WELCOME! COME IN AND SIT YOUR ASS DOWN!



I have been cruising the mommy blog directories, so I felt like I should put up a disclaimer for the new folks.

I AM CRAZY! I AM SNARKY! I AM CRASS! I AM A SMART ASS!

Yep! I am all of the above, with a little bit of nice rolled in for good measure (although I don’t show that often). I started this blog just wanting to shoot the shit…yes I do use potty words, they make me feel grown up (kinda)…and after 2 + months I have decided that is what I want to keep on doing. I love give away moms and PR moms rock…that is just not what I started this site for. The only thing I might give away is a small piece of my brain (I can’t afford a big piece, I would have nada left). I will dance for comments and I love followers, not just for the sake of following. If you like who I am and what I do- Follow me Bitches. If not, that is cool.

I am a non baby wearing, put your ass in a crib, drink from a bottle and a spanking you deserve is a spaning you will get mama. I DO NOT care how you raise your kid. If you want to breast feed until Junior High…that’s cool (I am gonna talk about your ass, but that is cool). No seriously, everyone parents in different ways. I parent the way I was parented and the way that 99% of the people I know were parented. I am from the south, so we tend to not be as “green” (unless you are talking about collards, I am all over that) as other regions. That does not mean I don’t respect others ways of parenting. I just ask that you respect mine.

I guess I should say when I talk about my awesomeness I am also being silly. I don’t think I am truly a Queen, or totally awesome…I have a few flaws…..just a few! ;o)






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WARNING! WARNING!

WARNING! WARNING!

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

A letter from My Gina (long i)

So yesterday I surfed on over to one of my favorite bloggers site…
Life's Crazy Joke


 If you have not been to her site, please go. I promise you, it is really funny shit. While there I read her wickedly funny post that she did for her Vagina Montaloges. I am a bandwagon kinda girl so I wrote my very own Vagina Montalouge. Without further ado…A letter from My Gina (long i)



Dear April-



We have know each other since pretty much the beginning of time, and have been together through thick and thin and long and short (remeber the dude that was thin and short? such a disappointment). I was there the first time we went to the crotch doc. I must say, I took the brunt of that visit. You allowed that asshole to shove metal salad spoons into me and crank me open. This was mentally scaring for me, but I forgave you. I was also the one that was injured during your first sexual encounter. Literally being ripped open. So not cool, but I forgave you.



I am the one that gets cotton wads on a string shoved inside of me every month…but do I complain? No. It is all about your comfort, I understand. I am the one that stood inside you during your “Girl Gone Wild” phase after your divorce. I must say you did lower your standards of what total dumb ass loser men that were allowed to enter my domain. I supported you. I understood that you were not really the whore person that you were appearing to be, so I just said a nightly prayer for us and lathered myself in antibacterial hand sanitizer.



I have to thank you though for not making me squeeze your keg headed kids out. (HAVE YOU SEEN THE SIZE OF THOSE KIDS HEADS?) I guess I should really be thanking your first keg headed spawn. He is the one that got the ball rolling by refusing to drop down into your pelvis, thus making the c-section zipper possible. I knew when you ran your mouth about having a VBAC you were just spewing shit. You are way too much of a control freak to actually wait to go into labor. You are also impatient so there is no way that you would wait out the labor process. As soon as that doctor said he was going to schedule the c-section with the 2nd keg head you climbed up on his desk and said “Take this baby now Big Daddy”. Ha! You thought I forgot didn’t you?! Well I have not. I have much dirt on you bitch.



That brings me to this letter. It has been brought to my attention that you were reading online the other day about kegals. We have discussed this before. You are not going to squeeze me in and out and make me exercise until you get off your fat ass and lose 100 pounds. That is it! I put my clit down! It is not fair that you get to eat whatever and never exercise, but then expect me to exercise. Guess what fat ass, I am not the issue! The issue is you won’t stop eating junk food and you won’t get of your ass. What is making me exercise going to prove? Are you going to pull down your pants and say “I might be a fat ass but I got a rocking twat”! Get a clue, that is not very impressive. Are you entering some kinda pussy Olympics?



