<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719</id><updated>2012-02-16T04:31:37.046-08:00</updated><title type='text'>u cant make this shit up</title><subtitle type='html'>a husband and a wife talk about their lives</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>40</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-1103716478593409085</id><published>2007-07-02T10:53:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-07-02T10:56:16.882-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Ball Warmers</title><content type='html'>&lt;strong&gt;Hubby:&lt;/strong&gt; Who keeps opening that damn window in the bathroom?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Wife:&lt;/strong&gt; Not me, I can't reach!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Hubby:&lt;/strong&gt; I'm froze.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Wife:&lt;/strong&gt; Put on a sweater.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Hubby:&lt;/strong&gt; My balls are froze.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Wife:&lt;/strong&gt; Put on a sweater.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Hubby:&lt;/strong&gt; I said my balls are cold.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Wife:&lt;/strong&gt; (laughing) Put on a sweater. Haul your turtle neck up.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(still laughing)&lt;/em&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-1103716478593409085?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/1103716478593409085'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/1103716478593409085'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/07/ball-warmers.html' title='Ball Warmers'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-3442133033945539235</id><published>2007-06-19T16:04:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-06-19T16:12:32.572-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Donnie Wahlberg</title><content type='html'>&lt;strong&gt;Wife: &lt;/strong&gt;Most guys get better looking with age. Donnie Wahlberg isn't one of those guys.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Husband:&lt;/strong&gt; You love Donnie Wahlberg.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Wife:&lt;/strong&gt; I liked Donnie Wahlberg when he was in New Kids on the Block. That was 20 years ago.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Husband: &lt;/strong&gt;You loved him. You wanted to marry him. You knew every song he sang. You lalalalalala loved him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;I hate when he's right! Damn&lt;/em&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-3442133033945539235?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/3442133033945539235'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/3442133033945539235'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/06/donnie-wahlberg.html' title='Donnie Wahlberg'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-1574081163672256808</id><published>2007-06-10T19:17:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-06-10T19:21:50.867-07:00</updated><title type='text'>True Love</title><content type='html'>We saw this old couple walking down the street earlier today and my hubby commented about how we would probably be them in about 50 years.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Husband:&lt;/strong&gt; Have you seen my teeth?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Wife: &lt;/strong&gt;Yah, they are in your mouth.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Husband: &lt;/strong&gt;Where are your teeth then?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Wife:&lt;/strong&gt; They are in your mouth too.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Husband:&lt;/strong&gt; I wondered why this chicken didn't have any meat.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yup, it's true love!!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-1574081163672256808?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/1574081163672256808'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/1574081163672256808'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/06/true-love.html' title='True Love'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-8736371582577761268</id><published>2007-04-15T19:24:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-04-15T19:29:33.340-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Fancy dinner and baby wipes</title><content type='html'>The hubby and I went out for dinner and I thought the table was just a tad bit sticky. I would have asked the waitress to wipe it off but she was no where in sight.&lt;br /&gt;I opened up my purse and in a little baggie I have 6 or 7 baby wipes. I don't know why I carry them but I always feel safe and prepared.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My husband declared just before our drinks were brought to the table; "You're just like a boy scout except you don't have a penis."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's sometimes difficult to know if it was a compliment or a mock but my table was clean and that is all that matters!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-8736371582577761268?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/8736371582577761268'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/8736371582577761268'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/04/fancy-dinner-and-baby-wipes.html' title='Fancy dinner and baby wipes'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-8288963513167402606</id><published>2007-03-26T11:01:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-03-26T11:05:22.199-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Fergalicious</title><content type='html'>&lt;strong&gt;Husband:&lt;/strong&gt; Your new name is Titilicious.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Wife: &lt;/strong&gt;Umm okay, is this going to be a private or a public name?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-8288963513167402606?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/8288963513167402606'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/8288963513167402606'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/03/fergalicious.html' title='Fergalicious'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-6806895019314646337</id><published>2007-03-21T19:05:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-03-21T19:07:29.048-07:00</updated><title type='text'>He says the sweetest things</title><content type='html'>&lt;strong&gt;Husband:&lt;/strong&gt; "Even if you were brain damaged, I'd still want to do yah."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;He really knows how to sweep a girl off her feet.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-6806895019314646337?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/6806895019314646337'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/6806895019314646337'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/03/he-says-sweetest-things.html' title='He says the sweetest things'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-6454782707886577274</id><published>2007-03-19T12:16:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-03-19T12:22:08.817-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Goth girl</title><content type='html'>Hubby wants to turn our house into a mini castle. He's a little strange but that is why I love him. I love strange boys. During one of our many conversations about said castle, I mentioned that we should make our own seal that we'll put on our letters, invitations, and notes. We were discussing some sort of family crest when I was happy to mention that maybe we should seal it with blood. I thought it was a fun idea. Hubby, did not!