Baby Bathing Suit

Front Back?????

Size 22 Medium
Medium? Is that necessary?

In doing extensive research on the subject of the once-fashionable jean shorts for my sister post to the too-short shorts, I discovered the term “Jorts.” Call me a girl on this one, but I’d like to compliment the creator of the term. You, my man, are da man.

Why, you ask, am I discussing the travesty fashion of the jean shorts?

It seems, my dear tens of readers, two of my cousins believe them to be acceptable attire in mixed company. For serious.

There are still people wearing the short jean. The Jort.

Who are these people and why do they still sport the Jort?

Two of these people are my cousin and my cousin’s husband. And they DEFEND their right to wear the jean short. They are PROUD of their jean shorts. They wear them in mixed company at times of sorrow, at times of joy, and at times of togetherness.

Anytime, my friend, is not the right time for the jean short.

They may convince themselves of the convenience or comfort or stylish looks of the Jort, but they need a visit from the Fashion Fairy and a healthy serving of knuckle sandwich.

Most Jorts wearers also don a Mullet (the hairdo, not the fish) as seen in the pictures available here. (My cousins may be the exception to the rule.)

Also perplexing is the propensity to TUCK in the printed t-shirt IN TO the Jorts all-pulled-together by a braided belt loosely knotted and flipped around (as cousin #1 exhibits).

The Jorts fashion is limited to the proud and true 50 States as I’ve never witnessed any other non-AmeriCAN in all of my 19 days of overseas travel donning the Jorts. If any of you exotics have spotted the Jorts in your local pub, be sure to snap a pic for posterity.

Even though I am a Florida native, I am NOT a Florida (UF) fan. (GO NOLES!) So imagine my elation when I discovered that UF fans actually LIKE wearing jean shorts and do it on purpose. How apropos that the the lowest of the low Floridiots would WANT to wear Jorts.

Lastly, I am inspired by the blog, Stuff White People Like, and I am going out of a limb and proclaim that black people DO NOT WEAR JORTS. None. Not one. This is a white boy phenomenon. I am challenging you, my tens of readers, to link to me a photo of a black man wearing Jorts.

Disclaimer: Jorts do not fall in the same definition as hip hop baggy man capris normally worn by young black men. Jorts are mainly stone- or acid-washed denim adorned with a belt and tucked-in shirt. I’m talking JORTS here, peeps.

Find me a black man in Jorts and you got yourself a $10 gift certificate to my store. (Limited to 2 gift certs in case I’m totally wrong in this.)

************************************

UPDATE:

Angela @ goinpopless is the 1st to submit a black man in Jorts:

Anyone else? 1 more gift certificate left!

I’ve seen a crapload of whiney bitches around bloggy world the past week.

What the fudge?

If you don’t want to read about people voicing their opinions on sex offenders (see: Miss Britt) or see pictures of kiddie poo (see: Sarcastic Mom) or about raising 6 kids in a tiny house (see: Mom2My6Pack) DON’T READ.

Take your little mousypoo and click on icanhascheezburger to enlighten your world with happy, friendly pictures of kitty cats.

I’m getting a little defensive over my friends and people I don’t know against shiteous crapasses who decide it’s OK to blast people on THEIR OWN FRIGGIN BLOGS.

If you don’t like it DON’T READ IT.

These crapasses are the same people who think it’s OK to stop loving people from marrying just because they’re gay. They’re the same idiots who think it’s OK to put a Bible in every hotel room but not a Koran or Torah. They are the same idiots who think Bushy is doing a great job over there getting those “terrorists.”

Yes, blogging is an open forum for everyone to participate, but to go into another person’s blog and blast them for their own personal thoughts, sucks ass.

Happy Monday!

What is this “Alltop?”

Why is there Alltop?

Who is Alltop?

Why should I care to be in Alltop?

I wanna be cool kid!

But that automatically makes me an uncool kid.

Damn.

I don’t wanna kiss ass, Mr. XBox4NappyRash.

But some of my best bloggy friends are in the cool club (see: Secret Agent Mama, XBox4NappyRash).

This will probably move me to the bottom of the “considerations” list if I was even on it.

If I don’t make it to Alltop, I’m making my own uncool club where no one’s invited. Not even me.

Here’s a bit about A Whole Lot of Nothing for your consideration:

Come to AWLN, where every day is a party in my pants.

You’d like its freshness – can you smell it?

You’d like its awkwardness – like you laugh behind the backs of people who stumble.

You’d like its sarcasm – like you’d like a fresh bowl of crap.

I’m whining. Not complaining. Whining.

Kids get Spring Breaks, Christmas Winter Breaks, Summer, Labor Day, Memorial Day, Arbor Day, Fall Break, Groundhog Day, and We Think There May Be a Heavy Rain Day.

Where’s MY break?

