Antelope Valley Fair and Alfalfa Festival, Awwriiiiight

Apparently husband has been black-marketing his no-no for cash.

Had I known it was so valuable, I'd feed him more!!

For those of you who didn't recognize the origin of that photo, or why it matters to this post, I'll put you in the loop, cause I like you, and I want you to know what the fuck is going on.

But mostly cause I like you.

In the midst of my Gandalf-like battle with my own Balrog (the laundry room), Husband discovered the Antelope Valley Fair and Alfalfa Festival was going on. I've wanted to take him for awhile now on account of his limited experience with the world as a born and raised cajun. The man has never seen goats or sheep in person, and he finds them absolutely adorable.

I mean, who doesn't?

Soulless people. Yeah, sheep haters, get outta here with your empty shell of a life.

I had been struggling to repair newly discovered issues while giving the laundry room a makeover for almost a week at this point. Husband tried to be supportive.

"You need help? Want to take a break?"

No.

So after I went all Hulk and ripped a newly (poorly) mounted shelving unit out of the wall and threw it across the closet that is the laundry room, Husband suggested (okay more like demanded) we get out of the house and meet the animals in the agricultural parts of the fair.

Do I touch it?

 Hey there lil fella... 

 

For those of you that just stopped and asked, "Dafuq!? A cow with goats!?"

No. This mo' fucka is a Boer goat. Educate yo'self. 

Now back to your regularly scheduled livestock.

 Yaaaaay!

 This one was his friend. We tried walking away, and it started trying to get out of the cage to follow us, yelling what I can only assume were adorable goat expletives.

Locher. See Theresa Kedrowski about that one.

After molesting half of the livestock barns, we finally found the actual petting zoo. Husband was thrilled beyond measure.

Good times were had.

Then we met this fuckin' deer, who tried to rip the clothes off my body, repeatedly. It terrified the hell out of my otherwise hunter-killer-turned-domestic husband, since his experience with deer has always been with the business end of a rifle.

"What the shit is wrong with it!? WHY IS IT COMING AT ME!?"

Then it shoomped it's nose down the backside of my pants and yanked anything it could grab, which at the time happened to be my loverly rose patterned undies. Suddenly it wasn't scary for him, but funny. 

Did he help? Nope.

Good job, little buddy

I ended up with an assist from a little girl who pulled the would-be molester's collar so it backed out of my cavernous ass enough to see the alfalfa she had and go for that instead. High fives were had, and then I hobbled my broke-leg, violated self over to the exit gate for a silent dry-sobbing session. Haha, just kidding. It wasn't really that bad, just shocking.  

Awww

It all worked out in my favor, cause after that we went to Chili's for beers and this delicious monstrosity!!

Chocolate Peanut Butter Molten Cake

Chili's Desserts

"Chocolate peanut butter cake filled with peanut butter cream and topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, Reese's® Peanut Butter Cup® pieces and a drizzle of hot fudge."

Just reading it made me do that naughty laugh Gabriel Iglesias pulls whenever he gets hot about food, and it totally surpassed my expectations. On that fluffy note, I leave you with this...

Where the Fuck Have I Been? Where the Fuck Have YOU Been, Man!?

My inbox has made it explicitly clear that I cannot skip a week like that ever, ever again.

I did not realize I was so well followed already.

Not really relevant, but "Aww!"

Anyshoe, adorable critter shout-outs to family and funny shows aside, I thought I'd share with you one of the many epic distractions keeping me from you fine people as of late.
Husband and I went to Star Trek's Las Vegas Convention.
EHRMAGHERD, NERDS!
But not really. 
Don't hate on people who found a way to play dress up and imagination land in an acceptable environment, just because you haven't found a place to do it yourself. That's right, go back into your couch cushion fort and tell Mr. Fluffykins you done got called out! 

We, of course, handled the trip with the utmost degree of ridiculous fuckery we could manage.

It took the last shred of self-control I had not to buy it.

