I'm Clearly Ill...

If you came here looking for your daily laugh - you might want to just move on  - to another blog.  One that's funny.  Because it won't be found here  - not today. 

Today I met my mom for coffee.  We stayed at the coffee shop for 2.5 hours.  Talking.  Like two adult women.  Admiring each other and the words that rolled off our tongues.  Equals.  (and she gave me a Satin Hands set - which was very much needed!)

Today I talked to my dad on the phone.  About artichokes.  And his upcoming birthday. 

Today I drove the brunette to her first "job".  And released her to the care of someone, who 3 years ago, I did not even know existed. Someone that has, in time, grown to be my sister.  Even the blonde says "you two are sisters." 

Today I missed the prodigal son.  And I prayed he was okay and would make wise decisions.  And when my dad asked me about buying the prodigal son something, I respectfully replied with, "that's between the two of you - he is an adult now - I am not going to determine what his needs are." 

Today I made dinner for my husband and the blonde.  And we enjoyed that dinner - just the three of us.  Talking.  And the blonde asked me to tell her stories about when I was a little girl, her age.  And I told her that I remembered everything about the house in which we lived when I was her age.  And she eagerly asked me to tell her all about it.  And I did.  (she was seemingly unimpressed, by the way).  But I am still breath-taken by that time in my life. 

The times when everyone got along.  Laughter filled our home.  Friends were abundant.  My parents were filled with youth, and hope, and friendship.....

And it occurred to me - today - I could NOT be happier with the decisions we have made regarding our life.  Where we live.  The friends we have made.  The journey we are on.  The memories we are making.  The home we have created. 

It's not a full moon. And I don't think I have PMS.  So I'm not sure why I'm so reflective today.  But I am.  I am not regretful of the past, but instead happy about where the path has led me.  To this place. The place where the blonde serves as frisbee dog to the husband and I isolate myself in the house to write this post.  Okay wait - that's fucked up.  I'll put that on my list of shit to work on. 

But I do remember the day we drove back into my home town - to take possession of our house.  And it hit me - total sadness.  Here I am.  Back.  To the shit hole town in which I was raised.  Never in a million years did I dream I would be back - owning a home here - raising my family here.  And NEVER in a million years did I dream I would meet the beautiful people I have met and kindle friendships like those I've come to have in such a short time. 

I am blessed.  And I am happy.

UPDATE:  Just listening to The Talking Heads and the song "And She Was" came on.  The husband gets teary eyed (because it's a sappy song, right) and says to me, "This song reminds me of you."  Ummm - WHY?  "Because - 'the world was moving and she was right there with it...'"  Funny.  To hear how other people perceive you.  But I'm flattered.  And I'm again blessed.  I wonder if he's the only person that sees me this way?  I don't see myself that way.  "right there with it" - I see myself as running to keep pace.  Fighting the demons that plague me.  Swallowing the guilt of a past that threatens to ruin me on a daily basis.  Maybe I should just listen to the husband and be "right there with it."

Still in the running.... for Mother of the Year!

I survived Homecoming last week.  If you recall, I was putting my foot down against bullshit plans that involved 10+ girls, their parents, their dates and their dates' parents.  I won that battle and in the end it worked out just fine because the brunette's date had to clean up the football stadium after the game anyway and therefore couldn't retrieve her until after 10:00.  Yes.  That's what I said.  He had to clean up the football stadium. 

See, our high school puts that task out there to extra-curricular and athletic groups as a fund raising opportunity.  And I have NOTHING against that at all.  What I do NOT understand is WHY the sponsors make those groups tackle that chore ON Homecoming night.  The game ran late (10:00 I think), then they had to clean the shit up, then change into their good clothes and THEN pick up dates and THEN try to get to the dance before lockdown.  So they were at the dance for what?  And hour?  Maybe 1/2 hour?  The brunette went through this shit last year  on Homecoming.  So I sent a lovely letter to the cheerleading sponsor regarding the entire ordeal.  It's stupid.  Those stands can be cleaned up the next morning.  As a parent who spends money on dresses and things FOR dances - I'm less than appreciative of the fact that they don't get to wear them or stay at the dance for very long.  When I did some prying, I found out it's the wrestling coach I need to go after this year.  And I intend to do so.  Dumbass.

