I'd tapas that.

Let's get the hell started. Oh, wait - before we flop in with both arms, for those of you with a feverish hankering for Little Miss Mae, do click hereabouts.

Since one can never get enough of themselves making sarcasms at those tender souls who just can't resist the allure of free credits, here's the crap I say almost solely for my own amusement.

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More of this happy horse shit (thank gorsh this is the last batch):

I tripped over this link and almost broke my ankle. You know, if you kids don't start cleaning up after yourself, I may just have to stop caring. Eh, forget it. Throw stuff where ever you want. I'll probably be passed out under the pile that's moving a little. Don't wake mommy up.

I've got a huge spider trapped under a bowl. I've left a note for my husband with instructions on where to find this bowl, along with a request to kill it. What's the moral in this story? Don't crawl around on my living room floor when I'm not wearing socks. Four eels.

Guaranteed 100% Tatum O'Neal free since 2010!
I know, I should really add some Tatum O'Neal to my blog, she's as cute as bundle of puppies, singing gangsta rap.

Do you smell that? I think something's burning. In my blog. Be a dear and check on it for me, I'm not wearing socks and there's a whole procedure for bloggery when I'm sockless (trust me, you DON'T want to know). It's just easier this way.

The Grievances blog - now, and always, 100% grid-free and walls UP. Why? Because I CARE.

If you read this, I promise that a band of roving hobos won't begin camping out in your back yard, re-naming the space "Hoboton" or raiding your pantry for pork and beans and throwing a fit when there isn't any.  Although there is a SMALL chance you'll get a rash.

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Here are a couple screen caps I gathered from nowhere near the Sims 3 Facebook fan page:

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Here's some of the conversations I have without the aid of an invention:

Me (to my stomach): Don't get gas.
Eldest Child (age 3): Don't get gas.  Don't get gas.
Me: You're gas.
EC: You're gas.
Me: No, you're gas.
EC: You're gas.
Me: Your mama.
EC: Mama's gassin'.

Eldest Child: I can spit to Tijuana. (I'm 85% sure this is what he said.)

Husband: This just in: high-fives can give you cancer.

Me: Oh my god. Gina wants to be named after one of Bunny's chickens.
Him: What's the name?
Me: Gina, I guess.
Him: Wait ... what?
Me: Gina wants to be named after one of--no. She wants Bunny to name one of her chickens after her.
Him: Oh.
Me: Does that make sense?
Him: Neither version surprises me ... if Bunny had a chicken named Miss Cluckins.

Me: I haven't had any stomach cramps today at all.
Him: Mmm.
(three seconds pass)
Me: (in reference to something on tv) Reminds me of Pee-Wee.
Him: What?!
Me: Pee-Wee ... like Pee-Wee's Big Adventure ... like when he was in the dark and it was just his eyes looking around.
Him: Oh!  I thought you were talking about your poop.

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Finally, a couple of these.

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