Wednesday, July 28, 2010
When the Hell did it get to be Wednesday?
I wish I had something interesting or witty to say today since I've been AWOL the last couple of days. But alas, I do not. Thank you for stopping by. Sorry you are sorely disappointed that you did. Good night.
Monday, July 26, 2010
One journey ends - - - another about to begin...........
Today was the final baseball game and the final softball dealie (awards ceremony) - WOO HOOO!!!!! We survived another spring/summer of ball! When the season starts in the spring, we are like alzheimer's patients - we're giddy with excitement and happy to see the season start. But yet, somehow we always forget how blasted long the season lasts and just how damned hot it is by season's end.
Today, while I sat at the baseball games facing due East (starting at 8 a.m) - I honestly thought I might die. I don't recall ever feeling quite that sick at a game. I think it was just because it was the 5th day running of sitting in the heat. And when they lost, I was sad for about 2 seconds, then I packed up my shit and ran for the A/C. Likely trampling a few children along the way - who knows. I didn't look back. My makeup was sweated off, my hair was so wet with sweat I could wring it out. My clothes were soaked and I was 100% completely and totally drained.
I'm glad it's over. And this weekend - it's all about ME. I am not doing one damned thing for any kid - NOTHING. It's MY weekend. Because after that - it's a mad dash to get ready for school. Hell, I think enrollment might even be next week. Where does the summer go? And why in the hell does it go so fast? And soon, the prodigal son will be leaving for college. I wonder if he's scared. I wonder if he's sad? Or I wonder if he's thrilled to death. I should likely have a sit down with him one night before he goes. He pretty much stays at home all the time - so I can't imagine that he's all that excited to leave. But maybe I'm wrong. There is so much to do before he leaves. And for some reason, it has snuck up on me. I'm not prepared. I hope he is.
And this will be the brunette's sophomore year. As I recall, my most difficult year in high school. And also the most difficult for the prodigal son. A sophomore - but only 15. But all the friends are 16 - and they drive. And they date. And they run around like maniacs and the mamas and daddies are still holding tight to the reins. I'm not sure I'm emotionally ready for the ride we're about to take. And the blonde - ready to have friends over and go to friends' houses - and me - just wanting her to stay little and not worry and fuss with friends yet - it just complicates our lives - friends.
I think I'll just sleep for the next several days and get myself mentally and physically prepared for the journey we're all about to take!
Today, while I sat at the baseball games facing due East (starting at 8 a.m) - I honestly thought I might die. I don't recall ever feeling quite that sick at a game. I think it was just because it was the 5th day running of sitting in the heat. And when they lost, I was sad for about 2 seconds, then I packed up my shit and ran for the A/C. Likely trampling a few children along the way - who knows. I didn't look back. My makeup was sweated off, my hair was so wet with sweat I could wring it out. My clothes were soaked and I was 100% completely and totally drained.
I'm glad it's over. And this weekend - it's all about ME. I am not doing one damned thing for any kid - NOTHING. It's MY weekend. Because after that - it's a mad dash to get ready for school. Hell, I think enrollment might even be next week. Where does the summer go? And why in the hell does it go so fast? And soon, the prodigal son will be leaving for college. I wonder if he's scared. I wonder if he's sad? Or I wonder if he's thrilled to death. I should likely have a sit down with him one night before he goes. He pretty much stays at home all the time - so I can't imagine that he's all that excited to leave. But maybe I'm wrong. There is so much to do before he leaves. And for some reason, it has snuck up on me. I'm not prepared. I hope he is.
And this will be the brunette's sophomore year. As I recall, my most difficult year in high school. And also the most difficult for the prodigal son. A sophomore - but only 15. But all the friends are 16 - and they drive. And they date. And they run around like maniacs and the mamas and daddies are still holding tight to the reins. I'm not sure I'm emotionally ready for the ride we're about to take. And the blonde - ready to have friends over and go to friends' houses - and me - just wanting her to stay little and not worry and fuss with friends yet - it just complicates our lives - friends.
I think I'll just sleep for the next several days and get myself mentally and physically prepared for the journey we're all about to take!
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Baseball Ramblings
This weekend is the NBC World Series. I don't know what NBC stands for. National Baseball C.... something. It's irrelevant anyway and it's the last one I'll ever attend so I'm not going to worry about learning what it is now. See, we haven't gotten to see the Prodigal Son play much this summer because his tournaments are always on the same weekends as the brunette's so we drive the brunette to her tournament and the Prodigal Son gets to his tournament on a team bus. Pretty cool how that worked out for us, actually. But this weekend we were devoted to the Prodigal Son and his last tournament.
Second game. Friday night. Second or third time at-bat (likely I don't remember because I was drinking). He struck out and in response, he stamped his bat on the plate. The umpire went all fucking crazy and started flailing his arms around and going through this very elaborate and obviously well-practiced-for-many-hour-in-front-of-a-mirror routine. The parents in front of me turned around and said, "That boy just got thrown out of the game - who's boy is that?" Uhhh - "that would be MY boy. What did he do?" Stamped his bat on the plate. Oh okay. That IS bad. I would definitely throw his ass out of the game also. What.the.fuck? I'd seen another boy (the Eddie Haskell of the team) THROW his bat AND his helmet just two batter prior when he struck out. I became enraged. See. The Prodigal Son - he's half puerto rican - as is the brunette - and sometimes I just cannot help but think there is still racism and bigotry in this country and so often my thoughts immediately turn to that fact when I feel he's been dealt a rough hand. I likely got that sense back when he was in elementary school and racially bullied for several months. And so the momma bear in me rises up and I'm immediately pissed.
But I just sat there, with the brunette, keeping my mouth shut and sipping my drink through the fat straw. (love fat straws). I would bite my tongue and not make a scene. Until the NEXT time I saw a kid throw a fit when he struck out - and then I went ape shit - screamining - 'HE THREW HIS BAT - HE THREW HIS BAT AND HE CUSSED - WAKE UP BLUE AND APPLY YOUR JACKED UP SHIT TO EVERYONE FAIRLY'. He did not and the brunette warned I would get thrown out too if I didn't shut up. But the mouth was already engaged so I responded to her in my out loud voice, "I don't give a rat's ass if he throws me out too - he's a fat Fucker." Then those parents looked at me and I said, "Oh - I'm sorry - did I say that out loud?" And they laughed. But I was still pissed.
Then that little fat fuck DID throw another kid out. So I felt better. And he wasn't a Puerto Rican kid - so I figured he did it just to prove he was not a racist - but I was still on to him. Turns out the Prodigal Son did more than just stamp his bat on the plate - evidently he also said, "That is BULLSHIT" when he struck out. What.the.fuck. He didn't punch the blue in the face. He didn't tell the blue HE was bullshit or call him a fat fuck like I did. He was mad at himself because he's in a batting slump and he was referring to his repeated striking out as bullshit. But I guess it was hot. He was fat. And irritable. My mom said it was just the perfect storm. She is likely right.
So the next day - at the games - evidently tournament rules say the prodigal son could not even be on the roster since he'd been thrown out of A game the prior day. What.the.fuck kind of rule is that? That's fucking stupid. It's no wonder the Prodigal Son has hated high school. Has hated everything about the system and is ready to get the hell on with his life. I'm so ready for that too. For both his and my sake.
We're headed back out to the ball park for a game today. I hope he gets to play. But the fuckhead coach will likely just allow him to be the designated runner. Forget the fact that the prodigal son made all-state, all-league and all-city teams. Just put some get-along kid out there in his spot. I keep telling the prodigal son that one day soon, all those douche bag butt kissers day will come - when coaches will see through their bullshit and determine play time on raw talent alone. And on that day - the son will play and the Eddie Haskells will sit the bench. Until then - Momma Bear is on high alert and like her Prodigal Son - sick of the shit.
