It Feels Good To Be A Gangsta

I don't know what ya heard about me.

But just because I have 2 kids, good credit, a mom blog, and take showers semi-regularly doesn't mean I'm not gangsta.

Allow me to present the following argument.

• I got a speeding ticket a few months ago and I paid it late so I probably had a warrant out for my arrest for a solid 3 days.

• I yell at my kids in public like it ain't no thing.
• I drive a 2007 Honda CR-V and it's fresh to death.
• I love turning it up in da club. And by club, I mean the Preschool Sports Club at my local rec center. 
• I will straight up meet you at the flagpole after school and fight you.
• I have a bad attitude.
• Just look how I dressed up Ryan a few years ago:

• I sag my pants. Mostly because my white girl butt doesn't fill them out.
• I have an entourage that follows me everywhere. And their names are Ryan and Tyler.
• I party HARD. Like tomorrow I am going to a Star Wars birthday party, and the day after that I'm going to another b-day party that promises to have a bounce house. 
• I am working on a rap album.
• I have a ton of B*tch's phone numbers in my phone.
• I make inappropriate comments on Facebook when I'm bored.
• I own guns! Hidden in a locked safe so my children can't access them. We only take them out for target practice, but I could totally do a drive-by if I needed to protect my homies. 
• I have an appointment to get a face tattoo. 

• When my kids ask me if they can stay up later, I sometimes say yes. 

Clearly I'm a straight up thug.

I'd watch out for me if I were you. Word.

Black Santa

Almost every holiday I try to buy one nice decoration for my house.
I hate all the cheap crap that people throw all over their houses, so I just save up a little money then buy something super rad.

Last Halloween we bought an old medical poster of a skull.

cool.


Last December I was searching everywhere to find a special Christmas decoration. I went to Pottery Barn, Thai Pan Trading Outpost, Dillards, Restoration Hardware and some smelly old antique shops.

I has just about given up hope.

I decided to try Hobby Lobby last.
I walked around and suddenly felt a burning in my bosom. I turned around and felt the spirit guide me to this treasure.

A Black Santa.

I love Christmas, I love Black People, and I love 40% off coupons. I bought it immediately.

Every time I look at Black Santa I feel a sense of peace and comfort, knowing that I endured to the end and did the right thing.

I'm so stoked about Black Santa that he is now a permanent decoration year round.

the end.

Boobs and Butts

Remember how huge boobs used to be all the rage?
Well don't worry my large-breasted friends, big boobs are still cool.

Do you know what's even more popular now though?
BUTTS. Where. your. poo. comes. out.

A ton of people are getting boob and butt jobs.

I was always pretty bitter having small breasts but now I have to deal with my insufficient butt too.  It's not right.


I took a bunch of African-American History/Sociology classes in college because that stuff is fascinating and also because I want to be black.
I was usually one of the only white students.

One lecture was about stereotypical differences in White people and Black people.

Someone said - There's the stereotype that Black girls have big booties and White chicks have no booty.

Then another dude says - That's no stereotype, that's true. Look at  Shaniqua's butt then look at Emily's...... See?!?!?!

I had to stand up and offer proof of my insufficient white booty.

Then I felt sad in my heart because even though parts of me are black on the inside, I knew I would never be black on the outside.


Everywhere I look in our society I see big tits and huge bums and it's not fair.

Girls are always posting skanky pictures of themselves all over social media.

It is probably offensive to many people who look at my profile and don't find soft-core porn selfies. (And to those of you who are offended by my lack of nudity, I apologize.)
I thank the good Lord everyday that social media and camera phones were not around during my high school and college days.  

My boobs were never something to brag about but breastfeeding my two kids has destroyed what little credibility I had.
My chest is literally inverted. Here, I will draw you a classy diagram:

Ummm.... yeah.


When girls I know get boob jobs I applaud them, then work up an unhealthy amount of jealousy.

I would love perky adult sized boobies.
I would take such good care of them. I would feed them, walk them, make sure they were socialized so they'd be nice around children and other people's boobs.
I would love to have a legitimate reason to wear a sports bra.
It would be cool to not be mistaken for an 11 year old boy. 

But every time I consider getting a Breastical Augmentation, I just can't do it.

Walking around with two bags of silicone in my body seems so biologically wrong.
Sleeping on my stomach would be difficult.
What if the surgery goes bad, my boobs come out looking like tube socks and I end up on Dr. Phil?
What if when I  have another baby and the baby doesn't like the taste of silicone?
Touching my elbows together would be borderline pornographic.
Skipping and jumping rope would be out of the question.



But even while I feel my butt and boobs are inferior, I find solace in the fact that every time I go online, "Hot, Young Singles" are looking to meet me for only $29.99/month.

Las Vegas - November 2015

So this one time, Husband and I thought it would be cool to go on a little road trip to Vegas with our kids.