Anyway - I'm pretty sure I'm going to get mother-of-the-year afterall!  Because even though I told the brunette, "no" to her Homecoming plans, yesterday she asked me if she could sleep in a box on the football field this coming weekend and quickly replied with an affirmative answer.  YES!  Get ready at your friend's house and take pictures?  NO.  Sleep in a box on the football field?  YES.  You may.  What all do you need?  Tell me all about it!  It's part of some class or something - to teach them to be homeless what it's like to be homeless.  She handed me some information from school on the event and as I was reading through it - it really sounded like a lot of fun!  They're going to build box mansions and decorate them.  Then they'll have a contest to see who can put ont the most layers of clothing and still walk.  And also, wait for it.....  dumpster diving!  Oh!  And a scavenger hunt - for food hidden around the stadium.  They're so smart! It will be JUST LIKE BEING HOMELESS!!! 

Because being homeless and living in a box is just that much fucking fun!  Every minute is like a game - a contest to see who can have the biggest box, and wear the most clothes and dumpsters are only filled with wadded up newspaper.  And sometime during the evening, a guest speaker will arrive - once one is found.  What.The.Fuck.  Are they going to just walk the streets and find a homeless person that night and bring them over to speak to the kids?  What the hell does that even mean?  Once one is found.  I'd like to know when the shopping cart races are going to be held, personally. 

In the end though, all the money and canned goods they collect will be donated, so it's all for a good cause.  But I really think they're just glorifying and in some ways mocking the whole homeless issue.  Why not put them on a bus and just cruise the streets of our town at 10:00 at night?  Drive down by the river.  Let them see for themselves how these people have to live.  A real dose of reality. 

Oh well.  What do I care?  I'll be busy admiring my trophy because I said YES to the plans!

I'm FAMOUS!

Or something like that.  Almost.  Sort of!  Well, in a way. 

You see, I submitted one of my past blog entries to Mushroom Printing & it was published!!!  You can find it here:

http://www.mushroomprinting.com/author/givethewomanherxanaxnow

I posted under a different name so as to not be able to be tracked back to here - although I don't exactly remember the reason why.  Likely fearful that the editors of Mushroom Printing would trace me back to here, read all my horrendous entries and determine I was unworthy of being published on their amazing blog! 

Although now I see that there is a comment and the commenter said she was laughing - but NOT because it was funny.  Fuck her.  It was too funny.  At the time.  When I wrote it back in March.  It was hysterical.  But now, maybe not so much.

Dances with Wolves

YO!  I'm here!  Sorry to leave you hanging again.  I seem to go in spurts with the posts.  My apologies.  I get side tracked.  By life.  And as I'm actually living my life, rather than blogging about it, I see funny things along the way and think, "I'm going to blog about that!"  and then I contrive a story in my head and it's funny as hell and I know y'all will be entertained.  And then life keeps going and I keep getting in the midst of it all (life and living) and when I find the time to actually sit and write, I forget all the stories I was going to tell you.  None of it seems that entertaining anymore. 

This week has been filled with drama.  It's homecoming week.  The brunette actually has a male date for the dance.  Her first.  (male date that I'm aware of, not dance).  I'm familiar with the bloke as he's been here before and I've seen him at other people's houses.  He's a nice kid.  Race car driver.  I try to make that into a positive thing - ya know - he knows how to handle a car at 114 mph, surely he can transport my daughter safely around at 40 mph.  And he's been driving since he was 2.  And now he's 16 (or maybe 17) - so he's got tons of driving experience.  Right?  (Just nod your head so I'll feel better please and thank you.)

