , and would never ever wish such a fate on another human being… kind of pity.

Because, let's face it, people suck.

(This is about the point where I'd go on to describe all of the horrific details of working in a book store where customers (sent by Satan himself, no doubt) truly expected you to know exactly what book they're looking for based off of the fact that they know the first two letters of the name of the minor character who wore a blue hat on page 153. But as gas prices are on the rise and I can't afford therapy of any kind… we'll just skip it, mmmkay?)

But somehow, despite all of this "I survived a sucky job and so will you" camaraderie, I still manage to up Judith's Public Cursing count by a rather significant number every time something like this happens:

Peter: I'd like a kid's meal with a cheeseburger, no onions, no pickles, apples fries, and an apple juice.

Lady Who Lives in a Speaker Box: Can you repeat that, sir?

Peter: A KID'S MEAL WITH A CHEESEBURGER, NO ONIONS, NO PICKLES-

LWLISB: The cheeseburgers don't come with onions. Only cheese, ketchup, and pickles.

Peter: Okay. I'll also have a number two-

LWLISB: [a tad rudely] You said you don't want onions or pickles on your cheeseburger- The cheeseburgers don't come with onions. Only cheese, ketchup, and pickles.

Peter: Yes?

LWLISB: THE CHEESEBURGERS DON'T COME WITH ONIONS.

Peter: I understand that, thank you.

LWLISB: BUT YOU SAID NO ONIONS.

Peter: Okay?

LWLISB: [shaking her little box in rage] THE CHEESEBURGERS DON'T COME WITH ONIONS.

Peter: [looking a little bewildered] As I don't WANT ANY ONIONS, that's fine.

LWLISB: I SAID THAT THE CHEESEBURGERS DON'T COME WITH ONIONS. ONLY CHEESE, KETCHUP, AND PICKLES.

Peter: Yes, ma'am, I think you made that perfectly clear-

LWLISB: SO WHAT DO YOU WANT?

Later on, whilst picking the onions off of my cheeseburger, I suddenly realized that some hells were those of your own making–

Who am I to deny you the privilege of burning in them?

However, even after all these years, I still have no fucking clue which book has a minor character wearing a blue hat on page 153…

But I can live with that.

*This made-up word is used by a professional wordmakerupper. Please do not attempt to use this word at home.

Another fine rant brought to you by an emotional, blubbering, scrapbooking woman.

Not.

As a a matter of fact, I don't scrapbook.

At all.

Not that there's anything wrong with scrapbooking, it's just not a medium in which I excel. Much like sewing, ironing, and frying eggs; it's just one of those things that I don't do unless absolutely necessary. Therefore, the only sewing, ironing, and egg-frying that occurs in this house is done by my husband.

Because, unlike me, he actually can sew, iron, and fry an egg. And he can do it all rather well, if I do say so myself.

Ah… But the question here is, Can he Scrapbook?

While thumbing through this month's issue of Parenting magazine, I stumbled upon something rather disheartening lodged between the page number (29) and a poll on whether or not it's acceptable to re-gift a child's present (47% say Yes)…

Don't worry, it wasn't a scandalous picture of a woman breastfeeding or anything as terrible as all that *snicker*.

It was simply a picture of a man…

Who was crying.

And next to this weeping male, a simple definition:

fe-man \fe-man\ noun

The opposite of a he-man, he cries openly, compiles scrapbooks, and does other stuff that'd freak us out to see our husbands do.

A fe-man?

A fe-man?

Can I get a WTF? from the congregation please?

WTF who/what/why the fuck?

The universal interrogative particle.

I set the magazine in front of my egg-frying, button-sewing, iron-wielding husband; and poked the page a few times with my finger.

"Want me to get the matches or a pen?" he jokes.

"I haven't made up my mind yet, " I say in all seriousness, "Do you scrapbook?"

"Not that I know of. Do you?"

"Nope… And I'm expecting my penis to grow in any day now because of it."

feminism /as it pertains to Judith/

My belief that anyone, male or female, should be able to do anything without suffering the backlash of out-dated, ridiculous, dumbass, ignorant, "You should be in the kitchen…" gender connotations.

So, my dear Parenting editors, if you absolutely insist on sticking us all into one of those little demographic boxes lined up so prettily across your desks…

Maybe it's finally time to take a big leap into this century and replace the ones labeled "Stereotypes" with ones that say something along the lines of "Can't cut a straight line or Allergic to Glue" and "Enjoys Glitter".

Or you could just come on over to my house and tell my son that he "throws like a girl".

Whatever makes you feel better.

So…

It's been one of those weeks.

I say that like it's Saturday evening, don't I?

But it's not.

It's Tuesday.

But by Saturday, I may have jumped off a bridge. So it's probably best to get this "woe is me" post out of the way now…

But, as I was saying, it's been one of those weeks.

"What kind of weeks, Judith?"

(You know, I really ought to figure out some way to style those audience-type questions of y'all's. Right now, they just don't have the same effect as they would in a live studio. Or even on Dora the Explorer for that matter. But I digress…)

The kind of weeks when your favorite "I feel pretty panties" suddenly become your "No, motherfucker, YOU have a happy period" panties.