It's like they knew who booked the room

We had a really good time meeting people and participating in the Guinness Book World record breaker.  The Vegas convention beat London at a grand total of 1084 people in legit costume in one room, and the guys running it were strict as fuck!

Story Time!

There was a crew in front of us of about 6 guys, all wearing Voyager shirts, but in denim jeans and Reeboks. Right off the bat I didn't like these guys. They were all about my age, so that's a strike right there. Damn yungins.

We were in line to get inside for about 20 minutes, and the entire time these dudes were either eye-raping, or creepshotting me and this other super cute girl in a kitty costume next to us. For those unaware, I hate, hate, hate being stared at. Ask the husband. I go into a blind rage when I get treated like a piece of meat on display in the butcher shop.Guys, I'm not a t-bone, or any bone for that matter. I guarantee you, most women do not like to be stared at like that.

Stahp.

 Kitty handled it better than I did, and when she noticed offered them a posed photo in the hopes they'd stop being so obvious. They did not.

At one point Kitty's husband, and mine, engaged in a stare down that rivaled a Clint Eastwood tumbleweed scene. It got broken up by some comic relief from a Klingon that scared the crap out of me when he tried to shish-kabob my Tribble.

Now for the good part. These guys get to the door, and the record handlers give them the up-down and reject them. They got booted so cold, it made my evil excited. I admit, I almost yelled, "BURN!", like the mature adult I am. Good times.

I'm not as big of a fan of the Star Trek world as Husband is, but I did find my own ways to enjoy it. This trip had a handful of positive firsts for me. This costume was my virgin voyage with cat-eye style make up. I had researched a bit and tried my damnedest to look like an authentic 1960's Gene Rodenberry dream.

The look, without glasses in the way.

Had I planned any betterer - that's a word now - I would have gotten contacts. No one wears glasses in the future, apparently. I had that explained to me repeatedly by many a Kirk, "admiring" my costume. For seriously though, any time Husband left me unattended, someone would rush up to say hello and chat.

This is just further evidence to support my dad's theory that husband is something supernatural.

Or you know, just the usual jealous husband, which sets me up for my next first.

I did not in the slightest think that I had the bod to pull this one off. I am, how you say, fluffy, and not always in the right ways. I have a tendency for food-baby-bump, which is not something I like to flaunt. However, this nice lady at the Rodenberry booth reminded me of the bad bitch that I am, and even helped me change into it there! I haven't felt this bangin since, like, the day before that. Props to the Rodenberry booth. Salesmanship, people. Salesmanship. 

Unfortunately, the belly-bump did rear it's ugly head after many hours of switch-hitting booze and food that was delicious as fuck. Two things in Vegas I have no restraint about are my alcohol consumption, and my budget for food. These are the reasons I gamble.
 

 All of that went straight to dinner's tab.

I can attest, some of the resort restaurants make me want to become a millionaire so I can fund their expansion in order to be located in my town. Okay, really it's just one in particular - The Pub at Monte Carlo. I mean, look at this shit and tell me you didn't just 'gasm!? I know I did.

But seriously, The Pub. Come to California, preferably the Santa Clarita area. Of course then I'd be taking an active step against the battle to end obesity, and I can't afford another reason for Michelle Obama to put me on her "Aww hell naw, girl!" list. 


Another first I experienced was realizing how very much I like George Takei.I mean, I've followed him on Facebook for almost a year, and I've always enjoyed his jokes and even his more serious posts - like his political musings. We're pretty much on the same page as far as our social politics go, so I was intrigued to see him on stage during the convention.

We actually had really great seats, and a perfect view of everyone we went to see on stage, including John De Lancie and Jeri Ryan. I'd have video or photos, but the lighting was set up in super-mega-holyshit-bright spotlights, which white washed the stage into a camera-hater zone. Pretty sure it was on purpose, but that didn't stop some people. 
I was surprised by how many topics other than Star Trek came up during all of the different stage questionnaires. George did take some time to discuss his current campaign against LGBT oppression, which I am starting to get a better understanding of myself.
If you want to read up on his stances, do some research or whatever, his official page is Here. 

