Andrea gets a wild hair up her ass.

I can honestly admit that I’m not one of those impulsive people who acts on every whim I get.
I’m a planner. A saver. Take the Key West vacation for example. A hotel was booked in March (after reading an extensive amount of reviews and searching many different websites for the perfect, hotel that was a combination of nice and cheap) for my July vacation. Once that was done, I began researching activities to do. Although…I didn’t have to research any bars…
Rubbing my chin I wonder what this means...Any insight would be helpful.
I have my next big purchases planned – a Macbook in September and a REAL Chloe Paddington in January 2009 (possibly earlier if the cards actually fall my way for a change).
I think it’s obvious that I have impulse control.[1]
However my sister wouldn’t know impulse control if it jumped up slapped her tits and then bit her on the ass.[2]
Need more evidence? See her closet: True Reqligion and Armani jeans, Steve Madden heels, Jessica Simpson heels (I know, I know), and contemporary designer tops that would make ANY fashionista proud (And yet I still find her trawling through my closet…). Thanks goodness she has some sense and knows to refuse to a credit or debit card. I could only imagine the bill.
Anyway…Moving along…
Yesterday the HKs met the father at a local Mexican restaurant in town. And yes the two sisters had margaritas. One for me and two for Andrea. So, we’re driving home and recanting different stories. We talk about Kevin and his altar ego who can jump eight-foot privacy fences when drunk which leads to the earthquake.[3] Mind you, Andrea was more than a little pissed off that she heard the story from our mother who was in Washington D.C. at the time of the quake. I know she’s upset that she missed that rockin’ and rollin’ great time during the middle of the night. These and more are the great stories we’re recanting as we drive past Igleheart ballpark.
“We need to go home and play kickball in the backyard,” she says.
“I’m not playing kickball in the backyard,” Kevin comments.
“Do you have any idea how many pauses in the game there’d be as we went to find the ball?” I ask.
“So kick it easy,” she says.
“Kick it easy?” Kevin chides. “Half the fun of kickball is blasting the ball as hard as you fucking can.”
“Yeah, grounders are only fun playing softball or baseball. Not kickball,” is my response.
“So, let’s go home and hit some grounders.”
“The backyard has been treated for fleas,[4]” I tell her.
“So, the front yard. Yeah,” Andrea says suddenly all child-like innocence. “Kevin, hit me some grounders in the front yard!”
And this is how we wind up at Target as Andrea scours the aisles. She finds a pre-school ball and bat set featuring Dora the Explorer.
Kevin scoffs and says, “I’m not hitting with a Dora bat.”
“Yes you are,” Andrea quips. And she did quip, she didn’t slope (the insides are starting to get the best of me. Apologies.).
“Fine, let’s just get the hell out of here,” he says and his tone clearly implies that hit grounders to his inebriated impulsive older sister with a Dora bat isn’t high on his list of priorities.
“Wait, I need a mitt!” Andrea says pulling her arm out of Kevin’s grasp.
“Not with that ball,” he retorts. “That’s a set for toddlers. It doesn’t hurt their hands, so you’ll be fine.”
“Then I’ll get another set,” she says.
Andrea goes and searches out another aisle, this one in the sporting goods and not pre-school toys section and finds a mitt for $19.99 that is pink and white (v. cute and her size) and a pink and white ball to match. One look at the LB’s face will tell you exactly how thrilled he is with this. Oh well, it’s the shit you have to suffer for when you go out get drunk and rubbed up on at a bar then have to call your sister’s for a ride home.
In total, her purchase is a little over thirty dollars. This is due to the fact that she snuck in another ball, this one white and green and some candy and gossip magazines.
As she hands over her money to pay, I ask her “Is this why you’re always broke?”
“Yes,” she says and then thinks for a second. “It’s also why I offered to pay you back in installments for our car insurance.”
“So, instead of getting the full amount, I’d get a hundred one week, possibly another hundred in two weeks?”
She gives me a dirty look that clearly says I hate you, but doesn’t have much time to remark back because the clerk is counting out her change. We all then pile into the car, stop at the liquor store (perfectly normal to do on a Monday night) and head for home.
It must be noted that as soon as we came home, we picked back up playing Rock Band. Andrea got pissed because if we wanted to earn money, she needed to play on medium. She had no choice but to acquiesce since she likes the cute outfits so much. Thankfully, I saved my specials and was able to “save her” the couple of times she failed getting the hang of the added blue button (her pinkie doesn’t bend like that). With more money in the bank, she bought clothes for her guitarist, Weenis before putting in Eurotrip and watching it before we headed to bed.

