I love gay porn

Last night, I finally got to watch 300.

I've decided I need to run my house as King Leonidas did. From now on, I will not politely ask my children to clean up their messes.

"THIS IS OUR HOUSE! YOU WERE BORN TO SERVE OUR HOUSE! LET NOT YOUR TOYS LAY UPON THE GROUND WHICH YOU SERVE!"

I'm going to start warrior training immediately. My girls are 3 and 5 1/2. Enough time has been lost already.

We'll start simply. There are a plethora of smarmy squirrels running rampant in the backyard, perfect for target practice. We'll move on to throwing open safety pins at the mail carrier after that.

I've got a handful of flat sheets that aren't being used right now that will be perfect for capes and/or togas.

Now, does anyone know where I can find a few dozen ripped, virile half-dressed men?

Not for my project. I'm just wondering where I could find some.

Throw down

Yesterday, as I was pulling out of the driveway, I noticed that the house two doors down had a "For Sale" sign in the yard.

Let me tell you, she's itchin' for a letter bomb in a bad bad way.

It's not the fact that she's selling her house that bothers me. Hell, there's homes for sale all up and down the blocks surrounding mine. It's the fact that she's priced 20,000 dollars below my asking price. Bitch.

I looked up her house to do a "comp" and saw that she's got 4 bedrooms (I've got 3), one bathroom (I've got 2 full bathrooms), and no garage (I've got a 2 car, detached). On the outside, it appears we have similar square footage, and both our yards are fenced.

My only consolation is that I know who her realtor is, and she is straight up cu-razy. How do I know this? She used to be my realtor once upon a time.

When my husband and I were looking for our first house, we started out looking around on our own. After going to one fateful open house, I somehow managed to get hooked up with Sarah, The Craziest Realtor on the Planet.

At first, she was like any normal person who sells houses. She looked up homes in my price range and set up viewings. She even drove me around in her own car. After a month I was tiring of the process, but she was nothing if not tenacious.

Sarah would call me about a new listing and come pick me up to look at them. The most memorable house she took me to was a cave-like shack off Main Street. The people who lived there either didn't know we were coming over or didn't want to sell their house. Not only was there an unmade bed in the living room, but a sink full of dirty crusty dishes in the kitchen sink. And it smelled of cat piss. Being well past my drug-addled party days, I passed on that one.

Eventually, I decided that Sarah wasn't helping much in the home search, and decided to go it alone, but not before she took me on one last round of viewings.

I met her at her realty office to pick up the info sheets. Her husband was there and decided to join us. He was a big bear of a man with a porno moustache, a toupee-like mop on the top half of his head and a glorious mullet on the bottom half. He gave me the creeps, but since I didn't have to be married to him I figured I'd let it pass.

As soon as he got there, he asked me if I wanted to see what he got his wife for her birthday. Hoping this wasn't some kind of trick, I feigned interest. After reaching into the inside pocket of his Member's Only windbreaker he produced not a chloroform-soaked rag, but a jewelry box. It was a diamond necklace.

"Wow, that's very nice. Happy Birthday Sarah."

"Yeah, heh heh heh. Guess I'll be getting some tonight, eh?"

"Um, yeah. Good for you big guy."

It was going to be a long fucking afternoon.

First stop was a house that I actually found myself. It needed a LOT of work. Basically it would have been a rehab project for my husband and I, and it was priced accordingly. Sarah, Mr. Sarah and I took a look around and marveled at the potential.

Then Sarah decided that she and her smarmy husband should buy it themselves and flip it. So much for that.

On our way to the next house, Sarah decided that I needed to see her house. I won't lie to you, I was frightened and contemplated my escape. However, Mr. Sarah was in the back seat and I was convinced he would be able to reach his big bear arms out the window to scoop me back into the Lincoln Towncar if I attempted a dive.

Even though this was the first realtor I've ever worked with, I knew taking clients to one's home wasn't common protocol. When I asked her if she had forgotten something (like the duct tape and blindfold), she told me she just wanted me to see her house.

I should clarify that my price range was about one fourth of what her home probably cost. It wasn't like she was showing me something comparable to what I was looking for. No. She just wanted to show off.