Second game. Friday night. Second or third time at-bat (likely I don't remember because I was drinking). He struck out and in response, he stamped his bat on the plate. The umpire went all fucking crazy and started flailing his arms around and going through this very elaborate and obviously well-practiced-for-many-hour-in-front-of-a-mirror routine. The parents in front of me turned around and said, "That boy just got thrown out of the game - who's boy is that?" Uhhh - "that would be MY boy. What did he do?" Stamped his bat on the plate. Oh okay. That IS bad. I would definitely throw his ass out of the game also. What.the.fuck? I'd seen another boy (the Eddie Haskell of the team) THROW his bat AND his helmet just two batter prior when he struck out. I became enraged. See. The Prodigal Son - he's half puerto rican - as is the brunette - and sometimes I just cannot help but think there is still racism and bigotry in this country and so often my thoughts immediately turn to that fact when I feel he's been dealt a rough hand. I likely got that sense back when he was in elementary school and racially bullied for several months. And so the momma bear in me rises up and I'm immediately pissed.
But I just sat there, with the brunette, keeping my mouth shut and sipping my drink through the fat straw. (love fat straws). I would bite my tongue and not make a scene. Until the NEXT time I saw a kid throw a fit when he struck out - and then I went ape shit - screamining - 'HE THREW HIS BAT - HE THREW HIS BAT AND HE CUSSED - WAKE UP BLUE AND APPLY YOUR JACKED UP SHIT TO EVERYONE FAIRLY'. He did not and the brunette warned I would get thrown out too if I didn't shut up. But the mouth was already engaged so I responded to her in my out loud voice, "I don't give a rat's ass if he throws me out too - he's a fat Fucker." Then those parents looked at me and I said, "Oh - I'm sorry - did I say that out loud?" And they laughed. But I was still pissed.
Then that little fat fuck DID throw another kid out. So I felt better. And he wasn't a Puerto Rican kid - so I figured he did it just to prove he was not a racist - but I was still on to him. Turns out the Prodigal Son did more than just stamp his bat on the plate - evidently he also said, "That is BULLSHIT" when he struck out. What.the.fuck. He didn't punch the blue in the face. He didn't tell the blue HE was bullshit or call him a fat fuck like I did. He was mad at himself because he's in a batting slump and he was referring to his repeated striking out as bullshit. But I guess it was hot. He was fat. And irritable. My mom said it was just the perfect storm. She is likely right.
So the next day - at the games - evidently tournament rules say the prodigal son could not even be on the roster since he'd been thrown out of A game the prior day. What.the.fuck kind of rule is that? That's fucking stupid. It's no wonder the Prodigal Son has hated high school. Has hated everything about the system and is ready to get the hell on with his life. I'm so ready for that too. For both his and my sake.
We're headed back out to the ball park for a game today. I hope he gets to play. But the fuckhead coach will likely just allow him to be the designated runner. Forget the fact that the prodigal son made all-state, all-league and all-city teams. Just put some get-along kid out there in his spot. I keep telling the prodigal son that one day soon, all those douche bag butt kissers day will come - when coaches will see through their bullshit and determine play time on raw talent alone. And on that day - the son will play and the Eddie Haskells will sit the bench. Until then - Momma Bear is on high alert and like her Prodigal Son - sick of the shit.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Convoluted
So there I was, walking along in Walmarts when I saw this:
I started laughing so hard I was crying. The husband didn't know what was so funny and I was trying to explain but of course I wasn't making any sense. Go figure. But my whole hysteria was caused by the word "Convoluted" on the packaging. I always think of convoluted as something like a cluster fuck. Just a big ol' mess. So I was pretty sure they used the wrong word. But when I got home, I looked it up on dictionary.com:
con·vo·lut·ed (kŏn'və-lōō'tĭd)
adj. 1.Having numerous overlapping coils or folds: a convoluted seashell.
2.Intricate; complicated: convoluted legal language; convoluted reasoning.
The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition
Copyright © 2009 by Houghton Mifflin Company.
Published by Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.
Who knew? Now I guess I am the dumbass.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Clogged Arteries on a Plate
I try very hard to provide solid, healthy meals for my family. I seriously do. I plan out a menu each week, I buy tons of fresh veggies & fruits. I bathe the greens and dry them carefully and make these wonderful meals full of colorful foods. I put quite a bit of thought into it. And you would THINK that my efforts would result in the family making healthy food choices when I do not toil away in the kitchen to provide for them. Right?
WRONG!!!
That, my friends is EXACTLY what you think it is: A pancake with slices of processed cheese and smoked weiners on top. That's right. And you know what kind of condiment you put on this concoction? PANCAKE SYRUP. DUH!
My husband made that for himself one evening because I was on strike. Then he acted offended when I didn't take him up on his offer to share with me. He kept hounding me, "Really - it's GOOD! Try it!" No thank you. "It's GOOD! Try it!!!" NO THANK YOU. "Don't you want to try it? It's good?" NO GOD DAMMIT - I DO NOT WANT TO TRY IT - IT'S TOTALLY FUCKED UP AND YOU COULDN'T MAKE A HEALTHY FOOD CHOICE TO SAVE YOUR LIFE.
God help me.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Rebel Toes
Fuck You!
I was here first - see my toes right there? If you expect people to stay back 200 ft. as per your dumbass shirt - do NOT plop your big ass down 3 ft in front of me. Kthanks.
Speaking of my toes - I went with BLACK polish this time - I've never worn black polish - I thought it was for goth people and since I'm neither a goth nor a publicly known witch, I thought I should steer clear of. But then someone (who is much younger and hipper than I) told me black is the new red. So I gave it a whirl:
I think I am TOTALLY pulling it off - don't you?
Thursday, July 15, 2010
I LOVE NEW SHIT!
So - that was it. The final.fucking.straw with the walking washer. In case you missed the background on that washer - you can read all about it here.
It was Tuesday of this week that the piece of shit met its final demise. See, the brunette was washing her softball uniform and a few other small items - you know - about maybe 3 pounds of laundry. If that. I'm not much good with how much shit weighs. If I can't lift it then it's too heavy. If I can lift it, then good enough. If my clothes are too tight, then I need to put my fork down. If they're too loose, then I need to eat a Snickers. That's how I deal with weight. So I really have no clue what her laundry load weighed - but I'm guessing not much. So, she's all up in her room gettin' gussied up for her softball game and doesn't hear the pleading of the washer to come to its assistance, and it just walking and dancing and hopping across the laundry room - evidently having the time of its life. And when she meandered downstairs to move her shit to the dryer:
It was Tuesday of this week that the piece of shit met its final demise. See, the brunette was washing her softball uniform and a few other small items - you know - about maybe 3 pounds of laundry. If that. I'm not much good with how much shit weighs. If I can't lift it then it's too heavy. If I can lift it, then good enough. If my clothes are too tight, then I need to put my fork down. If they're too loose, then I need to eat a Snickers. That's how I deal with weight. So I really have no clue what her laundry load weighed - but I'm guessing not much. So, she's all up in her room gettin' gussied up for her softball game and doesn't hear the pleading of the washer to come to its assistance, and it just walking and dancing and hopping across the laundry room - evidently having the time of its life. And when she meandered downstairs to move her shit to the dryer:
Don't focus on the hideous vinyl flooring - it's 25 years old and still holding its own - I can't bury it just yet. And yes - that is WATER - every where. That washer has managed to get its drain hose pulled out of the drain and it's just dancing and spewing water all over the house. Fortunately, it happened to the brunette and NOT the prodigal son. The brunette is a fast AND responsible thinker. The prodigal son is just a fast thinker - he would have high-tailed it out of the house and left that shit there for me to deal with after work - claiming he never saw it. The brunette, however, is kinder and more of a care giver - she and her BFF, "Girl" - cleaned it all up - and NOT with my Kirby OR my Dyson - nope - they actually broomed it out into the garage (which I also did at about her age - but unfortunately it was February and my dad about killed himself getting out of his car - but that's a different story y'all). Anywho - they got it all clean and dry. I was so proud of them!!