Now, question for you. Was the mitt and balls a good buy?
[1] It should be noted that this applies to shopping, planning, and scheduling because I hardly ever pass up the chance to make an ass out of myself, i.e.: Two Morons on a Hot Tin Roof.
[2] I KNOW this must be hard for some of you to swallow.
[3] These stories will come at a later date. Both are so brilliant that I need to properly ponder them before I begin to put together all the aspects of the stories so the reader can get full enjoyability out of them.
[4] And I’m going to pray to god that they’ve been taken care of now.

Andrea Does it Doggy-Style

Ironically enough, it was another Sunday (way back in the month of June – I know, I’m behind) and we took the dog’s to the LB’s softball game (Once again). To clarify we have a 13-pound miniature pinscher named Daisy and a 44-pound Brittany Spaniel named Mac. Mac is my baby, and if anyone said anything negative about him, I’d go ape shit on the person. And I have. When my dad said he thought Mac was gaining weight. This dog already has food issues. When I go out of town, he refuses to eat. There are times when my brother’s home, that he refuses to eat if my brother is in bed.[i] Honestly, calling a dog that has refused to eat and loves running as much as a fat kid loves cake overweight is like saying Christina Ricci’s huge head is proportionate to her body. This dog’s eating problems have led to a supplemental nickname (because we still use Tom Cruise) of Macster-Kate Olsen or the Olsen Twin.

But Mac’s eating habits aren’t on trial at the moment. No, we’re discussing coitus and reproduction amongst the canis genus.

And so it happened as we were driving home with the dogs. Daisy, being the commanding female she is, likes to sit in the diver’s seat no matter who is driving. In typical male fashion, Mac is giving the leftovers – the backseat which he hates. So we’re driving home, Daisies in my lap barking at cars and trying to climb on the steering wheel while Andrea keeps swatting Mac to the back of the car (Mac’s like Rosa Parks and doesn’t want to sit in the back.).

Anyway, I’m driving and Andrea looks over at me and Daisy.

“What’s that?” she says.
I have my eyes on the road (not easy to do with two dogs and a moron in the car) and respond with “I don’t know what the hell you’re pointing at since I’m kind of driving.”
“That little hangy-thing between her legs,” Andrea replies. She’s clearly baffled and now I’m intrigued and take my eyes off the road for a fleeting second to check out what I will call Daisy’s feminine bits.
“That’s her pee pee,” I say. Yes, I’m an adult who has two college degrees and I said pee pee. Two college degrees does not a mature adult make.
“I thought…” Andrea says and her voice trails off. I could hear the wheels grinding in my sister’s head putting this information together in a coherent fashion[ii].
“It’s where her pee and the children she might’ve had would’ve come out,” I said to clarify things.
“But…” she begins spluttering. “I thought they came out up here,” Andrea says and points to her butthole.
“That would be her asshole. Where her shit comes out,” I acerbically respond (Like you wouldn’t!).
Andrea’s silent as her eyes gently appraising Daisies feminine bits and then her excretory bits. “So, when the dogs do it doggy style…where does the man’s peep go?” FYI, my sister is twenty-four. Clearly, she’s as mature as me.
“His ‘peep’” I say in mocking tones, “Goes into her pee pee, the hangy-down thing between her legs.”
Andrea’s suddenly quiet which means she’s even more baffled than before.
I spot headlights from over the hill that spark my only little wheels to move in my head. “Don’t tell me you’ve thought that dogs have been blasting each other in the ass all this time,” I say with all the absurdity and crassness I can muster.
“Well, Erin,” she responds trying to defend herself. “I’ve seen how the horses give babies and it looks like they come out of the ass.” We are Indiana girls after all. My grandfather had horses and by the time all of the HKs were five I think we’d seen a horse give birth. Icky, juicy stuff, and yet you can’t move away.
I sigh and begin to give my sister an anatomy lesson, explaining that all mammals (i.e. humans, dogs, and horses) have birth canals separate from their assholes. She sits in the car, slapping Mac back whenever he attempts to vault into the front seat, absorbing all I say. When I’m done, she gets quiet again. I figure she must be lost in deep thought.
“So when people do it doggy style…” she begins and I know exactly where this conversation is going.
“They don’t necessarily blast each other in the ass.” I look at her and see that this information is new to her. “Have you seriously thought that doggy-style for humans meant butt sex?” She’s quiet. “You’re 24 years old!”
“I know that Erin!”
“I mean, you can have doggy-style butt sex, but the two aren’t mutually exclusive,” I continue.
“Just shush,” she responds. “I know I’m a moron.”