You must stop this madness immediately. Take this as your final warning. If you insist on this I reserve the right to do the following:



Queff the National Anthem.

Make next months tampon insertion very uncomfortable.

Take on a very nasty odor.

Itch, itch baby.

Make sex very unenjoyable for you and the dear Hubs.

You do understand that I am a muscle? Have you every heard the words "Charlie Horse". (Stand up and hop outta of that one! Hooker!)



I do not want to do these things. You have keegled me to this point. Cease and desist immediately. Please do not let this ruin our relationship. I love you to death.



Love-

Gina (with a long I)

Monday, February 8, 2010

Post It Tuesday!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I am jumpin on the bandwagon baby! However, true to form, I can't seem to get it all on one little sticky. I will try better next time.......Brought to you by:




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Another Potty Post- Phone Etiquette

When I was 15 years old I received the most awesome Christmas present. A cordless phone. I will never forget opening that box and getting so excited that I wanted to piss all over myself like a little puppy. It was an ATT white cordless phone with a retractable metal antenna. It represented freedom. No longer did I have to try to stretch the phone cord across the house while trying to clean before my mom got home from work. I could walk and talk. Wash dishes and talk. Chase after my bad ass little brother and talk. I did not have to stop my teenager jibber jabber for anything…even going to the bathroom.




Going to the potty while on the phone, it is an art. To know how to turn on fans or run water at just the right time so the person on the other end will never know that you have included them in your most private moment. When you are a kid it is no big deal. Most of the time my friends and I would laugh about “your going to the bathroom with me”. The problem comes in when you get a little older and take non friends with you to the pot.



This is just what happened to me several time. I was on the phone with the cable company and I went into labor (if you have not read my terms for going potty click here). My contractions were getting closer and closer and I knew that deliver was emanate. However, I was on hold. I had been on hold for quite some time and I did not want to loose my place in line. So I took the cable company with me to the potty. I did not think that it would be a huge deal. I figured that my shit baby would be delivered before they actually answered the phone.



I was wrong.



This particular baby was a difficult delivery. It demanded a lot of concentration and some of the breathing techniques that I learned in my real child birth classes (That has really came in handy during shit baby births. I did not need it for my actual childbirths since I had c-sections with all 3. I still think it was $150 well spent) .



Cable Person: Thank you for calling G Force cable. Can I help you?



Me: breath-grunt-breath (in deep concentration and did not even hear cable person)



Cable Person: Hello? Can I help you?



Me: (snapped into realization that someone is actually on the line talking to me, however I am in a very critical part of delivery and I just cant get it all together) grunt-umm yeah, my cable is out-breath



Cable Person: What is your phone number?



Me: 593 grunt 2526 breath



Cable Person: Yes, April Celestin?



Me: Yeah, that is me (grunt)



Cable Person: 123 Oak Ln.



Me: (turning on the fan b/c I know that delivery is soon) Yes- big grunt



Cable Person: Yes, I show an outage in your area. We are…



WHAM! I had a 10 pound shit baby and it may not have cried, but everyone knew it had arrived.



Cable Person: Hello? Ma’am



Me: I am here…so, ugh, there is an outage?



Cable Person: yes, we are not sure how long it will take to get your service back up.



Me: Well it is going to be before tonight? Big Brother is on and I do not want to miss it. (yes, I am one of those people)



Cable Person: We have people out working on it right…



**FLUSH** (Y’all didn’t expect for me to sit on the pot all day did ya?)



Me: Umm, ok



Cable Person: Can I help you with anything else today? (like wiping your ass you freak that shits while on the phone doing business)



Me: No, that’s all



Cable Person: Thank you for selecting G-Force (and taking a dump while we were on the phone your gross ass). Have a nice day (since you have ruined mine).



I would love to tell you that this was made up, but it was not. I would like to tell you that this is the one and only time that I have ever been caught in such a situation, but it is not. I will tell you that I have taught my children better phone etiquette.