But the husband, he was pissed. And also because he thought it was wise to stay out at a bar with a friend until 2 a.m. on a work night and drive his dumb drunk ass home (different story there too) he called and said he was out looking at new machines for me. See. Good shit just keeps coming my way. I am seriously waiting for the other shoe to drop here. But for now - I just keep going along with it. I figured he was looking to make amends with me since I cussed him out at 2 a.m. and hung up on him, so I was willing to take new machines as a peace offering. So, I ended up with these:
And then later that evening, when the husband and I were out walking and he was telling me how stupid he was for driving home, I mentioned how I'd cussed him out and hung up on him - he didn't even fucking remember that phone conversation. I thought about wondering why the hell he was giving me a peace offering - but decided at that point I didn't really give a shit - I had what I wanted - new machines!!!
And I've been having a love affair with those machines ever since!!!
Wonder if I can get him to install that new tile next time?
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Wacky Walmarts
So there I was, standing in the checkout line at Wally World when I saw it - - -
Here - let me try to blow it up for you - so you can get a better look at it:
What.the.fuck is this? A God damned coffin blanket? I mean seriously - is that not a corpse? In a satin blanket? Let's take a closer look:
Yep. There she is first - alive - sleeping. And then:
DEAD.
As a doornail.
But the box has a testimonial -
But when I saw the box originally - this is NOT what came to my mind at all. I was like, "Seriously - What.the.fuck is this.shit? And who in the fuck buys it???? WHO? And as I stood there pondering this mystery - THIS drove up on its Rascal Scooter, compliments of Wally World, came to a screeching halt, jumped off and shoved me out of the way to look at the item:
I can't even make this shit up people.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Monday Ramblings
Okay - so I totally forgot AGAIN what I was going to blog about tonight. And it WAS funny! Hmmmm. Crap.
The prodigal Son? No
The brunette? No
Nell? No - oh but wait - Nell - she is funny. This is a child that HATES to bathe. HATES IT. Every night, shower time results in a knock-down drag out argument and battle to get her in the shower. But yesterday, for whatever reason, she took a shower in the kids' bathroom. And she liked it so much, that after she swam for 5 minutes, she took another one. Then later she swam for another 5 minutes and took another shower. Then this morning, she popped right up and went to the shower again. And now she's in there after T-ball. I'm really not sure what's going on - but I'm not arguing with clean. And also, she took to wearing shorts from out of nowhere. We thought maybe she'd secretly shaved her legs - but no. I think she just figured out that shorts are cooler than jeans - DUH. But she won't admit it. Wonder what my water bill will be next month... Oh wait - The brunette just threw Nell out of the bathroom. I'm getting the lowdown presently:
Brunette: This is not your bathroom.
Nell: Uhhh - my toothbrush is in here, my toys are in here - can't you see? My towel is in here - can't you see? My hairbrush is in here - DUH - can't you see - it IS my new bathroom.
Brunette: just get out
LMFAO! Sissers. Thank God they are 7 years apart, lest they'd be killing each other right about now.
So the husband and I want to ride bikes. Did I already mention this? The peddling type. But first I had to have a padded seat - so he got me one. But then we had to have a bike rack - which he got for a steal at Dick's today (mismarked - too bad for them - yay for me!); but now - I need a helmet. We've got to be $300 into this bike ride we haven't taken yet. Maybe next week we'll actually take that ride. Maybe I need a basket too - I mean, what will I keep my beer in? It's so difficult.
I took that damned dog on a walk again today. I'm officially DONE with him. I had to shorten the walk by 1/2 mile because he kept stopping on me, and he could not stop sniffing - it was driving me nuts and slowing me down. I finally did kick him square in the ass as we rounded the corner to our house. I'd had enough of his shit. I'd tried to leave without him and snuck out the front door. But the garage door was open and he spotted me and chased me down - so I had no choice but to take him. But from now on - the husband can do it. I'm done. And on our walk, we passed a little old lady with a fat weiner dog. And I could see her lips moving, so I removed my earbuds and said, "WHATCHA SAY?" And so she yells (like I was hard of hearing - I had my earbuds in but she likely thought it was my Whisper 2000 and thought she needed to yell) - "HE WAS ATTACKED BY TWO BIG DOGS AND HAD TO HAVE 300 HOURS OF SURGERY SO HE DOESN'T MUCH LIKE YOUR DOG!!"
Ummm - OK! I was walking on one side of the street - she was on the other - the dogs were an entire road apart - and we were moving pretty quickly at that point. I wasn't going to let my dog get her dog - my dog is big but he's harmless. So I looked at her with my saddest sad face and said, "Bless his little heart. Well, we'll be moving on now!" And off we trotted. Who spends money to get a dog 300 hours of surgery? What.the.fuck does 300 hours of dog surgery cost anyway? I bet it costs ALOT. That dog must have been TO'E UP! I noticed he had one brown eye and one blue eye. I wonder if they had to give him an eye transplant and couldn't find two that matched or something? And his fur was kind of all different colors in a patchwork kind of way. I wonder if they also had to do a pelt transplant and that's the best they could come up with from donor dogs? And also - I did notice they had put his balls back in the wrong place because they were on his chest - which is not at all where they belong. So I really don't know what kind of vet they took this dog to but I'm guessing that 295 of those 300 hours of surgery was him just fixing shit he'd fucked up to begin with. I bet that's how the old gal got that nice house up the street - I bet she sued that vet for malpractice and won. I'm so glad we had this chat - it's all starting to make sense to me now!
The prodigal Son? No
The brunette? No
Nell? No - oh but wait - Nell - she is funny. This is a child that HATES to bathe. HATES IT. Every night, shower time results in a knock-down drag out argument and battle to get her in the shower. But yesterday, for whatever reason, she took a shower in the kids' bathroom. And she liked it so much, that after she swam for 5 minutes, she took another one. Then later she swam for another 5 minutes and took another shower. Then this morning, she popped right up and went to the shower again. And now she's in there after T-ball. I'm really not sure what's going on - but I'm not arguing with clean. And also, she took to wearing shorts from out of nowhere. We thought maybe she'd secretly shaved her legs - but no. I think she just figured out that shorts are cooler than jeans - DUH. But she won't admit it. Wonder what my water bill will be next month... Oh wait - The brunette just threw Nell out of the bathroom. I'm getting the lowdown presently:
Brunette: This is not your bathroom.
Nell: Uhhh - my toothbrush is in here, my toys are in here - can't you see? My towel is in here - can't you see? My hairbrush is in here - DUH - can't you see - it IS my new bathroom.
Brunette: just get out
LMFAO! Sissers. Thank God they are 7 years apart, lest they'd be killing each other right about now.
So the husband and I want to ride bikes. Did I already mention this? The peddling type. But first I had to have a padded seat - so he got me one. But then we had to have a bike rack - which he got for a steal at Dick's today (mismarked - too bad for them - yay for me!); but now - I need a helmet. We've got to be $300 into this bike ride we haven't taken yet. Maybe next week we'll actually take that ride. Maybe I need a basket too - I mean, what will I keep my beer in? It's so difficult.
