Kathryn Leehane's Blog, page 6

How Would You Describe Your Child?

My son’s teacher asked me to describe my son in “a million words or less.” I was tempted to send her my coffee table book about him, along with a bottle of wine and the words “Good luck.”

Ultimately I decided that post didn’t really do my son enough justice, so I wrote something new. I kept it under a million words, though. Here’s what I sent the teacher:

Colin is a sweet, loving, gentle boy. But he doesn’t fit into a neat little box.

He still holds my hand, hugs me, and tells me that he loves me every day. He does the same with my husband.

Home is his very favorite place to be.

He is crazy smart, and his memorization skills rival those of Rain Man. At the same time, he prefers to be lazy if given the opportunity. He has been known to put forth the minimum effort required. He sometimes skims over directions. He works furiously (but not always meticulously) so he can return to “fun” things.

Colin is incredibly sensitive. He does not like to be made fun of, be made an example of, or be the center of attention. He has a hard time distinguishing between someone laughing with him and at him.

He loves dogs. And cats. And goats. And every animal really. But especially dogs. He told me that if he had millions of dollars, he’d open an animal sanctuary and assign a butler to each animal. He’d also buy video games and candy, but he thought of the animals first.

He loves to read. But he forgets that fact sometimes. It’s that minimum effort thing again.

Colin doesn’t like competition. He doesn’t like it when winners gloat. Or when people lose. He wants everyone to win. Unless it’s his sister. Then he’ll be the first in line to take her down.

He doesn’t like change, new experiences, or anything foreign to him. He probably won’t volunteer to do something in the class that he hasn’t done before. He needs to watch and process things before he feels comfortable participating.

He’s a quiet boy. Until he is comfortable. Then it’s hard to shut him up.

Colin is the opposite of an adrenaline junkie. He doesn’t like roller coasters, shots, scary movies, when people get in trouble, vegetables, plane rides, or really anything fearsome.

He’s experienced a lot of death in his nine short years: a great uncle, an uncle, four cats, and two dogs. He takes loss pretty hard, but grieves openly and healthily.

He has an aversion to physical activity and has never once voluntarily participated in any team sport. Miss Willow is some kind of sorceress because he actually enjoys PE.

He loves computers, video games, and the Internet. We hope to channel that passion and turn him into the next Bill Gates.

Colin is an introvert and needs alone time to recharge. He will remove himself from a group of people in the middle of a gathering. He will walk along the edges of the playground during recess. He will retreat into himself when he becomes overwhelmed. And that’s okay with us.

He loves imaginary play. He talks to himself and acts out all sorts of scenes in his mind. When I punished him and took away all of his favorite toys, he told me, “Mom. You may have cancelled fun today and taken away all of my toys, but there’s one toy you can’t take away.” And then he pointed to his head.

He loves creating art and writing stories. He has already written several comic books. (But he prefers technology.)

He has a strong sense of fairness and justice. He doesn’t like when people cheat, when people don’t get a turn, or when things don’t go his way.

Colin is funny. And he loves being silly. His sense of humor can be off the wall.

He’s extremely curious about the world. He asks a lot of questions. He wants to know the answers to everything. For my own sanity, I showed him the magic that is Google very early on.

He’s very rule oriented and very black and white. We’re working hard to help him see shades of grey (not the movie), not correct others when they make a mistake, and be more flexible when things don’t go as planned or anticipated.

He’s quirky. And a little socially awkward. I’ve got money on him growing up to be an engineer.

Colin will wear pajamas in public, mismatched clothing, and finger nail polish. He likes what he likes, and he doesn’t really care what anyone else thinks. He is totally unaffected by other people’s opinions and standards. I’m going to miss this quality when/if he outgrows it.

He can be a sneaky little #@$&! He steals cookies. He started his own YouTube channel (behind our backs—and was devastated when he got caught). He would never do that at school, but I think it’s interesting because it shows he can break rules and take risks despite his sometimes-rigid personality.

Colin is a sweet, loving, gentle boy. We hope you enjoy him as much as we do.

How would you describe your child in a million words or less?

Photo Credit: sifotography / 123RF Stock Photo

The post How Would You Describe Your Child? appeared first on Foxy Wine Pocket.

The Jelly Splat Heard Round the Table

“My jelly fell out of my sandwich and landed on the lunch table!” My son offered during our dinner discussion of Daily Highs and Lows.

“Did it make a big splat?” I asked.

“I bet it did,” my daughter interjected. “Like the jelly that came out of my butt!”

