Hi! This is Heather with account services! This call is to let you know that our special offer of a low introductory rate on your credit cards is quickly expiring. Act now to secure the rate. Press "1" to speak with an operator.

I give my name and she asks how she can help me. I remind her that I'm on the National Do Not Call Registry and I want her company to stop calling me. The bitch hangs up on me.

This episode happened to me this morning and it's been happening around the Nation as well. My Caller ID tells me that the call is being generated from Miami, Florida and that the number is 305-758-9297. I answer it because for one, it's not an 800 number and two, I'm nosey.

You'd think after the third such call I'd get a clue but this morning's call just pissed me off. I was right in the middle of watching a great movie on the LMN (they're all great by the way - I'm so addicted to this channel - it's like reading romance novels in a two-hour period) when the phone rang and that all too familiar number popped up. I answered it, thinking that I'd ever so politely demand them to stop calling, and the above conversation ensued.

The more I thought about this episode, the more pissed off I became. I Googled the number and found information like this.

And this.

And one more.

I actually found a blog and website dedicated to Heather and her mysterious company:

Heather With Account Services

I went ahead and lodged a complaint with the FCC, in regards to the incessant calling, but in actuality, you know these jerks will never be caught. They are able to "spoof" the Caller ID system and so far, my complaints to Dateline are going unnoticed. I guess Chris Hansen would rather trap pervs than telemarketers.

These vial creatures are making thousands of these calls every day and I bet at least a quarter of them are producing fruitful results. Why else would they keep doing it if they weren't making money? Certainly it's not because they're lonely and likely to talk to a variety of different people around the nation. It's really sad how easy it is to get information off of credit reports nowadays, and how legit these scammers can sound to people who may be desperate or otherwise unknowing.

So please, if you get a call from Heather, tell her "hi" for me. And then hang up on her. Err.

Posted by Mommazilla at 11:59 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

Hi, my name is Gun-Gun, and I'm going to tell you about the adventure that Daddy and I had today in the bathroom.

Do you know what happens when Mommy and I clean the bathroom? We find lots of these:

Sometimes they're clean and we put 'em back. But if they're dirty, Mommy let's me flush'em! I loveeee to watch them flushie! Daddy says that this is not a good idea and they can get stuck. I guess he was right 'cuz when Sissy flushed the toiwlet today, it didn't go nowhere. Daddy was mad. He said the whole toiwlet would haf to come out and I gotta help! I was so 'cited!

We worked sooo hard! I'm a weal hard worker.

But I got kinda bored, so I worked on the Kleenex holder instead.

But then I got back to work. Daddy needed help, bad!

Daddy finally got the toiwlet out and guess what he found? My flushie Q-tips! Three of 'em! So Daddy put the toiwlet outside and I played cars 'cuz Daddy was startin' to say bad words. And Mommy wasn't havin' any of it!

Then Mommy put me down for my nap. When I woke up, Daddy and I had a talk with Mommy 'bout flushin' stuff. Daddy told Mommy that she was gonna have to buy Adult Proof Q-tips. We told her no more flushin' Q-Tips, or else!

The end!

Posted by Mommazilla at 02:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

My two year old is broke, literally. His little internal time clock is obviously damaged in that he thinks 7AM on Sunday morning is a perfectly good time to wake-up and start playing Hotwheels - on top of sleeping Hubby. He normally begins testing the waters around 4:30 AM by letting out just enough of a scream that one of use will come and check on him. It's as if he's asking, "Are you still there? Are there parents in this house who love and respect me? If so, show your face...NOW!"

It's amazing the type of bribery that occurs between Hubby and I when our cantankerous alarm clock goes off at this ungodly hour. Whoever can tempt the other one with the most appealing item - usually a promise of changing the next two stinky diapers or ending world hunger, top the list. And no, sexual favors are not used in this precarious game of cat and mouse; the demanding, angry voice in the next room is one hell of a libido killer and a strong reminder of the terminal diseases sex can cause. I'm just kidding, of course. Well, sorta.

As usual, Gun-Gun woke up and followed his routine of early rising and rumbling. I went in and retrieved his cherubic little body from his crib and brought him back to bed with me, promising him an unending flow of cartoons if he'd just let Mommy and Daddy sleep a bit more. He seemed to be game and settled back into the pillows, jabbering about "Bob Bob" (Spongebob) and "hopsicleys" (popsicles). He'd occasionally lean over and give me a raspberry on exposed skin and ask me if I was going to "waked up, Mom? Mom? Mom!"

His "Moms" were escalating and becoming even more demanding, causing me to open one eye-up in order to inspect for problems. Seeing none, I told him to give me a smooch and then to beat on Hubby, who was still sleeping like a baby. Gun-Gun continued his torture of wet kisses, slaps to exposed skin, and "chickle, chickle, chickles" (his version of tickling) and in turn, we alternated between Nickelodeon to Disney in order to keep his one minute attention span.

For about an hour, we were able to keep this process going and then Gun-Gun starting bringing us breakfast in bed; yogos, fruit roll-ups, Cheetos, and the occasional pudding cup. I'm not quite sure what Gun-Gun ate, 'cuz Hubby was blindly opening packages in order to keep him happy but more importantly, quiet. Judging by the stains on my pillows and the cheesy residue on my skin, I'm betting he had a smorgasbord of a little bit of everything.

Once Gun-Gun was again pacified and settled into cartoonies, Hubby and I eventually fell back asleep and he was left free reign of the house. Before you start calling Child Welfare Services on me, let me begin by telling you that I have a very child-proof house (but somehow, they still keep getting in). The padded beach towel walls, lack of metal silverware (we only buy sporks), and no running water or heat pretty much ensure the safety of all our children. Even though we are safety conscious enough, for that fleeting moment when I woke up and realized that Gun-Gun was loose; scared the crap out of me.

I immediately called out to him and heard the thumping of little feet running towards my room. It had only been about five minutes but it seemed like so much longer, especially when you're trying to wake-up. He burst through my room with a "Hi Mom!" and I was immediately relieved to see his dirty little face and little butt hanging out of his saggy diaper.

I decided to finally get up and survey the damage caused by tornado Gun-Gun. In the duration of my down time, he'd managed to wake up his siblings as well as Taterbug's buddy who was spending the night, and then tackle his brother's room by emptying out all the toys and books from the shelf. He's also polished off the rest of his snacks leaving a trail of squished Cheetos and gummy items in my carpet as well as in my hair.

The hour of cleaning up the aftermath in actuality only bought me about ten minutes of extra sleep. And Hubby? Well, he got a little bit more than I did because he has this insane ability to sleep through the torture practices of a talented two year old. I only wish I was that good.

Posted by Mommazilla at 08:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Tonight I decided to load up C-dub and Taterbug and take them swimming at a local health club. As I was playing Mommazilla Taxi, I made a quick call to a friend whom had texted me earlier. Yeah, I know, blah, blah blah, cell phone usage in the car is not safe but the law doesn't take effect until July so we're all good. While I was chatting with my friend, I had the music on so that the kiddos could listen to the tunes rather than my grown-up conversation.

Every once in a while, I could hear the word, "stroke," emitting from C-dub's lips, followed by a snicker from Taterbug. Thinking that this was a strange word for him to be saying, I quieted my conversation and turned down my stereo. In his best rock star voice, C-dub was signing:

Stroke meh, stroke meh! Say you're a winner but man you're just a sinner now. Stroke!!! Do it!!!