I took that damned dog on a walk again today. I'm officially DONE with him. I had to shorten the walk by 1/2 mile because he kept stopping on me, and he could not stop sniffing - it was driving me nuts and slowing me down. I finally did kick him square in the ass as we rounded the corner to our house. I'd had enough of his shit. I'd tried to leave without him and snuck out the front door. But the garage door was open and he spotted me and chased me down - so I had no choice but to take him. But from now on - the husband can do it. I'm done. And on our walk, we passed a little old lady with a fat weiner dog. And I could see her lips moving, so I removed my earbuds and said, "WHATCHA SAY?" And so she yells (like I was hard of hearing - I had my earbuds in but she likely thought it was my Whisper 2000 and thought she needed to yell) - "HE WAS ATTACKED BY TWO BIG DOGS AND HAD TO HAVE 300 HOURS OF SURGERY SO HE DOESN'T MUCH LIKE YOUR DOG!!"
Ummm - OK! I was walking on one side of the street - she was on the other - the dogs were an entire road apart - and we were moving pretty quickly at that point. I wasn't going to let my dog get her dog - my dog is big but he's harmless. So I looked at her with my saddest sad face and said, "Bless his little heart. Well, we'll be moving on now!" And off we trotted. Who spends money to get a dog 300 hours of surgery? What.the.fuck does 300 hours of dog surgery cost anyway? I bet it costs ALOT. That dog must have been TO'E UP! I noticed he had one brown eye and one blue eye. I wonder if they had to give him an eye transplant and couldn't find two that matched or something? And his fur was kind of all different colors in a patchwork kind of way. I wonder if they also had to do a pelt transplant and that's the best they could come up with from donor dogs? And also - I did notice they had put his balls back in the wrong place because they were on his chest - which is not at all where they belong. So I really don't know what kind of vet they took this dog to but I'm guessing that 295 of those 300 hours of surgery was him just fixing shit he'd fucked up to begin with. I bet that's how the old gal got that nice house up the street - I bet she sued that vet for malpractice and won. I'm so glad we had this chat - it's all starting to make sense to me now!
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Put your FORK down and quit fussin' with your daughter -
Yesterday, the brunette had a softball tournament all day. So we were up at 6 a.m. (well we had to get up that early to make sure the Prodigal Son was up and made it to his ball tournament on time) and getting ready to leave for the day to take the brunette and her gal pal to their tourney. I decided that, because I would be sitting most of the day, I would take the dog on a 2 mile walk and get some exercise in for both of us. It was a painful walk - in that he was fighting me the entire way. I swear if I had not been in a neighborhood, I would have kicked that dog square in the ass about 27 times for pissing me off. Sometimes I sneak out the front door to go on a walk so he doesn't see me and beg to go with. But he just keeps getting fatter and fatter so I decided to take him yesterday. And this morning - he's begging me again to take him. It must be fun for him to pull me around that neighborhood.
Anyway - we were at this tournament - and having never played softball myself, I don't understand many of these softball moms. So many are like pageant moms. Fussing over their daughter's clothes, hair, socks. It's weird. My daughter does her own hair (she's 15 - she's capable of that), puts on her own clothes and I just fetch her a water every now and then when she asks. If she gets hurt, I sit in the stands and if there are no tears - I never get up. It's a sport. You have to be tough, right? So she got a black eye from an outfield collision Friday night - I'm sorry sweetie - you're in the outfield - call the infielder down when you have the ball - don't just silently collide. I don't get worked up over much of it - it's a game. And if we lose we go home and if we win she gets another trophy. This doesn't affect MY life any except for if they lose, she is grouchy. But being 15, she's grouchy often so even that doesn't impact me much. I've learned to how to deal with it. And we don't really have any softball pageant moms on our team - thankfully - but I saw these women on other teams. Sporting shirts that announced whose mom they were. "Kaylie's Mom" So? I don't know Kaylie. I don't care that you're her mother. And the people that DO know Kaylie, know damned good and well you are her mother. It's like these women lose their own persona during these weekend tournaments. Or maybe they're always this way. I don't understand it. Did the women used to be softball players back in their day and now they are living vicariously through their daughters? It makes no sense to me. I don't even always wear the team colors or the team tshirt. I'm in the stands. What I wear really doesn't matter, nor do I give a shit.
But then it got REALLY hot, so I put my hair in pig tails. And the brunette was like, "OMG mother! NO!" No what? "PIGTAILS? SERIOUSLY?" Oh! I'm sorry - I must have skipped the chapter in "How to Grow Old and Act like a Mother" that outlined the fact I could not wear pigtails. Fuck that. I can wear pig tails if I want. So I did. And I was happy with myself. Likely because I knew it irritated her so much - but also because I thought I looked pretty damned cute in my pigtails! And also, later on that day, I saw another mom wearing pigtails and I thought, "SEE!!! I'm a freakin' trend setter! - GO PIGTAIL MOMMAS GO!"
And as we sat in the truck in the a/c between one of many games, and I was people watching - like I frequently do - it hit me - there were A LOT of obese people there - not just I need to lose 50 pounds types - but I mean MORBIDLY obese. And I thought of how I'd been sitting in the stands for so many hours - eating sunflower seeds and Twizzlers and how that cheeseburger and fries for lunch was making me feel guilty because it was so NOT the right food choice - and watching these poor parents - who could barely navigate the giant parking lot. And how I'd seen someone I knew from back in the day and the poor thing was SO overweight he couldn't walk from the fields to the parking lot without sitting down on his bucket to take a rest. And I was sad for all of them. And sick to my stomach over it - because then I started noticing that many of these young girls were also headed in that direction. And the more I watched, the more saddened and sickened I became. Because I don't understand it. And with that - I changed into my tennis shoes, put on my iPod buds and told the hubby I was going for a walk. Yes. In the 90 degree blazing sun - I'm going for a walk. He was concerned I might get stolen (cuz there's evidently a huge market for 44 year old women in pigtails now days) - but I assured him I would stay within sight. So I did - I walked that parking lot for 20 minutes- jammin' to The Black Eyed Peas and sportin' my pig tails. And people stared - not necessarily on my first pass - but on the subsequent ones - like I was crazy. And I wanted to yell - IT'S CALLED WALKING! YOU SHOULD TRY IT TOO!!! But I didn't. Instead, their glares actually just encouraged me to keep at it. I was already dirty and sweaty and stinky from sitting in the stands shoving Twizzlers down like they were going out of style - so now I was a walking fool. And it felt GOOD. And I was proud of myself for getting off my ass and doing something good for me instead of eating that bag of Skittles.
People. You fussin' over your daughter's hair and shoes and clothes is not going to do them a damned lick of good if you are dead from an obesity related disease in 5 years. Nor will it do her any good when she ends up in the same place you are in 10 years. Please. For the love of GOD and everything holy - just put your forks down. And go for a walk. Just a short walk is fine. Tomorrow you can go a little further. Just please - stop with the insanity of eating yourselves to death. There. I'm off my band wagon. Thank you.
I have never fussed over my daughters. The brunette is a girlie athlete - likes to look pretty - but once she gets on the field - you better get the hell out of her way - because she will knock your ass down sliding into base. And she's tough and knows that there's no crying in softball unless you are really really injured. And I love the way she looks out there - knowing she spent an hour getting gussied up - doing her hair, her makeup - has on her sparklies and bows - and then just gets down to the game - completely unaware of her appearance because she knows that it doesn't matter - how she plays the game DOES. The blonde always wears some crazy assed outfit - typically torn up jeans and an over-sized t-shirt. And her hair is always a mess and sometimes I think she looks like "Nell" - and I call her that. Do I wish she'd be more concerned with it and wear clean clothes and pull her hair out of her face? Yes. But I know that soon she will be a teenager and I'll be yelling at her to stop fussing with her hair so we can get going. So for now - I take Nell with me every where I go. And her hair is in her face and in her mouth and it's a mussed up mess and her clothes are ill-fitting and inappropriate. But that's who she is. And I love her with all my heart. When she plays ball, she doesn't get gussied up - she follows more in the Prodigal Son's footsteps - she throws on a hat and calls it good. Hell her batting stance and routine are even the same as his. For now, he is her idol and that's who she emulates. I'm okay with that - because the bond between siblings is terribly important. I mean, afterall, I won't be here forever!