Well, some smart ass 15 year old gets the brilliant idea to have 10 girls out to her house to get ready for the dance.  And then ALL of the boys can retrieve their dates from that house and ALL of the parents can come out there to take pictures.  HUH?  No.  The boy can retrieve you from YOUR house. That's the way it works.  And besides that, it's asinine to have that many girls getting ready at one house.  I don't give a shit how huge the house is.  And I should likely call the mother and cuss her out.  Well, because I like to win battles and knew I was going to lose this one due to the fact that I was the only person on my side, I quickly rallied my troup and called for back up.  Fortunately my troup was feeling the same way I was so we devised a different plan for our two girls.  A compromise, if you will.  And we delivered it - amazed at our brilliance and touting our leniency and flexibility... and.....

we got tears.  door slamming.  book throwing.  hateful tones.  But we got on our cell phones and texted until our fingers bled and our eyes went crossed and gave each other strength and in the end - we had stood our ground and the forces of two became greater than the forces of 10 and we won.  It's homecoming.  It's their sophomore year.  It's not freakin' prom (which by the way has the pomp and circumstance which is 12 times greater than all my weddings combined).  I'm not driving around for 2 hours to get a damned picture of the brunette on her way to a dance that will last all of 90 minutes if that.  I paid $100 for the dress and accessories (they don't yet wear shoes to these dances or that bill would be higher yet), I want a picture of her in it.  Without having to clamor over 30 other parents to get it.  Without having to park in the back 40 and walk 5 miles to get it.  And I want to be able to give that boy "the look" without him being distracted by 10 other pretty girls in short dresses while I give it. 

That's all I want.  The brunette accused me of making a big deal out of it.  Seriously?  I'm not the one who wants to travel the earth and back with 10 friends to put on some make-up and a pretty dress and go to a dance.  She told me the whole point was to get ready together.  Really?  I thought the whole point was to go to the damned dance.  That's why I forked over the money for a dress.  If I'd known the whole point  was to play dress up with friends all night, I'd have just offered to have a slumber party, purchased 180 pizza rolls at Sams and been done with it.  Who knew. 

In my day we didn't travel in packs (at least I didn't).  If we had a date for a dance, we got ready at our respective homes and our dates retrieved us.  Our parents took the one obligatory picture in front of the fire place and we left to meet our friends.  I don't even think my parents knew who my friends were and they certainly never met any of the other parents. (oh and we NEVER wore pretty short dresses to Homecoming - we wore WOOL SUITS).

I don't necessarily agree with the olden day approach, and prefer that my kids allow me to be involved in their lives and even feel special when they want me to meet their friends' parents and socialize with them.  It's like a message of "hey!  you're pretty cool!  meet the fockers!"  But there are just some times when I don't feel all the extravagance is necessary and they're getting ahead of themselves.  This was one of those times.  And I will forever be hated for it....  Until the brunette has a 15 year old daughter of her own- and then she will likely question my judgment for even letting her GO to this dance with a boy.  And I will become that mother - the one who didn't even give a shit enough to know that it was a bad idea to begin with.

Stalkers Crash My Party

Saturday we celebrated the blonde's 8th birthday. The prodigal son blew into town and blessed us with his presence. For all of about a total of one and half hours. The blonde called bullshit on his visit and proclaimed her irritation with him and that he really wasn't here for her at all but instead was out running around with his friends. She's mature beyond her years in that regard. We took her to play putt putt - but she didn't want to play just any old putt putt - she wanted to play Goony Golf. So off we went, to the Goony Golf place -where we were greeted with about 1,000 or more Latinos. Which was fine - I don't mind Latinos - I really don't. But clearly there was some type of private Latino party going on - big tents off to the side, a band, raffle drawings underway, etc. And 700 non-English speaking Latino children - all of whom had been given a ball and a putter and left to their own to run free on the Goony Golf course.


