This Life On Loan

I have been thinking a lot about people, in general. Where we come from, what makes us who we are, how we change as time goes on. My theory has always been that we are on some kind of universal loan, like a library of souls. Each body God creates gets a specifically chosen soul from the big Soul Room, where he tucks it right into the new body and sends it on down to some unsuspecting uterus. We all have a due date. Sometimes we may be returned early or late, but we all have to go back at some point. That's how the Universe rolls.

Maybe my theory only exists because I like library analogies. Or maybe I'm right.

Whatever the case, we got here somehow so we might as well make the best of it. It is with this in mind (and the assistance of a new medication specifically created to fight OCD) that I have been trying to do just that-- make the best of it, I mean. Which is why I felt the need to create a short list of RANDOM SHIT THAT MAKES ME HAPPY, REGARDLESS OF WHETHER IT IS GOING TO LOCK IN MY STATUS AS BEING HELL-BOUND SOMEDAY, UPSET MY MOTHER, OR INCREASE THE CHANCES THAT MY CHILDREN WILL SOMEDAY NEED THERAPY MORE THAN THEY NEED A COLLEGE EDUCATION. Here we go.

1. Religious Freedom~ I gave up swearing for Lent. Why? Because you are supposed to give up something you enjoy (I think), and we all know that I'm sure as hell not going to give up drinking or cooking meth in the garage (I'm KIDDING, geez). For two whole days I did not swear. Okay, maybe I swore a little accidentally, which would then lead to me swearing again out of anger because I realized I had swore the first time, which really only aggravated the situation, but the point is I basically gave up swearing on purpose. It was complicated. It took effort. And then I realized, hey, wait a second. I'M NOT FUCKING CATHOLIC. And I don't even know if non-Catholics give up shit for Lent because I'M NOT EVEN A NON-CATHOLIC. I'm more like a non-anything. So if I'm a non-anything, WHY IN THE EVER-LOVING HELL DID I GIVE UP SWEARING? Jesus still loves me if I swear-- they tell you that in church. So, frankly, there's NO FUCKING POINT IN QUITTING. So I quit quitting swearing. (And I decided that Catholics are ridiculous, but that is kind of a side note.)

2. Celebrating Our History~ Black History month is dumb. Now, I'm not saying that I'm anti-black people. I love DP. I love Betty. I love Jenelle and Ejita. I do not love black people that I do not know, nor do I love some that I DO know. However, I do not love white people I do not know, nor many that I DO know, either, so it's pretty much all the same in my head. However, I think Black History month is ridiculous. Do we have White History Month? No. Hispanic History month? No. Native American History Month (which I would truthfully call Indian History Month anyway, because I am not politically correct, plus, if we're going to have a history month in America, shouldn't it REALLY be Native American/Indian History Month anyway, since they were here first? Yes. Yes, it should.)? No. Black History month is racist, because it singles out black people, which is sort of the definition of racist. However, this year Black History month did bring me some entertainment in the form of the following conversation:

Sutton: (large sigh, very frustrated) "Mommy, I have a problem at school."
Me: (likely drunk) "Oh, yeah? Are you still forgetting to zip your jeans after bathroom break? One day when your Yoda falls out during center time you're going to be really embarrassed."
Sutton: "Maybe. But that's not my problem. I need a new brown crayon."
Me: (still drunk, barely listening) "Crayons. Check. Mommy will get you new crayons."
Sutton: (urgently) "No, I don't need new CRAYONS. I need a NEW BROWN CRAYON."
Me: "Brown? Who only uses up all their brown? You don't even LIKE brown."
Sutton: "No, but we've had to color so many Martin Luther Kings this month that ALL MY BROWN IS GONE."

I had to laugh. A lot.

Sutton still doesn't understand why Black people call themselves black when they are really brown. I don't blame him. So not only is Black History month racist, it's also incorrectly named.

