Friend this.

This place has gone from a complain about everything (but in a humorous way! With mirth!) to a "work through the issue around divorce because my therapist is too far away and I work too many hours to go anyway and also I'm off all my medications oh and PS I'm having wicked body issues and aside from THAT Mrs. Lincoln, how did you enjoy the play?" bit of Internet that I mostly forget exists. I know. I suck. I blame the hippies and their damn patchouli oil that stink up our office.

See? Hippies. (side note: these particular hippies, while colorful were actually not at all smelly)

As usual I'm fully off my train of thought here. Surprise, surprise. I guess not EVERYTHING changes.

Okay. The point. Facebook in all it's amusing sadism, thinks I need to be "friends" with my ex-husbands new girlfriend. I'm sure she's lovely. In fact, I bet she's perfectly nice and I probably WOULD like her, but hello? Awkward much? Yes. Today they recommended we "reconnect" for the ten thousandth time and I noticed that her profile picture is one of her and J together, posed all couple-y in front of a landmark.

In all the time we were married, in all our road trips snaps, in all the family vacation photo's there are maybe two or three pictures of J and me together. Okay, maybe four. He refused. Flat out, absolutely NO FUCKING WAY refused to ever be photographed on any of these trips. Not alone, not with M, not with me and really, really never all together in front of some commemorative scenery.

Thirteen years of snapshots of scenery and not a single damn human in any of them. I quit asking. Quit wanting to be able to show people those photo's that no one except your Gram ever wants to see anyway (and here we are in front of a shrub! and this is us with a highway guard rail!) because I got tired of hearing "no" over and over. Instead M and I would do long arms of ourselves or she'd pose and I'd shoot. It's like he was standing outside our lives the entire time. When I sorted through the (oh dear god, the number!) photographs from before we went digital do you know how many I found of us as a family? A dozen. Or less. He simply wasn't interested in standing beside me to mark some little event that years later you look back on fondly.

And yet, two months in, there he is with his new love. Standing in front of a scenery marker, arm around her. Saying "look! we went somewhere and it was fun and we enjoy each other's company!".

Why wasn't I worth that same? Why wasn't the fact that I wanted it enough? What did I finally manage to say with my leaving that I couldn't say with my begging?

Don't misinterpret. I'm not jealous or...whatever else is not jealous but implies that I have a problem with them going places and enjoying it enough to want to remember it. I'm so very much happier where I am. But I don't understand. I can't wrap my head around why I had to dismantle our lives to finally get him to acquiesce to the tiny things that would have maybe been the Dutch Boy's finger.

I can't help but think that I really wasn't enough. That I am not enough. It's a fucked up smack to the face to finally begin to feel worthy of the happiness you've scratched out to then be confronted with the evidence that you've finally won a battle you're not fighting anymore. Or maybe lost it. I'm not even sure anymore.

Upped

As more people in my "real" life run across this blog, I find that I censor myself more. Which sort of defeats the purpose I had for this blog to begin with. That makes me sad. I'm not, by nature, a confrontational person. I'm the one that ends the fights, not the one that starts it. To the point that I find that I don't stand up for myself when I should.

A week ago while I was in Seattle on vacation J called me and read me the riot act about having brought Shush up there with me. He didn't want M to get mixed messages about whether or not HE agreed with MY dating while the divorce was still pending. Okay. Fair enough. I think it's not a necessary concern since M is 15 and a pretty sharp kid, but okay. For almost 30 minutes he lectured me up one side and down the other about it. I stood up for myself far more than I normally do, but still, he dug in when he could with comments like "I guess it's your life and I don't have to agree with your choices anymore", and "I just don't want M around 'that kind of thing'". I was furious, I felt attacked, but he IS her other parent and does get to voice his opinion in what she is and is not exposed to. That said, Shush and I have been together since July, and have known each other for about a year. We live together, this isn't just a 'fling'.

AND THEN. Oh, yes, and then.

THEN, about two days later he tells me he's bringing a girl he's been dating for THREE WEEKS up there with him for Christmas. For the record, I'm GLAD he's dating. I'm glad that he's found a nice girl to hang out with and I'm glad that they like each other enough that they want to spend the holiday's together.

What I'm furious about is that he thought it was okay to try and make me feel terrible for having done the same thing. Seriously. Why is it okay for him ? Is it because *he's* the "wronged party" in this divorce? Because he's the one who got left, it's okay for him to move on? Is it because "everyone" (oh, yes, the ever present "everyone" gets a voice in this one too) is "worried" about him, that it's okay for him to bring a girl, but I, the one who "everyone" thinks "is making bad decisions" can't? Or is this some sort of score that needs to be settled? Some "Oh yeah? Well, *I* can move on too! See?". Either way, if he was even CONTEMPLATING taking her with him when he called me then yelling at me was not "being a concerned parent" it was being an asshole. And I thought we were past that. I thought that we'd agreed that we were going to do this differently. I know I've tried. But this? This is exactly why we had problems before.

Why can't I let this go? I didn't say anything to him about it, because, well, I have fought with him enough to last me a lifetime. It's seriously bothering me.

Martha Went Home

I am not a neat freak. (Shut up CK) I accept that. That said though, neither am I a slob. I like to call my homemaking style "benign neglect". We're not being buried in trash, but you can sometimes (most of the time) write your name in the dust on the television.