Those words sounded odd, but I knew immediately what she was talking about—clotty periods. My daughter had recently started her menstrual cycle, and while we had discussed all things menstruation for the past year in preparation, we hadn’t talked about the gelatinous blobs that fall from your vagina from time to time. The expectant look in her eye told me she was looking for some reassurance that this “jelly” was normal.

I immediately gave her that support; I didn’t care that we were eating dinner. “The same thing has happened to me before—I sat down to go to the bathroom and a giant blob of jelly landed on the floor. With a huge splat!”

Both of my kids burst out laughing. My husband stared at me with his mouth agape. Apparently he wasn’t familiar with this particular phenomenon.

“I wiped it up with toilet paper.” I had to squeeze some advice in there too—I wasn’t going to let this teachable moment pass without a cleaning tip.

My daughter nodded thoughtfully.

Encouraged, I kept going. “Okay, but you know women have three holes, right? And that the menstrual flow comes out of your vagina, not your butt, right?”

“Yes, mom. Butt just sounded funnier to me.”

I couldn’t argue with her on that point. “I’m just checking. It’s an important distinction. You know, the first time I got my period, I thought I had pooped my pants—because the blood was brownish.”

My husband finally spoke up, “Um, are we really talking about this at the dinner table?”

“Would it be better if I used a food analogy?” I turned back to my daughter and elaborated, “The blood was brown—like melted milk chocolate. For three solid hours I thought I had pooped my pants.”

“Seriously? We’re eating food here,” my husband pleaded. He had a point. But so did I, and I was determined to make it.

“A menstrual cycle is a totally normal bodily function—just like eating.”

My son added, “I burped and some carrots came up.”

“That’s called a vurp. Also totally normal.” I was on a roll.

I focused back on my daughter, “Your period will vary from day to day and month to month—especially in the beginning. Sometimes it will be light spotting; sometimes it will feel like a torrential flood gushing from you. Occasionally you will have small clots or blobs. And the color will vary from brownish to bright red. It seems weird at first, but then you get used to it. You’ll learn what’s normal for your body and what isn’t. That’s where charting your cycle on a calendar is really helpful—so you can see the patterns. When things seem different from your normal pattern, then it’s time to call the doctor. I can help with that.”

My daughter’s sincere smile from across the table told me I gave her the information she wanted.

Satisfied that the entire family had received a thorough tutorial on period flows, I offered their reward, “Now. Who wants some jelly on their biscuit?”

This piece originally appeared on In The Powder Room.

Photo Credit: creatista / 123RF Stock Photo

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Death Conversations with Grandma

I am lucky enough to be able to spend a lot of time with my 95-year-old Grandma. She is absolutely hilarious. She has taught me so many life lessons. And says some of the funniest stuff I’ve every heard.

Most of our conversations end in fits of giggles. Apparently, death is no exception. Dark humor (along with inappropriate humor) runs deep in our family.

Here are a few snippets.

Grandma gives me a birthday present for my daughter:

Me: Uh, Grandma? Erin’s birthday is in March, not October.

Grandma: Oh yeah? There are so many October birthdays. Let’s check out my calendar so I don’t miss any of them.

Me: Well, there’s me and my brothers. And your sister. Well, you don’t have to send her a card.

Grandma: Because she’s dead.

Sitting at the kitchen table:

Grandma: You know my friend Eileen?

Me: Yeah …

Grandma: Well, some telemarketers called her house asking for her husband.

Me: Her husband is dead, right?

Grandma: Yes.

Me: So what did she say?

Grandma: She gave them the phone number of the cemetery and said he could be reached there.

Driving to the grocery store:

Grandma: One time your grandfather and I were out with some friends that we hadn’t seen in awhile. One of them asked me how your Aunt Eleanor was doing.

Me: Oh my god. How awkward. What did you say?

Grandma: Deeeeeeaaaaad.

Eating lunch at In-N-Out:

Grandma: Sometimes people call for your grandfather.

Me: Oh yeah?

Grandma: Yeah, and I don’t want to tell them that he’s not here anymore.

Me: That’s smart. So what do you tell them?

Grandma: Well, I tell them he’s not available. But then I feel guilty for lying since he’s dead.

Me: Well, he’s not available, Grandma. You’re not lying at all.

Grandma: Good point.

Grandma telling me a story about her friend who died in World War II:

Grandma: You know what they say: “Only the good die young.”

Me: Uhhhh, Grandma? What does that say about you?