3. Drunken Drama~ I always sneak alcohol into the theater whenever I have to take my kids to a movie. It's really a necessity-- with the exception of the original KUNG FU PANDA and DESPICABLE ME, I despise kid movies. I do not appreciate the animation or insipid humor, nor do I appreciate a story with a sweet moral. Therefore, the only way I can sit through an hour and a half of kid-friendly theatrical antics is with a good buzz. Which means I was HORRIFIED last Friday to find that I had FORGOTTEN MY VODKA WHEN WE WENT TO SEE THE LORAX. We had just bought tickets to an afternoon matinee and gotten ourselves seated when I realized that my airplane bottles of vodka were not safely tucked into my handbag as they were intended, but rather still on the kitchen counter at home. I began madly digging through my bag, looking for something, ANYTHING-- a stray hydrocodone, a mini bottle of rum that had been rolling around in the bottom for a while, a razor blade with which to slit my wrists and end my suffering--but there was NOTHING. I had water, but that was it. THAT WAS IT. So I sat. Through the previews, through THE LORAX, through it all. I'm pretty sure I dozed off at one point. I know I wept a bit, in agony. It was painful. But eventually I made it through, made it home, made it cocktail hour. Longest hour and thirty-three minutes of my life. On the ride home I asked the kids, "Did you enjoy the movie." Bellamy's response: "Yeah, it was really good. I can't believe you didn't have any vodka with you though. You always have vodka. Maybe you should have borrowed some from somebody else." My kids think bringing liquor to the theater is the norm. Awesome. I'm teaching them right.

I could probably add to this list forever. There are loads of things in this world that make me happy, though most of them do revolve around my husband, my kids, and my wine rack. The point is, take this little life on loan and find what makes you happy. Squeeze a little joy out of your day. Go out and make the best of it.

Hasta La Vista, Baby

Approximately five minutes ago, I deactivated my Facebook account.

I've been thinking about doing this for a while, because my life was, frankly, much simpler before Facebook (and email and cell phones and children and adult responsibilities) came along. At this point, I mostly used it to advertise the blog and to keep in relative touch with friends. However, I realized tonight that I don't actually care if anybody reads my fucking blog, and I don't actually care if I keep in touch with any of my "friends"-- and this was AFTER I had deleted 400 of them. Cynical? Perhaps. But I've got more important shit going on.

Like celebrating the one-year anniversary of being friend dumped by the Carpenter (drinks on me on 3/11!), or sucking up the layers of goddamn dog hair left in my house from having Earl-the-hundred-pound-hound visit for a week. Or not being able to have lunch with a dear friend I haven't seen in two years because it would be too rough on another friend.

It's been one of those weeks.

Sometimes I Realize How Awesome I Am

I think it's pretty obvious to everyone that my kids are totally fucked up. And it's my fault.

I mean, of COURSE it's MY fault. Blaker gets some of the blame since he parents pretty much exactly the same way I do, but since he goes off to work approximately 172 hours a week and I'm the main caregiver in the family, I feel that I should get the main kudos for their crazy. And they are, in fact, crazy as all hell. If you read my blog, you should be well aware of that by now.

Take, for instance, my daughter.

Bellamy is a very special child. That is my very nice way of saying that she's fucked up beyond imagination, which is pretty impressive since she's all of eight-and-a-half. The problem started when B and I accidentally procreated in the first damn place-- I'm a damn genius, he's smarter than I am (albeit much less creative)-- OF COURSE WE WERE GOING TO CREATE A CREATIVE GENIUS WHO USES HER POWERS FOR EVIL. OF COURSE WE WERE. THERE WAS NO OTHER GODDAMN OPTION. And that's exactly what Bellamy is: an evil genius.