I started laughing and my partner on the phone, hearing bits and pieces of what my little backseat Billy Squier was singing, started laughing as well. Then came the compliments of my supreme parenting skills and I politely told him that I needed to go and find some Kidz Bop immediately.

By this time, C-dub was embarrassed because of my laughing and then his embarrassment turned into anger.

C-dub: Whatsa matter Mom? He's growling his question through clenched teeth and looking at me through squinty eyes.
Mommazilla: Where in the heck did you hear that song, C-dub?
Taterbug: Dad played it for us this morning on the way to Grandma's house. It's funny, huh?
Mommazilla: Well, it's kind of a funny song but not really a good one to sing if you're a little kid.
C-dub: What's stwoke meh mean anyways, Mom? I started thinking as fast as I could for a good response.
Mommazilla: He's got sore muscles and wants a massage. Tater, turn on your I-pod and lets listen to some Kidz Bop, K?
Taterbug: Still snickering but not sure why...O.K. Mom.

When I got home, Hubby and I had a brief conversation about his son's rock star aspiration. Hubby laughed his way through my description of C-dub rocking out in the backseat but ultimately agreed to better monitor what songs his eldest song memorized and chose to sing to his sister.

Posted by Mommazilla at 10:39 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

...then you have no sense of humor at all. You probably eat babies, in fact. For the rest of you, enjoy.

Posted by Mommazilla at 09:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Dear ______ Checker,

I just wanted to sincerely thank you for the terrible customer service you provided me tonight. It was great to be in your line with 10 other people (including five screaming children) behind me and you not knowing how to do your job. Your equipment was not working correctly and unfortunately, I'm not well versed with ATM/Debit card machines so I couldn't help you more. Sorry 'bout that.

I understand that technological problems can and do occur and that sometimes things just can't be helped. But what really irked me was that you took the time to stop, turn around, and ask your teenage grocery bagger, what plans she had for the weekend - all the while I'm standing there, looking like an idiot. I don't give a flying flip if you two party together on Saturday night and then turn around and go to church on Sunday morning; your behavior pissed me off and inconvenienced me, the good customer.

I'm standing there for a reason. I've been shaking diapers out for three days and re-using mucousy Kleenexes as toilet paper. I can no longer water down the curdled milk for fear of more projectile diarrhea, and I've shaved the bread and cheese three times - just this week. Did I mention it was with the same knife since I have no dish soap left? And if I have to run my coffee grounds through the coffee maker one more day, Hubby said he'd leave me for a gal at Starbucks. I obviously have issues and can't fix your problems, too.

Don't ruin my domestic happiness by telling me that since your mother lovin' machine is down that I can't get my sale items for their advertised cheaper price nor can I use any of my credit or debit cards. That ain't my problem, find someone smarter than you to fix it. At this point, I don't think it would be difficult for you to find that person. Hell, I'll start pressing buttons if you think it'd help. But standing there, staring at me, rolling your eyes, girlishly giggling, and shrugging your shoulders isn't doing squat for either of us. The pounding vein at my temples isn't a normal occurrence nor is it very enduring to my Hubby who has to deal with a disgruntled wife.

In conclusion, I'm very thankful that your prepubescent manager, Doogie, was finally able to free himself from Nick at Night and come over to assist you. It's amazing how he could fix everything and make me happy with only the touch of a few buttons. I hope you were watching because the person behind me looked a little bit pissed off, too. And thanks for calling me "ma'am" when you finally got my transaction completed. The word torked me but the insincere sacharine syrupy way you said it, was only to specifically remind me that I wasn't wearing make-up nor had combed my hair that day. At least I wasn't wearing my housecoast and cutesy rabbit slippers...you woulda ended up with a fuzzy bunny protuding from your rectal cavity.

Regretfully Yours,

Mommazilla ~ The Angry Suburban Housewife

Posted by Mommazilla at 03:49 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

This is one of those articles that you make you go:

1. The person was obviously drunk or high.
2. The person has some mental health issues.
3. The person really loves Australia and is willing to take one from Team Wombat.
4. The person is a combination of the previous three. This is where my vote would be.

This guy from New Zealand evidently decided to tie one on and then phone his local law enforcement to let them know he was being "raped" by a Wombat. He then called back a little later (don't know where the cops were at and why they weren't immediately investigating) to update them on his welfare saying, "Apart from speaking Australian now, I'm pretty alright, you know." Good. I'm sure they were really concerned but relieved to know that he now had an Austrailian accent due to his illicit tryst.

So, if this is a new trend, what sort of conclusions can we draw?

1. Hang out with an aggressive Chupacabra in order to perfect your South American accent?
2. Court Pepe La Peu in order to work on your French accent?
3. Insert your favorite animal and country . Then think bad thoughts.

You've gotta love stupid people. A guy like this is seriously job security not only for law enforcement but mental health professionals as well. Thanks for the chuckle, mate.

I was just helping that guy out with a little language of love lesson!

Posted by Mommazilla at 10:53 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

My poor little man-child, C-dub,was faced with a dreaded doctor's appointment this morning due to a nasty case of poison oak that refused to comply with OTC products. Since he's my little picker and itcher, I feared the worst when I saw that his rash was getting much worse rather than better. He did his best to camoflauge his "owies" with Hotwheels and *gasp* Barbie bandaids, but the all seeing Mommazilla couldn't be fooled and an appointment was made.

C-dub hates going to the doctor and I hate taking him. Thankfully, Hubby was home this morning and got the dreaded duty of dragging him into the office. C-dub has never been a sick kid nor does he really have reason to fear the doctor's office. It's just understood around the house that he's my little Paranoid Pete with a severe case of white coat disease.

Prior to the appointment, I heard Hubby giving C-dub a pep talk about what to expect when he got to the doctor.

C-dub: Dad, can you pwease tell the docta to be easy on me? He asks Hubby, in between the large tears rolling down his cheeks.
Hubby: Sure, buddy. I'll tell her to be easy on you. He's trying not to laugh and to also remember his request.
C-dub: Will I get a tweat if I'm weally good, Dad?
Hubby: How 'bout breakfast at Burger King? Only the best for you, buddy. The promise of the breakfast sealed the deal and C-dub agreed to go with Hubby to the visit.

Hubby told me that when they got into the examination room, he politely gave the doctor C-dub's instructions while C-dub patiently waited for her to respond. Hubby said the doctor chuckled after initially looking a little confused, but then agreed to be as careful as possible. C-dub later expressed his relief to me that the doctor didn't even have to touch him, although she did see his undies, which he wasn't too fond of. Modesty has found my five year old; unfortunately it bypassed my eight year old.

When they got home from the visit, C-dub proudly told me all about the visit.

C-dub: I did so good Mom! They even gave me a free Spongebob sticker. I'm a fan of his, ya know. And the dawctor didn't even touch mne, she just looked at me. I didn't even cwry. I had to give him a much needed bear hug and a smooch for this, which he promptly wiped off.

Later that night, when it was time for C-dub to take his medicine, we all lined up in the kitchen to watch him take his pill. He was so proud of the fact that he could swallow a "grown-up" pill rather than the baby bubble gum juice he had vetoed at the pharmacy. I'll admit, I got a little sniffly watching my man-child swig his Vitamin Water and pop his pill, but it was only for a passing moment. I realize that he can't be little forever and these little episodes are friendly reminders of his impending manliness.

