Friday, May 11, 2012

What the What?

This Sunday, B graduates from William and Mary with his MBA.  Normally, I would not be impressed at all by this.  It's his 147th degree, 140 of them being graduate degrees.  I have about 127 of my own, all of which are now framed but stacked under the bed along with my discarded journals and the wall sconces that I can't coax into working any longer but can't seem to part with because I'm an amateur hoarder.  Graduations get old.  Caps and gowns get old.  Guest speakers get REALLY old.  B wasn't even going to walk until I threw a hissy fit and made him.  Why?  Because this degree has one difference.  It's his first post-marriage, post-kids degree.  It has been three years in the making-- three LONG, continual, year-round years of B being gone several nights a week, devoting weekends to homework and projects, basically STEALING MY FUCKING YOUTH AS I CARE FOR HIS DAMN OFFSPRING.  Basically what I'm saying is I'M GRADUATING.  I may not have taken Consulting or World Economics, but I scored an A in Teaching Both Kids To Fucking Read And Add.  Night after night I have assisted with homework, cooked dinner alone, applied itch cream, handled baths, administered Motrin, located the one missing shoe needed for gym class, packed lunches for the pickiest eaters on earth, gotten the minions to bed, killed a bottle of wine and I HAVE PREVAILED.  They are smart and they are thriving.  I AM GODDAMN MOTHER OF THE YEAR.  When Blaker walks across that stage, I will be hand-in-hand with him in spirit.

Which makes it ironic that B's graduation is to be held on Mother's Day.

Yes, for Mother's Day I'm going to The College of William and Mary's Business School Graduate Student Graduation (I totally just named that myself).  At 8am.  On a Sunday.  Did I mention it's on MOTHER'S DAY?  Just wondering.

I say this as if I am all worked up, but to be honest, I really can't complain.  After all this time (from both of us), work (from both of us), and tears (only mine and the kids'), we can finally move on from this chapter in our lives.  B has a new (paid for by his company!)degree that can open doors for us in the future.  We may move overseas.  We may pursue opportunities in other parts of the U.S.  We may sell the kids to the gypsies, lease our home out as a House of Ill Repute and become permanent vacationers in Cabo (hey, we could live a LONG damn time in Mexico off of what we already have saved in the kids' college funds).  None of us know what the future holds, and I'm just so psyched that B will be home most evenings that I don't even care that I'll be spending Mother's Day sitting in a folding chair on the lawn of Miller Hall at W&M applauding my husband (side note:  the blow is also softened by the GORGEOUS new dress I bought for the occasion and the navy satin ruffle stilettos I found to match.  Hey, it may be HIS day, but I still plan to look smokin' hot).


Sorry about that.  I was blogging, and then my neighbor showed up and I started talking to her about how I ate five of the toffee bars that she made yesterday and nearly went into diabetic ketoacidosis and how awesome it would be to contractually marry her daughter to my son even though both are under the age of seven, because then we could be in-laws and it would be AWESOME, even though she's moving to Okinawa in a few months so she'll have to leave my preschool-age daughter-in-law with me for two years, and she was pointing out how yes, it would be fucking AWESOME AS ALL HELL FOR US but when the kids were going to Children of Alcoholics meetings as young adults and refusing to invite us over for Thanksgiving it wouldn't be NEARLY as awesome as the rest of the time.   And I was all "Yeah, you have a point.  Want to get together and drink wine tomorrow?" and she was all "Are those your Mother's Day presents wrapped and on the kitchen counter?" and I got distracted and then she left and I was like, "Hell, YEAH, there ARE presents there."  And then B said I should open one.

NOW.  Side note.  B has been "working on" this gift for me for some time.  He has talked about trying to figure out how to make it.  He has met with other people about the best way to go about it.  He has hidden in the garage and done "secret shit" a lot.  I haven't had a fucking clue, and honestly, I haven't thought much about it because I figured "secret shit" was just code for "avoiding my drunken, obnoxious wife" which is fine, because I totally avoid MYSELF about half the time.  But anyway.  So THIS GIFT I WAS TO OPEN WAS THAT GIFT.  The one he had been working on.  I was almost nervous because what if I didn't like it?  I'm terrible at faking liking things that I don't.  WHAT IF THIS GIFT THAT I WASN'T EVEN SURE I WANTED TO OPEN CAUSED THE WHOLE WEEKEND TO GO INTO FREAKIN' MARITAL LOCKDOWN, STAT STAT, BECAUSE I WAS MAD THAT I HAD A STUPID PRESENT AND HE WAS HURT BECAUSE I DIDN'T LIKE HIS STUPID PRESENT?

Okay,  Resume, please.

SO I opened the gift.  And I burst into tears.