Way back 1000 4 years ago when I was a teacher w/o kids, days off of school were fodder for teasing any and all non-teacher I knew. “Nannynannybooboo! I have a day off and youuuu dooon’t!” Yes, I actually say that. Yes, I’m 31.

And then, I just HAD to have a kid. I mean two.

And now I don’t get no satisfaction vacation.

As my BFF’s ex-husband says, “What goes around, comes around.” He also said, “Just breath,” so I’m not sure if he’s the best person to listen to when it comes to advice and quips.

Now, all you people without blood/life-suckers hangers-on kids, you can now commence teasing that I get no bacation vacation.

You’ll get yours, sucka.

As for you homeschoolers who have your kids 24/7/365.25. You are saints. Or crazy. Either one.

Happy St. Paddy’s Day to my less-Irish-now-that-we-know-his-grandmother-was-German Irishish husband, HockeyMan!

Also, I want to send special baby-making (not he and I) energy across to the pond to my new true Irish-guy-living-in-Holland online friend, XBox4NappyRash. Today would have been a great day for you and ET to find out a baby was on its way, but it just wasn’t in the cards for this month. I’m kinda fertile, so I’ll send my fertile energy over the Atlantic to you. Best to you and ET.

Enjoy…

had to delete due to lack of html skillz

WARNING!

Our local Splash Park

SeaWorld Kiddie Ride

Because of the number of fellow lay-dayz (HOLLA!) who want to join me and JackAss JackOff Jacquisha my only favorite sister in our old age, I’m accepting some suggestions for our future life. Good ideas can join us. Bad idea, find someone else to bother.

So far, here are some great suggestions for our future agoraphobic life:

Alcohol, and LOTS of it, suggested by MammaLoves.

BonBons - Hello? Why didn’t I think of that the first time around? VDog, you’re in.

HOUSECOAT! Wear it, and you’re in, Mommy Always Wins.

Bitching, or as Senora Patron said, a “bunch of vindictive women picking on unsuspecting and naive menfolk.”

So now I’ve decided to create a commune. Women and gay men only. You are MORE than welcomed to join as long as you have ideas on how to make our community a better place. Or, if you want to clean our house, you can come along.

13 Promises I broke made before I had kids:

1. I will never be “that mom” that goes everywhere in a t-shirt and sweats. They’re not sweats. They’re housepants.

2. I will continue to work to pay for my college loans. Those have to be paid back? Does Sallie Mae take scribbles on paper as payment?

3. I will continue to have a life of my own. By “life,” did I mean change human poo diapers and suffer through The Bee Movie?

4. I will discipline my kids to follow all of the rules I set. That’s a good one.

5. I will not allow my kids to have a TV in their bedroom. That one just fell through today. 3 1/2 years is good, right?

6. I will not allow my kids to whine or cry in public. Still intact. Believe me. OK, don’t.

7. I will feed my kids homemade, natural organic foods. Like Eggos, Ritz Bits, and Kraft Macaroni & Cheese.

8. I will not use bribery to get my kids to do what I ask. We’re using a trip on the Disney Cruise as incentive to potty train. Seriously. And they still won’t do it. I wonder if they’re mine.

9. I will not allow my kids to watch more than 30 minutes of TV a day. Sorry. Can’t be done in this house.

10. I will never dress my kids in matching outfits. Come on! My girls were meant to be dressed in coordinating outfits! Look at them!

11. I will start formally educating my kids early to instill a love of learning. They’ll catch up in Pre-K.

12. I will take my kids outside on a regular basis for physical activity. It’s too hot…..

13. I will not allow my kids to eat at McDonald’s for as long a humanly possible. I’ve actually kept to that one! I CAN keep a promise! I’m not saying they’ve never had fast food - just not Mickey D’s. It’s more my thing. I can’t eat McD or my sphincter will no longer be my friend. TMI, I know.

Thursday 13

I’m a native Floridian. Not born here, but moved to the state when I was 2, so I count as a native. Because I’m a native, I get to comment on the idiots, or Floridiots, around me. There’s never a shortage, and I could write a post a day about the loons in this state.

My first entry into the category of Floridiots is apropos for today, Super Tuesday, in many ways. Last Tuesday, Jan 29th, was our election day here in the hot as hell Sunshine state. If you’re at any way a Florida citizen, you should have been aware that our dumbass legislators decided on our behalf that they would move up our primaries despite the protest by the Democratic and Republican National Committees. It’s been all over the news that our vote doesn’t really count for this round. The point is, our vote was LAST Tuesday.

And that’s where the Floridiots raise their hands and expose themselves. According to OrlandoSentinel.com, hundreds of people have called their local elections office “wanting to know where they can vote today.” Ummm… Exsqueeze me? Just because it’s Super Tuesday, does not mean it’s YOUR day to vote. These Floridiots should not be allowed to vote.

Just for shits & giggles, this give you an idea of Florida and where I live. We live so close to this place, we hear the cars racing at night and can see the glow of the lights.

And, yes, his name is Raybo.