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Husband:&lt;/strong&gt; Should I call you Miss Jolie?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Wife: &lt;/strong&gt;Jolie?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Husband: &lt;/strong&gt;Angela Jolie.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Wife:&lt;/strong&gt; Oh, you mean Angelina Jolie!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Husband: &lt;/strong&gt;Angie, Angelina, doesn't matter how you say it, you are both freaks.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;He loves me, he really loves!!&lt;/em&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-6454782707886577274?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/6454782707886577274'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/6454782707886577274'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/03/goth-girl.html' title='Goth girl'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-7992877576018083608</id><published>2007-03-13T16:52:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2007-03-26T11:08:10.222-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Shitting My Pants</title><content type='html'>I'm a shopoholic. Yup, I'm admitting a flaw here. I love to shop and I always overspend. I had two cartloads of groceries picked up earlier. I'm not sure why. Maybe I'm expecting a flood, a war, or a snow storm.  I was at the check out and as 100 dollars past, then 200 dollars, I started to get a little sick to my stomach. I wasn't even sure how much money was left on my debit card but just before the 300 dollar mark, I ran my card through the debit machine and surprise, surprise, it said &lt;strong&gt;Approved&lt;/strong&gt;!!! &lt;em&gt;hallelujah &lt;/em&gt;&lt;strong&gt;hallelujah&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was sweaty, nervous, trying to swallow. Imagine if I was rich? Then again if I had Donald Trump money, there would be no joy at the counter unless of course I was buying major corporations before breakfast. Instead of fainting at the counter, I'd probably shit myself.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-7992877576018083608?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/7992877576018083608'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/7992877576018083608'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/03/shitting-my-pants.html' title='Shitting My Pants'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-628675384657140433</id><published>2007-03-09T11:25:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-03-09T11:42:16.769-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Going Postal</title><content type='html'>The manager went on her lunch break today at work. She hardly ever takes lunch and works her ass off. I get a little annoyed with her at times but I still really like her. This particular day she isn't feeling well and has been working since 7 am this morning. At the time it was 1:15 in the afternoon. I was by myself packing away phones and accessories and all of a sudden I get swarmed. There are people everywhere whining and bitching and throwing tantrums. The manager comes back and she gets behind her cash, I'm on head cash and there are two lines as long as the eye can see. I try to make a mental note of who happens to be next because there is always a fight. This one lady, I use that term loosely. She was nothing near a lady. She started bitching at me about the 5 minute mark while waiting in line. There are 6 people in front of her and it's always first come first serve. This woman wanted to be served first. She butted in front of everyone, I was trying to make calls, serve a customer and she was complaining about how she was going to call the company and report us. Every minute that passed by she reported it to me and I kept on working as fast as I could. I wanted to serve her so she would go away. The woman I was serving was becoming a problem as well. Finally the manager stepped up in front of me and told the butterinner that she had to be patient and wait her turn in line. The woman shot back at the manager belittling her, me, the company etc. The manager did not back down. I was in shock. Normally this girl trys to make everyone happy. She is always smiling. Today was not one of these days and I swear the fur was flying. I didn't get into the mix because my voice is almost gone due to a cold and sore throat. Damn though, it was awesome!!! I wish I would have had popcorn...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-628675384657140433?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/628675384657140433'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/628675384657140433'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/03/going-postal.html' title='Going Postal'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-2791096705450879731</id><published>2007-03-05T15:22:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-03-05T15:26:26.506-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Hubby and Dog</title><content type='html'>Hubby came home from work and lay down on the sofa after a hard day of being on his feet and dealing with idiots. Our little dog jumped up on his chest and lay belly up. He rubbed her fat gut, kissed her on the nose and said, "You smell like &lt;a href="http://www.cheetos.com/"&gt;Cheetos&lt;/a&gt;."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Do you think Kevin Federline has had the same experience with Britney Spears?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-2791096705450879731?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/2791096705450879731'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/2791096705450879731'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/03/hubby-and-dog.html' title='Hubby and Dog'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-3739204826572499049</id><published>2007-03-04T07:40:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-03-04T07:55:05.847-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Internet Friends</title><content type='html'>I've been online a long time. I think it was early '97 when I finally set up a webpage and started to make friends and have fun. I chatted for years, was host in a chatroom and joined a few online groups. I met a lady back in '99 whom I am still friends with today. She is the only person who has not wanted more of my time then I could provide. She never made me feel bad, never slammed me because I had a different opinion than her, nothing, nada. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I e-mailed another friend I had made a few years ago and I received a reply back this morning. I hit reply right away and wanted to cyber yell at her for being such a bitch and for being misinformed. I hate when people believe shit they know nothing about. I thought she had been my friend. I had not heard from her and thought maybe she had been sick. I wasted my time worrying about her for nothing. There is this one person we had been friends with who happens to be very demanding. If I didn't e-mail her or reply back on a message board quick enough, she'd e-mail all her friends and write things about me. I worked full time at the time. There were weeks when my husband and I both pulled 60-80 hours. I didn't have time to sit here and e-mail her and she knew it. I told everyone I had a job, I bought a new house and I had to work hard to pay for it. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;To make a long story short, the lady I considered to me by good friend sided with the old bat from England and now, no one likes me. Bitches. The moral of my story, if you e-mail me and want to be my friend, you are shit out of luck. Thanks but no thanks!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hit reply and wrote this long letter about friendship and betrayal however, I did not send it. She doesn't deserve a reply from me. I hope all her teeth fall out and spores and fungus grow in her gums and she coughs up frogs when someone kisses her, see, I'm not a mean bitch. I didn't put a hit out on her.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-3739204826572499049?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/3739204826572499049'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/3739204826572499049'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/03/internet-friends.html' title='Internet Friends'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-1047851593747886714</id><published>2007-03-01T06:35:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-03-01T06:51:32.188-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Party Planner</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Mclc2-ynplA/Rebnlf67inI/AAAAAAAAAAg/8yhXZ6nPUus/s1600-h/1money.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Mclc2-ynplA/Rebnlf67inI/AAAAAAAAAAg/8yhXZ6nPUus/s320/1money.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5036967864670325362" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I love planning parties. I have seriously been thinking about going into business and becoming a party planner. I plan parties, I just don't get paid. Paid, yup, that is what I want. Money, you know, the purple, blue and brown stuff. I've planned a kids party for this weekend and I'm even supplying the food. Of course, this weekend is a freebie because it's family but what about the others who are not family. I would like to quit my job and get serious.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-1047851593747886714?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/1047851593747886714'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/1047851593747886714'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/03/party-planner.html' title='Party Planner'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://bp0.blogger.com/_Mclc2-ynplA/Rebnlf67inI/AAAAAAAAAAg/8yhXZ6nPUus/s72-c/1money.jpg' height='72' width='72'/></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-5033426898151843402</id><published>2007-02-27T15:50:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-27T15:56:17.884-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Bloody Mary</title><content type='html'>&lt;blockquote&gt;Our mom says our dad is a real sex machine. - Tina &amp; Rina from Kindergarten Cop&lt;/blockquote&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Hubby stopped by the mall earlier as I was getting off work. We talked for a few minutes and said goodbye. Hubby walked back towards me, smiled, gave me that look and said, " Are you bleedin'?" &lt;em&gt;umm, well, I.... damn I am&lt;/em&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-5033426898151843402?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/5033426898151843402'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/5033426898151843402'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/02/kindergarten-cop.html' title='Bloody Mary'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-4294825220716958094</id><published>2007-02-25T16:51:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-25T17:21:07.296-08:00</updated><title type='text'>I'm a drug addict...</title><content type='html'>I haven't had to work since Thursday night and I won't go back to work until Tuesday morning. I showered earlier and cleaned the bathroom. I think I need a maid. I really hate cleaning the bathroom. I'm the only chick and there are three guys living with me. I like to keep the bathroom &lt;strong&gt;pristine&lt;/strong&gt; or &lt;strong&gt;piss free&lt;/strong&gt; whichever way sounds better to you. The only mess you'll find being made by me are my juice boxes that I leave around the house and baby powder. I love baby powder. I love the smell of babies. Clean just bathed babies, thus my love for the smell of baby powder. Somedays though, I get a little carried away. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There was one time when I had a job interview. I had little notice so I jumped in the shower, squirted powder everywhere and left the house. I caught a glimpse of my hair in the mirror and it looked okay. I never gave thought to much else. When I arrived at the interview I was bombarded with questions about drug use. I thought it was a little weird because I had never done drugs. I sat at this round table and these people were glaring at me and finally to end the interview they told me that they drug tested so this place was certainly not for me.&lt;br /&gt;I left the room and went outside into the waiting room in shock. One of the interviewers came out and told me that he too had a drug problem at one time and he had gotten the help he needed. He hoped I found someone to help me. I still didn't get it. I got in the car, shocked, stunned, teary eyed and looked in the rear view mirror. Right then and there I peed myself. I swear!! I peed my pants. My nostrils were covered in white powder. I assume that after I dried off and powder puffed myself, the excess powder went up my nose and clung to the little hair in my nostrils. They thought I was a big druggie when in fact I was a clean teen. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I always check my nose now for powder. It happens a lot and I wonder about all the times when I didn't notice there was powder there. One of my friends has always said this of me, "You can dress her up but you can't take her anywhere."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It ain't easy being me...........&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-4294825220716958094?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/4294825220716958094'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/4294825220716958094'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/02/im-drug-addict.html' title='I&apos;m a drug addict...'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-19778361562718245</id><published>2007-02-25T07:47:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-25T07:59:26.857-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Fat Bastard + Herpes Hotel = Firecrotch</title><content type='html'>I swear, I'm too fascinated with Hollyweird. I need to find a hobby, pick my nose or at least do something productive. I cannot stop watching &lt;a href="http://www.tmz.com/videos/paris_hilton_videos"&gt;this video by Herpes Hotel and Fat Bastard.