Posted by Mommazilla at 10:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

The other night, Hubby and I decided to support our local Safe and Sober Grad Night by participating in a charity Texas Hold'em tournament at the local casino. No, I’m not a poker player nor have I ever pretended to be. I was lucky once – at my first virginal Texas Hold’em game – but further games have proved to me that I suck at anything requiring a good bluffing face or the ability to understand what my cards meant. I’d smile when my hand was dismal and frown when the cards were in my favor; it was just ugly and I lost Gun-Gun’s diaper money on several occasions. However, I do play a mean game of penny slots and that’s where I decided to park my arse while Hubby and his buddy, Big B, tried to lose their respective Redneck Ranches at the poker tables.

On the way to the casino, I listened to Hubby and Big B compare notes on their poker playing abilities and it was pretty much decided that their playing would be brief; but entertaining to say the least. When we got to the casino, we parted ways by the bar and I wished them both luck. Hubby chuckled and told me he’d see me in about 15 minutes. Did I mention that I’m married to a pro? And his buddy, Big B, well, he's no pro either, but he does enjoy a good conversation -whether or not the other person thinks so as well.

Now, I’ve blogged about my experience at the casino before but I’ll repeat myself again; the casino is not a fun place to be sober in. It’s freakin’ scary and it smells weird. It’s strange how alcohol can deaden the senses and make an otherwise scary place more palatable to the weak. Since I was the sober driver (I think this makes two in a row which isn’t entirely fair but excellent on the Karma scale), I sipped my Sprite as I watched Hubby and Big B begin swigging Captain and Coke. Hubby was deep in concentration while Big B chattered his way through the hand, all the while pounding back liquid courage.

About an hour into the process, I had already burned through $60 and made my donation to the Native American population. I seemed to also be attracting nasty old men with minimal amounts of dental experience and a never ending supply of cigarettes. I had several choose to pull up a chair and sit next to me while I held my breath and tried to act invisible. When this didn't work, I fake phoned a friend and talked about my kids and their recent bouts with green boogers and projectile vomiting. This seemed to do the trick and they never tried to establish a conversation with me. Heck, I may have missed out on a Sugar Daddy or at least potential prison pen pal, but oh well, I'm not sure that I could ever get over the missing hygiene aspect.

After contemplating my alternatives, going home or staying and loitering by my toothless wonder men breathing in large quantities of carcinogens, I chose to make the drive back home. I left a quick text for Hubby, and took off, anticipating that he and Big B would call for a ride in a few minutes as their luck was more than likely going to wear off in the tournament, sooner rather than later.

A few hours later, Uncle R saved the day and picked up Hubby so I wouldn’t have to venture out in my PJ’s and slippers. When Hubby arrived home, I noticed that his partner in crime, Big B, was nowhere to be seen and initially, I was a little concerned. Big B has a reputation for being a talker and over bull schatter. People enjoy hearing Big B talk – almost as much as he enjoys hearing himself. Hubby, in his semi-drunken stupor, told me that he was star struck at the way Big B was motivating the crowd and making new friends. His uncanny ability to get up from the poker table in order to use the facilities and then wander around the casino, chatting it up with friends and then starting up new card games at a different table, was stupendous. Hubby expressed amazement at Big B’s perceived close relationship with several of the dealers whom Big B tried to shame numerous times for giving him losing hands. And, Big B impressed my sweet little hubby by not being afraid to call out obvious gambling tips to random people he then named, “Stretch.” Big B was lavishing in the limelight and was relishing all of the attention he was bringing onto himself. He was a shining star that night and no one could dim his light.

*Sigh.* After hearing this tale of Big B’s success at the casino I was quietly thankful that Hubby had come home early. The two of them together could have been a dangerous duo yet very amusing. I then tucked Hubby into bed and went to sleep.

The next day, Hubby received a phone call from Big B. After Hubby had left, Big B had found an entertaining chap from Texas and they had spent the night playing table games. Big B had given the Texan $15 in order for him to keep playing. The sad part is that the Texan turned the $15 into several hundred dollars and never bothered to show Big B any love by giving him some greenbacks. Big B eventually found a ride and made it home around 4:30 AM. Upon hearing this, Hubby looked at me and said, “I just can’t hang like that anymore!” Finally, his 35 years were catching up to him and he was realizing his limitations. I was proud of him for understanding that’s not how us “grown-ups” roll. Home by 10:00 PM and in bed by 11:00 PM, makes happy parents and hard workers.

Big B is now the four thirty man, and Hubby is more than happy to let him have this title.

Posted by Mommazilla at 09:42 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

My hubby and I have always wanted to be the "cool parents." You know the kind of parents that are loved by all kids due to their high sense of coolest? We've come to realize that this goal is quickly deteriorating due to the fact that we're just boring and we like Wal-Mart far too much to be fancy. The kids are slowly getting used to the idea that they have nerdy parents who have strict rules as far as how they're raised. Although they don't appreciate it now, I hope they do in the future. Until then, "Mean Mommy" is an o.k. title with me.

One thing that has kept us up on the cool scale is Hubby's taste in music. He loves old school rap and it's very common for Run DMC, Paperboy (yes I know he was recently arrested but he was cool at one point), Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five, Kool Moe Dee, and a little Sugarhill Gang, to be playing in either our cars or home stereo. I recently uploaded "It's Tricky" by Run DMC to my I-pod (points on the cool scale – thank you very much) and C-dub and Gun-Gun are addicted.

During every car ride, I hear an echo of, "Tricky pweeesssseee!! Tricky pweeessseee!!" and we're forced to listen to the song until Mommazilla can no longer take it. The other day while listening to the song for the fifth time in a row, I told C-dub that he was "addicted" to the song. He informed me that no, he was not addicted, he was "attracted" to the song. Rather than argue for correct word usage, I had to slightly agree with him. Yes, I guess he was "attracted" to that song, and his uncanny ability to be a five year old white rap star demonstrated this fact.

In order to promote my junior "Vanilla Ice" the Easter Bunny brought C-dub Run DMC's greatest hits in his Easter basket. On Easter morning, I saw his little eyes light up when he looked at the CD. He's just learning to read but was able to decipher "Tricky" off the back label. For the rest of the day, C-dub sequestered himself to his room; the walls were vibrating with Run DMC as C-dub practiced his rythmes and break dancing. He hasn't quite perfected his moves yet but he's getting there and it's definately enjoyable enough to watch a litte blonde-haired five year old boy telling you:

This speech is my recital, I think it's very vital
To rock (a rhyme), that's right (on time)
It's Tricky is the title, here we go...

It's Tricky to rock a rhyme, to rock a rhyme that's right on time
It's Tricky...it's Tricky (Tricky) Tricky (Tricky)
It's Tricky to rock a rhyme, to rock a rhyme that's right on time
It's Tricky...Tr-tr-tr-tricky (Tricky) Trrrrrrrrrrricky

C-dub is certainly already better than Vanilla Ice ever was. And he's got the moves to back up his righteousness. He hasn't asked me for any "bling" yet but Taterbug already assured me she's got a drawerful that he can borrow from. I guess when the time comes and he wants to go professional with his career (myabe when he's six or seven) we'll try to find some more age appropriate songs. Until then, Vanilla Ice Jr. will be rockin' the 80's at the 'ole Redneck Ranch.

For your viewing pleasure, "It's Tricky":

Posted by Mommazilla at 08:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

After much preparation and planning, I managed to get the monsters into two Easter egg hunts; one occuring in the morning and one in the afternoon. After boycotting my local one (and yes - they did miss me) we decided to hit two nearby towns. After physically and mentally preparing my older two, and successfully dumping hubby and the youngest hellion at a relative's house, I drove them out to the morning hunt.