 

Photo Credit: dazdraperma / 123RF Stock Photo

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22 Things You’re REALLY Doing on Facebook

We all know Facebook—that social networking site designed for interacting with friends and family and connecting with other people who share similar interests. Some of us even use it for “work.”

But we all know what you’re really doing there, and it’s not quite as innocuous.

Avoiding work.
Analyzing who got a boob job or any sort of plastic surgery.
Determining which of your “friends” still lives with their parents.
Testing the privacy settings of all of your ex-boyfriends’ profile pages.
Selecting and posting (then reposting and reposting) the perfect profile picture. You know, the one that doesn’t show two chins and hides the bags under your eyes.
Sharing Back-to-School/Halloween/Christmas pictures of your kids.
Attempting to leave Jamberry groups. Only to be added back in again.
Checking to see if your friend has read your passive-aggressive Facebook message that you probably should have talked to her about in-person.
Declining mass invitations to events.
Watching cat videos and looking at pictures of baby animals.
Debating whether or not to block that One Guy .
Wavering between unfollowing or unfriending that chick who bitches about all of her first-world problems.
Regretting checking into that restaurant close to your cousin’s house (that you didn’t visit while you were in town).
Unfriending a bunch of people one night … and then refriending them in a couple of weeks and claiming, “I have no idea what happened. Must have been a Facebook glitch or something.”
Getting enraged at your friends with opposing political viewpoints.
Finding the most controversial posts in your newsfeed—just to read the comments.
Determining which parties and social gatherings you didn’t get invited to (or perhaps you declined the mass invitation by mistake—see #9).
Blocking annoying, incessant game invites.
Clicking through that hot guy’s photos who was tagged in your friend’s photo. (Thank goodness he doesn’t know how to use privacy settings!)
Regretting your decision to friend your mom and/or facepalming after reading her comments on your last post.
Browsing through people you may know and remembering why you haven’t sent them a friend request.
Deleting the drunk Facebook posts from the previous night.

Admit it. You’re doing all of these.

How do I know? Because I am too.

Photo Credit: sifotography / 123RF Stock Photo

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You Know What “Turtle Head Poking Out” Means, Right?

If you’ve been around here long, you know I love to write about my 9-year-old son Colin. He’s fabulous: very clever and extremely sweet. It takes a lot to phase him. He’s also a little unusual. A bit quirky. But he tells it like it is. We have some of the most hilarious conversations. (When he’s not embarrassing me in public.) This is another one of those conversations.

The other day we were getting ready to leave the house, and I needed to take the dog out to go potty.

Me: *whistles at dog*

Dog: *lifts head, tells me “Fuck you” with her eyes, lowers head*

Colin: I don’t think she wants to go out.

Me: Well, she has to. We’re about to leave. She’ll be very sorry if she doesn’t go out now when a turtle head is poking out later.

Colin: Huh?

Me: She’s gonna have a turtle head poking out later.

Colin: What are you talking about?

Me: You’ve never heard “turtle head poking out”?

Colin: No.

Time stopped. How could my son not know what that expression meant? Had I failed as a mom? I had to rectify the situation. (Yes, I totally chose “rectify” because it reminds me of the word “rectum.”)

Me: Well, you know when you have to poop really badly that it feels like a little bit is coming out of your butt?

Colin: Yeah …

Me: That’s like a turtle head poking out of its shell.

Colin: WHAT?

Me: You know? Poop poking out of your butt? Turtle head poking out of its shell? Same thing.

Colin: I don’t get it. That must be an idiom.

So, basically, I think I live with Sheldon Cooper, right?

Photo Credit: ratoca / 123RF Stock Photo

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15 Ways You Can Get Us in the Mood

Listen up, men. We women are hard-working, exhausted, and possibly a bit cranky from our daily demands. Oftentimes, we’re not feeling in the least bit sexy. As manly as you try to sound, “Wanna do it?” is not going to get our juices flowing. Your tried-and-true mating rituals, like flashing your man parts or slapping our backsides, are much more likely to get an eye roll than a roll in the hay. These days, if you really want to turn us on, try a few of these mood enhancers instead:

