Once again I took an unintentional hiatus from blogging. It's just that I've been trying to get back into the whole soccer mom groove and frankly, February soccer tournaments suck bunghole. Last Saturday I spent seven hours outside, freezing my butt off, sportin' the Bono look with a hat, hoodie over the hat, and large sunglasses (it's not a good look for me either. Hot as hell for Bono, not so cute for me) trying to cover every square inch of my face to prevent the hypothermia from setting in. The kid played four games, the spouse was coaching. So I was chillin (pun totally intended) alone on the opposite side of the field until my sister showed up for the last two games. I guess all that matters is Chloe had a good time. The fact that I bravely pust aside my own comfort for the love of my child is something that will go unnoticed....

Sidenote: That last bit was total sarcasm. I am NOT one of those martyred moms who give up their lives just because they gave birth. I'm proud of my daughter and love her more than anything on the whole fucking planet, but that doesn't mean I have to make her my sole, top priority in life. If that makes me sound selfish, so be it. I do the supermom thang, but the rugrat is fully aware that although I'm MOM, I'm also Angie the girl. That means sleepovers get shared. --ie. the kid gets a friend to stay the night Friday and I cater to them. Movies, popcorn, staying up late, video games, candy etc.... THEN Saturday night Mom and Dad get to have their sleepover while the kid goes to Grandma's house without bitching about it. See, I'm teaching my child to compromise while simultaneously paving the way for living room sex with the spouse. It's a win, win situation all the way around.

Wow. I got a little off track. Let's just say that I'm trying to prevent my beautiful, intelligent, soccer star that the only child syndrome is not for her. It's difficult to say the least, but we're working at it.

Hpoe everyone's Valentine's Day was awesome. I got my super hot spouse a Zune and a box of chocolates. The love was there, trust.

I have found a new nemesis and thy name is the pitcher. As in pitcher of beer. I met some friends at a restaurant a few days ago for an impromtu birthday party. Since giving up my smoking habit (131 days ago! Whoot!) I also made the decision to cut back on my beer consumption as well. Not because I'm in danger of becoming an alcoholic, because booze hounds are soooo high school shit. :-) But because beer made me want to smoke. Needless to say, in the months that followed my tolerance went from frat party college boy to jehovah's witness virgin girl. And last Tuesday night proved that to me. Well, actually it was Wednesday morning that did the proving. Tuesday night was just good times man, good times.

We went to Hooters. Yes, the birthday person was male. Now, I don't have any moral indignancy regarding Hooters. If I had 21 year old thighs, was single, and had big tata's, I'd totally cram my little ass in some orange panties and work for tips as well. What I do have a problem with is the food. More specifically paying eighteen dollars for a cheeseburger, fries, and a glass of water. With tip of course. I'm not a miser.

Anywhoo... back to the story: after much, much, MUCH birthday toasting I came to the realization that I was drunk. I noticed this when I placed my pale blue sweater covered boob in the damned hot wings in ended up with a round stain of sauce right where my nipple should be. I didn't MEAN to be drunk. I just didn't notice that when drinking beer communally via pitchers, rather than an individual bottle, a person tends to drink A LOT more than they normally would. You would've thought I would have reached this conclusion back in my wild and free single days. But no, I had to discover this on my own. While trying to crawl out of bed and make myself purty for work.

So, the moral of this story is : if you hook up with friends for booze and wings, stick to the bottle, rather than the tap. It may cost a little more initially, but the investment is well worth it.

I work for an insurance company. I live in the south. Today is the first moment I've had to even THINK of updating since most of my state was struck by really suck-ass storms. And really Really suck-ass tornadoes. Luckily none of my customers were injured or killed. My area only sustained minor wind damage. To those poor people who lost their lives, their family members, their homes, pets, even the photographs of little Johnny's first steps.... I am so sincerely, deeply sorry for what you had to endure and will continue to endure until the grief subsides and your homes are rebuilt.

The area most affected was one that didn't have a lot of money for extra insurance premiums. Please people: go donate to the Salvation Army, Red Cross, whoever.... I know I will.