And then we lost in the main bracket. So we went to the loser's bracket to work our way back in. And we lost. And so we thought we were headed home, but then - we found out we got to go to the loser's loser's bracket and try again. And alas, we also lost that game. The girls were beat down - they won that tournament last year. They just had a horrible day yesterday and couldn't get their game on. I was happy to lose and come home because it meant that my Sunday was now free to get prepared for the next 7 days of t-ball; softball; and baseball games. This is the busiest time of the summer for us with ball and they evidently have to cram every damned game into a two week period of time. So for now - I'm happy to be home and that we lost in the loser's loser's bracket last night! I think I'll go for a walk! Maybe I'll go for TWO walks today! You try it too! You'll see just how much better you feel!
Anyway - we were at this tournament - and having never played softball myself, I don't understand many of these softball moms. So many are like pageant moms. Fussing over their daughter's clothes, hair, socks. It's weird. My daughter does her own hair (she's 15 - she's capable of that), puts on her own clothes and I just fetch her a water every now and then when she asks. If she gets hurt, I sit in the stands and if there are no tears - I never get up. It's a sport. You have to be tough, right? So she got a black eye from an outfield collision Friday night - I'm sorry sweetie - you're in the outfield - call the infielder down when you have the ball - don't just silently collide. I don't get worked up over much of it - it's a game. And if we lose we go home and if we win she gets another trophy. This doesn't affect MY life any except for if they lose, she is grouchy. But being 15, she's grouchy often so even that doesn't impact me much. I've learned to how to deal with it. And we don't really have any softball pageant moms on our team - thankfully - but I saw these women on other teams. Sporting shirts that announced whose mom they were. "Kaylie's Mom" So? I don't know Kaylie. I don't care that you're her mother. And the people that DO know Kaylie, know damned good and well you are her mother. It's like these women lose their own persona during these weekend tournaments. Or maybe they're always this way. I don't understand it. Did the women used to be softball players back in their day and now they are living vicariously through their daughters? It makes no sense to me. I don't even always wear the team colors or the team tshirt. I'm in the stands. What I wear really doesn't matter, nor do I give a shit.
But then it got REALLY hot, so I put my hair in pig tails. And the brunette was like, "OMG mother! NO!" No what? "PIGTAILS? SERIOUSLY?" Oh! I'm sorry - I must have skipped the chapter in "How to Grow Old and Act like a Mother" that outlined the fact I could not wear pigtails. Fuck that. I can wear pig tails if I want. So I did. And I was happy with myself. Likely because I knew it irritated her so much - but also because I thought I looked pretty damned cute in my pigtails! And also, later on that day, I saw another mom wearing pigtails and I thought, "SEE!!! I'm a freakin' trend setter! - GO PIGTAIL MOMMAS GO!"
And as we sat in the truck in the a/c between one of many games, and I was people watching - like I frequently do - it hit me - there were A LOT of obese people there - not just I need to lose 50 pounds types - but I mean MORBIDLY obese. And I thought of how I'd been sitting in the stands for so many hours - eating sunflower seeds and Twizzlers and how that cheeseburger and fries for lunch was making me feel guilty because it was so NOT the right food choice - and watching these poor parents - who could barely navigate the giant parking lot. And how I'd seen someone I knew from back in the day and the poor thing was SO overweight he couldn't walk from the fields to the parking lot without sitting down on his bucket to take a rest. And I was sad for all of them. And sick to my stomach over it - because then I started noticing that many of these young girls were also headed in that direction. And the more I watched, the more saddened and sickened I became. Because I don't understand it. And with that - I changed into my tennis shoes, put on my iPod buds and told the hubby I was going for a walk. Yes. In the 90 degree blazing sun - I'm going for a walk. He was concerned I might get stolen (cuz there's evidently a huge market for 44 year old women in pigtails now days) - but I assured him I would stay within sight. So I did - I walked that parking lot for 20 minutes- jammin' to The Black Eyed Peas and sportin' my pig tails. And people stared - not necessarily on my first pass - but on the subsequent ones - like I was crazy. And I wanted to yell - IT'S CALLED WALKING! YOU SHOULD TRY IT TOO!!! But I didn't. Instead, their glares actually just encouraged me to keep at it. I was already dirty and sweaty and stinky from sitting in the stands shoving Twizzlers down like they were going out of style - so now I was a walking fool. And it felt GOOD. And I was proud of myself for getting off my ass and doing something good for me instead of eating that bag of Skittles.
People. You fussin' over your daughter's hair and shoes and clothes is not going to do them a damned lick of good if you are dead from an obesity related disease in 5 years. Nor will it do her any good when she ends up in the same place you are in 10 years. Please. For the love of GOD and everything holy - just put your forks down. And go for a walk. Just a short walk is fine. Tomorrow you can go a little further. Just please - stop with the insanity of eating yourselves to death. There. I'm off my band wagon. Thank you.
I have never fussed over my daughters. The brunette is a girlie athlete - likes to look pretty - but once she gets on the field - you better get the hell out of her way - because she will knock your ass down sliding into base. And she's tough and knows that there's no crying in softball unless you are really really injured. And I love the way she looks out there - knowing she spent an hour getting gussied up - doing her hair, her makeup - has on her sparklies and bows - and then just gets down to the game - completely unaware of her appearance because she knows that it doesn't matter - how she plays the game DOES. The blonde always wears some crazy assed outfit - typically torn up jeans and an over-sized t-shirt. And her hair is always a mess and sometimes I think she looks like "Nell" - and I call her that. Do I wish she'd be more concerned with it and wear clean clothes and pull her hair out of her face? Yes. But I know that soon she will be a teenager and I'll be yelling at her to stop fussing with her hair so we can get going. So for now - I take Nell with me every where I go. And her hair is in her face and in her mouth and it's a mussed up mess and her clothes are ill-fitting and inappropriate. But that's who she is. And I love her with all my heart. When she plays ball, she doesn't get gussied up - she follows more in the Prodigal Son's footsteps - she throws on a hat and calls it good. Hell her batting stance and routine are even the same as his. For now, he is her idol and that's who she emulates. I'm okay with that - because the bond between siblings is terribly important. I mean, afterall, I won't be here forever!
And then we lost in the main bracket. So we went to the loser's bracket to work our way back in. And we lost. And so we thought we were headed home, but then - we found out we got to go to the loser's loser's bracket and try again. And alas, we also lost that game. The girls were beat down - they won that tournament last year. They just had a horrible day yesterday and couldn't get their game on. I was happy to lose and come home because it meant that my Sunday was now free to get prepared for the next 7 days of t-ball; softball; and baseball games. This is the busiest time of the summer for us with ball and they evidently have to cram every damned game into a two week period of time. So for now - I'm happy to be home and that we lost in the loser's loser's bracket last night! I think I'll go for a walk! Maybe I'll go for TWO walks today! You try it too! You'll see just how much better you feel!
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Lord Jesus Help Me
Last night I was responsible. I know. Weird, right? I have been feeling a little sub-par ever since the great July 4th party of 2010 and trying to catch up on sleep here and there and when I can. It hasn't been easy since we've had ball games to attend every night. But last night, we were home from ball by 8:15 so I decided to use that opportunity to take some allergy meds and call it a night.
