What the hell is a Liebster Award?

Add the links you say? I just did like 35 panels of strips! Get to cuttin' and pastin' motherfucker!

The V in DMV stands for Victory.

We just moved to California last year, so I finally got around to going to the DMV today and applying for a California license (yeah, shut up. It's the result of uttering the words "I will definitely do it tomorrow" 365 times in a row).

I have to say, I was a bit nervous since they make you retake the written portion and it's been 12 years, 3 kids and 57 different hairstyles since I last took this thing.

I didn't even know if I would remember the answers anymore.

Not wanting to walk in blind to a possible ambush,*Gets on the speaker* "She's from Jersey! We're gonna need the long test form!", I went online and practiced with their tutorials, fully expecting to get some

"What do you do if a group of hippies decide to stage a sit-in in the middle of the road?" and "When should you offer some of your medical marijuana joint to a police officer?"
type of questions. I got a few wrong, but I tried to memorize the answers.

Easy peasy.

So I went in and the questions were pretty straight forward.

I took the test, going over each answer again and again like the people who flunk go into some sort of Shirley Jackson-esque lottery.

Which let's face it, they probably do. It takes a rare form of evil masochist to decide that they want to work for the DMV.

I stood in the line where they were grading the forms, triple checking all of my answers.

"I'm sorry sir, but you didn't pass. You can come back and try again another time."

The guy in front of me looked down at his shoes and got handed a slip that I imagined said "You're an idiot", in big red letters.

Oh, crap.

"Next!"

I walked up to the window. The woman looked at my form and didn't mark anything on it.

"Pass." she said.

But being the smug asshole that I am, I knew, but I had to ask.

"How many did I get wrong?"

"You got them all right." the woman said, visibly annoyed.

If the DMV sold food, she probably would have spit in mine.

But I didn't care. I knew I spanked that test.

She handed me my temporary license and I strutted back through the lobby, out the door and into the parking lot like John Travolta from Saturday Night Fever.

Who knows all the answers to the DMV written test?
Oh, that's right. I do.

Who's currently licensed to drive a motor vehicle in the state of California?
This gal.

Yes, I am being a gloating asshole about it, but I don't get many victories these days, so I gotta enjoy the little ones.

A Terrible Introduction

So let's get down to business.

My name is Amy Terror and I have three Terr(or)ific little children, Phoenix, Coraline and Holden, who strive to make my days brighter (apparently they think my living room walls look better in a soft crayola yellow) and more meaningful (hell, you think a lot more about why you are put on this earth while scrubbing shit stains out of a carpet).

Phoenix is six and just started school this past year. She is my mini-me, my helper and my angel. Which is a double-edged sword. Because she is me. Flaws and all. And I gotta love her, but I imagine playing a board game with her in a few years is gonna be a bit like The Hunger Games. And that bitch is going down.

Coraline is four and she is a handful. She is so sweet, loves animals and is caring and generous. But sometimes, when the mood strikes her, she gets this devilish twinkle and she just loses all sense of right and wrong. I have not yet decided whether she just has savant like abilities with pushing buttons, or if we need to call the Priest and get some Holy Water.

Holden is my baby. He's two and he's my widdle momma's boy. No woman is ever gonna be able to make him as happy as I do. He seduces all of the ladies on the playground with his big, blue, crooner eyes and his chubby cheeks. But sometimes he just likes to be a princess and put on his big sisters' dresses. And shoes. And sings the songs from Barbie Princess Charm School. If I haven't ruined him for women, I'm damned sure the girls have.

My husband, Jude, is a hard working man. He both webmasters a Comic Book website and works for an internet company, which essentially gives him the excuse to be on the computer all the time. All the time. ALL THE TIME. I'm fairly certain that when he falls asleep, all of the internet users within a 100 mile radius lose their wireless internet signals until he regains consciousness. He makes me laugh about a billion times a day and some of the situations (which I will probably not....ok, maybe...detail here) cause hilarity to ensue.

I am a Stay at Home Mom, which basically means I piss with the door open, get routinely woken up at night so frequently that my kids could teach the fellas who run Guantanamo Bay a thing or two, and I keep a pretty hectic schedule of chauffeuring children, being a peace ambassador (hey kid, she totally had that Barbie first) and being the designated recipient of all of the bodily fluids that my children have loosed upon the world (I could totally drink pee if we had to do a Waterworld-esque scenario, I am seriously unfazed).

I am finally getting to the point where my kids are old enough for me to breathe and I am starting to figure out how to be me again. And I have been trying to branch off from them a bit and try to think about my likes. So far, all I got is hot bubble baths, thoughts of having somewhere to wear high heels to again and run-on sentences. Apparently, I love the fuck out of some run-on sentences.

So I'm starting this blog, both to document the utter ridiculousocity (totally a word now) that is my life, and to figure out where to go next. Look out world. Amy Terror has started blogging.

And I hope it makes you laugh, cry, perhaps vomit in your mouth a bit. But mostly I just hope that whoever reads this (you depraved person you!) gets some sense of enjoyment.

Well, enjoy!

Yours truly, until two minutes from now when my kids/husband need my attention

Amy Terror