We spent about a half hour there while she gave me the tour. I was stunned by how unprofessional (not to mention creepy as hell) this all was. I was on guard the entire time. I didn't know these people and I was in their house alone. My husband was at work and didn't know where I was. No one did.

I wasn't worried about getting killed. I was worried about getting propositioned.

After that day, I stopped returning her phone calls. A couple years later, they ended up buying a church (but still continuing their realtor business). Turns out, Mr. Sarah is a minister. You saw that one coming, didn't you?

Now Sarah is my neighbor's problem. I almost feel bad for her, but then I remember she's low balling me and I feel a certain sense of satisfaction.

So, good luck Asshole Neighbor! I'll be going to your first open house and pooping in your closet.

Koo Koo Kachoo, Mrs. Robinson

This morning I realized I had forgotten to go to a baby shower I was invited to last week. I feel like a complete asshole about it too. I should call her and apologize, but I don't really have a credible excuse.

This afternoon I left the house a full half hour earlier than I needed to for my daughter's swim class. I have no idea how this happened because normally, getting us out of the house with minutes to spare is one for the record books. It did however work in my favor as I had the chance to stop by the grocery store to pick a few things I needed for dinner tonight.

I found a parking place right up front and pulled in. Not until my daughter was halfway out of the car did I notice that I had taken up a handicapped space. I quickly ushered her back into the car all the while loudly proclaiming to everyone within earshot that WE HAVE TO MOVE THE CAR! I PARKED IN THE WRONG SPOT! I didn't want anyone around me thinking I was some kind of deviant cripple-hater. True, I milked the "New and Expectant Moms" parking spaces for as long as I could, but this was different. I don't think mental illness constitutes a special parking space. I had to park elsewhere.

I used the self check out because my five year old likes to help me scan the groceries. While she was scanning and bagging (hey, she wanted to), I totally got caught checking out the hottie cashier a few lanes over. I hate when that happens.

My only explanation for all this distraction is my recently acquired infatuation with Justin Timberlake.

You think I'm kidding.

I should probably hide my 33 year old married mother of two face in shame for admitting this, but I won't. I have a crush on JT.

I can't help it. He's just so damn hot and young (and really funny). By the way, have you seen him dance? Don't tell me he can't do other things well when he can move like that.

My husband knows. He went out and voluntarily bought me the new CD for Valentine's Day. He didn't so much as tsk tsk when I DVR'd the Saturday Night Live which my crushy crush hosted. He even watched it with me, ignoring whatever it was I was doing under the blanket on the couch. I'm going to wait a while before putting up the life-size stand up....at least until we move into the new house.

So there it is. Apparently I have regressed back to adolescence. Who can blame me really? I mean, I wasn't even aware sexy had gone anywhere in the first place and here he goes, bringing it back. If that's not something to write home about, well you tell me what is.

Shoe Porn

I'm feeling a little funny in my girl bits.

Fantastico!

Afternoon Delight

I rented a couple of movies this week. One was for the kids and the other, for us grown ups in the house. Because I secretly want to run away with Zach Braff, I picked up The Last Kiss. I liked it a lot. Though not as powerful as Garden State, it had its moments.
I thought they could have fleshed out the character's relationships a bit more and that chick from the OC was distractingly annoying. I kept telling myself "At least it isn't Katie Holmes", and I was satisfied enough to carry on watching.

I went to return said movies this afternoon and noticed a trend. Almost everyone in the place was a male blue-collar worker. I could tell because they variously had paint splattered cover-alls, shirts with their name on them, and/or work boots on.
I normally have an affinity for the work shirt/dirty under the fingernails set, but these guys were both too old and too creepy-looking for my taste.

What were these guys doing at Family Video presumably on their lunch hour, seemingly all at once? Why wouldn't any of them make eye contact with the cashier? Why did they all walk out the same way-quickly and hugging thier rentals close to their Carhart coat?

It had to be porn.

I feel like I've cracked some kind of secret society or something. I can't help but picture laborers all over this fine city going home at the lunch hour for a sammich and a wank.

If in my new house I need some new windows put in or my AC worked on, I guess I'll know why the guys come back from lunch extra happy.

Come to think of it, it's really not a bad idea.