&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm a Lindsey fan. I love her big time. However, if you show your hoo hoo to all the guys in Hollywood, you know damn well you are going to be mocked. I sometimes smell like diarrhea too. I've always got the squirts. I don't understand why Fat Bastard has a problem with it. Growing up we had a saying that went something like this, "Some ass on you, know you can't shit." If you see Fat Bastard from the back, you can tell he spends a lot of time on the toilet. So, if I was him, I would not be making fun of anyones diarrhea. As for the Herpes Hotel, well, you do not have blue eyes. Watch Law and Order CI and you'll know why I mock.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-19778361562718245?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/19778361562718245'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/19778361562718245'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/02/fat-bastard-herpes-hotel-firecrotch.html' title='Fat Bastard + Herpes Hotel = Firecrotch'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-3504094777581012405</id><published>2007-02-25T07:23:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-25T07:30:04.539-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Religion</title><content type='html'>&lt;strong&gt;Wife:&lt;/strong&gt; I think I'm gonna look into Kabbalah. I need a little zen in my life.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Husband:&lt;/strong&gt; No fucking way. That is the shit Madonna is into. If she believes in it, you know it has to be wrong. I'd rather you read about Scientology.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Wife:&lt;/strong&gt; They believe Tom Cruise is the next Messiah.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Eyes are rolled, middle fuck you fingers are placed at the back of throat while gagging ensues.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;..... End of discussion&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-3504094777581012405?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/3504094777581012405'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/3504094777581012405'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/02/religion.html' title='Religion'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-631156039316547655</id><published>2007-02-20T17:07:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-20T17:25:27.065-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Hubby, hubby where for art thou?</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://i17.tinypic.com/2hq4c4k.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px;" src="http://i17.tinypic.com/2hq4c4k.jpg" border="0" alt="" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm really hating being alone at night. I miss my husband. He called earlier. -sigh- I still get shivers when I hear his voice. I'm such a sucker. Geezus!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Note:&lt;/strong&gt; I've received a lot of e-mails asking why doesn't my husband post since this is his blog as well. He's busy is the only answer I can give right now. By the time he gets home, it's snuggle love kissy kissy time. Do not disturb!!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-631156039316547655?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/631156039316547655'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/631156039316547655'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/02/hubby-hubby-where-for-art-thou.html' title='Hubby, hubby where for art thou?'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://i17.tinypic.com/2hq4c4k_th.jpg' height='72' width='72'/></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-5665608435037285929</id><published>2007-02-17T16:52:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-17T17:11:07.180-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Boredom</title><content type='html'>Hubby is at work. It's Saturday night and I think I might be getting the squirts. Oh lordy!!! I'm working tomorrow and our computer system is going to be down which is just peachy. I get to have people bitch at me all day long. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I really hate customer service. People are assholes. My Christmas was ruined because I had to work the whole time and every single stinkin' day I had people yelling, bitching, throwing tantrums and being mean to me for no reason. I swear if I wasn't such a nice person, I'd have cut their throats and ate lunch on their spleen. Bloody bitches! I hate people! I hate my job. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At first I really hated the fact that I was going to have to earn commission which means I had to sell, sell, sell sell, sell and well, sell. I didn't want to sell people something overpriced when it was cheaper in the next store. We have items for 40 bucks, the next store sells the same thing for 2 dollars. I just couldn't do it. Now, I'm rethinking having a conscience. These people treat me like shit. Don't they know I'd be rich and famous if I wanted to be? They treat me like scum of the earth and I allow them too because it's my job. Fuck them. I have had enough. Every single person that walks into my store will get played. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then again, I feel bad, not everyone is evil. How will I know? hmm, maybe I'll have to pray each night after work and ask for God's forgiveness. Maybe I'll give God my commission if the person was nice. That sounds like a good idea, right? Right?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;...........Get well &lt;a href="http://www.muchmusic.com/news/story.asp?id=18867"&gt;Sarah!!&lt;/a&gt; I love yah girl&lt;/em&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-5665608435037285929?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/5665608435037285929'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/5665608435037285929'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/02/boredom.html' title='Boredom'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-4771029870899619422</id><published>2007-02-17T12:57:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-17T12:58:33.528-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Hubby is sick</title><content type='html'>and I'm annoyed. Want to come over to my house for dinner. Can you imagine how much fun we'll have?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-4771029870899619422?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/4771029870899619422'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/4771029870899619422'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/02/hubby-is-sick.html' title='Hubby is sick'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-220775670790872262</id><published>2007-02-15T20:34:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-15T20:44:14.371-08:00</updated><title type='text'>He's sweet</title><content type='html'>I had to work tonight. Blah!!! Hubby was out shopping and running errands. He showed up at my job and stayed for the rest of my shift. He kept me company because I had to work by myself in the mall. I hate being by myself in the mall at night. He even helped out and packed all the products away and even counted both the cashes for me. What a sweetheart!!! I've been so pissy all week and I know he has wanted to strangle me. I'm PMSing and I am not a ray of sunshine by any means. Sometimes, I think my husband deserves an award. Other times an &lt;a href="http://www.answers.com/enema&amp;r=67"&gt;enema&lt;/a&gt;, but mostly an award!!