Admittedly, it was a little more than nerve wracking, showing up at an event that we were not familiar with nor had ever attended. The people there were friendly enough but I couldn't help but notice that the *obviously* over 35ish group of ladies definately loved their 16 year old low slung rhinestone jeans with matching poofy faux fur lined parkas and equally fabulous hair. While the Marlboro men of the group stuck together in their cowboy hats and Wranglers with the manly thoughts of, "we just watch the kids and womenfolk do their thang" groups. I told my kids just to "blend." No need for long-term relationships - we just wanted their golden eggs and candy.

The kids did well enough and actually managed to see a couple of friends they knew from school. They walked away with a basketful of candy and only a little whining from C-dub when he didn't win the Hotwheels Easter basket. And Mommazilla enjoyed people watching and feeling awkwardly out of place. After waiting for the slurry of F-350's and BMW's to exit the parking lot, I drove the kids home with the simple instructions to eat a hearty lunch, drink some highly caffeinated soda, and gobble down a handful of candy; the preparationfor the next hunt had began.

After force feeding false energy into my children, we then headed for the second hunt of the day, also in a nearby city. The kids were a combination of one part drowsy and one part nauseous from the killer combination of peeps and Burger King. When we finally got to the second crime scene, I unleashed the beasts from the car and found the appropriate area for them to loiter in, in preparation of the plastic egg feast.

I was a little more comfortable at this hunt especially after seeing many of the parents appearing to be a tad bit more relaxed than the morning crowd. Sweatpants, stretchy pants, ripped jeans, and a suprising amount of overalls ran abound both on the kids and the parents. My little heathens fit right in amongst the dirty, snotty faces of the other monsters.

While hubby maintained the boys, I had a chance to watch Taterbug in action with the big kids. She did me proud, standing on fences and tree trunks to reach the higher, most prized eggs. I sat back and watched from a distance, taking not only her actions but those of my neighboring parents and grandparents. It was sort difficult to determine who was who in some of these families, due to the lack of teeth, greasy uncombed hair, ill-fitting clothing and sheer physical appearance of being not well due to "issues" related in part to a white crystallized substance.

I listened to one of the couples talking (I believe they were grandma and grandpa) and watched as "Ma" clicked her little animal like tongue in and out of her mouth, between the stubs of what remained of her two front teeth. She was rapidly talking to "Pa" who was knodding in approval, rather rapidly.

Ma: YouknowPa,childrenareoureverything.Yougottasupportthosechildrenorwe'llgetpitchedouttathistown.Right,Pa?Right? Did I mention that she was talking this fast out of the corner of her mouth since the other corner held a cigarette?
Pa: RightMa.Where'ddozyoungstersgo?Hopetheygetusalottaeggs,lotsaeggsandwhiches,youknowIlikethosesammies,Ma. After this rapid succession of conversation, he takes a long draw off his cigarette and exhales it directly at Ma. Love is grand.

I don't know if they realized how quickly they were talking or about the white film that was gooping up around their mouths, but I was painfully aware and moved back to avoid being splattered by any wayward pieces of spittle.

Before I go any further, let me say that I understand that methamphetamine is a serious problem. I understand how addictive it can be and what sort of damage it does to families. I watch "Intervention" for crying out loud so I'm pretty much an expert. I can honestly say that these people were showing every possible sign and symptom of being under the influence of meth - it was textbook. What I don't care for, AT ALL, is that these people were coming to a public event under the influence of dope! Couldn't they do a hit of whatever it was afterwards at their family dinner? Or if not a dinner, snack? Oreos, milk and a line of dope? Whatever floats your boat, just don't do it in front of my kids.

Anyhoo, stepping off my soapbox...the kids enjoyed the hunt tremendously and didn't even notice the family of tweekers - but in a way, I guess one could mistake the hyperactivity caused by "Peep" abuse to be similar to that of a good 'ole geetered out gal or guy.

How was your Easter? Do you have any tales to tell 'bout wayward bunnies or lost eggs? Did you get to hunt with tweekers or were your eggy companions on a natural high?

Posted by Mommazilla at 07:41 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Happy Easter!

Posted by Mommazilla at 10:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

When we moved to our new house in the country, we promised the kiddos that we'd get a couple of chickens and some ducks. Bear in mind that I know nothing about poultry. I like eating eggs and find chicken delicious, but that's about it.

Rather than going the easy route and just buying some full grown rats with wings (that's all chickens really are if you didn't know) we decided to go the full incubator route, complete with a huge cage, warming lights, and about $100 in worthless (but expensively necessary) accessories. I bought a book, did a ton of research and ordered my first batch of fertilized eggs off of e-Bay (don't laugh, lots of people do this I found out).

You might ask, how in the world can you safely ship little chicks in the mail? Now that I'm a certified poultry expert, let me explain...Once eggs are fertilized (yes, chickens have sex), you have about a week long window to get them either under a momma hen or into the warm safety of an incubator. When they are in the perfect environment of heat and moisture, this will activate the little embryo into "grow mode" and just a few weeks later, you'll have hatching chicks. In theory, at least.

Our little bundles of joy arrived via the USPS about three days after the auction ended. They were wrapped very carefully and in surprisingly good shape, although they reaked like cigarette smoke. I explained to the kids that our little chickens might be born with black lungs and raspy voices...

We placed the eggs into the incubator, and into the egg turner. Evidently, bad juju happens if you do not have this extra piece of $40 equipment that constantly rolls the eggs and prevents the yolk from sticking to the interior of the shell. You also must apply a gentle water mist each day so that the little buggers do not dry out. Again, you are simulating the underside of a momma hen. I think it would have been just as easer if I took a three week vacation and sat on the critters myself. Less electricity and less to forget to do.

About a week into the incubation process, the kids and I waited until a very dark night and bought a special light so that we could "candle" the eggs (shining a bright light through the porous shell). If the egg was successfully fertilized and growing, you'd see a dark blob. We saw several dark blobs and the kids were ecstatic that we'd managed to "grow" a few babies.

A few more weeks went by and our due date was coming up. Waiting for the little buggers to hatch was like waiting for paint to dry, at least for my kiddos who were so excited about the impending birth(s) and asked me every day, "How many more days???" I quickly learned that chickens are remarkably punctual. At exactly Day 26, you could hear the quiet peeps of the hatching chicks. Soon, we had several little bundles of downy feathers born and the kids were in love. We lost several chicks that week and the kids quickly learned to identify the funky death dance the chicks did before they eventually croaked but all in all, they took the process very well.

The little chicks eventually grew into angry roosters and a little hen. We went through the process several more times and learned a little more each additional batch. During our time as chicken wranglers, I found an awesome website where you can actually go and watch a webcam set on an incubator at the University of Nebraska - Lincoln. You seem them turning the eggs, candling, and eventually the hatching process. My kids and I watched chickens, ducks, and quail hatch on this camera last year and we'll be watching again this year. It certainly is much easier, not to mention cleaner, than doing it yourself.

University of Nebraska - Lincoln Egg Cam

Posted by Mommazilla at 06:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Each year, I'm faced with the quandry of whether or not to take the kidlets to the local Easter Egg Hunt. Do I take them to the event that draws nearly five billion people to one small area in the hopes of finding less than a couple hundred eggs? Should I really expose them to the parents who choose to hunt the eggs for their little Betty Sue or Johnny rather then letting them do it themselves? Would it be wise for my blood pressure to see my children in tears at the fact that they only got one hardboiled egg, and it was smushed?

My vote is a resounding...no.

This particular Easter Egg Hunt sucks eggs (literally) and I boycotted it last year. I'm sure they noticed my absence because I was really trying to make a statement about their overall suckiness.