Now let me explain what I mean when I say "Evil Genius." Bellamy is smart as a whip. She's also slack as all hell. She's one of the sweetest little people I've ever met, but she's also one of the most manipulative. She looks like an angel, and she can make you believe anything when she smiles and lets her eyes tear up a little. I would not want to compete against her on "Survivor," because she would lie to me about an alliance, while forming an alliance with my enemies, while making an alliance only with herself, then win some immunities, flirt with some boy so he would forage for all her meals, which she would then stockpile before voting his ass off and taking over the island. She would most likely then have Jeff Probst killed and take his job, all while smiling and looking super cute and fashionable. She's dangerous like that. B and I have learned to watch her carefully, because you NEVER know what the hell is going on in that little brain of hers. YOU NEVER FUCKING KNOW SO WATCH YOUR GODDAMN BACK.

This is what I like most about her. Crazy+manipulative+unstable=AWESOME (and entertaining)

A story:

Last Sunday morning, we were your typical Normal Rockwell family. B and I were sitting on the sofa drinking coffee, wearing our pajamas, talking about how Sundays suck ass and how happy we'd be if we could just give the kids away to the fucking gypsies and move to Fiji, where he would open a surf shop and I could finally devote myself full-time to my plans for world domination. The dogs were lazing around in our laps. Sutt was pretending that Storm Troopers were invading Hogwart's Castle and Harry Potter was "shooting spells to kill them." (I love how that kid can mix shit up, yo.) Bellamy was playing with her Barbies. Seems innocent enough, no?

A few minutes later, Sutt became very angry. Apparently, one of Bellamy's Barbies had stormed Hogwart's, killed Harry Potter, and taken out the Storm Troopers, all in one fell swoop.

Let's talk about this Barbie.

Barbie was wearing a blue and purple cheerleading uniform-- skirt and shell top. Instead of sneakers, however, she had on thigh high black boots (taken from Witch Barbie-- whom, when I asked Bellamy where SHE was, I was told had been "thrown away, after I took off her super cool boots"). In one Barbie hand, was a tiny plastic hairdryer. In the other Barbie hand, was a tiny pink plastic cup. Hmmmmm.

The following dialogue is as close to verbatim as I can remember, which is pretty damn close, because, as I have already told you, I am a fucking genius and I have a near perfect memory.

Blaker: "Belly, why is Barbie at Hogwart's with a hairdryer and a pink cup?"

Bellamy: "She's taking over."

Blaker: "With a hairdryer and a pink cup?"

Bellamy: (exasperated) "DADDY, that's not a HAIRDRYER. It's a GUN. And the cup is a BEER. She's MOMMY BARBIE."

Slutty outfit. Thigh high boots. Gun. Beer. Kicking ass.

Let's mull this shit over, bitches.

Mommy Barbie rules. I love my kid.

Nostalgic, But Then Just Offensive

I haven't blogged in a while because I've been busy doing other writing. However, apparently a complaint was lodged by an irritated blog reader (hello, Jenelle) regarding my blatant neglect of Starrtrippin', so I decided to take the time today to blog. Lucky you.

January is upon us and, thankfully, almost over. Today is actually the ten year anniversary of my Grandfather's death. In honor of Papaw, I plan to eat a turkey club with no mayonnaise and the fat peeled off the bacon, write only in pencil, squeeze people so hard I potentially crack their ribs, and refer to my brother consistently and only as "Pedro." These are things my Grandfather did. (To this day, we still do not know if he actually knew Zach's name was really Zach, or if he really did think it was Pedro. Regarding Papaw, one is not more likely than the other.)

Papaw was the ultimate supporter of tough love. I can remember being about eight years old one July in Tennessee and him making me shovel gravel all day at his equipment rental store-- from a pile onto the parking lot, spreading it around. It was approximately one hundred and two degrees outside. I think I only puked a half dozen times, and blacked out once or twice. He would make me stop occasionally for water, took me to lunch (where I had to eat a turkey club that matched his own), and paid me handsomely at the end of the day. He believed in an honest days' work for an honest days' pay.