My husband? IS a slob. Like a serious Collyer Brothers style house keeping when he's in charge.

I know this. I mean, after all, we've been married for about a hundred years. In theory, he also knows that I get majorly stressed out when people are coming over and the house is a mess. More of a mess, I mean. Not the haha yesterday's mail is on the coffee table and there are dust bunnies under the china hutch! messy. Really messy. Messy like a sink full of dishes, the dining room table piled with school papers and dust bunnies forming a zombie-style Apocalypse in the hallway. Messy like the laundry is over flowing and the shower looks like a science experiment. Messy like the camera crew is going to show up with Neicy Nash at any moment. I cleaned the house Friday morning before I left for home, but still. It's a bit of a wreck.

So what does my husband tell me last night at 10pm? That one friend is coming over for help with his resume and another is bringing her car to have the A/C looked at.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

My unpacked suitcase is still on the bedroom floor. There are two baskets of unfolded laundry stacked on the desk and Jack has decided the dining room is a reasonable place to relieve himself and so the carpet needs shampooing and...and...and...STRESS

I think it's a girl thing. It's not so much that I notice if other women scrub their baseboards and dust their ceiling fans, it's that I think they'll notice if *I* DON'T.

Do you girls do this? Do you make yourself insane thinking that the minute your back is turned that someone is going to run a finger down the lampshade and then NEARLY DIE OF DUST POISONING and then they're going to sit down to a cup of coffee with another woman Nescafe commercial style and dish that you never vacuum under the sofa?

Why do we DO this to ourselves? It's not like other women don't realize that we're busy balancing a full time job with a full time home. It's not like we're not all trying to run circles around life and produce a Betty Crocker Dinner in a Martha Stewart home while looking like June Cleaver and staying as cool as dammit?

I get it. I get that you'd rather watch TiVo'd episodes of Chopped than organize the bookshelf, I understand that you spend seven hours a week driving kids to this game and that meeting the other practice.

Why don't we give ourselves a break? It's unreasonable to expect perfection. It's silly to believe that we can do it all and do it perfectly.

So here's what I think we ought to do.

Not go on strike, exactly, but rather go on...break. Let's all take a day or two or a whole week and just not give a shit if the Avon lady drops by and you haven't washed the windows. Let's sit on the couch this afternoon and finish that book that we started reading in July but haven't finished because the floor needs mopping instead of believing that we're bad mothers and terrible wives because you can't eat off the kitchen floor.

Wouldn't you be happier if you could look at the cobwebs in the corner of the garage and then shrug?

I would be.

I will be.

If y'all need me, I'll be over there googling maid services.

Soapbox

I try not to judge the way other people parent. Unless, you know, they're really REALLY bad at it. For the most part though, I think that people are doing the best that they can with what they've got to work with. I figure that, as a general rule, you're going to the do everything in your power to make sure that your kids get what they need to succeed. If that means sitting next to a child who whines until you're ready to smother them with a grocery bag until they manage to complete those three math problems then that's what you do. If it means that you threaten to take a snow shovel to their room because OH MY GOD THE MESS, then that's what you do. Hell, if you actually take that snow shovel and start shoveling their treasures into giant Hefty bags, well, then I guess next time they'll clean their damn room, won't they?

I am a big advocate of letting your child test the limits of their world. I think that kids are probably a hell of a lot more capable than we think they are and if we just let them TRY then we're going to be pretty amazed.

I am also not a "helicopter" parent. I let M ride the city bus alone. I let her navigate connecting flights at LAX solo. I let her experiment with cooking and I'm all for her listening to and reading whatever she wants.

For the most part, she takes these freedoms and runs with them. I can honestly say, with the exception of her EXTREME laziness at school work M is ready to navigate the world. She reads at a college level, she has no fear of new things, she's excited to see the world because she's never met a stranger.

I'd like to take credit for all of this, but lets be honest, a lot of this has to do with the schools she's attended.

Which brings me to my point (and here you thought I didn't have one!). Lea, who you'll recall is ten years old is home schooled. The reason I was given is that due to her severe speech impediment her mom felt it was "safer" to keep her at home. I can see her point, kids are pretty cruel at times and talking to Lea is an exercise in translation. She's very bright but is about as comprehensible as your average two year old. Her comprehension skills are amazing though, if you show her something once, she's got it. Home school, in this instance, isn't a bad choice. Speech therapy is available through a variety of resources so there's no reason she can't excel.

I'm kind of on the fence about home schooling. On one hand, I think it's great. It gives each child the opportunity to learn what they need to learn the way they need to learn it. Something that's lost in most school scenarios. On the other hand, it's hard for me to believe that any one person is capable of excelling at teaching every subject to the same standards as a teacher who specializes in a single area would be. Home schooling is also pretty labour intensive for the care giver who provides it. You're the everything. It's up to you to make sure this kid gets everything they need. It's got to be exhausting and I'll be the first one to raise my hand and say there is NO WAY IN HELL I could do it. Knowing that, I wouldn't even try. That's called being realistic, right?

As we sat in the car waiting for D to deal with the car repair place Lea and I fished through my car for us something to entertain ourselves with. I found a book that M had left in there probably some time in 2004. The reading level is listed right on the cover as 4th grade. A little young for Lea, who should be entering fifth grade, but anything to do is better than "eye spy" for the 500th round. I hand her the book.

"What does this say?" she asks, pointing at the cover.