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now someone feed me chocolate or die a horrible death!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-220775670790872262?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/220775670790872262'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/220775670790872262'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/02/hes-sweet.html' title='He&apos;s sweet'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-6422395808542093094</id><published>2007-02-13T16:37:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-13T01:40:58.407-08:00</updated><title type='text'>I admit, I was a wee bit jealous</title><content type='html'>Last night the hubby and I were watching tv and in one of the scenes there was a woman scantily clad wearing a feather boa. My husband made this gutteral moan/squeak when he saw her and I swear my world came to an end. I sat there frozen in the chair, crying inside, jealous, upset, ashamed and picking apart my own appearance. What did he see in her? Wasn't I pretty enough? Didn't he think I was sexy? Was all his kind words nothing but lies?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Brokenhearted, I sat there thinking how bad he must feel when I ooooooouh and aweeeeeeee about &lt;a href="http://silentbobspeaks.com/"&gt;Kevin&lt;/a&gt; and I vow to myself that I never ever ever never ever ever comment on how cute Kevin is, how funny he is etc etc ever again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Finally, after about 10 minutes of sulking, I tell him that I felt bad and I'm sorry for saying some other guy was hot in front of him and I tell him I don't want to know if he thinks a girl is pretty or sexy or whatever.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My husband laughs at me. He points and laughs at me. Can you imagine? When he saw the feather boa, he thought it was a furry white dog. I had not heard him say, "Oh a little dog." My heart was pounding in my ears okay, it was an honest mistake. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Actually, I had heard him say it, I was just so insecure I made up a whole new scenario in my little pea brain. I can't believe I do that to myself. &lt;em&gt;Stupid, stupid girl!&lt;/em&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-6422395808542093094?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/6422395808542093094'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/6422395808542093094'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/02/i-admit-i-was-wee-bit-jealous.html' title='I admit, I was a wee bit jealous'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-3751658005536232340</id><published>2007-02-13T01:34:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-13T01:33:16.461-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Masturbating</title><content type='html'>My husband and his baby brother were conversing yesterday. Hubby was telling him about his new love for tools and the brother was telling him that he never thought that the day would ever happen when he would be that excited over tools.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Hubby: I don't &lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Masturbation"&gt;masturbate&lt;/a&gt; anymore, I Mastercraft.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-3751658005536232340?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/3751658005536232340'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/3751658005536232340'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/02/masturbating.html' title='Masturbating'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-6353697873576958062</id><published>2007-02-13T01:26:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-11T15:52:56.940-08:00</updated><title type='text'>I love being all girl gross</title><content type='html'>&lt;em&gt;"Taste it, taste the boogah flavor." - Chris Rock in &lt;a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0261392/"&gt;Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;While computer geeking this lovely morning, the urge to sneeze is just too overwhelming and two humgo sneezes from the depts of depravity discharge from my nose and mouth covering my computer screen. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ooops, I did it again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think it's time to go get a cloth. Ewwwwwwwwwwwweee&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-6353697873576958062?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/6353697873576958062'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/6353697873576958062'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/02/i-love-being-all-girl-gross.html' title='I love being all girl gross'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-7534766522660614148</id><published>2007-02-11T15:51:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-10T11:10:04.673-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Girl Pants</title><content type='html'>&lt;strong&gt;Wife:&lt;/strong&gt; I did something really stupid today. I wanted to tell you but I can't remember it right now.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Husband:&lt;/strong&gt; Was wearing those pants part of the equation?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-7534766522660614148?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/7534766522660614148'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/7534766522660614148'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/02/girl-pants.html' title='Girl Pants'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-1228647929170422651</id><published>2007-02-10T07:46:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-10T07:45:49.295-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Oh Snap</title><content type='html'>Hubby goes into work this afternoon and will be gone all night. I'm not sure what I'll do with my time. I feel so lost. At least I have a new episode of &lt;a href="http://supernatural.warnerbros.com/"&gt;Supernatural &lt;/a&gt;to keep me company for at least an hour. Maybe I'll pick my nose for the remainder. It's going to take a while to get back into some type of a routine. I'm off work until Tuesday afternoon this week. It's my three day weekend and while I do enjoy the three days of bliss, I want to whine just a little because hubby isn't with me. I have to find something to do. We have been joined at the hip since we met. Even at his last job, I was lucky enough to be close by and work with him at times. This new job is private and I can't be there for most of it unless he is in the field. If I'm at work, I might see him and we might be able to take our breaks together.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We are the couple that would make you sick to your stomach. I don't like holding hands and getting kissy kissy in public however, we spend all our time together. We like going on road trips, watching movies, hanging out and just gabbing away. People hate us or think we are cute. Others just roll their eyes because if you want one of us, you'll get two of us. It's two for the price of one. You'll at least be entertained. That to me is a bonus!