Ever since I had my oldest, I had made it a point to bring her to the Hunt each year after she began walking. Initially, it was cute to follow her around while she picked up eggs, licked off the dirt, and then dropped them half eaten into her basket. As she grew and advanced into the older area, my husband and I found ourselves hearing parents prepping their children as if they were going into some sort of sporting match.

Evil Mommy: You see that, Betty? There's a whole patch of eggs over there and one looks plastic. It's a PRIZE egg.
Betty: Yeah Momma. I sees it. Watsa pize eggie for?
Evil Mommy: It's the bestest prize! You really want to get one, right?
Betty: Yeah Momma.
Evil Mommy: Then listen very carefully...As soon as they so go, you fake right, then go left...Can you do cartwheels yet sweetie?
Betty: Watsa carted wheel Momma?
Evil Mommy: That's OK honey, just do a somersault for Momma, right in front of that boy who looks like he's fast. He might fall down but that's ok 'cuz you'll get to the eggies sooner. K, sweetie pie?
Betty: O'tay Momma.

And off they'd run. The parents would be screaming from the sidelines, encouraging their little ones on and yelling at any cheater parents who crossed the lines to help their child locate eggs. It was just ugly and each year, Taterbug would come home frustrated and crying. Because of that, we hadn't even thought of going to another one until this year.

Taterbug and C-dub heard their little buddies talking about the eggstravagant hunts at the park and eggcellent prizes that one could find. When they came to me with their little hopes and dreams I quickly reminded them of what it would be like.

Too many people.
Too many cheating parents.
Tears and dirt.
A handful of plastic eggs with Dollar Store prizes.
A park full of squished eggs reaking of sulfur fumes.

And they still wanted to go. So we've settled on a plan for this year. Rather than take them to this huge obnoxious event, we settled on a smaller hunt in neighboring town. Yes, the kids may still need to throw a few elbows and maybe they'll even have to wrestle for a prized egg, but at least I know that the tears and sad feelings will be minimized. And if they aren't, well, I'll just cancel Easter egg hunting next year, if not Easter.

In conclusion, I'd like to offer a few suggestions of Easter Egg Hunt etiquette for those parents who decide to partake amongst the festivities and bring their children to an American tradition:

* Two-way radios, cellular phones, and PDA's are not allowed on the course. Your child is perfectly capable of finding their own eggs without your technological assistance.

* Do not "brief" your child prior to the hunt. Let them find their own eggs, before and after.

* Be nice to the competition. Don't send innocent children off to neighboring yards, fields, forests, highway dividers, etc., promising them that "the good eggs are over there." That's just evil and big time negative Karma points.

* Easter Egg hunts are supposed to be fun; colleges, universities and future employers do not care how many eggs your children find. Relax.

* The "Parental Line" is set-up for a reason. Have some parental restraint and don't be an ass of an egg jockey, selecting prize eggs for your children's psyche. They really don't care - as long as they get candy.

* Spend the $1.49 at Target and buy your brat a real Easter basket. Those Safeway plastic bags really don't set the mood.

* And finally, do not force your child to sit or stand with the high school student wearing the stinky Easter Bunny costume. Those vacant eyes, scratchy hair, and matted bunny tail are sure to inspire at least a half dozen killer rabbit nightmares. Who really wants to look at pictures of screaming children and a put-off bunny?

Follow my advice and I'm sure you'll be a much happier parent and have an extremely satisfied child. See you Saturday!

Posted by Mommazilla at 09:39 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

Now that I have your attention, I'd like to teach you how to make this highly addictive and every so delicious simple candy recipe. No, you will not need to go buy fourteen boxes of Sudaphed and a gallon of Acetone; just get the following ingredients:

1 cup butter (do not use margarine - this is not a healthy recipe)
1 cup packed brown sugar
1 bag semi-sweet chocolate chips
1 1/2 sleeves Saltine crackers
1 cup of chopped nuts (in this recipe, I prefer male candy)

Preheat over to 350 degrees. Line a bar pan or cookie sheet (the pan/sheet should have a rim so that it can hold the goodness in) with aluminum foil. I also spray the foil with cooking spray, just to prevent any delectable bits from sticking. Next, line foil with rows of Saltine crackers. Yes, I said Saltines. Hang with me here, you won't be disapointed.

Next, melt the butter and combine it with brown sugar in a small sauce pan. Bring to boil and boil for two minutes. This now caramel syrup will be very hot so be careful. Several blisters and a melted plastic spoon serve as a good reminder of candy syrup safety. Pour the caramel evenly over Saltines and bake for 10 minutes.

Immediately after removing from the oven, pour the chocolate chips over the crackers. Let stand for two minutes or until chips are soft. Spread the chocolate as evenly as possible over the crackers and then top with the nuts. Refrigerate until hard.

To make it offical "Crack," just break the goodness into pieces, sampling for quality control of course, eat and enjoy.

This "Crack" also goes by the name of "Christmas Crack." If you find the below "Crack" appetizing, you can buy the calendar of "Cracks" here.

Posted by Mommazilla at 03:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Gooey Butter Bars, that is. Not to be confused with Geoducks (pronounced like "gooey ducks") which are extremely large saltwater clams. If you don't know what a Geoduck is, consider yourself lucky. Thanks to the show, "Dirty Jobs," I am now an expert on this clam and I think everyone should at least be exposed to their pictorial magnificence. I'll let you figure out what it resembles...

Now that I've got you all hot and bothered, let's talk about Easter. Since it's right around the corner, here is an easy and scrumptious recipe guaranteed to make your dessert table ever so much more delectable. I found this recipe years ago in the book, Cake Mix Doctor. The woman who wrote this series is a freakin' genius and can practically make anything out of cake mix. She's like the McGuyver of the baking world. Anyhoo, here's the recipe:

Gooey Butter Bars

2 sticks of butter (real butter - no margarine)
3 eggs
1 pkg. yellow cake mix
1 tsp. vanilla
8 oz. cream cheese
4 c. powdered sugar (one pound box)

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees and grease a 9X13 inch pan. Mix one of the cubes of butter, an egg, and the cake mix in a bowl until it forms a soft dough similar to cookie dough. Press this dough into the bottom of the greased 9X13 pan as this will be the yummy crust. Don't bother cleaning the beaters of your mixer. You may have OCD and be compelled to do so, but it's really not necessary. Go ahead and then beat the cream cheese and other cube of butter in the same deliciously dirty bowl. Once they are mixed well, add the vanilla and two eggs. When you have a nice creamy mess, slowly add the sugar in. You might want to sift it as you go or you could have little bits of sweet lumps. I'm lazy and already slightly lumpy, so I forego any sifting. Once you have everything combined, pour your batter onto the crust and then bake it in the oven for 30-40 minutes. You know they're done when the crust is slightly browned and the center is still jiggly like Fat Bastard's tummy (sorry, I love Austin Powers). If you cook it too long, it will dry the bars out and you will shame this recipe.

After the bars are fully cooled, cut into squares, triangles, rectangles, hexagons, or just eat it by the spoonful. It's really that good. If you want to SCREAM fancy, sprinkle a little powdered sugar over the top. I've made different versions of this recipe using a chocolate cake crust and sprinkling chocolate chips in the batter. And, if you like boy bars, you can always add nuts. The options are limitless but the outcome will always be delicious!

