House Full of Kidlets

I always wanted to have the house where everyone wanted to hang out. It seems I may have outdone myself. Both best friends spent the night last night. I'm pretty sure that at one point I was curled up in the corner rocking myself and whispering "Shut the Fuck Up", but that could have just been a nightmare.

Hip Hop's parents picked her up this morning. I dropped Stink Bug off at his house at noon. I get home and the freaking doorbell rings with a kid saying "Hey Miss Half Assed Housewife! Can I come play?"

On the upside, I'm dangerously close to having the laundry done and I have big plans for a cheap dinner at Tin Star tonight. Kids Eat Free on Sundays and I have a coupon for a free queso that I got from being on their email list. Oh yeah, don't forget $3.95 Margaritas too.

All of this followed by a marathon of True Blood, Hung, and Entourage. I have such an exciting life. Not.

PS. If you like Tin Star even a little, sign up for their email list. I got a coupon for a free taco plate right off the bat and have gotten several decent coupons since.

The Car Gods Are Laughing

My husband's car has 140,000 miles on it. Last weekend we spent $300 on brakes and ordered the parts for work on the suspension. That was supposed to cost about $2000. Not thrilled about spending the money, but hey it's cheaper than a new car. We were planning on taking the car in today to get that taken care of.

Last night as my husband is driving in the fast lane on the Tollway, he calls me wondering why people are honking at him and flipping him off as they pass him. He's going 85, and people are just blowing past him. Then he realizes, you guessed it, his speedometer is broken too. That will be at least another $800.

To add insult to injury my check engine light came on today. I am telling myself I just need to tighten the gas cap and it will be alright. My baby only has 110,000 miles on it, so it's as good as new.

I'm renting Confessions of a Shopaholic, taking a vicodin and going to bed now. I need a hug.

This Post Will Self-Destruct in Seven Days

My Mom reads my blog, so there's some stuff I have to keep to myself. Luckily for all of us she is on a 10 day cruise in Europe right now so I think I'm safe for a few days. Mom, if you found the Internet somewhere, I am warning you skip the rest of this post. You'll be scarred for life and so will I.

If you really know me or Dubelicious in real life, you never heard it from me. Now that I am all disclaimed, here we go.

A couple of weeks ago we got new cell phones. I know it sounds boring right. It pretty much was until Big Daddy Dub Dub took an Ambien and Benedryl one night and then decided to start playing with his phone in bed while I'm in the family room watching TV.

He decides it would be a good idea to send me a "Let's Get It On" sext by sending me a picture of Big Chocolate - the appendage that is. He sends his sext and in a couple of minutes gets a reply back of "Fuck Off" or some such and is pretty sure he sent the sext to the wrong person.

His drugged up mind at this point goes into freak out mode. He drops the dirty bomb on his phone and deletes his entire texting history. I guess he thought this would reverse time. He wakes up the next morning and hopes it was all a bad dream, but it's not. There in his saved pictures is the picture of Big Chocolate in all its glory.

Fast forward a few days. He pulls me aside at the bar and asks if I got the picture and told him to Fuck Off. Nope not me buddy. He's asked everyone he usually texts if they got it in error. Nobody will 'fess up, but they all say they want to see now.

We brainstorm for a bit and the only rational explanation I can come up with is that he sent it to our neighbor (who is also a client) who's name starts with the same three letters as mine. He's too chickenshit to ask her though so I have to.

She denies having spied the man candy too, but wishes she had along with everyone else who has heard this story. What is up with people? I know my husband wears a size 16 shoe and all, but damn. They do have porn you know.

Needless to say, to this day we do not know who got the sext. At this point none of the options left are good. Hopefully time will tell and this will be one of the great mysteries in life that is revealed.

Serves Me Right

I am always yelling at my kids not to run in the house. Well yesterday I decided it would be a good time to show them that I'm not just blowing smoke out my ass. You really can fall and hurt yourself.

Now, I'm not talking about the casual slip and fall. Oh no. When I do something like this I do it big. As I was rounding the corner for home - I mean the phone (in my socks on the hardwood floor), both of my feet flew out from under me. Though I still don't understand the physics behind the situation, my entire body ended up perfectly horizontal about 3 1/2 feet above the ground.

I would love to have video of this as there is no other time in the history of ever that you will find my happy feet that high off the ground. This was some special effects Karate Kid looking business. If only I had kicked the asshole in the chest and landed on one leg looking like nothing had happened.Unfortunately gravity kicked in and I slammed down to the ground on my left side.

I yell "Fuck" at the top of my lungs which would get the attention of most kids, but I apparently use it so much it doesn't even phase mine anymore. Not until I yell "Help" does anyone know anything is amiss. They ask if I am alright and once I tell them I'll be OK they proceed to point and laugh and probably call me all sorts of names.

Twenty four hours later, I feel like an ass and the whole left side of my body including my teeth hurt. Moral of the story - Don't run in the fucking house!

Kiss My Grits

I would say "Kiss My Ass", but it seems to have gotten a little lumpy on me over the years. Now that I think about it I should probably be the "Ass and A Half Housewife" instead of the "Half Assed Housewife", but it doesn't have quite the same ring to it.

I've tried diet and exercise,but that's no fun. Now I have decided the best approach is to fill in the dimples. To that end dinner tonight is Shrimp & Grits. Don't you just love how I made the mental circle there?

Now if your not from The South (1) you might not know what a grit is, and (2) this probably sounds freaking disgusting. First off its "grits" not a grit. They are ground corn or hominy.

I know, I know. It still sounds gross, but if you boil them until they are thick like malt-o-meal and add either lots of butter and sugar or lots of butter and cheese, you have sinful deliciousness staring you down.

Throw some shrimp into the cheesy grits and bake and you have a meal that is good enough to make you "Slap yo Momma-in-Law". My MIL is about 6'1" and built like a linebacker, so that's saying something.

The recipe I use is pretty darn good, but if you ever find yourself on Bourbon Street in New Orleans, I beg you to go to Desire Oyster Bar in the Royal Sonesta Hotel and order Shrimp & Grits. They are so good that I would trade all the alcohol on Bourbon Street for an order of them . And I like alcohol.

PS, If you were born after the 70's that is Flo from the TV show Alice in the picture. She said "Kiss My Grits" all the time. It is NOT ME!

Family Portrait

Since living in this house gives me so much material, I thought I would share some photos of the family. A visual will likely help bring some of my stories to life.

This is Dubelicious, AKA Big Daddy Dub Dub in a cheezy PR shot. Just imagine him saying "Oh Shit this is the Lady's Room".

This is C-Diddy. He is 11 1/2 going on 75. This is what happens when he goes out alone with Big Daddy Dub Dub for a night on the town. He looks so much better in this picture than he did after our 3 hour trip to camp.

This is Mar-Dub. She is 10. Don't be led astray by the picture. She is the manipulative one.

This is the Half Assed Housewife making iced tea.

Obama Mania Has Gone Too Far

I was watching TV last night and was blessed with the Chia Obama commercial. I'm a capitalist and all that so I shouldn't hate, but Obama with a Fro that Grows is too much.

It doesn't even look like him. It looks like random black dude with a mole under his nose and green afro. Are you supposed to pick it out and edge it up or what? When it grows out too much are you supposed to take it to the barbershop for a bald fade? Throw a pick in it and say to hell with it? I think not. No self respecting black man is going to let his fro grow and become unkempt.

If you're having as slow a night as I am, click the link and sing Ch-Ch-Chia to yourself "As the Fro Grows." Hey that sounds like a soap opera. If they can sell Chia Obama, surely I can start my own daytime drama featuring it as my main character.