Fairly often, I wonder what he would have thought of my children and of the things they have missed by never having met him. Bellamy would have thought he was crazy as all hell (he was). Sutt would have thought he was awesome (he was).

I just realized I haven't sworn even once today, and it's almost 9am. Holy fuck.

This blog is kind of sappy. Fuck you, January. Let's turn this bitch around.

*restart*

You may have suspected from prior posts, that my neighbors are a mixed bag of crazy. We have the kid whose security blanket is his mama's old bra across the street, and whose sister is mentally handicapped and likes to tackle hug me on a regular basis (hence, knocking me on my ass each time as she is bigger than I am). We have the sketchy family (renting, thankfully) up the street that consists of a black mother, Thai grandma (who wears no underpants and likes to sit on park benches in her skirt with her legs spread open), four small VERY dark black children, and a hippie-looking blonde-headed, fair skinned father whom the children refer to as "White Daddy." (Rumor has it that Thai grandma, who speaks next to no English, drove black mama so crazy that she shipped her ass back to Thailand. Unfortunately, I can neither confirm nor deny this.) There is also a family who lives right next door to us that WE HAVE NEVER MET EXCEPT FOR THE ONE TIME THE MAN OF THE HOUSE KNOCKED ON MY DOOR AND COMMANDED ME (yes, actually commanded, not asked nicely) TO PICK UP HIS NEWSPAPER EVERY DAY HE WAS OUT OF TOWN AND PUT IT IN THE BACK OF HIS PICKUP TRUCK. We have lived here four years, as have they. That is the only contact we have ever had with them. THAT'S JUST WEIRD.

This group, while being a bunch of damn psychos, are mostly harmless, except potentially "White Daddy" who we have been told by black mama "don't like no white people" and has threatened to kick the ass of several (white) children in the neighborhood who argued with his (?) kids over stupid kid shit that all kids fight about. Whatever. I'm from rural Tennessee. Anybody who has ever been to a football game in Polk County would know there are much scarier things in the world than White Daddy. But anyway. As it turns out, we have a new crazy neighbor. Well, not NEW. She's been here. And she was probably always crazy. We just didn't KNOW it until recently.

We know it now.

It seems that, while fighting boredom during her husband's deployment last year, the woman a couple of houses down, whom we shall refer to as LaShonga (not because that is her name, because I don't actually remember her name, but because LaShonga is a name that just fits her like a glove) decided to start her own business. Okay. Fine. You go, Girl. I support small business owners. Is she selling Avon or Pampered Chef or having sex toy parties? (No, fools, because those are white people things and clearly LaShonga is black because I named her LaShonga. And don't give me any shit about being racist because you all know that LaShonga IS a black girl OR a redneck white girl name, and since we have very few rednecks in these here parts, there is only one real option in this equation. And if you are still crying racist then FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE.)

I digress.

So, LaShonga decided to open her own business. In her exact words, to me, "Get a piece of that pie," whatever the fuck that means. LaShonga's business venture? Medical transport.

What. the. fuck?

LaShonga starts buying up vehicles for her medical transport business. Her family already owned a new sedan (hers), an older two-door (her teenage daughter's), and a big-ass shiny black SUV pimped out with a bumpin' sound system and prominent rims (his). They have a two car garage, that will actually fit one car because their shit is all on the other side (I'm not judging-- we can't even fit ONE car in our garage because of all of our shit, plus the plane) which means two cars stay parked in the driveway. Fine. The first business vehicle that was added was a full-size, decrepit Maroon van. It appeared to be on its last legs mechanically, and aesthetically, well, let's just say between the faded paint, body dings, and filmy windows it had seen better days (probably around 1984 when somebody conceived their love child in the back of it). LaShonga had her some decals made up for the windows of cartoonish angels and the words "Guardian Angels Medical Transport."