Clear the Fuckin P-way!

I had a problem. A big one. Mostly my bulbous body, but also this poorly placed door in my hallway. It's for the "coat closet", but this is freaking SoCal. We don't need no stinking coats!

Our coat closet is a dog care staging station, filled with treats, toys, food, and other dog things. It's nice, because we do cook some "people" food for them to add to their kibble. Nice location for convenience, without grossing out potential guests with dog food in the kitchen.

Now to the inconvenient part of it.

This whole setup is just ridiculously inconvenient, regardless of ass size. It blocks the bathroom, as well as the path to the front door. If this is supposed to be a coat closet, and the majority of the rooms are down the hall, it just doesn't make sense to have this door here!

Off to Lowe's I went. While I was there, did I get the giant-ass lumber cart for big things? 

Hell no!

I of course opted for the standard cart, and put my adorable purple purse in the babybutt spot for convenience, with the straps flipped over the back of the seat. I picked up the door kit, and balanced the tall fucker over the seat-back, not considering my poor purse's plight in the process. I get to checkout, and pull my purse out.

It was epic.

That door pulled a Charlie Brown and landed right on my skull! Made my eyes water and everything, like the dumb bitch I was.Luckily, the door assistant offered to help my idiot self put the thing in my car before I hurt anyone else, and mostly myself.

It was time to whip out the mo' fuggin power tools, aw yiss.

 

There was only one time the directions hurt more than they helped.

I had to figure out how to put that bitch on the track by myself. 

By "myself", I mean I called Husband in to listen to me bitch for twenty minutes, then ask him for help, which really means just take my abuse until I have an epiphany. He's a patient guy, but then he always plays the long game, and my fits of rage always end up benefiting him in the form of baked treats or bootyful adventures. He wins at marriage.

And thus, after many a trial and tribulation, it was done.

I think it came off beautifully. The kit had a little wooden knob, but God-forbid I settle for less than perfection!! I'm currently on the hunt for inspiration to decide on whether knobs or handles will finish this baby off.

For those of you who might not know, P-way is short for passageway. Yeah.

Memories

For those of you not actively stalking me, you might not know that I am actually a newlywed. In some ways, I ruined my own fun this last year, trying not to be the gushing bride and murder my newsfeed with wedding-wedding-wedding. I kind of wish I had reveled in the fun a bit more. Most of my friends appreciated it though, and honestly I've moved on from the wedding brain to being awesome because I have a fantastic marriage. Now you can't get me to shut up about how great my husband is.

We just ooze glory.

Over the course of our relationship, I've come to realize I am a much greater procrastinator than I thought. Par exempe - I finally took my gown from my mom's closet, to the cleaners, and have brought it home, more than a year after my April 14th wedding to the illustrious Dino Duet.

  My only true regret is it's bad luck to wear it more than once.

He's a good guy, with his own quirks and passions. Right now he's bouncing back and forth between Ultracade refurbishing and authoring the final installment of his saga The Human Dinosaurs. I apologize in advance for the borderline seizure inducing page layout. Obviously, since I've been involved in the project, it is most definitely fucked the fuck up with language and graphic content, and not suitable for your damn kids! It's pretty solid story-telling though, and touches on a lot of universal experiences.

 This edition is out of print, but some copies are still out there.

For some more visually friendly pages, check out Amazon or GoodReads for information, reviews, or to order one of the discontinued copies of the series. Since it's publication, we've teamed up to record really fun audio books, and rewrite the series to be better laid out for readers both teen and adult, with potential for a kid-friendly edit.

Haha, I know. Us? Kid-friendly? It could happen...

On that note, for those of you who I know will ask, no, there are no fucking kids in our future. I'm lookin at you, society at large.

Really.

I mean it.

Society, wat r u doin?

Society.

Stahp.

Seriously, stahp.

Anyway, enough about him. Sure, he's special, but this blog is about ME and my fuckin house! Okay, our house, but we all know what's really goin on, eh?