I'm pretty used to M being as lazy as humanly possible and I'm a chief bud-nipper.

"Dude, you can SO read that" I tell her.

"No, I can't" she replies.

I'm still convinced she's screwing around and I tease her a little more and say something like "The elephant that stalks the clowns at midnight" or something equally silly. I fully expect her to call my bluff and say in that oh my god you are such an idiot voice that children use with adults "No, it doesn't".

But she doesn't.

"read it to me" I tell her

"I can't read!" she whines

"You can't read? Not even this right here?" I say pointing to the first sentence (it said "My name is Sam and I am a super hero, but don't tell anyone" if I recall correctly.)

"I know my letters though" she assures me.

Lea is completely illiterate.

She's ten years old and she can't read. At all.

"don't you read books for school?" I asked her, thinking maybe it was a learning disability.

"No, my mom says I don't have to" she tells me.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

But, still, I think that maybe there is something else going on. Kids exaggerate.

A few minutes later D gets back in the car.

"Can I spend the night at your house?" she asks me a few minutes later.

"Don't you have to do school tomorrow?" I reply

"(her mom) hasn't really been doing that with them. She's (meaning the mom) on the computer a lot" D tells me.

Seriously.

I am trying not to be all high horse I am SO a better mother than you about this, but how to do you let your child remain ignorant because you can't tear yourself away from the Internet? What is so important about WoW or Second Life or whatever the fuck you're doing that you can't take the time to make sure your children are getting educated? Is it really worth failing them to make that raid on the Horde? And if the internet IS that important, if you can't be bothered to teach them, why not just send them to school? Oh, right, because that means you can't stay up until four in the morning and sleep until two in the afternoon. That means that you will have to make sure they have clean clothes and lunch and aren't running around eating raw Top Ramen (I'm not even making that up) and wearing underwear that might, once, have been light pink and a bathing suit top that probably fit when they were six and is held together with a PAPERCLIP. That might mean that they would make friends who would wonder why you have the pulled out seats of a van instead of a couch in the living room because the couch is in the driveway and that might tell their own mother that there is GARBAGE IN THE BROKEN WASHING MACHINE IN YOUR KITCHEN. It might mean you had to think of someone other than yourself for five fucking minutes.

How do you look yourself in the face every day and know that you are the reason your kid is going to suffer for the rest of their life? How do you not do everything you can to ensure that they succeed to the best of their ability? How do you reconcile not even trying?

Ouiser says

Enough, already. I'm not even kidding here, chickens. I'm at my wits end. If I had wits and I think we can all agree that at times that's debatable.

I've been treated for clinical depression off and on for about fifteen years. I was diagnosed with a chemical imbalance related anxiety disorder last spring. And now? Panic attacks too? Seriously, WHAT THE FUCK?

If I didn't drink so much I'd probably be really screwed up.

Dear Abby

I don't usually do posts like this, because really, who wants to read a bunch of whining all the time? But there's only so much whining I can do to the people I see IRL before they're all "WILL YOU PLEASE JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP?" and then I'm all "GREAT, NOW I HAVE TO HATE YOU TOO!".

That's how we talk around here, in all capital letters.

So today I'm going to whine to you and if you don't want to read it then just come back later, okay?

I am so very, very tired of fighting with my husband. Seriously. There are only so many times that I can bite my tongue before it falls off and then how would I blow the gum bubbles that annoy my mother so much?

Through the years of being married me & J have never been one of those joined at the hip couples. Mostly because while I am willing to do things that I don't enjoy just because he enjoys them, he isn't willing to do the same and so most of my hobbies, trips, etc are done with friends while he stays home and acts like he's some kind of martyr for "allowing" me to do things.

When it comes to things around the house, it's all me, all the time. He claims that his "job" is to "protect us" and that counts as an equal amount of housework and since it's either do it myself or be buried in trash and dirty laundry while weeds grow up to cover the house, I do it myself. Well, not the yard work, that I hire out, because it's fucking HOT here and all the plants in my yard want to kill me.

Because I also work full time away from home, that means from about the time I get home until I go to bed, I'm doing something. Running errands, cooking, cleaning, whatever. Even when I'm watching TV at night chances are the dishwasher is running and I'm folding laundry. It's not fair, but it's better than arguing about it.

Recently though he's started to bitch that I never want to spend any time with him. If I'm in the bathroom cleaning toilets, it's because I'm avoiding him. If I'm cleaning out my closet, it's because I don't like him any more. If I run to the grocery to buy toilet paper, I'm abandoning him. I'm seriously at my wits end here. If I don't do these things, they don't get done, but if I DO do them, then I'm a bad wife? WTF? And if I ask HIM to do them? Well, lordy be, he makes $4 hour more than I do, so that means it's MY job because he's the "bread winner"? WTF again, I ask?

THEN on Sunday when we went to lunch with BabyMama and Smooth (and my wee little Gigibella) he tells them that I need "drugs to be able to stand being near (him)". First of all, yes, I do. Secondly, what if I didn't WANT the whole world to know that I am dependant on pharmaceutical intervention to keep from screaming? Of course, I retorted (and I swear to you that I did actually say this) that "if (he) wasn't such as asshole then I wouldn't need to, would I?" and BabyMama, God love her, replied that she was on the same thing I was and he shut up.