About 2 months ago my son was in the garage listening to his stereo. He came barreling into the house and took off to the bathroom. You must understand that everyone in my family holds it until the very last possible minute. He had the stereo blaring The Jackson 5’s Rockin Robin. When he came back past me I asked him why he had the stereo blaring if he was not out there. Simple. He was on the phone and he needed to go to the bathroom so he asked his friend what he wanted to listen to while he was gone and basically played his friend some “hold while I poop music“.



Such a considerate child!

Sunday, February 7, 2010

WHO DAT!

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 "Who dat? Who dat? Who dat say dey gunna beat them Saints?

Why I hate the NFL

On this the day of the Super Bowl, I have decided to blah blah about the NFL. This is a veering from my normal mommy blah blah, so if you don't like sports...sorry.


I am not an NFL fan. I love football, hate the NFL. In my opinion the NFL is a big, bad corrupt corporate machine. One that cranks out billions of dollars each year. They are much like our government, they don’t give a damn about their constituents (fans). If they did, a family of 4 would not have to take out a loan to attend a game. They also would put morality clauses in the contracts so when I go plop down $100 for an NFL officially licensed jersey, I will not have to have fear that dudes name that is on the back will not be involved in a pistol whipping outside the local titty club. Do they not think that these people should act some what responsible. I don't drink all of the "role model" kool aid, but I damn sure dont want to have a persons name on my back that beat the hell out of his wife.

I have a rule that I just don't watch. I don't buy the merchandise. I do not support the insanity.

This year my rule was broken. This year I have actually watched many games in support of the New Orleans Saints. I love Louisiana. I love New Orleans. This is their year. What a great thing for the state and also for this wonderful city. The city of NO has been through so much in the last 4 years. It is time for them to have something. It is time for them to have a Super Bowl championship.

But here comes the big bad NFL wanting to piss all over their parade. Just like the government after Katrina, they are fucking over the people of NO. All I have heard out of NFL commentators for the last 2 weeks is how the Saints play "dirty". WTF does that mean? Last time I checked there are rules to this game and there are little men in black and white uniforms out on the field to make sure that the rules are followed.

They "beat down Farve", they had late hits and were playing a defense that was out to get him. Well DUH! I do not proclaim to be the brightest light bulb, but even my 10 year old will tell you that the defense has 3 main goals while on the field. 1. Hold the line. 2. Get the ball. 3. Take out the quarterback. If you have a shot at the quarterback you put every bit of might that you have behind that blow. I don't know what kinda patty cake football these NFL commentators think the Saints should be playing.

If they are not talking about how dirty the Saints are they go into Manning Worship. I had no idea that the NFL had football porn. Apparently they do because the NFL commernators sit around and watch Colts highlights and all have one big circle jerk to the great Peyton Manning. I must say that I like Peyton Manning and if the Colts were not playing the Saints I would be pulling for them. He is a LA boy, and I have a thing for all that comes from LA. Also, let's face it.  Manning is the Colts.  They are shit without him.  Common sense would say that the Saints need to try to get him out.

Then they did it. The NFL decided to act like total fools and send cease and desist orders to all of the shop owners in the French Quarter. They apparently think that they have a trade mark on the phrase "Who Dat?" and the Fleur de lis. ARE THEY FUCKING INSANE?

Yes they are. I believe that they need to research the origin of the phrase "Who Dat?" . If they did, they would see that the phrase originated from Southern University. They also need to wikapedia the origin of the fleur de lis. They would then see that is a symbol from hundreds of years ago and has been used in many countries, including France. The fleur de lis is associated with French settled areas of the country. Speaking of which, would include Louisiana and New Orleans. These symbols have been in place for years, but the NFL did not care about it until the Saints started playing well and got a shot in the big show. I don't see them trying to tell the Colts fans that they can not use horse shoes.

Let me introduce you to my Cajun friends...

You do not fuck with Southern people. You really don't fuck with Cajuns. They are crazy as hell. If you fuck with a Cajun you get one of two things. Fed to the gators or a bad gree gree on your ass. Not a good thing for the person that gave them a "chew rouge". I am guessing that many of the NFL top executives are now walking around with constant ball itch. If they take a trip to LA anytime soon, they might meet a gator named Big Mama.