Hmmmm. Business took off to a slow start. I know this because even several houses down, I could hear the van every time she fired it up to take it out and pick up somebody in need. And business continued (she seems to take old people to Kohl's a lot in that bitch, as I have seen it with my very own eyes on several occasions). A few months later, a somewhat-less-antiquated white minivan was added to the pool. Sweet. Now we have a white minivan parked on the street with angel decals on it, because it won't fit in the driveway (not that the maroon van does either, as the tail-end hangs out in the road forcing passersby to swerve around it and two-way traffic, should it occur, to stop). The two vans were ugly and mildly annoying to many of the neighbors, but I don't think anybody really thought that much about it.

Then LaShonga bought a bus.

It's a short bus, but it's a bus nonetheless. It's white and old and EXTREMELY ghetto. You can clearly see where there used to be LOTS of other names/decals on it, but now only their remains cling to the flaking paint and rusted body. It sits a little crooked (tire pressure? suspension issues?) and it's UGLY AS ALL HELL. Which means that LaShonga, besides not having much room left in her driveway due to the ever-increasing automotive pool, chose to park it down the street. Right across from my neighbor's (Bra Kid's family) house.

This has not gone well.

I really like Bra Kid's family, and do not blame them for being pissed. Every time they look out their front door, they see a dilapidated short bus right in front of their house. That would annoy me as well. (Most things do.) Additionally, it's my understanding that the following statements are true:

1. LaShonga is the only driver/operator of Guardian Angels, so having three modes of transportation just for the business is a bit ridiculous.
2. Our HOA does not allow ghetto-ass vehicles to be parked on the street or even in the driveway.
3. The police have been called on several occasions by Bra Kid's Dad, who was finally told that there was nothing they could do. This was only after BK'sD called LaShonga on the phone and nicely asked her to move the handi-bus from in front of his house. This turned out to be a huge disaster, during which he was referred to several times as "The Man," the terms "oppression" and "sista" were used a lot (sometimes in conjunction, as in"oppressing a sista") and democracy for African-Americans was questioned (by LaShonga). I think Obama might have been mentioned once or twice as well. Damn, what I wouldn't give to have listened in directly on that conversation.

For now, the short bus has been moved down the street closer to LaShonga's house, in a madcap rearrangement of near dead, decaled-up automobiles. But any day now, I expect to look out my window, and see a broken down Greyhound that was hoisted from the mass transit cemetery dotted with cartoon angels and parked on my street. Surely MC Hammer has a repossessed tour bus she could buy on the cheap, at the very least. But while I wait to see how this drama unfolds, I can only hope that LaShonga's piece of the pie might eventually lead to even bigger and better things. Like a new house, much, much further from mine.

Shopping Shenanigans

Gift giving is always an interesting concept to me this time of year. I understand why we have Christmas (thank you, Macedonia Baptist Church for my good Christian upbringin') but I've never figured out how the Santa/tree/presents thing figures into it. Now, don't get me wrong, I have no problem with it-- hell, these are my favorite parts of the holiday (sorry about that, Jesus). But does it REALLY make sense if you consider why we have Christmas in the first place? No. However, being a girl who scoffs at things that DO make sense, I say, bring on the tinsel, bitches.

I love buying presents for other people. The best feeling is when you think of/run across something that you know is absolutely perfect for somebody you love (or pretend to love, which is usually the case regarding people for whom I buy things-- I AM A HARDCORE BADASS. WE LOVE NO ONE.) On the other hand, it's always funny to me when people ask me what I want for Christmas. I DON'T KNOW. I honestly don't really think about that. And despite my high level of awesomeness and my affinity for reminding others that I AM A SUPREME BEING WHO DEMANDS YOUR RESPECT I can truly say that I don't give a damn if anyone buys me anything. I know that sounds all fucking selfless and shit, but just this once, that's how I'm gonna roll. Which is likely a really positive thing for B, as, after excessive hounding about what I wanted for Christmas, I finally responded with "a peacock blue peacoat." Did I know where one could purchase said item? No. Have I ever seen one? No. Do they make them? Hell if I know. But I like peacock blue, I would like a new coat, and I like peacoats, so there you have it. A peacock blue peacoat. Unfortunately, as we were strolling through the mall a week or so later, B touches an item of clothing in one of my favorite stores and said, "What would you call this?" I glanced at it. "A royal blue poncho." He looked nervous and beads of sweat broke out on his brow. "You mean it's not PEACOCK blue? And it's kind of a coat....." I gave him the Skeptical One Eyebrow (of which I am a master). "No. That is clearly ROYAL BLUE. And it's KNITTED. There's nothing COATLIKE about it {motherfucker}" (note that the "motherfucker" was understood, but not actually stated).