We're headed to Vegas for the weekend so that he can go to a bowling tournament and I absolutely DO NOT want to go. It's wrong, isn't it? Shouldn't I be excited? I LOVE Vegas. It's going to be 115* here and a bit less up there. And of course, only 70* inside the casino...LOL. But I feel so anxious at the thought of going that I'm doubling up on my meds to keep functioning.

I'm just at a loss here, Peeps. Any advice would be appreciated.

Ranties

One of the questions I get asked a lot is if I'm LOVING all the shopping I get to do as I shrink. And the answer?

NO. No, I am not.

It's not that I don't love shopping and it's not even that I don't love the fact that I can now buy pants in the Juniors department instead of the dark and spidery corner known as "Women's". It's not like I don't enjoy that the selection available to me now involves more than giant pastel tee shirts with screen printed kittens who sport clever sayings like "I don't DO mornings". It's not even like I don't enjoy that my ass no longer has it's own zip code.

It's more that OH MY GOD do you realize that you have to replace EVERYTHING you own when you lose this much weight? I have so far replaced jeans, of course, shirts a little less (baggy is a look, right?), shorts, obviously, but now I've had to start replacing things you wouldn't think of. Things like underwear.

I don't know about you guys, but I'm the kind of girl who's super picky about my drawers. I have..correction HAD...two or maybe three brands and styles of panties that I know will cover and stay put and not ride up or slide down, won't pinch or bind or give crazy panty lines or anything heinous like that. But OF COURSE those brands and that style? Do not come in the size I need. Which means I now have a drawer full of panties that creep up and down and twist side to side as their tent like proportions flap in the breeze until they are completely bunched up under my ass so that it looks like I've got a roll of paper towels under my butt cheeks. Of course, in addition to being unattractive it's also uncomfortable so I'd spend half the day digging at my ass like I've contracted Parishiltonitis about my lady bits.

Tres Secksi.

After weeks of this exercise in nonsense and armed with a Victoria's Secret coupon I decided to bite the bullet and buy new panties. Only you know what? The idea of trying on panties before you buy them is just....weird. Panties are meant to come three to a bag, all hermetically sealed and emblazoned with a logo featuring fruit and prepubescent girls with no hips and winning smiles. Frugality being both one of my virtues and also one of my vices, I couldn't pass up getting panties that usually retail for $18 at 5-for-$25. Also I figured "what the hell?" I might get laid more frequently if I wasn't wearing Bea Aurthur's Signature Line of Panties.

Standing before giant vats of panties, I began to sort through the bin labeled L/XL figuring that I might be able to find a few pairs that were not too grandma and not too hooker. As I pulled out one lime green thong after high cut see through lace after hipster Pink boy shorts after another I came to the sinking realization that VS thinks I need to spend my days looking like a transvestite stripper underneath my sensible ($1atgoodwillthankyouverymuch) Levi's and Old Navy perfect tee's. Seriously, there wasn't a single pair of panties in that pile that had more than 6 square inches of fabric. And my ass? FAR TOO LARGE for that kind of nonsense.

So I handed my coupon to the hipster in the neon jeans beside me and headed to Target.

Now, if you've never been fat you may not realize that when you ARE fat, you get like three options for panties. You can have the kind that go up to your navel, the kind that reach all the way up to your armpits or "boy shorts" which are neither boyish nor shorts like. However, if you're NOT fat?

Sweet Baby Jesus, the choices.

High cut, low cut, briefs, bikini, boy shorts, hipsters, ultra low hipster, hipster thongs, high cut thongs, string bikini's, string thongs, seamless, wicking, anti-bacterial (side note: GROSS), second skin, cotton, poly cotton, silk, lace, cotton and lace, lace and silk, "satin", embroidered, screen printed, embroidered with screen print in seamless cotton silk, baby seal skin, micro fiber....seriously who the hell needs that many fucking choices? I just want panties that cover my ass, don't give me camel toe, don't creep, don't slide, and don't give me swamp ass. I don't want neon pink sparkles that spell out "SASSY" and I don't care if they have a pocket for my...whatever the hell one puts in a pocket the size of a quarter...bus fare? Gum? Wet-naps? I don't need them to be "innovative" and I don't care if they're endorsed by Bruce Willis's big headed daughter.

And the sizing? Seriously? Corresponds to NOTHING. Why can't women's undies be like men's? No more random size "7" that really equals pants size "12" but only if that designer decided that a size 12 has hips 38-40 inches instead of the other designers who think your hips will be 40-44 or 32-90 or whatever the fuck they think women want to hear. Why can't they be size 36? As in, your hips are 36" plus or minus two inches, thank you come again? Especially, when after reading the packaging you determine that you wear size X because you fit into parameters Y&Z only to get home and discover either you have shrunk three inches around or they think you want your panties to be "blousey" because that is SUCH an attractive look?

Which is why, if I get into an accident the ER doctor is going to push me out into the hall with a note that says "DO NOT TREAT. DISOBEYED HER GRAM AND ISN'T WEARING ANY PANTIES AT ALL" where I will be mocked by all and sundry as I lay dying, commando, thanks to mass retailers refusal to provide me with some damn underwear that is made of cotton, is pleasantly fitted without being tight, doesn't climb up my ass and isn't covered with cartoon characters.

So consider yourself warned; if you DON'T eat that cheeseburger, large onion rings and milk shake for lunch you're going to die. You're welcome.