The whole "I want to play at the place with the animals and obstacles" really took on a new meaning that day. Just as one of us would get ready to putt our ball, up would run a little child and putt it for us. Just as we would walk down to the hole to see how shitty great our initial putt was, up would run another child and steal our ball. If we were eyeballing the course's intended obstacle and getting the timing down on the pendulum, the next time we glanced up - a child would be swinging from the clock instead. Pretty soon our patience was running out and we had no choice to start taking control and barking out orders at these children - "It's NOT your turn - it's OUR turn - you get to the end of the line" and the husband would stand back and say, "You're AFTER ME". And the little defiant children would just stand there - sad. And then run up and hit one of our balls and then run on to terrorize some other family in the place.

The blonde was horrified. And I was pissed. I think I might write a letter to the owner of the place. Clearly it was a huge private party - which was fine - but they really ought not to have also had the place open to the public. Greedy fuckers.

We then retired to the comforts of our own home and set out to have dinner and the blonde was having her BFF over for the night- Litte Miss "Can I Have". But then, all of a sudden, the party was totally crashed by a group of my fans - stalkers:

Yep. There they are - my fans. I couldn't get them to sit still long enough to take their actual picture - so instead I had to put my crazy awesome Doodlebuddy skills to work to draw this portrait of them. And they're all "We brought you a present." And I thought they meant it was a present for the blonde since it was her birthday - but when I looked at it and saw it was a bottle of booze, I was all What.the.fuck. The blonde is only 7 still - she can't drink this booze. So I had to drink it. Another let down for the blonde on her birthday. Not only did her beloved brother totally skip out on her - her mom drank her present.

3 of the 4 sat nicely in the chairs we provided them in the garage, but they had been out drinking all afternoon and clearly those 3 had been taking advantage of the other and serving her god knows what because she was totally fucked up and was all "look at me!" - And when I looked over, I'm like What.The.Fuck:

You cannot do fucking majorette tricks in my garage on the blonde's birthday. And why the fuck did you bring all those Latinos over here? That's bullshit. I don't care if you do have the boots for the gig - sit your ass down and stop doing tricks. So she did and just kind of stood there in her chair the rest of the night looking like this:

But with blonde hair. And a cigarette in her hand. Oh and just as quickly after the stormed the place and totally took over my show, they decided to leave to go to iHop for some pancakes. Because nothing sounds better than a giant stack of fucking pancakes and syrup after you've been drinking for 8 hours. Fuck that. I made them some nachos instead and insisted they just eat (because you see - I'm the fucking hostess with the mostess) - but one kept crying for pancakes so I grabbed a stack out of the freezer, warmed them up and served them to her. But she didn't really want the pancakes afterall because she had her face planted in the bowl of nacho cheese and was lapping it up like rabid dog.

So the plate of pancakes really became more of a game of hot potato. Who would eat the pancakes? And around they went - from one stalker to the next - finally one started eating them but then the other yells out "you can't eat that - you're allergic to sugar. Do you have any benadryl on hand?" Seriously? Just what I need is a stalker with anaphylaxis laying on my garage floor. Hold on - I keep an epi pen right here in this drawer JUST FOR OCCASIONS like this. I kept begging her to just put the fucking pancakes down - my feelings would NOT be hurt if they weren't eaten - seriously. It wasn't that big of a deal. It was like 2 rubbery pancakes that I'd zapped in the microwave for 2 minutes. Not a big deal. Crazy assed stalker-fans. Willing to risk their lives to spare my feelings. I felt honored. Yet somewhat like a dumbass that I'd even served her that plate of death. Somehow she survived though - so I'm guessing that her "allergy to sugar and alcohol" was likely some contrived bullshit story she put together at some time when it served to benefit her to feign illness.