The Prodigal Son has had a teammate staying here with us since Wednesday. I found out yesterday afternoon the poor thing hasn't eaten since he arrived that evening. I'm on strike - I waited on everyone hand and foot last weekend, so the poor thing arrived a week late to get any service out of me. I had to TELL the Prodigal Son to drive the poor boy to the closest grease bag so he could get something to eat. So he did. Then, about 9:30 last night, I find out that he's not only not fed this kid - he hasn't shown him where the towels or shower are. What.the.fuck. And that's exactly what I said to the son. WTF is wrong with you? His excuse for being a shitty fucking host - "He never asked" - oh FUCK THAT - you were raised better than that - the kid is being a polite guest and it's awkward for the guest to have to ASK for basic fucking amenities like, um, FOOD and BATHROOMS. Jesus. See. I knew my concerns yesterday morning about whether or not the son was ready to go out on his own - did he know everything he needs to know - were spot on. He's fucking clueless.
So back to bed I went. And then, at 12:30 a.m. I was awakened by a beeping sound and a spotlight. It was the husband. Sitting on the edge of the bed with his phone - texting. And not just any ol' texting - I'm talking texting on a non-smart phone each letter requires anywhere from 1-4 beeps texting on an old flip phone. Who the fuck are you texting???? Him: the kids - they are still awake. So I lay there a few more seconds while he fumbles with the texting and finally I hop out of bed - "Jesus Shit - you can walk your ass around the house and tell them to get to fucking bed in less time that it takes you to type the word 'you'". And with that, I stormed out of bed - stomped to the daughter's room - opened the door and informed her that her ass needed to be in bed (has a tournament Saturday) and then stomped down the stairs to find the prodigal son and his friends sitting in LAWN chairs in MY family room - playing Xbox - "get your asses to bed - it's 1 a.m. and you have to be up at 6 a.m." And then back up to bed I went. Fucking pissed. It's bad enough I have to do most of the household chores. Do ALL of the cooking. Make ALL of the menus, etc. But now I have to think for these people TOO?
But most of all I wanted to slap the shit out of the husband who is, evidently, just another child in this house. Be the adult. It's okay to be bossy with these kids - it really is. They expect it and sometimes the situation calls for it. They'll get over it.
So, on my day off - I have to get up at 6 a.m. and attempt to wake the prodigal son so he can be to his bus on time to leave for his ball tournament. Hey! It only took THREE attempts this morning! YAY! And I withheld from the urge to wake him up by banging pots and pans together. I didn't want his friend to think I was even more nutty than he likely already does - not feeding him or showing him where the shower is for 3 days. Now - I have 3 hours before I have to rouse the sleeping princasses for their ball tournament. Ain't nothing better than a 15 year old girl who is tired and cranky! LET THE FUN BEGIN!!! Happy Saturday everyone!
The Prodigal Son has had a teammate staying here with us since Wednesday. I found out yesterday afternoon the poor thing hasn't eaten since he arrived that evening. I'm on strike - I waited on everyone hand and foot last weekend, so the poor thing arrived a week late to get any service out of me. I had to TELL the Prodigal Son to drive the poor boy to the closest grease bag so he could get something to eat. So he did. Then, about 9:30 last night, I find out that he's not only not fed this kid - he hasn't shown him where the towels or shower are. What.the.fuck. And that's exactly what I said to the son. WTF is wrong with you? His excuse for being a shitty fucking host - "He never asked" - oh FUCK THAT - you were raised better than that - the kid is being a polite guest and it's awkward for the guest to have to ASK for basic fucking amenities like, um, FOOD and BATHROOMS. Jesus. See. I knew my concerns yesterday morning about whether or not the son was ready to go out on his own - did he know everything he needs to know - were spot on. He's fucking clueless.
So back to bed I went. And then, at 12:30 a.m. I was awakened by a beeping sound and a spotlight. It was the husband. Sitting on the edge of the bed with his phone - texting. And not just any ol' texting - I'm talking texting on a non-smart phone each letter requires anywhere from 1-4 beeps texting on an old flip phone. Who the fuck are you texting???? Him: the kids - they are still awake. So I lay there a few more seconds while he fumbles with the texting and finally I hop out of bed - "Jesus Shit - you can walk your ass around the house and tell them to get to fucking bed in less time that it takes you to type the word 'you'". And with that, I stormed out of bed - stomped to the daughter's room - opened the door and informed her that her ass needed to be in bed (has a tournament Saturday) and then stomped down the stairs to find the prodigal son and his friends sitting in LAWN chairs in MY family room - playing Xbox - "get your asses to bed - it's 1 a.m. and you have to be up at 6 a.m." And then back up to bed I went. Fucking pissed. It's bad enough I have to do most of the household chores. Do ALL of the cooking. Make ALL of the menus, etc. But now I have to think for these people TOO?
But most of all I wanted to slap the shit out of the husband who is, evidently, just another child in this house. Be the adult. It's okay to be bossy with these kids - it really is. They expect it and sometimes the situation calls for it. They'll get over it.
So, on my day off - I have to get up at 6 a.m. and attempt to wake the prodigal son so he can be to his bus on time to leave for his ball tournament. Hey! It only took THREE attempts this morning! YAY! And I withheld from the urge to wake him up by banging pots and pans together. I didn't want his friend to think I was even more nutty than he likely already does - not feeding him or showing him where the shower is for 3 days. Now - I have 3 hours before I have to rouse the sleeping princasses for their ball tournament. Ain't nothing better than a 15 year old girl who is tired and cranky! LET THE FUN BEGIN!!! Happy Saturday everyone!
Friday, July 9, 2010
July 9th
Eighteen years ago today was one of the happiest days of my life. It was the day I first met The Prodigal Son. For 9 months this little being inside of me had caused me pain, anxiety, joy, fear and also to gain 85 pounds. (That was HIS fault - NOT MINE). And then, after 3 horrendous days of labor - he was here - in my arms - all 5.5 pounds of him! My mom was pretty certain something was wrong with him the moment he was born because his head was the size of a tennis ball. Or so she said. But I took one look at him and fell in love and knew that in my eyes he would always be perfect. And our love for one another has been intense ever since. I'm pretty certain we are very much alike and hence the reason we often clash. Him - trying to be himself. Me - trying to mold him into what I think a son should be. And we've pushed and pulled and tugged and yanked and hugged and cried and laughed and at the end of the 18 year journey - we are here - me loving him more intensely than the day I met him. Him needing me but also needing to be his own person and me trying to let him go just far enough to get there, but close enough I can be here for him.
I remember the very first time he got an ouchie - and I cried - holy shit - his beautiful perfect skin is now marred - how could I have let this happen to him? He'll be scarred now. And then he got the chicken pox and I covered his little hands in mittens and bathed him constantly in oatmeal baths to help avoid horrible scarring. And then he got zits and I took him square away to the dermatologist to fix him up so he wouldn't be left with a faceful of scars. And now I learn - he's going to get a tattoo. All those years of me protecting his skin - lathering it in sunscreen, nagging him to do the same in my absence, putting lotion on it to keep it soft and nice - what was the point? I can't really decide if he's REALLY getting a tattoo - or if he's telling me that to get my goat. He seems committed to it - but his announcement didn't result in a rise out of me. I just said, "you're 18 - you'll do what you want and I can't stop you." So then he told his ultra-conservative father and all he said was, "I have one - I can't tell you not to do it." So today, he was talking about it again - and now he sounded like he is waffling on the decision. I personally do NOT care if he gets one. I don't. I just want him to be damned certain that is what he wants because it's not like getting your ears pierced - it's pretty much permanent. I don't want him regretting it down the road.