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;more later when I'm depressed and have no chocolate to eat because I'm poor....&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-1228647929170422651?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/1228647929170422651'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/1228647929170422651'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/02/oh-snap.html' title='Oh Snap'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-2052192537603444036</id><published>2007-02-09T17:09:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-09T17:06:00.339-08:00</updated><title type='text'>He uses sexy words like  wrench, hammer, screwdriver</title><content type='html'>Hubby went window shopping today. No, he didn't shop for windows, he just went shopping to prepare to buy stuff.  We have this big (new to us, 20 years old in age)  house and we want to do the renovating ourselves. Hubby went looking for tools we'll need and as we were driving home earlier he told me that there was a cheaper version of the tools for sale at our local hardware store. I have stated in no uncertain terms that he is not to buy anything only &lt;a href="http://www.mastercrafttool.com/home.asp"&gt;Mastercraft&lt;/a&gt; and I will not have a reasonable facsimile brought into our home. I want a tool that is built to last. I want a tool with warranty. Hubby called me a "tool snob.." I should be offended but I just don't want &lt;a href="http://www.canadiantire.ca/browse/product_detail.jsp?PRODUCT%3C%3Eprd_id=845524443286220&amp;FOLDER%3C%3Efolder_id=1408474396672870&amp;amp;bmUID=1171071057121"&gt;this&lt;/a&gt; when I could have &lt;a href="http://www.canadiantire.ca/browse/product_detail.jsp?PRODUCT%3C%3Eprd_id=845524443256312&amp;FOLDER%3C%3Efolder_id=1408474396672870&amp;amp;bmUID=1171071057031"&gt;this sexy devil&lt;/a&gt;...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-2052192537603444036?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/2052192537603444036'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/2052192537603444036'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/02/he-uses-sexy-words-like-wrench-hammer.html' title='He uses sexy words like  wrench, hammer, screwdriver'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-7025628583501949321</id><published>2007-02-09T15:00:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-09T15:03:29.366-08:00</updated><title type='text'>New names....</title><content type='html'>&lt;strong&gt;Hubby:&lt;/strong&gt; Your new nickname is Babbling Brooke &lt;em&gt;(because supposably I talk too much)&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Wife:&lt;/strong&gt; and your's is Freckle Face Fanny... &lt;em&gt;(because his freckles are as big as chocolate chip cookie chunks)&lt;/em&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-7025628583501949321?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/7025628583501949321'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/7025628583501949321'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/02/new-names.html' title='New names....'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-9183320880328505246</id><published>2007-02-09T14:47:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-09T17:32:42.726-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Feed me Seymour</title><content type='html'>I'm flippin' starved. It's after 7pm and I'm about ready to chew my own arm off for a bite to eat. The smell of honey garlic ribs cooking in the oven, while delightful, is making me vomit just a little in my mouth. I need food. I'm glad I don't live in a third world country, strike that, people of third world countries are glad I don't live there when I have not had a bite to eat all day...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's Friday night. Hubby is working until 11 and I'm not sure what I'm going to do with my time now. Hubby's new schedule has him working both Friday and Saturday nights. He's always worked weekends especially with his old job and even though this is a step up, he still works the weekend. From October 'til now, he's been free every evening. I've actually liked spending the extra time with him when I get home from work. Now, I'm home, and he is gone.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Damn those ribs smell good!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-9183320880328505246?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/9183320880328505246'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/9183320880328505246'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/02/feed-me-seymour.html' title='Feed me Seymour'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-1065081129420839836</id><published>2007-02-08T15:22:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-08T15:25:34.137-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Sad, so very sad</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20070208/ap_en_tv/anna_nicole_smith"&gt;RIP Anna Nicole&lt;/a&gt;.... Sad, so very sad!!! I don't know what else to say!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-1065081129420839836?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/1065081129420839836'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/1065081129420839836'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/02/sad-so-very-sad.html' title='Sad, so very sad'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-3614293508859150662</id><published>2007-02-07T16:31:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-07T16:37:55.301-08:00</updated><title type='text'>The Joy of Cooking/Sex</title><content type='html'>I worked my normal shift at work today. I don't know if I'm on call tomorrow or not. I just e-mailed the boss to check and see because I'd hate to sleep in and then get a call. I'm a bitch when I wake up. The husband has the day off as well. It would be wonderful to be able to spend the day together. We love to cook and bake together.  errrr I wish we could cook and bake together. We normally end up fighting. He is toooooooooo slow and makes toooooooooooo much mess. I like to use one bowl and rewash it. He has two sinks full of dishes and a counter that is covered in mess. If I spend a lot of time cooking, I certainly don't want to spend an hour cleaning up after. That is soooooo not fun!! Thus we bicker and pick at each other and the joy of cooking turns into world war IIIIIIIIII.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-3614293508859150662?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/3614293508859150662'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/3614293508859150662'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/02/joy-of-cookingsex.html' title='The Joy of Cooking/Sex'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-3614652053646443425</id><published>2007-02-07T05:18:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-07T05:24:17.399-08:00</updated><title type='text'>I hate my job sometimes</title><content type='html'>It's now 10 am and I just received an e-mail from my boss:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;"&gt;This is just a reminder to be on your guard for the arrival of the baby and that we might need you to come in early today. Please email back to let me know that you received this email.