We somehow managed to talk shit on everyone and everything - even each other. In front of each other. It was very cathartic. And once we all felt amply cleansed, the wild ass loaded back into their car and leaving their booze behind in my fridge, they took off down the road. Just like that. Gone. Leaving me to just sit there and wonder what.the.fuck had just happened. I bet this is the kind of shit that drove Britney Spears to her insanity. All this fame from writing this blog - it makes people hunt you down and seek you out and clearly at first you feel all special and glamorous from the attention - and then one day - you just fucking snap. I suddenly had an urge to shave my head, but then found the inner strength to resist and instead just called it a night. I'm pretty sure the blonde will forever be scarred by the memories of her 8th birthday. Which is good - because it will help her heal from those she got from her 6th &; 7th birthdays.

P.S. I totally had a blast and loved seeing my fans!

P.P.S. - I totally accidentally posted this entry on my OTHER blog - you know -the nice one.  I can only imagine the look on the face of the 3 followers of that blog when they read this.  Oh wait - y'all are one in the same. 

I'll Pick Your Friends from Now on Sweetie - Trust Me

So the other night I came home from a stressful afternoon at work the mall, only to discover the husband had allowed the blonde to invite the Branch Davidians over to play.  It's odd, them being Branch Davidians and also being allowed to leave the comforts of their compound home and come to ours to play - but they must be a new age of Davidians that allows such things or something.  But I know they are because the first time they came over to play, one of them hunted me down outside to grill me about my wicked ways. 

I was standing on the side of the garage, casually smoking a cigarette, out of their sight.  Or so I thought.  And then - that's when it happened - AMBUSHED by the youngest. 

"Why did you just put fire in your mouth?" 

HUH?

"Fire.  Why do you put fire in your mouth?"

It was clear to me at that moment they were Branch Davidians incognito.  I mean fuck.  What 5 year old isn't familiar with smoking?  The blonde has been lighting my cigarettes for me since she was 2.  Had she really never seen anyone smoke and does she really think I'm putting fire in my mouth?  Clearly I'm not - I'm inhaling deathly poison into my lungs - but it has nothing to do with putting fire in my mouth.  I had no choice but to enlighten the poor little thing and fill her in on the truths of life.  "Well sweetie, We're in the circus - I'm a flame thrower and I'm currently practicing - now please - back up out of the way - you're in the path of the midget being shot of a cannon."

She ran off, back into the house - completely mortified. 

The next time I had the pleasure of seeing the Branch Davidians, the husband had invited them along to a softball game.  Only they had no interest in the game and instead wanted to whine and beg for shit.  Odd behavior for the Davidians, I admit.  But clearly this is how Davidians behave when released from their compound allowed to travel with non-Davidians.  And then I lost one of them.  Gone.  In a flash.  Fucking Davidians.  Always have been a pain in my ass.  Remember when the fuckers locked themselves down and allowed themselves to be gassed by the government in 1993.  Genius.  So I had no choice but to go look for her, I didn't want her mother calling in their moronic leader and gassing me.  Finally I found her.  On a different ball diamond.  Sitting on the bench, looking very melancholy.  I can't stand a melancholy 7 year old, so I did what any caring, motherly type would do. 

I turned to the blonde and said, "What.the.fuck. is wrong with her?"  The blonde informed me that the older Davidian was sad because she used to play T-ball and now didn't and she was just sitting on the bench - thinking back on her T-ball days.  Oh fuck me.  She's fucking 7 years old.  Are you fucking kidding me?  So again, keeping in the spirit of mother-of-the-year as always, I turned to the blonde and said, "I don't have time for her shit - you tell her to get her ass off that bench and get back to our field STAT and furthermore - tell her there is going to be a lot more shit in her life that she mourns for and eventually she'll forget about her one fucking season at T-ball."  I rock at motherhood - and nurturing children.  I should totally write a book to help others who aren't as fortunate in these natural talents.