A few weeks ago he asked me if I would sign for the tattoo so he could get it before he turned 18. I told him I would NOT do that because when it's 20 years from now and he's pissed he has it, I didn't want him blaming it on me. He laughed and said, "Get real. Even if I wait until I'm 18 - I'm still going to find a way to blame you for this down the road." LMFAO! Ain't that the damned truth! No matter what we do as parents - somehow the kids will find a way to blame their mistakes on us.
We took the son to breakfast today - that was his big 18th birthday celebration. iHOP. Whoopie!!!! He was supposed to head out of town for a baseball tournament, but then it was put on rain delay for another day - and we're headed out of town for the brunette's softball tournament. So there we were - me, the husband, the blonde and the prodigal son. Eating our shitty food at iHOP - making small talk about college and plans and cars and insurance. And I thought: Wow. This is NOTHING like 18 years ago - when the room was full of relatives and friends and pizza and champagne! And as I recall - I got gifts that day - so far I haven't gotten a damned thing today. Don't I get something for the last 18 years of effort here? Evidently not.
So now he is an adult. I need to learn to shut my fucking mouth and let him explore the world on his own. Take chances. Make mistakes. And I have to learn to apply my unconditional love to him as he makes those mistakes and takes those chances and realize that he is living HIS life - NOT MINE. I think it will be difficult for both of us. But I am damned certain he knows without a shadow of a doubt that I love him and will always be here for him.
On my 18th birthday - I went bar hopping all day with friends and got free pitchers of beer at every bar. That's how it was back then. Today - he can register to vote. He can get married. He can enter into contracts (ie; get himself into a shitload of debt). He can fight in a war. He can buy tobacco products. He can win the lottery! But he cannot have a beer. Legally. It's total bullshit that I will never understand. So he hopped in his car - headed to the Kwiki Mart and bought a can of chew and a lottery ticket. They didn't card him. He was sorely disappointed. Something tells me he'll visit several Kwiki Marts this weekend - looking to get carded! I hope it works out for him. I really do!
And I hope he makes good decisions. And I hope he's happy along the way. And I hope all his dreams come true! God how I love that Prodigal Son!
I remember the very first time he got an ouchie - and I cried - holy shit - his beautiful perfect skin is now marred - how could I have let this happen to him? He'll be scarred now. And then he got the chicken pox and I covered his little hands in mittens and bathed him constantly in oatmeal baths to help avoid horrible scarring. And then he got zits and I took him square away to the dermatologist to fix him up so he wouldn't be left with a faceful of scars. And now I learn - he's going to get a tattoo. All those years of me protecting his skin - lathering it in sunscreen, nagging him to do the same in my absence, putting lotion on it to keep it soft and nice - what was the point? I can't really decide if he's REALLY getting a tattoo - or if he's telling me that to get my goat. He seems committed to it - but his announcement didn't result in a rise out of me. I just said, "you're 18 - you'll do what you want and I can't stop you." So then he told his ultra-conservative father and all he said was, "I have one - I can't tell you not to do it." So today, he was talking about it again - and now he sounded like he is waffling on the decision. I personally do NOT care if he gets one. I don't. I just want him to be damned certain that is what he wants because it's not like getting your ears pierced - it's pretty much permanent. I don't want him regretting it down the road.
A few weeks ago he asked me if I would sign for the tattoo so he could get it before he turned 18. I told him I would NOT do that because when it's 20 years from now and he's pissed he has it, I didn't want him blaming it on me. He laughed and said, "Get real. Even if I wait until I'm 18 - I'm still going to find a way to blame you for this down the road." LMFAO! Ain't that the damned truth! No matter what we do as parents - somehow the kids will find a way to blame their mistakes on us.
We took the son to breakfast today - that was his big 18th birthday celebration. iHOP. Whoopie!!!! He was supposed to head out of town for a baseball tournament, but then it was put on rain delay for another day - and we're headed out of town for the brunette's softball tournament. So there we were - me, the husband, the blonde and the prodigal son. Eating our shitty food at iHOP - making small talk about college and plans and cars and insurance. And I thought: Wow. This is NOTHING like 18 years ago - when the room was full of relatives and friends and pizza and champagne! And as I recall - I got gifts that day - so far I haven't gotten a damned thing today. Don't I get something for the last 18 years of effort here? Evidently not.
So now he is an adult. I need to learn to shut my fucking mouth and let him explore the world on his own. Take chances. Make mistakes. And I have to learn to apply my unconditional love to him as he makes those mistakes and takes those chances and realize that he is living HIS life - NOT MINE. I think it will be difficult for both of us. But I am damned certain he knows without a shadow of a doubt that I love him and will always be here for him.
On my 18th birthday - I went bar hopping all day with friends and got free pitchers of beer at every bar. That's how it was back then. Today - he can register to vote. He can get married. He can enter into contracts (ie; get himself into a shitload of debt). He can fight in a war. He can buy tobacco products. He can win the lottery! But he cannot have a beer. Legally. It's total bullshit that I will never understand. So he hopped in his car - headed to the Kwiki Mart and bought a can of chew and a lottery ticket. They didn't card him. He was sorely disappointed. Something tells me he'll visit several Kwiki Marts this weekend - looking to get carded! I hope it works out for him. I really do!
And I hope he makes good decisions. And I hope he's happy along the way. And I hope all his dreams come true! God how I love that Prodigal Son!
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Speechless
I was going to post something hysterically funny tonight - but the husband has taken it upon himself to put a rack of ribs on the grill - and HOUR before we need to be somewhere. I have to go save the family........ I'll post the funny shit tomorrow.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Wacky Wednesday and Other Inane Shit That Makes NO Sense
My cousin texted today - evidently she's got an elephant in her room that she wants to get together and discuss. I agreed to the conversation because, well, I like elephants and also because I adore her. I made a note to buy an extra bag of peanuts to have on hand when we get together with this elephant - maybe I can lure him out of her room with them. I'm a good problem solver like that.
As it turns out, the commenter a few weeks ago who suggested I was angry - is right. I am angry. It occurred to me tonight when I had an exchange wih the prodigal son regarding his other family. And in terms of exchange - I mean he told me he was doing something that involved a member of his other family. I said OK. Then I left to go to a softball game. But on the way there - it occurred to - I might have an anger issue as I was bothered by this exchange. I made a note to get that checked out - AFTER he leaves for college because it's possible the anger issue will go with him. Besides - I don't have time right now - I'll deal with it later and until then, I'll just get a punching bag and deal with it that way.
Evidently - the softball tournament for this weekend - the one I was pretty sure was here in town and wouldn't be much of an intrusion on my weekend - is in ANOTHER CITY. What.the.fuck. Why did I miss this fucking memo? I honestly kicked a rock and stamped my foot at the team meeting tonight. And after I did it, the entire team of 13-15 year olds looked at me and I was all, "What.the.fuck are you looking at? I don't want to go out of town for a damned tournament, do YOU?" And they're all like, "Yes." Oh. Well, then I'm outnumbered. And I glared at the coach who was holding the ONE LONE print out of the tournament in his grubby hand. Because evidently paper is a commodity and we are not smart enough to read anyway, so he just makes ONE copy and reads it TO us - spoon feeding us our weekend along the way. Fuck that. I am pretty smart - I bet I can find a copy of that damned tournament schedule on the world.wide.web (thank you Al Gore) and get my OWN damned copy so I can see for myself what is going on and when my life will be consumed with sitting in the blazing sun watching softball. We have games every night for the next 10 nights - which means we will be at the ball field until MIDNIGHT every night. I can hardly fucking wait. I can't even get WiFi out there. It's total bullshit.