The kind of weeks when your toddler mistakes the last of your tampons for action figured-sized rocket launchers.

The kind of weeks where you crack your favorite coffee mug while searching for the whiskey, you forget not one but three seperate loads of clothes in the washer for so long that the socks begin discussing the theory of creationism as it applies to wet socks left in the washer for too long, and you seriously contemplate dumping out that box of Sweet-N-Low on the dining room table just so that you may call yourself Tony Montana.

Because by this point, yes, you are officially that insane.

And the thought of a little holiday all to yourself in a padded room sounds absolutely delightful.

So as I was saying…

It's been one of those weeks.

And it all started out with a cute little robot and a bucket of popcorn. Imagine that.

Now, we all know my experiences with movie theaters… One might say that I'm unlucky. The more practical person, however, would say that I'm cursed.

We're talking "plague on both your houses" kind of cursed.

But one of my other personalities happens to be a glass is a third-full kind of gal, so I continue to have hope that one day- one day- I'll actually be able to enjoy an actual movie in an actual theater.

Which is why I stared into the face of danger and took the kids to see Wall-e last Wednesday night.

Occasionally, being heathens in the Bible Belt has its advantages. One of those just happens to be the fact that the evening shows at the local theater are guaranteed to be near empty on church nights. So if, say, you often find yourself near tears as your two-year-old has a meltdown the size of New Orleans over who gets to hold the popcorn bucket; on Wednesday and Sunday nights, you may just luck out and have the whole theater to yourself (i.e. no witnesses).

Peter didn't get off of work until late afternoon, so we grabbed dinner at Chili's and got there just in time to catch the nine o'clock.

Everyone was in a relatively good mood, popcorn was fairly fresh, and the world seemed to be a happy place full of rainbows and puppies and kitties… All in all, a damn good set-up.

At last.

This was it. My moment of glory. I was finally going to see a movie and enjoy it without coming to any sort of physical or emotional harm.

By God, I was going to be just like all of the normal people for once in my life.

And I was happy about it.

It took The Baby a bit to get into the movie, of course, and there was a brief bout of musical chairs here and there… But everyone quickly got settled in and it was smooth sailing.

Wall-e was delightful.

The kids were laughing. Peter and I were laughing. Matter of fact, I'm pretty sure that we were enjoying it more than they were. Which made the experience that much more of a triumph.

Right up until the moment that it caught on fire, that is.

(Oh, shut-up. You knew it was coming. Hell, deep down, I knew it was coming.)

It was actually rather surreal, that hole appearing in the middle of the frame of the little robot flying through space with his fire extinguisher… At first, I thought, "Hmmm… when did Robert Rodriguez start working for Disney?"

And then, "Okay, I don't get it."

Followed by, "Shit. I think that's really burning."

And then, "Oh Baby, don't cry! They'll fix it in just a second…"

"Any second now…"

Ten minutes later:

"I'm sure it's about to start soon… Here, have some popcorn. Okay, who ate all of the popcorn!@$#@!?"

"…No, no, Mommy's not upset with you…. And put your shoes back on."

"…No, you can't run down the aisle. I don't care if there's no one here."

"…No, how many bones does a Brontosaurus have?"

Ten minutes after that:

"Get up off of the floor…"

"Ugh. Don't eat that!"

"Where is your Daddy? How long could it possibly take to walk up there and tell somebody to fix this…"

"Lord, grant me the serenity to…"

Ten minutes after that:

Now, you don't really think that I sat there any longer than that, do you?

I'm not that insane, you know.

Tony Montana or not.

But it really has been one of those weeks.

I say that like it's Saturday evening, don't I?

But it's not.

It's Tuesday.

But by Saturday, I may have jumped off a bridge. So it's probably best to get this "woe is me" post out of the way now…

I've been cheated by you since I don't know when
So I made up my mind, it must come to an end
Look at me now, will I ever learn?
I don't know how but I suddenly lose control
There's a fire within my soul
Just one look and I can hear a bell ring
One more look and I forget everything, o-o-o-oh

Mamma mia, here I go again
My my, how can I resist you?
Mamma mia, does it show again?
My my, just how much I've missed you
Yes, I've been brokenhearted
Blue since the day we parted
Why, why did I ever let you go?
Mamma mia, now I really know,
My my, I could never let you go.

I've been angry and sad about the things that you do
I can't count all the times that I've told you we're through
And when you go, when you slam the door
I think you know that you won't be away too long
You know that I'm not that strong.
Just one look and I can hear a bell ring
One more look and I forget everything, o-o-o-oh

Mamma mia, here I go again
My my, how can I resist you?
Mamma mia, does it show again?
My my, just how much I've missed you
Yes, I've been brokenhearted
Blue since the day we parted
Why, why did I ever let you go?
Mamma mia, even if I say
Bye bye, leave me now or never
mamma mia, it's a game we play
Bye bye doesn't mean forever

Mamma mia, here I go again
My my, how can I resist you?
Mamma mia, does it show again?
My my, just how much I've missed you
Yes, I've been brokenhearted
Blue since the day we parted
Why, why did I ever let you go
Mamma mia, now I really know
My my, I could never let you go