Repost: Hotness

(because it's too fucking hot to write something new and clever here is something old and clever. Or at least long.)

It's 107* here right this minute (which, incidentally is 6:33pm).

For those of you not familiar with Fahrenheit temperature measurements, that's roughly ten degrees hotter than the face of the sun.

Currently, I am sweating and that's really all I have the energy for. I have coated my entire body in a paste of sun screen and Anti Monkey Butt Powder and am lying on a bag of ice chips in a bathtub full of ice water while drinking an Icee.

Earlier, I think I saw Moses parting the sea of children in an attempt to cut in the Ice Cream man line. He bought a cherry snow cone. I didn't see Jesus however, which is odd, since this is North Mexico and all residents are required to be named either Jesus or Juan. Unless you are a girl, then you may be called Juanita, which translates to "That Juan Girl".

Mexicans are the opposites of Eskimos. While Eskimos are well known for having three hundred and eleven words for snow, Mexican's (a very succinct group) have one word for heat and that is Caliente. Caliente can be literally translated to "Someone Turn on the Gosh Danged A/C this minute!!"

Here in the Southwest, we have many ways to deal with the heat. One of them is to take off as many pieces of clothing as possible and lie in front of a fan. This is best done in ones own home. I know this because apparently Wal-Mart has some silly rule that says you can't stand in the fan aisle in nothing but what your mama gave you. You think that they would have POSTED that somewhere! How was I to know?

Another tip is to go find some place cool to sit. Again, apparently you are not supposed to do this in public places like fountains, golf course lakes and the walk in beer cooler at Quick Trip. Really. I didn't know that either until my Quick Trip boyfriend Kevin (I see him every morning. The way he combs his three hairs makes me moist…or that could just be swamp ass*, but either way) told me that it was "NOT okay to lie on the cases of Bud Light" and "No one believes that (you) are a temperature control specialist with a specialization in beer coolers" and "Freezoni machines are NOT toys". I'm thinking of breaking up with him, he's just too judgmental. And he wears too much bling. I hate boys that are shinier than me.

(Kevin)

The best tip I have for you today is "underpants are just extra pants". This is key. See, if you are wearing pants and drawers, you have two layers of fabric covering your ass. This makes for extra hotness. This can be avoided by a) wearing no panties or b) wearing no pants. Clearly, the only option is B) wearing no pants. You wouldn't want to be wearing no panties, just in case you're in an accident. And it's just too Paris Hilton for nice girls, if you know what I mean.

(true story, this is not my ass)

If you MUST swath your nether regions in some sort of outwear (rookies!) you should opt for something like a terry cloth sarong. This look can easily be accomplished by even the most novice of fashionista! Simply take a large rectangle of terry cloth, wrap around your waist and tie two corners together at the waist. Voila! Terry cloth sarongs can be found in the bath aisle (I have no idea why they have skirts in with the wash rags, but whatever) of your favorite retailer. They come in a variety of sizes from "guest" ( guest is a euphemism for whore) to "sheet" as in "Sheet, this sure is a HUGE sarong!" and almost any color. I just got one yesterday that has Dale Earnhart Jr's signature on it! I didn't know he was in to fashion design. I bet it's because he's so much prettier then that Kasey Kahne girl, she is NOT HOT at all, but she is a good driver. Although, what's so hard about left turns, I have no idea.

Any who, it's time to go make Popsicle salad and Ice Cream Sandwiches for dinner, so I've got to motor.Stay cool, Peeps, stay FROSTY.

What? It's totally got lettuce on it! That makes it GOOD FOR YOU. Judgers.

*Swamp ass is the hot, damp feeling you get in your nether regions when it's really, really hot. Most likely to occur during/after a ride in a non-air conditioned vehicle or after sitting on anything made of vinyl, plastic, leather, metal, wood, Naugahyde, leatherette, suede, stone or wool. To simulate the experience, pour about a 1/4 cup of warm water down you butt crack.

Right or Wrong?

Husband and I had a...let's call it a disagreement...about this and I'm still annoyed, because OBVIOUSLY I am correct and he's an ass. But I'll let y'all weigh in, just in case I'm off my tree here.

It happens.

Scene:

BabyMama is in the kitchen making dinner. Smooth is upstairs playing video games. BigSister is sitting on the couch and baby Gigi is in her Bumbo chair on the coffee table about a foot away from BigSister (she's ten)

Situation:

Gigi has figured out how to make her arms and legs work and wiggles free of her Bumbo (first time she's ever done so) and topples off the table. BigSister sees her escape (at her own admission) and makes no move to catch her (also, her own admission) and when Gigi is lying on the floor screaming her head off, rather than picking her up says, filled with wonder 'Sissy fell' as BabyMama sprints the 10 feet to the couch, climbs over it and snatches baby up.

Result:

Gigi is fine, but BabyMama is annoyed with BigSister for being a foot away and not only not preventing her from falling, but also doing nothing once she's fallen.

Conflict:

I'm ALL on BabyMama's side here. At ten, you should be old enough and responsible enough that when asked specifically to do something (keep an eye on the baby, in this case) that you should be capable of doing so. She wasn't left alone with the baby and was close enough that doing ANYTHING could have prevented the fall.

HSB says it's BabyMama's fault. Why? Because he's fucking crazy, that's why. Yes, she's the adult, but let's be realistic here, she left baby in a (presumed) safe place with an older child to watch her while she was FRYING FOOD ten feet away.