The NFL also under estimates the savvyness of these cooyons. Apparently none of these people have never visited the the Quarter. They have no idea how much boot legged shit is sold down there. The also don’t realize that Cajuns don’t get even, they get ahead. I am sure that there will be some shirts sporting the following logo:




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Thursday, February 4, 2010

My adventure in being a pageant mom

I will shamefully admit that I have fallen into this "pageant mom" trap. Think that most mothers of little girls has at least thought about entering their little darling baby into a pageant...for fun. When you read this, please remember that I was much younger, and was very stupid. Well, I am here to tell you it is not fun. Not fun at all.

When Ansley was 11 months old i entered her into a local pageant. I knew nothing about pageants. NOTHING. I decided to get my beautiful belle a "Little Dolly" dress. For those of you that do not know what that is click here. They are very popular in the south, and looking back...very hideous. I selected the "southern belle" in white with royal blue bows. It looked tacky. However, to me...it looked adorable. I also had to purchase a crinoline slip. You know...to make it poofy. I thought I was super dooper crafty and I made my little dolly a head piece. See, Ansley had no hair. She did not get hair until she was well over 2 years old. I figured my mad crafting skills would make up for that little issue. You know...blind them with fake flowers.

Everything was rocking along great until my next door neighbor came over and gave me some "tips". I HAD to have white shoes with brown bottoms. Had to. It was like a mortal sin for you to put any other color on your child's feet. That was like an automatic 100 point deduction and I think they cut off a finger or something after the pageant. I also had to have "pageant socks". These hideously fugly socks that were all frilly and practly covered up the child's must be white with brown bottom shoes.

I went into a mini melt down panic. I mean, here I was with the most beautiful child that was sure to win and just because I am a total pageant ingnoramoose she will loose. I can't let that happen! So off to hunt white shoes in September I went. There is another thing that you must know about southern women. We take the no white before Easter or after Labor day very seriously. We will talk mad shit about your ass if you where white sandals in October, even though it is hot enough to wear them well into November where I live. Needless to say, trying to find these shoes are like looking for a needle in a haystack. (This was my non internet years, now I could find a pair in 3 minutes and have them shipped over night). 23 stores later, I found a pair of shoes for my little beauty queen. Thank you! Finding the socks was easy peezy, and I must say that they looked smashing with her super hideous frilly dress.

As time drew near I was getting more and more excited. My little girl was going to be in (win) her very first pageant. Ansley started walking at 9 months, so she could get around pretty good at this point. Her age division was babies from 0-12 months. I decided that she would stand out more if she could walk. So every day i tortured myself and my baby girl with walking practice. Yes, I made her walk around the living room 50 times a day, stopping at imaginary marks. I was a freak. We had perfected our little strut. I was even more confident that we would take the crown.

The big day came. To say I was nervous would be an understatement. We arrived at the event at our assigned time. Boy, I was not prepared to enter that lions den. There were women everywhere. Not smiling happy women. Mean, nasty, scowling looking women. Women that look like they will eat you up and spit you out. I seriously got a little frightened. People were fighting over light sockets...FIGHTING. Everyone was looking for that super spot where they could plug in all of there heated essentials for making their child look beautiful. I did not have that need since my kid had no hair. That did not stop them from shoving and acting like dumbasses.

I found a little corner and dresses my baby. She did look like a little southern belle. Too beautiful for words. From the top of her fake flower head all the way down to her brown bottom shoes, she was totally cute. I just knew, she was the one...I mean hello...she is beautiful.

So then we wait. And wait. And wait some more. We were waiting in line in a tinky tiny hall. Mamas and babies. It was so very strange. I have been in many social situations with children and parents and inevitably people start talking. It is like a rule, if you are around other folks with kids...you talk. Not here. We were all silent. It was freakishly quiet. You knew that the other mothers were sizing up your child. That is just weird. I am not going to lie. I was in on it also. Trying to figure out who was going to take second to my beautiful child.