Posted by Mommazilla at 02:59 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Sometimes you just can't make schat up. Literally. I read this on the Fox news site. Apparently, a German woman went in to have some sort of leg surgery and when she woke up, she had a new anus. The surgeons, who were just a tad bit early for April Fool's Day, confused her for another woman who was suffering with incontinence and needed to have surgery on her sphincter. The worst part about it all, is that she still has a "bum" leg and needs to have another surgery to repair it.

Here are some one liners for your sick enjoyment:

* The surgeons only got fired because they ripped her a new one.
* Let's hope she proves to be a hard ass in court.
* She is now allowed to have two opinions.
* She can rightfully say that she could give two shats.
* Was the new anus something created by the surgeon or was it from a donor? Ewww...
* Well, that just stinks!
* What a crappy experience.

The poor lady is suing and I hope she gets a BUTTLOAD of money. I also hope that there's not a poor amputee wandering around with a bad sphincter.

Posted by Mommazilla at 07:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

When speaking about the Nigerian scam (or similar type ones) most police departments are not even able to investigate these types of scams because of how widespread and rampant they are - involving multiple suspects and countries. I've learned that you truly have to be your own advocate and that in the cases of ID Theft, you're responsible for the legwork. In order to make it easier to protect yourself, here is some information that I've compiled...just in case:

* If you suspect that you are the victim of ID Theft, you can obtain an ID Theft Affidavit and Fraudulent Account Statement from your local PD. You can make a basic report with your PD but this statement is what you'll be submitting to creditors in order to clear up your name and clean your credit report. Get a copy of the police report you have made, even if the officer is unable to fully investigate.

* You will send these completed forms to the creditor, bank, or company that provided the thief with the unauthorized credit, goods, or services that you did not authorize. Make sure that you send them "certified mail, return receipt requested" so that you have proof it was received.

* These forms are not a guarantee that the debt will disappear, but they will greatly help your situation.
Notify the three major credit reporting bureaus of the fraud: Equifax - 1-800-525-6285 or www.equifax.com, Experian - 1-888-EXPERIAN or www.experian.com, TransUnion - 1-800-680-7289 or www.transunion.com.

* Besides the fraud alert, you can also request a free copy of your credit report (only once a year).

* Close the affected accounts and notify the security departments of each agency.

* Use PIN numbers that are not easy to guess!

* File an ID Theft Complaint with the Federal Trade Commission. They keep track of these complaints and can aid with investigations. You can find the form here. You can also call 1-877-IDTHEFT.

* Last, but not least, always follow your intuition. Be skeptical of anyone who contacts you and wants your personal information. I make everyone send me information in writing. If they can't do it then I don't want it! I met a lady the other day who honestly thought she won $82,000 in an Australian lottery even though she's never been to Australia nor does she play the lottery. She received the "winning" phone call on her answering machine and had a police officer call the scammer back. It ended up being somewhere in Jamaica and once confronted, the scammer promptly "told off" the officer and refused to continue to answer the phone.

You can protect yourself but it's hard. Be on the offensive at all times because defense can come to late. Do you have any tips to share?

Posted by Mommazilla at 09:48 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

If you have an e-mail account, you've more than likely received one of those bogus letters claiming that:

1. You've won a gazillion dollars in a world wide lottery.
2. A Prince in Africa needs you to help him access his money - and you'll get a hefty cut.
3. Your PayPal, e-Bay, Bank of ??, has been compromised. Oh no! Type out your credentials here, and do it quick!

Hopefully, you already realized that all three of these situations are total malarky and were created by deceptive scammers trying to get ahold of your hard earned money and even worse, personal information. I would estimate that I receive between three and five of these e-mails a day, and some of them are just hysterical to read. Obviously, the whole concept of proper English in an official business letter is not really appreciated.

I recently watched a very interesting show on Dateline called "To Catch an ID Thief." The pervert hunter, Chris Hansen, actually worked with expert computer hackers to infiltrate into the computer hacking and scamming system. They showed how quickly (less than a minute normally) that someone could sell your information and then it be used to buy things that you'd never get the benefit of.

He then followed the purchased items to their recipient(s) and it clearly showed some of American's finest - at least America's most gullible. Two single moms with a plethora of kids were both engaged to "Paul" in London. They would receive these essentially stolen items and then mail them to their fiancé in London where he would sell them in his store. Guess what? Yeppers, they met Paul on the Internet and never had seen him in person. He even sent each woman identical pic's. You can almost guess that he has other intended "wives" scattered around the USA.

The second story focused around a real winner of an older man with a very strong lisp. He was receiving the stolen items and then mailing them to his Australian model girlfriend, "Wendy." Wendy sent him numerous model type shots and he fell hook, line and sinker. He estimated that he spent close to $40K on mailing costs because of course, Wendy, assured him that he'd be reimbursed. And he get some bonified lovin' in the end.

These two tales were just a sampling of what I saw but it was so fascinating to watch it played out. I didn't get to watch all three parts yet but I know that at one point, Chris Hansen ends up in Africa, confronting the actual genius behind some of the scams. Interestingly enough, Fox News had a story on this same topic and it actually kind of tagged on to where Dateline ends. It introduced a website where members actively scammed the scammers. These potential victims put the scammers through their paces and then laughed about it in the end when the scammer looked like an idiot and the victim still had their personal information safe. Kind of cool, huh? I perused through the site and find it quite amusing - especially some of the pictures of the scammers holding up various signs that their "victims" had asked them to do. The site does have some profanity and some make take offense, so read at your own discretion.

I don't personally think it's the best idea to "play" with scammers. First of all, I'm paranoid. And second of all, I'm not that computer savvy to think that I could totally protect my location, information, etc. But it is very interesting to read about those who do so successfully. Take a gander at the sites that I've provided. What's the funniest e-mail scam you've received?

Posted by Mommazilla at 11:15 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

My daughter attends a wonderful school with outstanding teachers and staff. She looks forward to going to school each morning and adores her teacher. But there is a problem. A big problem. This school has one of the worst parking lots I've ever had to park my 1976 Ford Granada in (two-tone brown paint job if you were wonderin'). One of it's main problems is that it's just not big enough to encompass the teachers, staff, and parents who need to use it in a daily basis. And now, some very cute Bob the Builder type construction workers are currently working on a large project in the playground area and feel the need to steal our valuable parking spaces. On a side note, they did have a variety of different equipment and vehicles - much to the delight of C-dub who's mesmerized by cement trucks and forklifts.

We all agree the parking lot is already a madhouse because of it's layout, but add the construction and overall bad driving of some parents, and you have a freakin' nightmare before and after school. Today, I had the unfortunate opportunity to be at the wrong place but at the right time, and I saw something that irked me to no ends. Most parents understand that if you do not arrive early enough at this place, you will be forced to park on the street. Heaven forbid you have to unleash the three kids and then walk in to pick up your fourth, fifth and six child, but it happens to the best of us and it’s a good lesson learned. However, today showed me that laziness is alive and well in this world and that common sense sometimes takes a back burner.

Unless the laws have changed and nobody bothered to notify DMV, the handicapped/disabled parking places are meant for people who either have an appropriate disabled plate or placard in their window. It's a little right that this person has applied for and received. Most importantly, it's the LAW! You can be fined up to $500 for violating this code and you seriously rack up a bunch of negative ethical Karma points. Some need those points more than others.

To the two ladies who decided to park in the disabled spots today, sans any plate or placard, I don't really give a flying flip how many kids were in your vehicle or how quickly you were planning on leaving, you were in the wrong. Shame on you and the message you were giving your kiddos. Ignorance is no excuse and I just wish I would have had the forethought to at least write down your plate number so that you could have gotten a friendly reminder letter from the local police department. Maybe you did have a placard and just forgot it…too bad cuz I doubt that you did. Just follow the law - not to mention common civility - and we’ll get along famously. And, I won’t let the air out of your tires when you’re not looking.