The husband discovered that the "things" digging the holes in the yard are not mice, or snakes or rats or gophers or any other expected creature - they're CRAWFISH. Girl - this ain't Leeziani. It's Kansas. So he set out to fix them right up - Caddy Shack style and promptly blew up his pinkie finger. I haven't seen it - but it's all wrapped in about 540 feet of gauze and some duct tape. He should have been a doctor - he's got a knack for it. Anyway - thank you Hurrican Katrina - for fucking up yet another thing at my house. Appreciate it. Really. I do.
I'm STILL tired from this past weekend. And everytime I hear that alarm clock at 6 a.m. - I seriously want to smash it with a sledge hammer. I think if I could just sleep until 7 or even 7:30 I would be fine. Just DO NOT make me wake up to that horrible, wretched, blood curdling sound again. I can't take it. So on that note - I'm off to bed - because, well - tomorrow's another day friends!
As it turns out, the commenter a few weeks ago who suggested I was angry - is right. I am angry. It occurred to me tonight when I had an exchange wih the prodigal son regarding his other family. And in terms of exchange - I mean he told me he was doing something that involved a member of his other family. I said OK. Then I left to go to a softball game. But on the way there - it occurred to - I might have an anger issue as I was bothered by this exchange. I made a note to get that checked out - AFTER he leaves for college because it's possible the anger issue will go with him. Besides - I don't have time right now - I'll deal with it later and until then, I'll just get a punching bag and deal with it that way.
Evidently - the softball tournament for this weekend - the one I was pretty sure was here in town and wouldn't be much of an intrusion on my weekend - is in ANOTHER CITY. What.the.fuck. Why did I miss this fucking memo? I honestly kicked a rock and stamped my foot at the team meeting tonight. And after I did it, the entire team of 13-15 year olds looked at me and I was all, "What.the.fuck are you looking at? I don't want to go out of town for a damned tournament, do YOU?" And they're all like, "Yes." Oh. Well, then I'm outnumbered. And I glared at the coach who was holding the ONE LONE print out of the tournament in his grubby hand. Because evidently paper is a commodity and we are not smart enough to read anyway, so he just makes ONE copy and reads it TO us - spoon feeding us our weekend along the way. Fuck that. I am pretty smart - I bet I can find a copy of that damned tournament schedule on the world.wide.web (thank you Al Gore) and get my OWN damned copy so I can see for myself what is going on and when my life will be consumed with sitting in the blazing sun watching softball. We have games every night for the next 10 nights - which means we will be at the ball field until MIDNIGHT every night. I can hardly fucking wait. I can't even get WiFi out there. It's total bullshit.
The husband discovered that the "things" digging the holes in the yard are not mice, or snakes or rats or gophers or any other expected creature - they're CRAWFISH. Girl - this ain't Leeziani. It's Kansas. So he set out to fix them right up - Caddy Shack style and promptly blew up his pinkie finger. I haven't seen it - but it's all wrapped in about 540 feet of gauze and some duct tape. He should have been a doctor - he's got a knack for it. Anyway - thank you Hurrican Katrina - for fucking up yet another thing at my house. Appreciate it. Really. I do.
I'm STILL tired from this past weekend. And everytime I hear that alarm clock at 6 a.m. - I seriously want to smash it with a sledge hammer. I think if I could just sleep until 7 or even 7:30 I would be fine. Just DO NOT make me wake up to that horrible, wretched, blood curdling sound again. I can't take it. So on that note - I'm off to bed - because, well - tomorrow's another day friends!
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
If it sounds like a bad idea - it probably is....
Try to keep that in mind for the future please, kthanks. Here are all the things that I heard/did since I last posted that are bad ideas (and not all of these are things that I personally did - or heard for that matter - but if I heard them - believe me - they did NOT come out of my mouth). I'm not even going to tell you which ones are things that were DONE and which ones are things that were SAID - they're all bullshit and the main reason why I'm crazied out after the holiday weekend.
- Start cleaning at 8:30 a.m. on Friday - continue to clean and be on your feet until 3:00 a.m. Saturday.
- Drink while you do that cleaning - even though you know your house guests are arriving the next day and you will be hosting a dinner party.
- Drink more the following day when you are having said dinner party.
- Drink more the next day - start at noon!
- Drink until 4 a.m. the following day.
- Obama is a muslim.
- Obama is a [insert horrible racial slur here].
- The world is ending.
- Your relative's annual salary
- Children should be raised to fear their parents - it's the only way they will be able to make good decisions.
- Only eat 2 tacos in a 24 hour time period - fill up on booze instead
- Your relatives are pinching your ass and you are so drunk you don't even realize it
- Bring a chocolate cake to an indoor party with 10 kids - turn them loose in the house with it.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Too Wound UP to get shit done and don't really care if it ever does get done and I wonder how many words can be in the title slot of this blog anyway? I mean, this is shit they really need to make known - why don't they just tell me what the character limit is? And now I have to wonder if I can put my entire blog entry in the title line? What kind of asanine shit is this anyway? I'm bored already - moving on....
Okay - so WOW! Who knew you could put so much in the TITLE line? And yet, I still have no clue what the limit is. Maybe one day I'll work on it some more - but right now I don't feel like it. I'm so wound up from my day at work - which you can read about at http://www.icangetback.blogspot.com/ - but not here. AND I keep adding to the 4th of July list -- which I've now broken down into how much time each task will take. Which is contrary to the whole day I've had which has been focused on getting away from time - but I need to know - HOW MUCH TIME IS IT GOING TO TAKE ME TO GET THIS SHIT DONE. So I have that all figured out and best as I can calculate - I can start at 10 a.m. on Saturday and get it all done before the brothers arrive that afternoon. AND I've even marked some items as *optional*. Which gives me complete freedom and control over what I really have to accomplish. God damn I'm good at managing myself. And my time. And my accomplishments. Didn't get it done? No worries - it was all optional! Have a beer!
Which is what I did and which is likely why I cannot seem to actually MOVE on something and tackle it. "Clean Master Bedroom" - really? Are they really going to come in our bedroom? No. But I'd like to know that what's behind door #1 is not a total shithole dump - so I'm tricking myself into believing it's something elegant - and mysterious.
But seriously - I have to go shit done now - like add to the list of shit the husband needs to do. Please take note: Nowhere on his list of shit do the words, "talk on the phone" exist. Yet - I believe that is where he is. LOVES to talk on the phone. Never met a man that loves to talk on the phone as much as him. He should get himself a headset so he can talk and walk and work and talk and work. Maybe I'll get him one for his birthday - but then he'd just be one of those annoying fuckers who walks around with their headset on all day because they're just *that important*.
Better go - gotta go kick him in the ass and get him moving - that's on MY list of shit to do!!
Which is what I did and which is likely why I cannot seem to actually MOVE on something and tackle it. "Clean Master Bedroom" - really? Are they really going to come in our bedroom? No. But I'd like to know that what's behind door #1 is not a total shithole dump - so I'm tricking myself into believing it's something elegant - and mysterious.
But seriously - I have to go shit done now - like add to the list of shit the husband needs to do. Please take note: Nowhere on his list of shit do the words, "talk on the phone" exist. Yet - I believe that is where he is. LOVES to talk on the phone. Never met a man that loves to talk on the phone as much as him. He should get himself a headset so he can talk and walk and work and talk and work. Maybe I'll get him one for his birthday - but then he'd just be one of those annoying fuckers who walks around with their headset on all day because they're just *that important*.
Better go - gotta go kick him in the ass and get him moving - that's on MY list of shit to do!!
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