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;Motherfuckingeezuschrist&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;blockquote&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/p&gt;&lt;/blockquote&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-3614652053646443425?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/3614652053646443425'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/3614652053646443425'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/02/i-hate-my-job-sometimes.html' title='I hate my job sometimes'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-8536428825181673577</id><published>2007-02-06T20:01:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-06T20:06:50.457-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Smokin' in the boys room</title><content type='html'>Hubby and his boss were walking down the hall at work when the boss walked into the bathroom. Hubby followed behind him because the boss was still talking and hubby didn't want to miss out on what his mentor was saying.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When hubby was telling me the story earlier, he told me that he followed boss man because he figured maybe he wanted to show my husband something. It took all of ten seconds for husband to realize that the boss was taking a piss and if he wanted to show something to my husband, my husband, did not want to see it!!!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-8536428825181673577?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/8536428825181673577'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/8536428825181673577'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/02/smokin-in-boys-room.html' title='Smokin&apos; in the boys room'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-1245747735545251127</id><published>2007-02-06T13:03:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-06T13:06:02.597-08:00</updated><title type='text'>I'm in a mood</title><content type='html'>One of the girls from work is taking two weeks off very soon and I am next in line to fill in for her. The boss called me at work today and told me she was going to call me tomorrow morning if I had to fill in. I didn't have to go to work until 2 but I have to be up and ready because &lt;strong&gt;MAYBE&lt;/strong&gt; I might have to go in for 8.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;Bitch say what?!!!&lt;/em&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-1245747735545251127?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/1245747735545251127'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/1245747735545251127'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/02/im-in-mood.html' title='I&apos;m in a mood'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-1289630052514961124</id><published>2007-02-06T04:48:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-07T05:34:03.271-08:00</updated><title type='text'>I got burned</title><content type='html'>Here's a little back story that shames me:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Back before I met my husband I met this guy whom I thought was gay. I even asked him was he gay and he said he wasn't. I, of course, believed him. I don't think people lie to me or at least I didn't. I've grown up, believe me!!! Anyways, I met my would be husband about a year into this guys and my friendship/relationship. Gay guy, or I'll call him gay guy now just so you don't get confused, 'k, told me he loved me. He told me I was now part of his family. He gave me flowers daily and always danced with me even when there was no music or a dance floor. I was swept off my feet. He was so romantic!!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We ended up having a big fight when I had finally  had enough and told him to make up his mind after he accused me of having sex with my would be husband. I didn't have sex, no way no how. We were just friends and I had thought that my gay guy would have a lot in common with my new friend. I was wrong. Gay guy and I ended our friendship/relationship and within the next year, new friend turned into boyfriend and then husband. About 4 months ago, gay guy came out of the closet. My first thought was, "We could have been Will and Grace." I would have been happy to have just been his friend. I don't discriminate.  Hubby always told me this guy was gay but I still refused to believe him because he had told me he wasn't gay.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Last night I was joking with my husband about the conversation below about me out dating and my husband without missing a step says, " I'm sure there are more gay guys out there for you to date."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;Damn.. Burned..&lt;/em&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-1289630052514961124?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/1289630052514961124'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/1289630052514961124'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/02/i-got-burned.html' title='I got burned'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-5905447215669660071</id><published>2007-02-04T11:39:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-04T11:55:18.059-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Ms Adventure</title><content type='html'>Hubby and I were watching tv earlier and a commerical for Ms Adventure came on. The show is about a woman who travels the world and does cool adventurous stuff. Easy premise, right?! Here is the coversation that followed...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Hubby:&lt;/strong&gt; That show does not interest me in the least.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Wife:&lt;/strong&gt; You're a boy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Hubby:&lt;/strong&gt; What the fuck does that have to do with it?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Wife:&lt;/strong&gt; The program is geared towards women, not men.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Hubby:&lt;/strong&gt; Men watch tv too.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Wife:&lt;/strong&gt; and girls need adventure shows catered to them. The show is for girls. The only men who would watch would be old guys holding their cock getting off on some girl riding on an elephant. You are a boy!!! It's not for you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Hubby:&lt;/strong&gt; You are so outdated sometimes. (He walks over to kiss me and says..) I'm glad you're not out dating though.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;Hey, it's funny to me...&lt;/em&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-5905447215669660071?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/5905447215669660071'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/5905447215669660071'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/02/ms-adventure.html' title='Ms Adventure'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-955748352741006445</id><published>2007-02-03T17:34:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-03T17:44:03.109-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Black Eyes vrs Blue Balls</title><content type='html'>&lt;strong&gt;Husband:&lt;/strong&gt; It would have been funnier if you didn't speak and I called you Bob.