Do the dishes. Load the dishwasher, and then scrub those pots hard and fast. Don’t forget to wipe down every surface with your hot, wet towel.
Massage our feet. Rub them deep. Rub them hard. Rub them up. Rub them down. More! Yes, that’s it! Yes! Yes!
Give us what we really want when we say we’re hot—a fan and some ice water. Then let us attend to our own needs during the many hot flashes.
Fluff and fold the laundry. Then put it away. PUT IT ALL AWAY DEEP INSIDE THAT CLOSET, BABY.
Prepare a steamy bubble bath—complete with music and wine. Then, leave the room and let us slide in all by ourselves.
Mow the lawn. Be sure to remove all of the weeds and keep the edges well-manicured. That’s what we call real manscaping.
Complete that painting project that’s been on the list for months. Be sure to clean up the wet, sticky mess.
Pour us a glass of wine, kick us out of the kitchen, and make the family dinner. We love it when it’s a little spicy.
Let us sleep in. What better way to be the man of our dreams than to let us have dreams? We promise they are of you and not of People Magazine’s Hottest Man Alive.
Make us coffee every morning. And deliver it while it’s still fresh. We like it HOT.
Watch a chick flick with us—something you wouldn’t pick yourself. You know you like to watch us having fun.
Vacuum the house—the whole house. Suck it all up, baby.
Bring us breakfast in bed. You know how much we like to eat in the bedroom.
Take our cars in for wash and a lube job. We like our rides clean and smooth.
Gifts. Buy us something from our favorite store. Something leather. Maybe with a zipper or a heavy buckle. You know we’re talking about a purse, right?

By the way, we’re happy to brainstorm other chores ways to get us in the mood anytime. The promise of getting things accomplished is the biggest turn-on of all.

© 2015 Kathryn Leehane, as first published on Scary Mommy.

Photo Credit: auremar / 123RF Stock Photo

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What Do You Do with Crappy Goldfish?

“Mom, something’s wrong with the Goldfish crackers you gave me.”

My notoriously picky daughter often complains about things being “off” or “bad” when there’s absolutely nothing wrong with them.

So, I didn’t believe her. “What? I bought the cheddar ones, not the plain ones. Or the multi-grain ones. Or, God forbid, the multi-colored ones that you hate. They’re the good ole-fashioned highly-processed Goldfish crackers that you love.”

“No,” she argued. “There’s something really wrong with them.”

I rolled my eyes. “I just bought them yesterday. They’re fine.”

My son, who once drank an entire glass of milk before telling me it was sour, stepped up to support his sister, “Actually, mom, they didn’t taste good at all.”

I shrugged. “Let’s give them to your father then. He’ll eat anything.”

Except, after trying one, he wouldn’t eat any more. “These are HORRIBLE. They taste like adobe bricks.”

“Huh. That’s weird. Let me try ‘em.”

I immediately regretted my decision. Spitting out orange remnants into the sink like an angry llama, I screamed, “Dear God. What is wrong with those?! They taste like loneliness and desperation.”

I had just bought them, and, of course, I had bought the big box. But apparently Pepperidge Farm forgot to salt this batch. And possibly coated them with dirty sand. “So what the hell do I do with them?”

“Throw them away?” my husband suggested.

“No, that’s such a waste. Surely we can figure out a use for them.”

“Why don’t you feed them to the birds?”

“Uhhh, we’ve got enough bird problems already.”

I googled, “What do you do with nasty goldfish.” After bypassing several articles on how unhealthy these snacks are, I found a piece entitled, “How long can a goldfish survive if you swallow it?”

I laughed and thought about that guy in college who use to do shots with goldfish. Disgusting. (But hilarious.)

That article gave me an idea. I put one of the goldfish in a mason jar so my son could have that pet fish he’s always wanted. (I threw a piece of kale in because, God knows, no one is going to eat that either.)

“I bought you a pet goldfish, Colin!” I hollered with delight.

Colin scowled. “That’s not funny, mom.”

“What?! That’s totally funny.”

“NO. It’s not.”

“Come on. Admit it—it’s a little bit funny.”

“It’s not even ONE little bit funny.”

“It is so. Let me put it on Facebook. They’ll think it’s funny there…”

My daughter interjected, “Colin, she goes away faster if you just say she’s funny. It doesn’t matter if she is or not.” Clearly, she is older and wiser than my son.

I kept Goldy on the kitchen counter for a few days, laughing every time I passed him. When he died and his little bloated body sunk, I performed a fishy funeral.

As I was retrieving Goldy II from the bag of foul goldfish, Colin came into the kitchen, took one look at the jar, and retched up his breakfast.

Fine. It wasn’t funny anymore.

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Activision Is Ruining My Life

Remember the good ole days when you could send your child to the computer or television to play a video game instead of parenting as a reward for good behavior?