It seems that I may be getting a royal blue poncho for Christmas. But, anyway.

Don't get me wrong. I am excessively grateful for gifts, especially when they are particularly thoughtful or unexpected. Few things touch this heart of stone more than someone thinking of me when they have no obligation to do so. I still am a little amazed when I look back at my gift of flight from a sweet friend or the beautiful sparkly necklace from E for no reason at all, or all the things from Ray that I can't begin to list. Don't even get me started on the amazing things that B has done over the years. The "things" don't matter, but the thought? That is love.

I got really frustrated with my father in law this year because he's been making passive aggressive remarks regarding gifts for pretty much the last twelve months. YOU CANNOT BUY FOR THIS MAN. You give him personal things like a framed photo of the kids, he will wait three months and make some offhanded comment that the frame looks cheap (YOU AREN'T GOING TO PUT IT ANYWHERE ANYWAY. THERE IS NO ROOM BECAUSE YOU HAVE DEVOTED ALL OF YOUR PHOTOGRAPH SPACE TO WEDDING PHOTOS OF JAY.) You give him wine and he complains that it isn't expensive enough ALL YEAR LONG. (WHY WOULD WE BUY YOU EXPENSIVE WINE WHEN YOU ARE JUST GOING TO OPEN IT, DRINK HALF A GLASS, THEN LET IT SIT AND GO BAD BECAUSE YOU PREFER TO DRINK BEER?). There's no point in giving him clothes, as he has three times the amount of clothes that I do. I tell you, he's DAMN LUCKY that I'm not making him another Star Wars Chewbacca layer cake this year (see the birthday blog back in September) as I've reached the point of Subversive Shopping in regard to my FIL. (This is where you make every effort to find the weirdest, potentially most offensive and unsuitable item possible, wrap it beautifully, and present it with glee. It's actually my favorite way to gift someone, now that I think about it.) I'm DYING to peruse the Adam & Eve website and order him a Head Honcho or Ass Princesses 4 (on blue ray!) and put it under their perfect Christmas tree. But I won't do that, because I'M NICE.

Yeah. You read that right. I'M NICE.

At this point, all the gifts are wrapped and under the tree. I look forward to seeing the looks on the faces of the kids when they realize that Mommy has indeed been telling the truth and those boxes ARE filled with rocks because they are NAUGHTY LITTLE MINIONS. B will be excited when he receives his gift card to Club Magestical, the purple cinder block "gentleman's club" in the "ethnically diverse" section of Newport News. Mom will LOVE her Forever Lazy fleece jumpsuit. And me? Well, I'll be wearing the hell out of my royal blue poncho.

Happy Gift Giving, Bitches.

Fa la la la fuck you

Christmas seems to be rolling in this year with all the usual fucking awesomeness. I've already blown the lights on the Christmas tree three damn times because I SEE NO REASON WHY YOU CANNOT PLUG FIFTEEN SETS OF LIGHTS TOGETHER AND HAVE ONLY ONE PLUG LEADING FROM THE TREE TO THE OUTLET. B, with all his engineering knowledge, has replaced the fuse three times and gently tried to explain to me why this is an issue twice. The third time, he just re-coordinated the plugs so that every single string of lights is no longer connected together, but are broken up a few times. At least he finally figured out that his lectures were falling on deaf ears, poor boy. I PUT THE DAMN LIGHTS ON THE TREE. I DO NOT RECONFIGURE THEM. The garland has fallen off the fireplace two or three times because I AM A GIRL AND NOT GOOD AT HANGING THINGS (push-pins are my answer to nearly everything that must hang) AND I baked a batch of peppermint sugar cookies that Sutton declared "burned and a little funny." Well, Merry Fucking Christmas to you too, minion. Next time, you can bake your own goddamn cookies.