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Wife:&lt;/strong&gt; I don't want to be Silent Bob to your Jay or Teller to your Penn. I'm the funny one.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Husband:&lt;/strong&gt; You are not the funny one.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Wife:&lt;/strong&gt; I am so.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Husband:&lt;/strong&gt; You'd shut up if you had two black eyes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Wife:&lt;/strong&gt; and we all know you'd shut up if you had two blue balls.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Nuff said, Wife 6 Husband 2&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-955748352741006445?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/955748352741006445'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/955748352741006445'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/02/black-eyes-vrs-blue-balls.html' title='Black Eyes vrs Blue Balls'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-4642650727565842021</id><published>2007-02-02T12:54:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-02T13:01:46.715-08:00</updated><title type='text'>You look like a hooker, I mean,  I love you</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Mclc2-ynplA/RcOldU0uL0I/AAAAAAAAAAM/Ssn44prh__w/s1600-h/sugar.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5027043532300234562" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Mclc2-ynplA/RcOldU0uL0I/AAAAAAAAAAM/Ssn44prh__w/s200/sugar.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;It's almost Valentine's Day and I mentioned to my husband that the only thing I wanted was &lt;a href="http://www.revlon.com/ProductCatalog/ProductDetails.aspx?ProductID=36"&gt;Revlon's Sugar Sugar Lip Topping&lt;/a&gt; . It looks purty and I like to look purty. We saw the commerical again last night and I told my husband again that I wanted this so he doesn't go out and buy me chocolates or flowers. I'm easy!! This is all I want. I'm sitting in the chair covered in a blanket and he is laying on the sofa because he has had a hard day at work. He rises up so I can see his face and says, "All you need then is those clear plastic shoes and you'd look like a hooker."&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Me:&lt;/strong&gt; "Is that a yes?"&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-4642650727565842021?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/4642650727565842021'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/4642650727565842021'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/02/you-look-like-hooker-i-mean-i-love-you.html' title='You look like a hooker, I mean,  I love you'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://bp0.blogger.com/_Mclc2-ynplA/RcOldU0uL0I/AAAAAAAAAAM/Ssn44prh__w/s72-c/sugar.jpg' height='72' width='72'/></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-8104242829102650827</id><published>2007-02-01T16:23:00.002-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-01T16:24:56.279-08:00</updated><title type='text'>I saw Brokeback Mountain</title><content type='html'>The husband needed to be bonded for his new job. He had to send papers to the court and then he had to send more to the police to get background checks and to find out if he is a criminal. I’ve been bugging him by telling him if he is wanted by the police, I’m leaving him for &lt;a href="http://imdb.com/name/nm0003620/" target="_self"&gt;Kevin Smith&lt;/a&gt;. He was being nervous because he has so much illegal stuff on his hard drive that actually going to prison wouldn’t be far off. Now he has to be a good boy and take his vitamins and say his prayers so life for him is going to change a great deal.&lt;br /&gt;We were in bed the other night talking about all this when he mentioned that he had to change his ways and that with his new job, he had to clean up his act and stop downloading music, movies, games and kitty porn. The topic continued with him talking about how he’d never make it in jail and this is the coversation that followed…&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Wife:&lt;/strong&gt; You’re too pretty to go to jail.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Husband:&lt;/strong&gt; Boy, you sure have a pretty mouth.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Wife:&lt;/strong&gt; You could pretend you were retarded. Who’d want to fuck a retard?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Husband:&lt;/strong&gt; A retard would.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Wife:&lt;/strong&gt; Oh the shame!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Husband:&lt;/strong&gt; I’d rather be fucked by a big bad Bertha looking mutha fucker then by some retard. At least I could say I was raped by a bad ass but if I was raped by a retard, that’s a whole nother story.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Wife:&lt;/strong&gt; I saw Brokeback Mountain and just like Monster’s Ball, it scared the shit out of me. I don’t want you to go to jail. Stop downloading shit from the internet.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-8104242829102650827?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/8104242829102650827'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/8104242829102650827'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/02/i-saw-brokeback-mountain.html' title='I saw Brokeback Mountain'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-8213382865843289922</id><published>2007-02-01T16:23:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-01T16:23:25.416-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Wham bam thank you mamn</title><content type='html'>You know you have found your soul mate when you wake up in the middle of the night singing, "Wake me up before you go-go because I ain’t plannin’ on going solo.." and the guy in the bed next to you yawns and sings along.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-8213382865843289922?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/8213382865843289922'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/8213382865843289922'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/02/wham-bam-thank-you-mamn.html' title='Wham bam thank you mamn'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8445241015499283719.post-1201235550999374216</id><published>2007-02-01T16:20:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-02-01T16:25:33.756-08:00</updated><title type='text'>You want cheese with that whine?</title><content type='html'>&lt;strong&gt;Husband:&lt;/strong&gt; You’re the biggest whiner I know.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Wife:&lt;/strong&gt; I don’t whine.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Husband:&lt;/strong&gt; You’re a vinyard.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8445241015499283719-1201235550999374216?l=ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/1201235550999374216'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8445241015499283719/posts/default/1201235550999374216'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ucantmakethisshitup.blogspot.com/2007/02/you-want-chesse-with-that-whine.html' title='You want cheese with that whine?'/><author><name>Wife</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/17475521456128456010</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry></feed>