Well, straightforward video games just don’t exist anymore. You can’t just make a single purchase and let your children play until their eyes bleed for thirty minutes. Activision, Disney, Lego, and other video game companies have turned a simple babysitter activity into a parental torture system designed to steal our money, sanity, and souls.

If you haven’t heard of the “toys-to-life” fuckery phenomenon, here’s how it works. They hook your child with a starter pack that includes a portal that plugs into your video game console. Think of this like an IV bag for your child’s video game addiction. They provide the first few “hits” by supplying a couple of figures to place on the portal and “transport” into the game.

But the rest of the characters for the games are sold separately.

“Collect them all!” the marketing assholes types tout. They might as well have said, “Hook up your veins and bank accounts, kids, because you’re now our bitches.”

Those greedy corporate bastards won’t be satisfied until they’ve sucked every last penny out of our children’s college funds. Because there are FIVE FUCKING MILLION little figures. Each with unique abilities. And, of course, that one bad guy can only be killed by that one extremely rare figure—sending parents on sadistic and expensive scavenger hunts all over town.

So my son is basically an addict now. He doesn’t want all of those figures; he NEEDSALLTHEFIGURES. Completely obsessed with figure acquisition, he counts his dollars and the days until his next fix. He brags to his friends about his latest score. He meticulously tracks (using the poster the game companies have maliciously graciously included) every character he has bought and every character he still needs to collect.

Toys “R” Us is our new suburban drug store.

I can hear them whispering, “Would you like some candy, little boy?”

What happened to good ole Pong? That game was so much simpler. And there was so much less to talk about. Now, I am forced to endure insufferable conversations:

With my child: “Yes, that was quite an impressive fart out of StinkBomb.”

With the grandparents: “No, he’s not asking for an actual lightning rod. It’s the name of the character.”

(But we love the grandparents because they buy most of the figures.)

As long as I’m not holding back, here’s why I hate them the most. They’ve created a major storage problem in my house. The game pieces aren’t like building blocks—I can’t just dump them into one big bin. Careful placement of the game pieces must be taken. Otherwise I have to suffer through massive meltdowns, emergency repairs, and/or scouring the Internet for expensive replacements. My house is slowly turning into a plastic museum of horrors.

Where am I supposed to put my wine?!

So basically, the game makers can all bite my ass. (Not in a good way.) I hate them all.

I just wish I had thought of it first.

 

Cover Photo Credit: sifotography / 123RF Stock Photo

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Toys-to-Life Video Games Are Ruining My Life

Remember the good ole days when you could send your child to the computer or television to play a video game instead of parenting as a reward for good behavior?

Well, straightforward video games just don’t exist anymore. You can’t just make a single purchase and let your children play until their eyes bleed for thirty minutes. Activision, Disney, Lego, and other video game companies have turned a simple babysitter activity into a parental torture system designed to steal our money, sanity, and souls.

If you haven’t heard of the “toys-to-life” fuckery phenomenon, here’s how it works. They hook your child with a starter pack that includes a portal that plugs into your video game console. Think of this like an IV bag for your child’s video game addiction. They provide the first few “hits” by supplying a couple of figures to place on the portal and “transport” into the game.

But the rest of the characters for the games are sold separately.

“Collect them all!” the marketing assholes types tout. They might as well have said, “Hook up your veins and bank accounts, kids, because you’re now our bitches.”

Those greedy corporate bastards won’t be satisfied until they’ve sucked every last penny out of our children’s college funds. Because there are FIVE FUCKING MILLION little figures. Each with unique abilities. And, of course, that one bad guy can only be killed by that one extremely rare figure—sending parents on sadistic and expensive scavenger hunts all over town.

So my son is basically an addict now. He doesn’t want all of those figures; he NEEDSALLTHEFIGURES. Completely obsessed with figure acquisition, he counts his dollars and the days until his next fix. He brags to his friends about his latest score. He meticulously tracks (using the poster the game companies have maliciously graciously included) every character he has bought and every character he still needs to collect.

Toys “R” Us is our new suburban drug store.

I can hear them whispering, “Would you like some candy, little boy?”

What happened to good ole Pong? That game was so much simpler. And there was so much less to talk about. Now, I am forced to endure insufferable conversations:

With my child: “Yes, that was quite an impressive fart out of StinkBomb.”

With the grandparents: “No, he’s not asking for an actual lightning rod. It’s the name of the character.”

(But we love the grandparents because they buy most of the figures.)