Then it sucked and we came home early.

Holy crap, kids ruin everything.

 I only look happy here because we had just decided to go home the next day.

We watched the water fountain show at the Bellagio. Jared was unimpressed.

The boys liked it... even though it was midnight.
But this trip wasn't about making them happy.

I don't care if it's a dumb idea to frollick down Las Vegas Blvd. in the middle of the night with kids.
And I didn't need all the dirty looks we got from everyone as I wheeled the kids past them in our jogging stroller.

I didn't even take that many pictures. Not because I wanted to be in the moment, but because I didn't want to remember this disaster. 

Not even the buffet at Treasure Island made this trip worth it. We were too early for the cotton candy to be made, which is the only reason I went.

The best part of the whole trip was while we were walking the strip at midnight, I saw 3 cool looking hipster Black kids, probs in their 20's. They were playing with a hoverboard. They let me try it and it was magical.


By the way, I got all crafty and had a bunch of stuff to entertain the kids on the 5 hour ride down. We stopped every hour or two and had tons of fun snacks.............. but it still sucked.


Traveling with kids is a bad idea.

Which is why two weeks later we took them to Hawaii. We are dumb.

Dirty Thirty

Last month, I turned 30.
That's right. The dirty thirty.

I spent that weekend with my hot husband, my energetic/psycho two year old, my newborn baby and my awesome parents who were in town from Utah.

My dad even flew in a couple of days early to be there on my actual birthday. When you are the
favorite child, you get perks like that.

We did a bunch of cool stuff that I am too lazy to write about, but trust me, it was cool.

I took some time to reflect on my 30 years of life and where I thought I would be at this point. I have accomplished all major goals I set for myself except one:


I still haven't come to terms with the fact that I was not born black.


I know in my heart there is an inner black girl aching to come out and be FABULOUS. That's why I still sing along in my car to Tupac and 50 Cent with my babies in the back seat.

That is also why I binge-watch the Real Housewives of Atlanta.

I wish someone asked me to prom like this :(

Other than that, there is nothing so seriously wrong with my life that a little Botox, Spanx, and a lot of praying can't fix.


My husband asked me what I wanted it to say on my cake.

I was breast feeding #2 at the time and jokingly told Jared to have the bakery write, "Happy Birthday Milk Tits".

 

Thanks Jared.

 

This picture will be awesome in our scrapbook and I can't wait to explain it to our children!

RIP Chucky

Jared woke me up Sunday morning, "Chucky is dead, will you make sure Ryan doesn't poke him anymore?"

Chucky was lying down in one of his favorite hiding places, under the coffee table.
Our cat was just three human-years old. He was not sick and he was acting normal.

Chucky was my favorite pet ever. He was so nice and friendly. He was quiet and always hung out in the same room I was in. He only took a dump outside of his litter box once in his entire life.

We have no idea why or how he died, it sucks. Everyone knows that pets die, but it's nice to have some sort of explanation.
After some online research it sounds like it was probably due to heart defects.

Nobody wants to wake up to dead animals on their living room. Nobody.

We buried him in the ravine next to our house.


Now who is going to photo bomb every picture I take?

Who will all the little kids torture when they come to my house?

Who will bite Cry in Ryan in the head?

Who can I hog tie and shave?

I don't know how I'm going to sleep without Chucky trying to sit on my face. 

The next time I drink a bottle of tequila, I am definitely pouring some to the ground for my fallen homey.

I'm sad.

Precious Little Gangstas

There is a graffiti wall near my house.

It's where all the local stoners go to get high and have teenage sex. I suspect many of Camarillo's citizens have been conceived there.

The whole place is probably infected with STD's which is why we didn't let the kids touch the damp couch or soggy sleeping bag we found.

I have been wanting to do a Hard Core Gangsta photo shoot with Pee-Baby ever since he got his teardrop tattoo.

My awesome friend Violet  and her equally awesome family came into town last week.


Violet and I both took a ton of pictures, but since I suck, all these pictures are from Violet's camera. I Photo shopped them. Check out Violet's photography blog here.

This shoot was perfect for 3 year old Sammy.

He is sick of Violet and her camera, so his hard knock gangsta attitude is authentic:

4 year old Benjamin busted out his "I'm gonna murder your family" face:

Ryan brought out his inner wussy with a tender flower picking moment:

He quickly redeemed himself with this prison-worthy shot:

      

Then wussed it up again by gleefully skipping down a nature trail:

Oh Pee-Baby, your slicked back hair and face tattoo make me want bust a cap.

Peace homies.

P.S. I know a little boy named Cutter that would NAIL this photo shoot.



Black Friday

Apparently the best way to spend Black Friday is by coloring yourself black.

 I knew I should of locked him in his cage before I got in the shower this morning.
Why didn't anyone tell me the "Terrible Twos" actually start at 1 1/2?