For those of you anal readers who (like me) enjoy solid facts and conclusions, here's a link to our vehicle code in regards to this area:

California Department of Motor Vehicles

Additional Facts

Posted by Mommazilla at 03:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

My middle son is a picker, picker of scabs that is. Whenever he gets a ding, scratch, dent, or otherwise minor abrasion, he's addicted to it's welfare. He constantly looks at it and applies new bandaids on the hour, every hour. If it's not covered, he's sure to touch or pick at it, usually 'til it bleeds and then he tries to hide it from the all knowing Mommazilla. But Mommazilla knows all and sees all...besides, she has an excellent informant that supplies her with a steady supply of kidlet information. She goes by code name, Taterbug, and relishes in the fact that she can regularly spill the beans on her brothers to a very attentive audience.

My little whistleblower came to be the other day, telling me that C-dub "had the hives." I don't really know where she's heard about hives nor do I really think she knows what they actually are; but she was convinced that C-dub was afflicted. After much begging, pleading and eventually prying of his little arms, C-dub allowed me to inspect the problem area on his stomach. With all my mommy wisdom and experience in the area of itchiness, I diagnosed him with a minor case of poison oak; more than likely caused by the monster truck rally he held in our front yard forest grove. I never told C-dub the name of his rash for fear that he wouldn't understand the concept behind the name. He tends to be a "Paranoid Pete" so the less he knew, the better.

While he screamed and cried big crocodile tears, I applied some salve to help his rash dry out. I also told him that if he picked at it, his fingers would melt off. No, not a shining mommy moment but it kept his grubby little fingers from scratching and making things worse with infection. I assured Taterbug that he did not have "the hives" but she wasn't so convinced and she scowled her disapproval at me. She then wrapped her little arm around C-dub and pulled him out to the livingroom while I cleaned up my nursing supplies.

I heard the two of them a short time later, speaking in hushed voices. I knew it wasn't a talk that they wanted me to hear because Taterbug kept glancing towards my bedroom while I spied on their conversation.

Taterbug: C-dub, Mom doesn't really wanna tell ya but you got the hives. You got'em bad. Real bad.
C-dub: What? No I don't! Mom said I don't! I don't want da hives!
Taterbug: Your gonna have to get a lot of medicine. Yucky tastin' medicine.
C-dub: What?! He starting to cry and I'm getting torked. I don't wanna drinkkkk medicinnnnneeeee!

C-dub then runs back into my room, crying, asking me essentially how long he had to live in this world since he had "da hives." I immediately called Taterbug in to give her a little lecture, some information, and to make her right her wrong.

Mommazilla: C-dub! Calm down, buddy. You don't have the hives, just a little case of Poison Oak, K?
C-dub: Rubbing his eyes and the big salty tears away. Poyzin Oak?
Mommazilla: Yeah, just a little rash. Mommy gets it all the time (but Mommazilla didn't tell him that she normally gets a huge shot in the butt and a round of steroids that would make Awnold blush, whenever she even looks at that hateful weed).
Taterbug: You can see Taterbug's wheels spinning and the impish grin on her her face. She's trying hard not to say anything but then she lets it out: Oh great, C-dub! It's worse than I thought! You got poisoned!

With that final note, Taterbug and her smart little mouth were sent to their room while C-dub and I spent some quality time on the 'Net looking at various pictures of Poison Oak and learning more about his ailment. It's nice to have a witty child but not when you have a hypochondriac for a sibling.

Remember, leaves of three, leaf them be.

Posted by Mommazilla at 05:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Every once in a blue moon, I get a wee bit 'o Irish in me...much to the gratitude of my Irish husband ;o). Because of our "heritage," I thought I'd honor this holiday by sharing a few jokes and tales with you.

First, here's some jokes I stole off the 'Net:

His wife had been killed in an accident and the police were questioning Finnegan.
"Did she say anything before she died?" asked the sergeant.
"She spoke without interruption for about forty years," said the Irishman.

Q: Why do people wear shamrocks on St. Patrick's Day?
A: Regular rocks are too heavy.

Q: Why can't you borrow money from a leprechaun?
A: Because they're always a little short.

Q: Why do leprechauns have pots o'gold?
A: They like to "go" first class!

Q: How can you tell if an Irishman is having a good time?
A: He's Dublin over with laughter!

Q: What's Irish and stays out all night?
A: Patty O'furniture!

Q: How did the Irish Jig get started?
A: Too much to drink and not enough restrooms!

Q: What do you call an Irishman who knows how to control his wife?
A: A bachelor.

Q: What would you get if you crossed Christmas with St. Patrick's Day?
A:St. O'Claus!

Q: Are people jealous of the Irish?
A:Sure, they're green with envy!

Q: What would you get if you crossed Quasimodo with an Irish football player?
A:The Halfback of Notre Dame!

Q: Why did the leprechaun stand on the potato?
A:To keep from falling in the stew!

Q: Do leprechauns make good secretaries?
A:Sure, they're great at shorthand!

Q: How did the leprechaun beat the Irishman to the pot of gold?
A:He took a shortcut!

Q: What do leprechauns love to barbecue?
A:Short ribs!

Q: Why are leprechauns so hard to get along with?
A:Because they're very short-tempered!

"I married an Irishman on St. Patrick's Day."
"Oh, really?"
"No, O'Reilly!"

Knock, knock!
Who's there?
Don.
Don who?
Don be puffin' down the Irish now!

Secondly, here's some random facts about today:

* This is what Wikipedia says about it's origin: Saint Patrick's Day (Irish: Lá ’le Pádraig or Lá Fhéile Pádraig),
colloquially St. Paddy's Day or Paddy's Day, is an annual feast day which celebrates Saint Patrick (circa 385–
461 AD), one of the patron saints of Ireland, and is generally celebrated on March 17.

* St. Patrick was born in 385 AD on the west coast of Britain. When he was 16, he was captured and sold into
slavery to a sheep farmer. He escaped when he was 22 and spent the next 12 years in a monastery. In his
30s he returned to Ireland as a Christian missionary. He died at Saul in 461 AD and is buried at Downpatrick.
Sounds like a candidate for a Lifetime Movie Network movie.

* St. Patricks's day was first celebrated in the USA, in 1737. Boston, Massachusetts held the first public
celebration.

* Chicago dyes it's river green. Poor fish.

* McDonald's has a Shamrock shake. Goes great with fries.

* 23 of our US presidents had Irish ancestry.

* 34 million Americans have Irish ancestry. The rest are just lying.

* The Irish flag is green, white, and orange.

* The harp is the symbol of Ireland.

* The legend says that each leaf of the clover means something: the first is for hope, the second for faith, the
third for love and the fourth for luck.

Thirdly, here are some things to consider on Patrick's Day:

* Green food coloring in the toilet bowl is a cute idea (leprechaun pee, get it?). However, it's the gift that keeps
on giving leaving a nice green stain.

* Mommazilla and Hubby like corned beef and cabbage. Kiddos do not. In fact, kiddos make gagging sounds and
run for higher ground when asked to eat this traditional food fair.

* Green beer is great for breakfast or any time of the day for that matter. It totally goes with the concept of
green eggs and ham and I'm sure Dr. Seus would approve.