I say she was reasonable to do so, he says she's neglectful.

What say you?

(PS. No, Gigi isn't allowed to sit on the table anymore)

Bad Whitey

OMG, y'all. I am going to Color Blind-We shall overcome-One Love hell. Which is different from Mormon hell, Mom hell, wife hell and all of the other deservedly hot after worlds no doubt holding a place for me.

M has two best friends. They are both named Casey*. One Casey is of Hispanic/Caucasian descent and the other is African American. Because the kids are all out of school M and I have some version of the following conversation about once a day

M:Cn I go 2 Csy hse?

Me: Did you do your chores?

M: uh, letz say yes

Me: Then you can.

Me: Wait. Which Casey?

M: Casey Goodman

Me: Is that Black Casey or Mexican Casey?

SEE? See what I did just there? I broke every rule we ever learned at those yearly diversity assemblies where there were skits about how we are all the same on the inside.

But on the other hand, what the hell else am I supposed to do? Call one brunette Casey? Because they're both brunettes. Or maybe Skinny Casey? Because let's be honest, that makes the other one Fat Casey and that's really not any better. Also unacceptable is Smart Casey and Pretty Casey, because they are both great students and pretty girls.

So what am I supposed to do?

Help me out here, peeps. Is it really that bad to call one Black Casey and the other Mexican Casey? I mean, it's not like they don't KNOW they are either black or Mexican. And it's not like I mean it in a disparaging way, more like I would say "Red Haired Casey" or "Boy Casey" were one a ginger kid and the other a man.

Assuage my middle class suburban white guilt here!

*they are not really named Casey.

Ouiser Says

If you call someone and say "I have to tell you something and you can't tell ANYONE" it better be something like "I ate 14 hershey bars today" NOT something like "Hey, you know X? Well, she's a polygamist and her sister-wife is having a baby in three weeks and they're also all swingers!" becauset THAT kind of news NEEDS to be shared.

Toilet Paper Baron

Recently I've read several books about the demise of modern society. The first, The Road by Cormac McCarthy is probably the most famous of the two and we've discussed it here already, so the one I want to talk about today is





In this novel, modern American Society has collapsed as a result of an unpopular, un-winnable war, a bad economy and a series of bombings in major cities. The characters of the book are attempting to just stay alive in the returned-to-dark-ages landscape of upstate New York. There is no more electricity, telephones or law enforcement and the government is all but absent from their daily lives. Thugs and religious groups fight for territory and one pandemic after another sweeps the nation unchecked by medicine.


Let me tell you chickens, I don't want to be all "The SKY IS FALLING" but more than The Road, this version of the potential future seems all to scarily possible. What IF the world economy collapsed? What IF the oil producing nations all decided to hate us at the same time? What IF we were no longer able to run to Wal-Mart for a gallon of milk? How many of today's society would be able to return to a self sufficient way of life?


Could it get to this point, even? Aren't there meant to be stop-safes in our society that would prevent this sort of socio-economic melt down? If so, what are they?


We sit in our subdivisional houses watching digital cable thinking "oh, those poor African-bush people!" confident that this National Geographic life will never actually touch our own with no real assurances that it won't. It could, you know. A civil war with Mexico or dirty bombs in the major cities, a pandemic like the Plague, a discord with our oil suppliers and then what?


I don't know about your cupboards, but my collection of Slim-Fast shakes and half-stale Ritz crackers probably wouldn't help me ride out any sort of long term disaster. I better start hoarding Toilet Paper, too. That stuff will be worth it's weight in GOLD.

But Do You Get Dental With That?

Honestly, I think I should take a break from blogging. My malaise is just too stultifying. But just when I think I'm going to pack it in, to leave y'all a love note to say I'll be gone for a while and to keep the home fires burning, I have a conversation like this;

Me: Did you write your career day paper?

M: Yeah

Me: Well what did you say you're going to be?

M: A Vampire Pirate Ninja

Me: Of course, silly me.

Little Words

If I tell you every day, two, three, four times, that you are my heart, that you make me feel safe, that I would spend every minute of every day of forever with you, that I love you, does it make you feel trapped? Do three words become your prison or do they set you free?

If I never told you that the smell of your neck is like a drug, that your smile makes my heart skip a beat or that every time I hear your voice I smile, would you forget that I love you?

I wish you knew that each day that passes with out I love you I drift a bit farther down the stream of happily ever after headed to the ocean of what used to be. Your silence speaks louder than you know.

Does I love you get stronger or weaker each time it's said? I wish I knew, because the answer may be the only thing that brings us back to us.

Ouiser comes to visit

- Yesterday, I saw a bum riding a bicycle with a 35 gallon trash can strapped to his back and a bag from each handlebar with 2 boxes each of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. I thought about running him down and stealing his doughnuts, but then I figured they were probably stale anyway, so I didn't.

- It's bulk garbage week in our neighborhood. That's where you can put out anything non-hazardous and the city will take it. I put out the dogs cracked wading pool, some yard waste and some old modular shelves. Yesterday, when I came home, someone had taken half my trash and spread the rest over my driveway. Seriously. If you're going to steal my trash, at LEAST have the manners to pile it back up!