As long as I’m not holding back, here’s why I hate them the most. They’ve created a major storage problem in my house. The game pieces aren’t like building blocks—I can’t just dump them into one big bin. Careful placement of the game pieces must be taken. Otherwise I have to suffer through massive meltdowns, emergency repairs, and/or scouring the Internet for expensive replacements. My house is slowly turning into a plastic museum of horrors.

Where am I supposed to put my wine?!

So basically, the game makers can all bite my ass. (Not in a good way.) I hate them all.

I just wish I had thought of it first.

 

Cover Photo Credit: sifotography / 123RF Stock Photo

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What Happens in Vegas…Gets Posted on This Blog

While I’m definitely too old for Vegas, I’m not too old for a Vegas-themed party.

Fortunately, at the beginning of every new year, my freighbors (friends who are also neighbors) throw an epic rager (I know, I’m old for using that word). You come in costume, equipped with a short performance, according to a designated theme. Past themes have been Television Stars, Dead Celebrity, and Matchy-Matchy.

This year’s theme, as you probably guessed, was Vegas.

As soon as the theme was announced, Mr. Foxy’s costume was obvious.

I mean, he couldn’t possibly have gone as anyone/thing else, right?

Because I’m too big to fit in Alan’s BabyBjörn, I had to come up with my own idea completely unrelated to his.

Inspired by my methy rash face, I was initially going to be a crack whore. I even bought one of those popcorn shirts that fits everyone. In leopard print, no less.

But I’ll have to save that for another day because I came up with a better idea…

A JILTED BRIDE!

Now, I’ve dressed up as a jilted bridesmaid at a Halloween party before, but never a bride. I didn’t mind ruining my bridesmaid dresses, but my wedding dress was carefully vacuum-sealed for generations to come. And maybe my daughter would want to wear it, right?

Yeah, well fuck that. My 12-year-old daughter is already taller than I am, and I’m certain will have a completely different vibe going on at her own wedding. (Right now, it involves Supernatural-themed attire.)

So I decided to pull out my dress and go for it. Assuming it still fit. (It did. Just barely, but it did. I may have had to rip the seam on the petticoat. But whatever.)

First, I had to do my makeup. I spent a long time on it, even applying eye shadow primer, foundation, and blush—things I rarely use. After the liner, shadow, lipstick, and mascara, I assaulted my eyes with eye drops.

Voila! JILTED BRIDE TEARS!

My son Colin wouldn’t even look at me–he was too scared.

Then, I had to get my props ready. I bought the cheapest bottle of champagne I could find at the drugstore, poured out the contents, and refilled the bottle (only half-way, I swear) with vodka-tonic. I initially felt guilty about pouring out the champagne, but after I took a sip and spit it out, I no longer felt any remorse. (That shit was worse than cough syrup.)

What can I say about my performance? Well, if Mr. Foxy had been doing his job, then you would have video of that performance. But he drank too much of his Jägermeister prop and forgot. (You can send hate mail directly to him.)

So all you get is my script. (It’s important to remember that my singing voice kills small animals and houseplants.)

“Where do broken hearts go?

Do they find their way home?

Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, mamamamamaMA.

And if somebody LOVES YOU,

WILL THEY ALWAYS LOVE YOU?”

*sob*

“Oh my God, that bastard. *another sob* He said it would last forever. *have trouble breathing* I thought it would last forever.”

“I guess I thought you’d be here forever.

Another illusion I chose to create.

You don’t know what you got, until it’s gone,

and I found out a little too late…

YOU’RE A HARD HABIT TO BREAK.”

*sob then come to revelation*

“Break her face. That’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna break that BITCH’S FACE.”

“But I have to pee first. *look at audience* Can someone help me go to the bathroom?”

END SCENE

Fortunately for all of us, even though we don’t have the video, Jaqrabbit photographed me in in action.

She also caught a shot of me at the end of the night doing my best “I am a newly single woman. Hear me ROAR.” Performance.

It was a wild and crazy night, folks. And what happens in Vegas … gets put on the blog. Apparently.

P.S. Now that I know my wedding dress fits, you can expect me to be wearing it a lot more often. You’re welcome.

P.P.S. I dedicate this post to Michelle at Rubber Shoes in Hell. She loves pictures and needs some good distraction right now. (Love you and Randy, Michelle!)

Photo Credits: Madcoverboy at English Wikipedia (Vegas Sign) and Jaqrabbit (ridiculous Foxy images)

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