* Wear green or dye some sort of patch of hair (preferably those hairs exposed to the public). If you do not,
you will be faced with gropes, grabs, and pinches. Unless you plan on hanging out with gorgeous men and
women all day, I'd suggest you protect yourself.

* If you're going to make green beer, color it prior to drinking. Drunk coloring is dangerous and should be avoided.

* And finally, for the adults out there, here's a helpful video full of suggestions for St. Patrick's Day:

Happy St. Patrick's Day!!!

Posted by Mommazilla at 10:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

A couple months back, I blogged about the joys of our little goat, Chico. Chico recently celebrated his one year birthday and along with the age came a major bout of attitude and about 50 extra pounds. No longer was he my sweet little kid looking for ear scratches or wanting to visit with his favorite Schwan's guy; he was now a turd. A big white blob of Hell placed on this Earth to make our family miserable.

Each day I'd let him off his lead to take a break and wander the yard. However, he soon learned that he could hold our front porch hostage; pooping and peeing wherever he pleased. One wrong move and he'd contort his little body into a battering ram that was sure to knock anyone on their butt. When he was tied out, he'd holler his protests, and do his best to get off of the lead he was affixed to. It was just a no win situation for all parties.

We thought we'd remedy the problem by giving him to our neighbors who also had a goat and a huge piece of ground. Chico seemed to like it for awhile but about a week later, I heard the familiar rumblings of garbage cans being knocked over; Chico had escaped and returned home. Evidently he felt that our Redneck Ranch was better than their house; plus, he hadn’t gotten a chance to eat all the new succulent shoots on my roses. He still had work to do.

He seemed to do well for awhile, appreciative that his momma and siblings would accept him back into the brood. But this love quickly turned to a huge case of spring fever mixed with bad attitude. Once again, Chico had kidnapped the front porch and proceeded to eat all of my roses, the daffodil sprouting in my yard, and the electric starter on our BBQer. He also successfully opened every package that the UPS man delivered and would knock over our trashcans daily, in an attempt to find out if we were eating healthier than he.

Knowing our difficulties with Chico, our good friend Serge, offered to take him off of our hands, assuring us that he’d put him to good use. While this initially perked my interest, I began questioning him as to Chico’s future living quarters and what sort of yard he had for him. Serge just looked at me as if I didn’t understand his proposition.

“Uh, we’re gonna eat him." he told me, smiling at the prospect of a deep pit BBQ starring Chico the tender smoked goat.

Nope. Not happening. Although Chico was driving my family nuts, he was my fourth kid and I just couldn’t face the prospect of someone eating him. The hungry look on Serge’s face made me want to place poor Chico in the Goat Witness Protection Program. He’d have to leave in obscurity somewhere in Wisconsin, under an assumed name with some other random family or perhaps even a trashy Nanny goat named Big Bertha. He’d live his 12 or so years completely anonymous, never to contact our family again. Where's that number to the FBI, I guess I dont' have it on speed dial...

Needless to say, he stayed with us for another week and chalked up four more garbage can turnovers, ate the rest of my bulb sprouts, schatted all over my driveway and front porch, ate the Payless Shoes Source box and distributed the new shoes in said box all over my yard, and discovered his beautiful reflection in my brand, new car. This discovery also led to him attempting to “rub out” his completion with his one horn, on my BRAND NEW CAR! I grabbed the phone and dialed Serge’s number; at this point, anger and desperation took in and I saw only red…

Then my wonderful neighbor stepped in. Mr. A informed us that during a trip to his Rodeo BBQ, Chico had made great friends with one of his buddies. Evidently, Chico was the life of this outside party and was quickly inducted in as a four-legged party go’er. Mr. A told me that he’d let his buddy know that Chico was once again available.

The following Sunday morning, Mr. A and his buddy arrived and transported Chico to his new home of endless blackberry bushes, brush, and someone else’s rose bushes. Hubby and I waved goodbye to Chico, using only one finger a piece - you can decide which one. Chico is now much happier and so are we. Yes, I admit that I do miss the occasional moment when he’d place his soft little nose into the crook of my arm, begging for an ear scratch or two. I’d happily oblige him and in the next moment, he’d take it as a challenge and would proceed to chase me down the driveway and once again take command of my front porch. I think we’ll stick to chickens from now on. At least they give us eggs and eat the endless amounts of bugs our Redwood forest provide. And they’re much easier to give away if they piss you off.

Posted by Mommazilla at 06:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

to the *cougar* hunting Hubby at the Ray's Food Place. You gave him several looks, a couple of smiles, and perhaps even a wink or two. You practically made him feel naked in the middle of the Ethnic Foods aisle. With your beady little eyes burning a hole in his backside, he was forced to avoid any unnecessary bending, reaching, or flexing of the errant muscle. To make things worse, you then stalked him throughout the checkout line and then to the parking lot, where you continued your incessant smiling and flirting. You scared a grown man and made him feel dirty. He could see the old lady lust in the whites of your eyes and just for a moment, thought he was going to be dry humped right then and there in front of the cart corral. Thankfully, he was able to snap a quick picture of you, just before escaping in my car:

Come on! You must have looked so totally obvious for him to even notice that you were checking his goodies out. I mean, he's a man and one that's been out of the dating loop for 14+ years. Your pathetic attempts at flirting and seducing my hunk of burning love crack me up! Don'tcha know he's got three screaming kids and a bitchy wife waiting at home for him? Top all that off with a raging mortgage, noisy chickens and a pissed off one-horned goat...he couldn't be happier! And I tell him so everyday! You're happy, babe! We have a beautiful, loving, dysfunctional family! We may be a little crazy but it works for us! Here's a current picture of us with our oldest:

So go home, cougar, back to your little stinky den. Eat your Ben & Jerry's, watch that VHS of Dirty Dancing for the umpteenth time, and cry for the longing of the romance that never will be. I give you permission to salivate over the memory of my bodacious stud of a husband because memories are all that you'll have; I've got the real thing :o).

Remember, Hubby is not a:

And we don't support your kind around these parts!

Posted by Mommazilla at 05:31 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I was feeling rather industrious (i.e. I had major PMS and needed chocolate therapy) the other day, and baked about four dozen chocolate and chocolate chocolate chip cookies for my little munchkins. I only ate five or six or the little lumpy mounds of goodness, just enough to ensure my children's safety - I wouldn't want an errant egg shell or bit of coagulated brown sugar to hinder their digestive processes.

When I tell you that these are the world's best chocolate chip cookies, it's the absolute truth. These cookies are so good that they're sinful. One bite into these little pieces of ooey, gooey, goodness, and you'll be hooked forever on his recipe. I consider myself to be a cookie snob when it comes to chocolate chip cookies. They must be chewy and soft, with just the right amount of dough to chip ratio. These cookies fit the bill. Not only will I provide to you this secret recipe of cookie magic, but I'll also give you a few tips on how to ensure success. First, here's the recipe:

2 1/4 cups flour
1/2 tsp. salt
1 tsp. baking soda
2 eggs
1/4 cup white sugar
3/4 cup packed brown sugar (make sure and pack that brown goodness down)
1 small box of instant vanilla pudding (you can use chocolate pudding instead)
1 cup unsalted butter (don't be cheap - use real unsalted butter - and leave the two cubes on the counter to soften. I use unsalted butter so I can control the amount of salt in my recipes.)
1 tsp. real vanilla (yes, use the stuff you can also drink to get a buzz while baking)
1 package of semi-sweet chocolate chips (milk chocolate is o.k., but the semi offers a nicer contrast)
1 cup of walnuts (I only like female cookies, but should you prefer male cookies, you can add the nuts)