- I figured I'd cheer myself up a little by playing ball with my dogs. So I locate a newish yellow tennis ball from under the hedge and toss it to into the yard. The dogs go running willy-nilly, or you know, as willy-nilly as a dog with the shape of a walrus can run, and come tearing back hell bent for leather and one drops the ball and my feet. And then pees on it. And my feet. Which were bare.

- I spent all day cleaning on Sunday. Mopped, vacuumed, dusted, cleared away about 200 magazines and catalogues and junk mail. Then I straightened the shelves, organized the hall closet and washed 6 loads of laundry. This morning, after my family spent ONE DAY in the house? It looks like a hurricane went through there. WTF, People? Is it THAT FRICKEN HARD to take your glass to the kitchen and your bag to your room? Are you fundamentally incapable of understanding the concept of "if you got it out, put it back?" It's not rocket surgery. It's called good manners. A concept that clearly eludes them.

- So I thought, you know what? I'll make lemon bars. Who can be cranky when faced with lemon bars? Surely, I will return to my mostly-cheerful self? Oh, goody! I think, I have just enough eggs. Then, just as I'm cracking the last one, the doorbell rings, the dogs bark and I do this.


Yeah, I cracked the egg and poured it into the carton instead of the bowl. Lovely.

- Undaunted I go to find my husband. My (alledged) source of strength and comfort. "Give me some kisses" I demand "I'm having a bad day" and you know what he says? "No, you make me sick." Now, he was probably referring to the fact we're passing around some kind of illness, but damn. OUCH.

- But I soldiered on. I watch some TV, I fold the last of the laundry, I go to bed. This morning, I get up, mostly restored to my usual even temper and good humor and ten minutes ago, M calls. Only, it's her ass calling me, because I overhear an entire conversation about what a "stupid bitch" I am. This after I loaned her a pair of shoes and gave her an extra $5 for after school.

- And to top it all off, a very dear friend has taken to blowing me off. When we do talk, things are just...not right. I'm at a loss as to what has happened, what has changed and they're not saying either.

So that, kids, is what's the matter. A whole lot of things that on their own are not that big of a deal. Kind of funny even in some cases. But added together, it's a lot. Too much. And so I am just...off, I guess. Not myself. I promise, with the proper application of whiskey my good humor will return. Probably. What the heck, it's 8am. I might as well start now...

Worst. Christmas Gift. EVER.

Normally, I don't talk about my work here, on line, where I could potentially be Dooced for it, but it bears explaining. And by "explaining" I mean "ranting about". I'm okay with doing it here simply because I've already said basically the same things (though likely with fewer swear words then you're about to read) to my boss.

Some of you know that I am an accountant. I work for a small finger of a very large company. My finger manufactures custom vehicles. An industry that is not surprisingly being adversely effected by the current economy. As a result we've had to lay off a substantial number of employees, we've cut our hours and we've got a few departments soliciting outside work to supplement cash flow. It's simply not bringing home the bacon.

Yesterday, my boss announced that we would be closing for the next two weeks and no one would be getting paid for it.

What the fuck? It's a week before Christmas and he gives twenty people three days notice that they're losing a half month's pay? That's pretty fucked up.

Yes, I get that we're in a pretty dire economic state, I do the books, believe me, I've been freaking out for months now. And if we're being honest, I was expecting hours to be cut further. I was expecting notice though. I would have expected the boss to have been the one to break the news. I would have expected to have answers to things like "will the doors even reopen?" and "what about my health insurance deductions?" and "how the fuck am I supposed to pay my mortgage?". But I have answers to none of those things and despite my tiny black heart, I feel like an absolute asshole telling someone I know is living paycheck to paycheck that they should trust me, things will be okay.

So I'm not. I'm telling them to get their resumes' out there. I'm telling them to hedge their bets. I'm telling them Merry Fucking Christmas, love The Boss.

Imitation Mondays; Less tasty than imitation vanilla

Morning Chickens!

I thought I posted yesterday, but I guess I didn't. I was going to post this;

Dear Internet,

When I look at my nose cross eyed, it looks really hairy. Would you please look at your nose and tell me if it's hairy too, because if not, I'm going to start freaking out.

Love,

A. Nonnie Mouse.

But today I have bigger problems. I think my jaw is out of alignment. Which, I didn't think you could do but Google says that you can and my stupid husband says is a result of talking too much. I think I can safely say that's not the cause as *I* rarely utter a peep. Right? Hush, you.

What Google DOESN'T tell me is what to do about it. Because as much as I would really super love to go and get the hook up with some tasty medical intervention, the fact of the matter is I have actual work to do today. I know, I know, but one day I week I figure I should do at least an hour or so worth of work. You know, because someone has to do it and as usual, I'm the only one in the office. Which kind of blows, but then again right now, I'm eating yogurt and blogging, so it's not like I can complain. Mostly because there is no one here to complain to.

I even flipped the phone to nights so that I wouldn't have to talk, but of course everyone that calls some how manages to figure out my extension and it's ringing to me anyway. And if there is one thing I can not stand, and who am I kidding, there are like nine million things that make me beyond fucking nuts, but if I had to pick one right now, I'd say that I HATE the sound of a ringing phone. I also hate the sound of dripping water, incessant sporadic ticking, people chewing, fingernail tapping, dogs licking themselves, children having tantrums while their parents ignore them, whining children, Fran Drescher, and nose blowing.

Did I mention that I'm cranky as a result of said painful jaw misalignment? Hm. Well, I'm sure you'll figure it out yourself. You're clever like that.