So I continue to laugh the rest of the way home where we find our little brother Kevin. I ask the LB about dogs and how they have sex. He looks at me like I’m some weird fetishist. I tell him to humor me, and he responds by saying that dogs would have to have sex which would include a vagina, not an ass.

“I hate you two,” Andrea says. “Anyone up for Rock Band?”

[i] It should be noted that Daisy has no problem eating and routinely eats Mac’s food if we don’t keep an eye on her. This has led to me buying Mac elevated food bowls, but Daisy will still stand and balance on her two hind legs and eat Mac’s food if she can get away with it.
[ii] It should also be noted that coherent thoughts for Andrea are not what most people (or so I hope) would consider coherent. If further proof is needed me, e-mail me. I can tell you about the donut hole story, the Blair Witch story, the blow-hole story, etc., etc.

Two Morons on a Hot Tin Roof

Sunday is a great day around the Hobgood Household. A lot of genius ideas have been concocted that revolve around terrorizing the Papa Johns people, Sam’s flowers and cheesecake (must have whip cream and strawberries/tart cherries), the Civic ramping the railroad tracks, and more terrorizing – this time of Best Buy employees. And I’m still sad Backyard Burger is closed. A perfect end to a Sunday of debauchery was a BB Lemonade. However, these things have nothing to do with this particular Sunday in question, I’m just giving you some flavor of what Sundays hold for the Hobgood Kids (HKs).

And the HKs consist of: Me; The sister: Andrea; and the Little Brother (or LB): Kevin. For three months we are all reunited, while the rest of the nine months Kevin leaves The Blind and The Blinder for college. We’re hardly able to get him back…perhaps this next story holds the key as to why…

This past Sunday we were at LBs softball game. We missed half of the game due to Rock Band (*cough* rocking out to Hole and getting “those cute little outfits” *cough* my sister *cough* for our “people.”) and an usually not enforced rule called the Run Rule. This failure to enforce said Run Rule usually means the 8 p.m. game starts at 8:30 p.m. if you’re lucky. So when we left, we thought we had plenty of time to get to his game.

Well, that was wrong. And, we were so keyed up from rocking the fuck out of XBOX, that with ten minutes and one full inning left in the game we came up with a brilliant idea. Kevin had just hit the third out of the inning, by hitting a pop-up that even the most inexperienced kindergartner could’ve caught. He tosses the bat at the dug out, disgusted with himself, then takes his batting glove off and goes to throw it over the fence into the dugout. Well, his bat wasn’t the only thing off at that precise moment. His throw was also off and the glove sailed onto the tin roof of the dugout.

Andrea and I start cracking up and I make the comment, “It’s going to be hilarious to see him climb his ass up there and retrieve his glove.” The laughter suddenly stops. My comment sets the wheels in motion for the moron twin’s next moronic plot. We look each other in the eye, not speaking a word, but just knowing we were on the same page.

“Where are you going?” our dad asks.

“To make asses out of ourselves,” I rightly reply. I say rightly because even I couldn’t begin to imagine the sheer moronicness of what was about to happen.

We walk over to the picnic table stationed behind the dugout and hop up to see the location of Kevin’s glove. It’s toward the front corner (closer to the field than the stands).

“I want on your shoulders,” Andrea replies.

“Well, climb up and stand on them,” I say my mind quickly skipping back to the lost cheerleader days. Shh…it wasn’t a good time for me having just quit gymnastics and not having any other sport to do.

“I want to sit,” she says and proceeds to sit on my shoulders.

I walk her over the place within the closest reach of the gloves and watch as she reaches up, her hands gripping the tin roof. She removes her legs from my shoulder and anchors her toes into the diamonds holes of the metal chain link fence.

“I can’t reach it,” she squeaks. She then proceeds to unhook her feet and kick them back and forth.

The people who had shifted their attention from the game and their sons were laughing at us by now, causing the few still loyal to their college-age sons to turn and watch the show unfolding in front of them.

I pick up Andrea’s shoes and attempt to put them on her kicking feet, successfully planting the left one before she dropped.

“You were supposed to catch my feet and lower me down,” she says while trying to shake the powdery dirt from the right foot.