Side Note #2.  Over the weekend of February 18th, we rented a giant beach house with a group of friends in the Outer Banks and basically spent three days with the kids locked in the basement and ourselves perpetually drunk (with the exception of one poor friend of mine who is currently gestating a young 'un and couldn't imbibe like the rest of us-- you have NO IDEA how sorry I feel for her for being stuck us our drunk asses for the whole weekend).  HOWEVER, on the 18th, which is my Dad AND my (paternal) Grandpa's birthday, both to whom I was extremely close and both of whom I have lost, I sobered up, got up early, and went for a very long run on the beach.  I never saw another soul.  I ran half the time with my eyes closed.  The sunlight was gorgeous, the sky was a fury of pinks and purples and blues and golds, and for just a little while, I could feel my Dad besides me, appreciating the peace.  Reveling in the beauty.  Before I left and headed back to the house, I picked up a little purple and white shell that was lying in the sand by itself.  It reminded me of my Daddy, because he knew purple was my favorite color and so he would always bring me purple things (ink pens, flowers, etc).  The shell was smooth and oval, slightly smaller than a quarter, and I tucked it into my pocket as a talisman, to touch and remember the feeling of seeing my Dad in the sunrise over the ocean.  When we returned home, I slipped it into my jewelry box and touched it from time to time, thinking of our weekend.  It made me happy.

Okay, Resume Again, please.

Blaker had taken my shell, my DAD shell, and polished it to a shine.  Then he had polyurethaned it to a slick, glossy finish.  Somehow, he had drilled a teeny, tiny little hole into the top and found a teeny, tiny sterling silver ring to put through the hole.  He had bought a dainty, sparkling sterling silver chain on which it could hang, carefully measuring the length against another necklace I love to make sure it was my "favorite" necklace length.  In the barest of terms, Blaker gave me the essence of my Dad in a necklace.

He can't give me my Dad back, but he can help me preserve the memory of Dad.  He can help me save and enjoy the things that matter.

And that, my friends, is more than I could ever have asked for in a mate.  Someone who can take the little things that are important to me, and recognize them for how much they matter.  Someone who can give me a present that turns my CRAZY ASS BLOG POST ON ITS HEAD.  Someone who reminds me to treasure this life that I have. 

I hope all of you are as lucky as I am.

Thursday, May 3, 2012

And We're Back

Part 2:

6.  Lab Notes~  How many of you think I would help build a meth lab in the neighbor's garage?  Okay, now everybody who raised their hand-- FUCK YOU.  I did, however, help build a brewery in the neighbor's garage.  (Let's be honest-- I didn't "help" do a damn thing.  I sat and drank vodka with my buddy M, while her husband, D, and Blaker brewed beer.  It should be finished fermenting in about another week.  After the vodka, we moved on to wine and delicious Mexican food.  BEST SATURDAY PLANS EVER.)  The point is, I WAS THERE.  I WAS PRESENT WHILE IT HAPPENED.  And it LOOKED like a meth lab (or, at least, what I imagine a meth lab to look like, which is probably nothing like what it REALLY looks like).  Sadly, M and D and their super cute kids and their faux meth lab are moving to Japan in a few months, and I am left (weeping) to pick up the pieces while B reminisces about his Beer-Brewing-Bromance with D.  I have a feeling the break-up will be hard as they appear to still be in the honeymoon phase.

(Side note:  All of you in Tennessee are reading this and saying, "What the hell ever.  I live in the meth capital of the fucking WORLD.  You can't impress me with your fake meth labs and your homegrown beer brewing."  This is true.  I will not argue with you.  But if you're going to be that way, please quit reading my blog, assholes.)

Where was I?  

7.  My Son Doesn't Need To Learn Jazz Hands~ Every year the kids' school has PTA meetings where a different grade performs a song and dance number post-meeting.  It's a hyped-up super trick to get people to the meetings, and the kids rehearse for weeks.  I THINK THIS IS BULLSHIT.  I don't want to go sit through a damn PTA meeting then watch my kids do sing some stupid song while wearing a stupid costume and doing a stupid dance, during which you can tell they are at the UTMOST HEIGHT OF MISERY EVER REACHED THUS FAR IN THEIR SHORT LITTLE LIVES.  That's ridiculous.  I suffer enough just raising the little hellions.  Bellamy participated her kindergarten year (I skipped it-- MOM OF THE FUCKING YEAR.  I made her Daddy go in my place.  Yes, I AM also Wife of the Fucking Year.) and has since declined to be a part of the performance every year since.  Sutt, being the precocious little man that he is,  caught on early and opted out before ever participating at all.  (That's my boy!)  I thought we were in the clear until Sutt came home on Monday declaring that his music teacher, Mr. Gibson, told him that even if he didn't perform at the PTA meeting, he still had to perform in front of the student body, so I had better get my ass in gear and make him a Junk Food Costume (how fucking stupid is THAT?) pronto. 

EXCUSE ME?  Costume making and parental participation?  I DON'T FUCKING THINK SO.

I was cooking dinner (spaghetti) when Sutt passed this tidbit along to me, so I said to him, sweetly, "You tell Mr. Gibson Mommy said to suck it."  Then I continued on with my meat-browning and garlic-chopping.

SO, last night (Wednesday) Sutt was sitting (once again) at dinner when he suddenly piped up and said, "I told Mr. Gibson that my Mommy said if he wanted her to make me a Junk Food costume he could suck it."