You're Welcome.

Do y'all feel like I've been phoning it in a bit? Yeah, me too. Here's the thing though, this blogging? IT'S WORK.

Saying that kind of makes me feel all Vanna White. Remember that time she interviewed about how HARD it was to smile all the time? And how turning those letters meant SO MUCH to people and that's why she pushed through the pain? Like that. Only with out the sparkly dress. And more typo's.

Basically, my life? Not that interesting. I'm an accountant, people. And I sincerely doubt you guys want to hear about how WICKED awesome it was that I finished my quarter reports in 8 days. Or about how totally hilar it was when I discovered that I'd accidentally changed the year to 2009 and had to re-run 78 checks! OMG. Aren't you just, like, rolling on the floor clutching your sides? Did you know you can make your adding maching type "8008" and it looks like "BOOB"? And then, if you hit repeat, it will type BOOB forever? Scintillating, right?

Which means that I have come up with things to tell you. And you know what? My kid? ALSO not interesting. Likewise, dogs & husband. Pretty much everyone in my life is actively thwarting my attempts to amuse you by doing only normal, reasonable things.

In fact, the only vaguely interesting thing that I have to tell you is that my mother in law, having recently discovered Facebook, is now able to read all of the wall post from my friends that make it look like I'm having virtual torrid, Canadian, pseudo-lesbian love fest, on a pig farm, wearing flannel and keeping tasty young men captive for my own amusement. Where later on, I will make them braid my leg hair and feed me hazelnut gelato from a chocolate spoon.

And that my poop looks like chicken fries from Burger King.

Fame, Fortune and Porn

After making an astounding $0.10 through advertising on my blog, I’m positively drunk with the thought that I have made actual, real, legal tender with my sparkling wit and hilarious anecdotes.

This means that I’m only about $49,999.90 cents away from making a reasonable living at blogging. So while I’m embracing my dimes worth of love, Kiki can’t live on $0.0003 per day. This leaves me only two options; I need to either produce better quality work or I need more advertisers.

I think we ALL know which of those are more likely to happen.

That’s how I wound up on Amazon.com, which pays you in either Amazon gift certificates or real money. But first you have to set up your Amazon.com associates profile. It’s not too difficult, you just fill in the bits and pieces with your information and I’m going along fine, because I’m a trained professional, people, I can spell my name with out even LOOKING at my driver license.

Just before they cough up the html coding for my side bar ads, they asked me possibly the hardest question I’ve ever encountered.

“Describe your web site in 200 characters”

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

First off, having to describe this MASTERPIECE of literary genius is hard enough, but what kind of ads do you think;

Foul mouthed, semi-alcoholic neglectful mom who’d rather shop than cook and is allergic to cleaning so thusly enslaves her teenager for the purpose of generating bloggable events for her poorly punctuated website.

Would generate for me? I bet whatever it is, it would be porn though. Possibly midget porn. Which *would* be kind of awesome. But if, GOD FORBID they posted ads for books like “The Queen of Clean” I would NEVER, EVER forgive myself.

Which is why instead I put; I use the F word to blog about stuff.

Hopefully I get porn ads anyway.

Eating Worms

Lorrie stressed me out today. She sent me an email that commanded me to be funny. But, chickens, I am no trained chimp! This hilarity takes MINUTES of careful planning in which I consume Butterfinger bites and check myself for chin hairs. It’s a science.

So, I did the only thing I could do. I texted my friend Frank and said “Do something humorous that I can blog”. Wouldn’t you know that he, too, is not a trained chimp? What the hell? AND THEN he had the nerve to ask why I wasn’t doing work?! So I’m all; DUDE. I am getting FREE BLOG PIMPING today and I have no inspiration. NONE. Nothing funny happened yesterday. Nothing funny happened this morning. No one of dubious character hit on me this morning and that weird guy with the “lifted” ten speed is no where to be found. I am desperate here. This blog could be my launching pad to Oprah! And you know what that ass said to me?

Frank: If excuses were the equivalent of the 100 yard dash you would be Carl Lewis!!!!!
me: Ah, you're sweet.
Frank: I know, like a pickle
me: ew. I HATE sweet pickles!
Frank: Really
me: yep. They're an affront to the pickle species.
Frank: Ok then
I am sweet like a sweet tart?
me: I DO like those.
you may be a sweet tart.

AND EVEN THAT IS NOT FUNNY.

You know what that means? That means all my comments are going to say “YOU SUCK” and I’m going to get all depressed and stop combing my hair (which looks real cute today - see?)

Just kidding. Although, that would be fabulous. I should wear my hair like that to work. Now this

Just looks boring. GREAT. ONE MORE THING TO STRESS ABOUT. I'm not funny and my cute hair isn't cute.)

I will have to resort to doing ACTUAL work and by the time I get home I’ll be all exhausted (and will not get any damn sleep because of these two)

Which means will NEVER launch my career as a gift bag gift picker, I will never get interviewed on the local news by someone with a lisp and mall bangs, I will NEVER be witty and charming and attract the attention of a vacationing TV producer who will NEVER want me to talk about my successful Gift Bagging/Blogging life on a somewhat nationally syndicated evening infotainment program which will NEVER get seen by a Harpo producer and I will NEVER EVER get to meet Oprah.

SO THANKS A LOT FOR KILLING MY DREAMS LORRIE.

GOD.