Oh my god! Heath Ledger is dead. They found him in one of the Olsen girl's apartments, surrounded by pills. Associated Press is thinking it might be drug related. (damn, what kind of gpa do they allow to graduate from journalism school?) Ya think, dumbass? It was either drugs or that skinny Olsen twin ate him.

I'm so going home to have a bottle of wine and watch A Knight's Tale.....

Rest in peace you sexy mothafuckahh.....

Tonight is the season premiere of American Idol, tomorrow is my birthday, and the kid and spouse have purchased a gift for me that I have NO idea what it is. Also, I purchased myself a gift that involves round trip airfare to L.A. to see my girl, B, and five glorious days of debauchery in the big city.

that's going to be the title of the first p0rn book i write. Debauchery in the Big City.

Wish me a happy one!!

Today I'm going to see my doctor, in hopes that she can explain why my hormones have suddenly decided to go all mental on me. I quit smoking a little over three months ago with Chantix. (the pill that blocks your body's absorption of nicotine) I didn't have a lot of side effects while taking it, other than Really, Really messed up dreams. Every. Single. Night. The fucked up sleep went away, but now I haven't had a period in two months. Also, I fly off the handle with Intense rages, my face looks like I'm 16 again, and I could sleep twenty hours out of the day. Yes, I realize that this sounds a lot like pregnancy. Unfortunately I'm not pregnant. I took two home pregnancy tests a month ago and they were both negative.

Sidenote: I say 'unfortunately' because I'm currently experiencing baby fever something fierce! A friend had a beautiful baby girl a little over a year ago and I love her dearly. Also, my little sis is pregnant with my niece and I can't wait to meet her!!!! Here' a thought: maybe I'm having sympathy hormones? :-)

I wonder if my cats would let me dress them in those cute, frilly baby clothes I've been oohing and aaahing over lately?

A week from tomorrow I will be 34 years old. That makes me nine years older than I said I would be when I finally attained all my lofty goals of being a famous interior designer, married, with a fabulously trendy, window-filled Manhattan penthouse apartment. At the ripe old age of ten, I had visualized my life completely. I even included a daughter, Constance, in the picture and a couple of cats. The daughter would be a little carbon copy of me, and I would be beautiful with long red hair and green eyes. I'm assuming colored contacts were in the cards for me. And I would definitely own a jeep and a long red scarf trimmed in fur, just like Demi Moore's character Jules in St. Elmo's Fire.

The married part was implied, but Mr. Dreamboat wasn't actually detailed out. The prerequitsite tall, dark, and handsome would apply without saying. But he would also be Michael Jackson suave with Rob Lowe's sexy jawline. Michael J. Fox's eyes and Prince's sex appeal. Emilio Estevez's boyish charm, and Judd Nelson's bad boy image-complete with beat up trench coat and earring.

In a lot of ways, my real life has far exceeded the pre-teen daydreams. My husband is a green eyed (see! I Knew there'd be green eyes involved!) dark-haired artist. He has a brain that even my snobbish self can respect. AND he's the Best. Father. Like. Evah. And his butt... okay, so 10 year olds shouldn't be daydreaming about future hubby's package, but if I had've.... let's just say I nailed it on the spousal department and leave it at that.

I did have one daughter. She has my smile and blue eyes, and her father's chestnut hair. Chloe-not Contance- is the most beautiful, funny, intelligent girl this world will ever see. Sometimes I'm not sure I'm her mother, until she starts acting like a total brat. At that point I can see my genes blatantly.

I have three cuddly cats, all of which are snuggly and cute and funny and slightly cracked out.

My long red hair is short with blonde highlights, but it looks totally bitchin, so I'm good. No colored contacts, but I like seeing my eyes on my daughter's face so I wouldn't change that either. I'm not a professional decorator, but an insurance agent instead. Decorating is a hobby, a passion, and love of mine that has endured these past two decades so I guess there's still time on that one.

My sunroom in my single story brick home is filled with lots sexy windows, but I traded trees and a swingset for a penthouse view. And considering my hobby, the inside is-of course- fabulously trendy.

All in all, I'd say I don't have much to bitch about. Except for that insurance agent part. What the hell was I thinking?

And my husband is so NOT Michael Jackson suave. And I'm 100% okay with that.