You and I both know that I want to give Christmas the finger.

I took the kids to see Santa a couple of weeks ago and they were pretty stoked. As far as I'm concerned, I'm down with the kids believing in Santa, but I don't think my hopes and dreams will be crushed when they one day stop. I don't believe the magic of Christmas comes from Santa, although I'M not going to tell them any differently. They'll figure it out one day on their own. Anyway, we were at the mall and they were perched on the Big Man's lap, yammering on about Wii games and Polly Pocket as I tried to ignore the OVERACHIEVER MOMMY behind me who had her two toddlers in MATCHING FUCKING OUTFITS (who DOES that-- well, except you, Meredith, if you are reading this. I will cut you some slack on H and M) and kept telling them how they had to "smile big for Santa!" when Santa looked over at me. "Mommy," he said, "What do you want for Christmas?" Hmmmm. Here was an opportunity. Should I tell him "new purple Nikes and Cupcake Vodka?" (what I really wanted) or "world peace" (like a good girl should) or "my Dad back" (the impossible request)? How does one answer Santa when he asks what he can bring you for Christmas?

The kids were watching me expectantly. Overachiever Mommy had quieted down and was likely plotting her own answer, should Santa ask her next ("World Peace!"). I was tired. I was hungry. Fighting my way through Gymboree and Bath and Body Works had felt like engaging in a triathlon (not that I would ever engage in a triathlon-- I'm not stupid). So I told him the truth, Haley style.

"Well, Santa. I would like that one (pointing at Bellamy) to stop calling her brother 'noggin head' and making him punch her in retaliation, where she then bursts into tears because we ALL KNOW that that 34 pounds he weighs packs a lot of power when he punches. I would like that one (pointing at Sutt) to agree to wear underpants to school without the discussion coming to bribery and/or name-calling, as one can only hear 'Noggin head is SUCH a baby and his yoda is going to FREEZE OFF if he doesn't put on his underpants' so often before one (me) wants to SHOOT SOMEONE IN THE FUCKING HEAD. I want the dog, who is old, to quit puking in the floor because it is IMPOSSIBLE to scrub the stain out of the carpet and, despite my proclivity for spot-cleaning I AM TIRED. I want my husband to remember to turn on his work mobile when he is in meetings. which is ALWAYS since his promotion, because WHEN I FUCKING DRINK A GALLON OF BLEACH AND JUMP OFF A GODDAMN BRIDGE FROM FRUSTRATION WITH OUR CHILDREN he is going to need to know about it. YES. That, Santa, is what I want."

All was quiet for a moment. Or, perhaps, a few moments. Then Santa patted each kid on the head and gave them a miniature candy cane. "You kids be nice to your Mommy. I want you to hug her every day." Then Santa winked at me and gestured for me to come closer. "You hang in there, Mommy," he whispered.

Santa knew. He could tell Mommy was hanging by a thread. Hell, after that, most anybody ought to be able to tell Mommy was hanging by a thread. Christmas can go fuck itself. Ho ho fucking ho.

Here's to hoping I'm getting that Cupcake Vodka for Christmas this year after all.

Just Another Monday Morning

*The following is a copy of an email that I sent to my husband at work around 8:30am yesterday, in response to his typical GOOD MORNING, HOW ARE YOU? email. Clearly, it was a GREAT morning, and I was FABU-FUCKING-LOUS.
***********************************************************************************

HI, B.