“I thought you wanted your shoes for protection from the dirt,” I said.

She rolls her eyes and a spectator who went to school with my brother (and both of us know) approaches us with a big, sturdy, twisted limb and recommends we use this.

“Eeww, there’s a pad on it,” I say grossed out.

“It’s not a pad,” he says.

“More like a ped,” Andrea responds (for those of you unfamiliar, peds are those miniature sock thingies. Yeah, really ridiculous things).

“Whatever, you’re not holding that stick while you’re on my shoulders.”

I get another eye roll and we reconvene at the picnic table and take another look at the errant glove.

“I need something to move the glove,” she quietly says. I know immediately where her thoughts are going – to the stick – and try to persuade her to climb the chain-link fence while I stand on the ground and spot her. She doesn’t even take my case seriously and climbs on again.

I walk over to the same spot, passing the trash can and feel my body lurch in the direction of the trash can. My equilibrium is thrown and I do a nice little tap dance routine trying to right myself with my sister wobbling on my shoulder making me top heavy.

“Hold still,” she mutters and reaches her hand out for the pad-encrusted-tree limb that was thrown in the garbage. This is when it dawns on me that I nearly ate the ground because my sister has decided to use the stick, exactly like I knew she would, to retrieve the glove.

With the stick firmly in her grasp, she struggles to get it up (That’s what she said) as I walk back over to the dugout. Once we’re in position, she raises the limb onto the roof of the dugout and I get this mental image in my head of a chimp inserting a stick into an ant hole and pulling out ants to eat. She has no luck, the stick scratching the tin roof, the people laughing even more at the show unfolding, and she tells me to step closer. As I do, Kevin’s team catches the third out and runs back into the dugout.

Red, a lithe, quick, agile, little fucker asks what we’re doing. Andrea tells him, and in less than three seconds, Red climbs the fence, grabs the glove and jumps back down, leaving Andrea with a stick and a pad in hand.

“Well I feel ridiculous now,” Andrea says.

The mission over, I turn away from the dugout, head to the trashcan to deposit the disgusting limb, and dismount my sister. I forgot to take into account the powdery dirt and her shoeless form. She begins running in place saying something about the dirt until I get her shoes on.

But the story is far from over. After making an ass out ourselves, Andrea decides she wants a shaved ice. She gets strawberry lemonade one with three gummy worms (so good!) and shares them with me (the worms). The shaved ice, she doesn’t eat. How strawberry lemonade can taste like Cherry Coke is beyond me, but it does.

“What do I do with this?” Andrea asks because the concoction was way too nasty to eat.

“I don’t know,” I say as we turn onto a certain road. “Throw it at a car…or a mailbox."

“Or the Smiths![1] Great idea!” she quickly tags onto my sentence and then rolls down the window as we roll pass the Smith’s driveway. She hangs her hand out the window and turns the shaved ice over, splattering the messy beverage onto their driveway.

“Nice,” I said.

“I know,” she smirks. “That’s gonna be a sticky mess.” She begins to look around my car. “I cut ya deep,” she says, her eyes skirting over the nonexistent mess in car. “When I get mad at you, you have to watch out, I’ll cut you deep,” she repeats.

“What are you looking for?” I ask.

“Oh, uh, do you have anything else to throw?” she asks.

---

[1] Names have been changed. Just know that we don’t like these people or their kids.

I'm a bad mother...

I have tried, lord knows I've tried, to keep my baby healthy so he can live a long life. I've fed him organic food, watched his weight, bathed him, given him way too much attention, and even taken him running with me for distances of 3 to 4 miles. We start slow.

But

I have turned my baby into a statistic. He has gotten fleas.

I imagine it happened from running at the fair grounds. The grounds cover a lot of acres and I can easily run two miles around the perimeter which is good for me. Counting laps tires me out - I find myself constantly keeping track of things and saying 1 lap down 10 more to go. Mentally, v. exhausting for me. And my mental exhaustion has given my baby fleas.

And cost my wallet around $100. He's needed oral medication, shampoo, sprays, and stuff for the house. Although, the fumigation stuff - Fogger - promises to also kill spiders, cockroaches, ticks, termites and any other pests we might have lurking, waiting for me to fall asleep before sticking their fangs into me and passing on their bug cooties. Yes. I just said cooties. Get over it.

That $100 would've been a nice little amount for me to have had on my trip to Key West too.

But, mother's have to take care of their babies, no matter what kind of Tom Cruise-ian behavior they exhibit.