So you can only image my delight at finding them in my house after returning from the seventh depth of hell mall the other night.  I got out of the car and found the husband standing in the garage chugging down a pounder of beer and looking very frazzled.  Because I not only am a nurturing mother, but also wife, I obviously showed him the sympathy he deserved.  "Really?  You're the one that invited the fucking freaks over here - not me.  When are they leaving?  In about 3 minutes?"  Nope - he had agreed to let them stay until 7 p.m.  FUCK.  That meant dinner and me acting like I gave a shit about their needs.  So I trudged into the house - and was met by a fucking band of wild banshees - screaming and whooping and hollering - and swilling back soda pop.  I receded back to the garage  - "WHAT.THE.FUCK.  YOU LET THE DAVIDIANS DRINK SODA?  JESUS H. CHRIST MAN - WHAT.THE.FUCK ARE YOU THINKING?"

They were like those goddammed Gremlins that got fed after midnight.  They were crazy asses - jumping on my furniture, screaming and doing cartwheels around my house.  Clearly we had to quickly reverse this unforgiveable error made by the husband.  So we quickly threw together some boxed orange food and chicken lips stuffed in casings, threw some fruit on the plate for good measure and brought them to the table to eat.  Well this one likes ketchup AND mustard and this one likes her hot dog plain and this one doesn't like blueberries and that one is allergic to blueberries.  And Shut.The.Fuck.Up and just EAT.  And so they did and all of a sudden - it was like eating with a group of wildebeast.  The lip smacking that proceeded throughout the meal was overwhelming.  The husband was laughing so hard at one point that he damned near choked.  I kicked him hard under the table and he stopped the outbursting - but continued to laugh to himself and had tears running down his face.  The brunette almost threw up and I could tell she was taken aback and totally grossed out because she ate her food quickly and dismissed herself from the room - which is very unusual for her.  I was with the brunette.  I just had to get the fuck out of the room. 

At 7:00 sharp, I looked at the husband and announced - "7:00 - better load up your friends and get their asses home before they come looking for us - and please - try NOT to practice your circus tricks in front of them - it confuses them."

We asked the blonde recently who she wanted to have over for her upcoming birthday - she started to say the name of one of the Davidians - uhhhh- HELL NO.  How about that one cute little thing who's parents we were drinking beer with the other night?  She seems fun!  Let's have her over!  She's easily convinced - so no Davidians will be at the birthday celebration - THANK GOD.

Hi! My name is Dipshit and....

I'm an addict.  That's right.  An ADDICT. 

There.  I said it.  Now I believe I can get on the road to recovery.

I'm not a drug addict (although I do find comfort in a Xanax here and there).  Instead, I'm addicted to all things that divert my attention away from my family responsibilities.  Oh.  I get on the road to recovery now and again.  About once a week, actually.  Then immediately, I'm derailed.  By work.  Or blog reading.  Or recipe browsing.  Or texting.  Or staring at the wall. 

I'm especially fascinated with creeping on other people.  Through Facebook.  Through their blogs.  Through other people.  I once spent an entire DAY - ENTIRE DAY - look at Facebook photos of people I do not even friggin' know.  Seriously.  I don't lie people.  It's sick.  It's sick and it's wrong.  It serves absolutely no purpose.  And during that time, the blonde must have asked me the same question 12 times and each time I would respond, "What's that baby?" 

It happened again last night - there I was browsing recipes.  And she asked a question. 

--Little child's voice in the background---

Me:  What's that baby?

--Little child's voice in the background--

Me:  Do what now honey?

--Little child's voice in the background--

Me:  Goofy nonresponsive giggle

You get the picture - this went on for AT LEAST 10 minutes.  Finally, she yelled:  "MOMMA!  I'm talking to you - LISTEN TO ME!" 

I responded in my typical mother-of-the-year manner, "WHAT IS IT CHILD?  I'M SO BUSY!"  (read: sitting on my ass staring at this computer screen, creeping on other people and their recipes)

"I SAID, can I borrow a blanket and hang it up and make a tent and play under it?"

Negatory - it's bedtime now child.  You should have asked momma that question earlier.