JESUS. I don't want to start the day out by bitching like a crazy shrew, but I need to rant for a minute. Today, thus far, has been a freakin'

*HOLY FUCK. THINGS JUST GOT WORSE. Back in a sec*

Okay. SO, I'll pick up where I left off and get to the "HOLY FUCK" part in due time. Today has been a freakin' disaster. I had to drag Sutt out of bed which upset him because he was still tired. Then he got upset because he ate the last of the oatmeal and I couldn't make more (he had had a ton, I think he was fine). He yelled for twenty minutes that I was "STARVIN' HIM HAFFA DEF." The kids then got in a HUGE fight over the fucking Santa advent calendar hanging on the wall because Sutt wants it to be on the 24th until Dec. 1st when we can actually use it, and Belly does not. It came to pushing and screaming and, I believe, some hair pulling. I broke up the fight and sent Belly off to find shoes and she spent over 15 minutes freaking out because she couldn't find ANY shoes where BOTH shoes were present, except her Sketchers flipflops, which she then asked if she could wear (um, NO, it's NOVEMBER). She ended up crying and being furious at me. I was like, "Look, kid, if you weren't so goddamn messy you'd know where your shoes were. This is YOUR problem and YOUR fault, so don't get mad at me." She finally found the black (too small) flats that Barbara gave her, which (kind of) went with her outfit, but told me she COULD NOT WEAR THEM because they felt sandy inside where dirt had gotten in them when she had worn them outside to play. I pointed out that I do not condone her wearing them out to play, this was her problem (again) and it was time to FUCKING LEAVE SO LET'S GO. Then she proceeded to get angry because I made her wear a jacket over her short-sleeved shirt (it covered up her vest! It wasn't fashionable!). SIGH.

Keep in mind that while all this is going on, I'm trying to order insulin from Express Scripts AND find the number for the vet because Maddie is STILL chewing her damn crotch. During this time I see that I can schedule an online appt. with vet, which I try to do because they do not open until 9 and I don't want to wait that long to call. After all the fucking forms I had to fill out, it turns out you can only schedule exams and shots online, and it must be at least four days in advance. LOT OF FUCKING GOOD THAT DOES ME. THANKS FOR TELLING ME BEFOREHAND, WEBSITE.

I get the kids outside and Sutt refuses to tell me he loves me because he's too busy racing his sister to the bus. I yelled that I loved him THREE FUCKING TIMES and I got nothing back. Punkass. It makes me sad. I come back in and get my computer. I realize Maddie has drank my WHOLE GODDAMN CUP OF COFFEE WHILE I WAS TAKING THE KIDS OUTSIDE. That's exactly what the goddamn spastic-ass dog NEEDS to do since she's already functioning at warp speed ALL THE TIME (including times of crotch chewing).

(HERE IS THE HOLY FUCK PART)

I'm sitting here, pissed at the world, on the loveseat. Mimi is asleep by the end of the sofa. Maddie is sitting in "your spot" on the sofa looking nervously at me because she knows that I know she drank the coffee. AND THEN SHE FUCKING PROJECTILE VOMITS COFFEE EVERYWHERE.

HAVE YOU EVER FUCKING SEEN A DOG PROJECTILE VOMIT? I had not. I have now. It was awful. And it wasn't a little bit, it was like a gallon of sticky, slightly-chunky coffee. All over the couch. All over the loveseat. All over the ottoman. All over the rug and the carpet. It was running EVERYWHERE down in the sofa. OH DEAR HOLY JESUS. FUCK FUCK FUCK.

I chucked Maddie outside, grabbed a towel, and started cleaning. And scrubbing.

I now have puke all over my pants AND my sweatshirt and at this point I don't even fucking care. Belly is pissed at me, Sutt doesn't love me, you are at work likely having some GODDAMN MEETING, Mimi refuses to let me pet her, and Maddie is puking. Also, all the coffee is gone.

Fuck.

Love you.