Her Ace in the Hole

...rarely relevant, sometimes cheeky, almost honest.

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Plastic Fantastic

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Go ahead, you can call me names.  It doesn’t hurt.

Queen of the Tards.  Rubber Mug.  Kooky-ass hobag.

I was looking through all my picture files on Picasa the other day.  I’m noticing a trend.

I can take some super funky pictures.  I mean, I can really pull a face.  Sort of like I’m related to Jim Carrey, except without the voices and I’m not raking in the millions.  Jim, call me!  I’m always willing to pimp myself out for some kind of supporting role.  Apparently I have no filter, nor do I have any shame.

My poor friends.  When I get drunk, I shout at them, “MAKE AN UGLY FACE!!!”  They hate it.  Who in the world wants to look ugly in a picture?  I can only think of two people:  Mickey Rourke and Steve-O from Jackass.

I am willing to put all the embarrassment right out there.  If I post it for the world to see, I AM IN CONTROL OF THE GAME.  I WILL DIG MY OWN GRAVE.  Gimme a shovel!

Let’s just take a stroll through the years, through the best of the best.  Some of my personal favorites…

This takes us way back…back to about 6 months after my first baby, the borrowing of sweatpants because that’s what I was used to living in, and waaaayyyy too much wine:

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Here is a peach:

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My husband always loves pictures.  He never knows what to expect.  

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And my friends love to head out to bars with me –

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My son likes to capture the loveliness…

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…and I’m never afraid to show emotion.

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If you fall asleep on my couch, you may get in on the fun:

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Of course, I saved the best for last.  Sometimes you just have to make a REALLY UGLY FACE.

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I will conveniently blame these issues on this man below.  I am, in fact, the fruit of his loins.  His flesh and blood.  He is so proud.

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And we are proud to pass on our skills to the next generation.  BOO YAH!!

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Pretty As A Picture

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Sweet Mary, mother of Jesus, my mom has some BANGIN taste!

You never know what she’s going to pull out of her bag of tricks for Christmas.  This year I caught the prize!  My mom gave me a getup that made me feel as if I were channeling David Lee Roth in his heyday.  Or Jersey Shore at their worst.  Or something.  Here’s a glimpse…

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Wow, where do we start?  The glittery threads?  The gold buttons with the bows?  THE CHEETAH HOT PANTS??  I know you want to see more!!

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This is me doin’ my mom proud on Christmas Eve.  I promised her I would wear these pants every day for a week to pick up Beatty from kindergarten.  As long as she lets me borrow that awesome fur vest.

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This must be David Lee Roth dying to come out.  I was a little scared of this picture and the sheerness of the cheetah hot pants.  And have you ever looked at your thighs in hot pants IN A PHOTOGRAPH?  You think you’re doing pretty good with maintaining those suckers, then you catch a glimpse of the picture and you think, “DAMN, I SHOULD HAVE BEEN A RUNNING BACK.”  Never mind that I can’t run very fast.

This present totally made Brad’s Christmas unforgettable.

Moving Hazards

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I have been meaning to get on here for weeks…days…argh, story is always the same but I am actually here and trying to navigate this little beast.  Yay for me.  My own website…ok, ok, somewhat narcissistic.

Beatty started kindergarten this month.  He is already asking me if he can walk home from school by himself.  Hell, no.

Sloan has decided that her world will now consist of more than the living room.  Damn.  She is crawling from place to place while dragging that right foot of hers behind and yanking on plugs and putting every speck of microtrash she finds on the floor in her mouth.  Including cat food.  I am teaching her how to pull a face and say “yuck” everytime she gets in the vincinity of those bowls.

We are decidedly about two steps behind Sloan with the whole baby-proofing thing.  We desperately need to make a trip to Babies R Us for all the locks and outlet covers and gadgets that are necessary for a crawler.  And unlike her brother, I think this baby will definitely be trying to take a little splash bath in the toilet.

At least I am remembering to keep the door to the basement closed.