OMG it was so freaking hot. I was sweating buck shots down the crack of my ass. All the while trying to clam my increasingly getting pissed off child. 11 months old, mobile, in a hall with a bunch of moms and other babies = shitty time. FYI. Especially when no one is talking to each other. Finally, the damn thing started.

A lady that was working for the pageant came to all the mother and instructed how to hold your baby so that they may see the dress and all that jazz. I smuggly stated to her that I was going to allow Ansley to walk. She looked at me like I was insane. She tried to talk me into just holding her, but no...I am a stubborn ass.

The time had come for our grand entrance. We had to walk to 3 marks on the stage. We had this. I just knew it in my bones. I took a deep breath and away we went. We got to the first mark. Ok. We were doing good. I was holding her hand guiding her over to the next mark (in front of the judges table). She was as cute as she could be. All of a sudden I hear laughing. Laughing? Is my little adorable sweetie blowing kisses or doing something totally rocking because she knows she is the bomb. Think again. I look down and she is hobbling. I look back and one of her damn white shoes with brown bottoms has came off. SHIT!!!!!!!! What the hell am I suppose to do? Go back? Keep going? Shit! So I just keep going.

We keep walking to the judges table and there is more laughter. Fuck me. Did her other shoe come off? No. She reached up and pulled out her halo of fake flowers. Great...just great. We get to the judges table and I just seriously want to fling myself of the floor and beg for mercy for my beautiful little girl. I mean look at her...in a hideous dress, one shoe on one shoe off (but they are white with brown bottoms damn it) and her halo of flowers in her hand. I had to look like I had been rode hard and put up wet at this point. We were a pair.

I we limped back to our stranded shoe and picked up what was left of our dignity and walked off stage. Somewhere in my delusional mind I thought we might still win (yea I am fracking nuts). I mean, it was a beauty pageant, my kids is beautiful. So what if we had some small wardrobe malfunctions. We were still the bomb. I am going to spare you what I was thinking about the competition at this point. I mean all I can claim is total insanity and everything I was thinking was not true. All of the little girls in this pageant were friggin adorable. Something about putting yourself in a competitive situations like this make you really, really mean. I can not imagine how the mothers that have spent mega money feel. I was in for about $150 bucks and that made me stupid crazy. If I had spend thousands I believe I would be beyond insane crazy.

Anyway, crowning time came and my daughter did not win. I would like to say that I lost gracefully, but I didn't. I was pissy because this judge knew this person, or that person did this. I was madder then a wet hen. I got over it. We collected our little participant trophy and left the building.

Looking back now, I am so very glad that Ansley did not win. That would have just blew my head up bigger. Then I would have spent more money and entered one of these glitz pageants that are seen on Toddlers and Tiaras. I totally could have been sucked in. The fact is that all little girls are dolls. Pageants are about the money that you spend. The extremes that some parents will go to be able to have a chance to win are crazy. The amount of money spent is gluttonous. It is not about making bonds. Hell, the kids don't even talk or socialize. What are they really getting out of all of it.

I am not judging these mothers. I for a brief moment was one of them. Not to their extreme, but one of them just the same. I just hope that for every dollar they are putting into pageants they are putting 2 in a college fund so that they will also teach their daughters that it is important to be as smart as your are pretty.


**********I will post pics of Ansley's pageant in the next few days. Hopefully, we will be getting a scanner so I can show yall some old school stuff.*******************

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

I am still sucking ass

Dear Bloggy Friends-
I am very sorry for sucking ass when it comes to keeping my blog updated. I promise you that I have not killed my family and that is why I no longer have any material to write about. I was thinking/ am thinking about starting a business. That has ate up a lot of my time the last 2 weeks. I have missed blogging and maybe if I would have kept it up I would not be near as stressed out as I am now. Anyway, take this as my appolgy...please. I am thinking about going big time and buying my own domain name so I don't have the blogspot.com in my id. I will be around a lot more. If I am not here tomorrow you have permission to come in the bathroom and get me off the potty!

Love,
April...the mommy on the potty