Since the wedding, I've been slowly recovering from the newlywed afterglow and inevitable disappointment of the day, cause let's face it, we're the Disney generation, and ain't no way in hell my broke ass was gonna afford a full blown princess wedding reception. It was still awesome, as you can see in these Wedding Ceremony Highlights taken during the mass.

Not sure who thought it was a good idea to let us handle fire...

 Romantic as fuck.

Since then, I've been focusing on building a hearth/home/other sappy pussy names for a nice fucking place to live. It's been a journey, and even though it's a snail's pace, I've looked back and realized how much this house has become a home. 
I also put together an adorable little shadow box of all the things from our little reception! 
Look at it! LOOK!

The coin was in a King Cake we ordered from Husband's hometown.

Not pictured is the garter, as I have yet to find it. I'm pretty sure my cousin kept it after he was the only one to try to catch it, so in a way I guess he earned it? 

I'm pretty sure this little box will find it's way into a table inset in the future. For now it just floats from surface to surface in the house, gracing different rooms with it's nostalgic presence.

I'm debating making a scrapbook, but the shadow box has pretty much all the pretties, and a photo book seems a little obsolete? What say you folks? Leave your input in the comments!

Wa-wa-waaaaaaaaa

Alright readers, I didn't think this day would come so soon, and yet it has.

I have failed you. 

 

I'm not saying this wasn't going to happen eventually. I'm a lazy mo-fo, and sometimes I just don't have enough fucks to give about you nice people to get off my ass and accomplish something to show you like some sort of sparkly self-esteem trophy or something.

See more Allie Brosh awesomeness here

If you're on my Facebook, then you probably already know this has been a week of clumsy, disappointing failure. There was, of course, the almost routine assault on my very exposed homestead by the local riff-raff. As you view these, notice how my own mother "likes" and savors my suffering. So much love. (Just kidding ma, don't Gibbs slap me, please.)

 That's right, my furniture is riff-raff now.

 Props to Dino's Mommy #2 for comforting my PTSD self

I really did not sleep for the next 72 hours. I finally captured the little rent-free fuck last night. By capture, of course I mean grab the nearest cup and ensnare it until morning when Husband could dispose of it properly with photo evidence of it's horrific death at his hands.

He's a good husband. 

I thought that squatting fucker was the worst of it, but then no, it got 

so

much 

worse.

Again, note my mother approving my father's judgemental ways.

Just kidding on that last part. That was actually a hilarious turn of events. My dad is incredibly picky when it comes to teeth being "good." We often bond over soap operas, watching them on mute and screaming at the actresses' terrible chompers.

  As far as my inability to deliver on glorious DIY project completion, I blame in majority my fucked the fuck up knee, as it is currently the end-all-be-all bane of my sorry existence. I have about four ongoing renovation-type projects, all of which came to an aggravating stop this week. At first it was for lack of supplies, but then once I had cleverly obtained some necessary items, my tendon decided to bitch out on me. I am finally kind of not bitch-raving mad after about three ice pack sessions, some tylenol, and empathy snuggles from Delmira. 

My bitches

Delmira is my favorite fur-baby. I know as a parent, you're not supposed to have favorites, but she just knows me so well. Not to mention, her compatriot, Blitz, is about as stubborn as a mule, with the devious intelligence of an incredibly smart toddler. I think we can all understand why I have picked teams here. Notate how smart-ass isn't even looking at the camera for pictures, while my beloved fir-spawn is questioning what's even happening. Shortly after this photo, Delmira rolled over and petitioned for belly-rubs. More on that another day...

Hopefully this visual-laden post is enough to satisfy you blood-thirsty entertainment seekers until next week when I might have something to show for my efforts. If not, then fuck off, cause I probably didn't like you all that much anyway.

Unless you're Erin. 

If you're Erin, we can hug it out all super tight with both arms all wrapped around each other and our boobs all lego'd together and whatnot, cause that's what friends do.

I like Erin.