THAT'S.  MY.  BOY.  I love him.  High Five.

Although I don't particularly care for the number 7 any longer as it has negative connotations from my past (don't ask-- and for the record, I also do not like 4 or 8) I plan to stop here with my numbering to discuss how quickly time has flown these past months.  Last Fall I found out that all my friends were moving away this summer-- LITERALLY, ALL OF MY FRIENDS.  Now the time is nearly here for me to send them off.  This makes me feel sad because they are going to miss me so damn much.  SO DAMN MUCH (just go with it.)  But though my mind wanders, it is Minion Bedtime, so that is a blog for another time.

I'm going to have to write an epic Send Off Blog for them all.

Tuesday, May 1, 2012

Take A Damn Shower And Stop Acting Like A Lunatic

I decided to title my blog post with the last words I said before I started writing.  I was saying this to my eight-year-old daughter, who was dancing naked through the living room singing in a made-up language.

Further proof that I'm fucking MOM OF THE YEAR.

SO, a lot of shit has happened since my last blog went down.  I hardly have time to breathe anymore, much less blog, because my children and husband and dogs are needy and I'm working my ass off for Pearson.  Factor in all the extra time I have to spend creating pornography and sobering up, and well, there you have it.  Life is busy.  So busy, in fact, that I think I shall make a list.


1.  Mormon Mix-up~  A couple of weeks ago, I learned a very valuable lesson.  Specifically, DON'T ACCOST MORMONS IN THE WAL-MART PARKING LOT TO TALK TO THEM ABOUT THE BOOK OF JAMES (FROM THE BIBLE, YOU FOOLS) UNLESS YOU ARE SURE THEY ARE MORMONS, AND NOT JUST A GROUP OF BOYS FROM A HIGH SCHOOL CHOIR DRESSED IN BLACK PANTS, WHITE SHIRTS, AND BLACK TIES, GOING TO EAT LUNCH IN THE WM MCDONALDS.  This lesson is pretty self-explanatory.  However, I would like to say, in my defense, that these boys were very nice (like Mormons), wore terrible pleated pants (like Mormons) and LOOKED LIKE FUCKING MORMONS.  In THEIR defense, they were NOT on bicycles and knew NOTHING about the Book of James.  These things were very UN-Mormonlike.  It was all very confusing for a while.  However, once they showed me the school bus they had arrived on (and threatened to call the police), I let them go about their business.......after I had already yelled at them and told them that God was going to deny their entry into Heaven for denying their Mormon faith.  Yeah.....let's not talk about that anymore.  Everybody makes mistakes, even me.  Sometimes.

2.  50 Shades of Shit~  Some of you may have heard of the phenomenon of the trilogy by E.L. James entitled THE FIFTY SHADES TRILOGY.  Numerous television appearances and magazine articles have appeared discussing how these novels, dubbed "mommy porn," have taken the world by storm.  Of course, being a mommy who is easily excited by the prospect of porn, I leaped at the chance to purchase said trilogy and check it out for myself.  So I did.  The first book was great-- super sexy rich 28-year-old dominating male meets silly, naive submissive woman, coaxes her into giving it up, ties her up, beats her a little, fucks her senseless.  GREAT BOOK.  The writing is total crap, the characters are not well-developed, and the woman in the book is so annoying that I kept hoping that he would accidentally kill her during his "kinky fuckery," thus turning the trilogy into an awesome S&M psychological thriller (note:  sadly, this never happened).  But, being a girl who likes a little violence, I appreciated the theme of the book.  AND THEN CAME BOOKS NUMBER 2 AND 3 AND ALL I  COULD THINK WAS "WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?"  The crazy, naughty sex became all love-making and shit, people started cuddling and making googly eyes at each other AND I CONSIDERED DRINKING A GALLON OF BLEACH TO END MY OWN SUFFERING AND YOUTUBING MY DEATH IN THE NAME OF IDIOTIC LITERARY CHOICES ACROSS TIME.  Seriously.  I mean, JESUS, PEOPLE.  You can't take an audience who is thrilled by the whips and chains and then give them mushy love shit.  YOU JUST CAN'T.  IT ISN'T FAIR.  IT MAKES ME WANT TO PUKE.  Enough said.

3.  Touring TN~  For the first time since 2006, I loaded up the family and headed to Tennessee for Easter.  Even B made the trip, which never happens.  Okay, maybe once every five years or so, but ALMOST never.  (We usually make him stay in Virginia because he's a damn Yankee whom may be accidentally slaughtered by some of my relatives for his non-southern dialect.)  From Thursday to Monday, me, one husband,  two kids, and two dogs frolicked with the  family.  I saw my Michael, got drunk with my brother, and ate some cupcakes.  That would pretty much sum up the whole trip EXCEPT for the Panty Story.  Let's fast forward a day or two AFTER the return home from Tennessee.  As I am an OCD neat freak, I had (of course) unpacked our suitcases the millisecond we arrived back at our house.  Despite this, the amount of laundry took me a day or two to get washed, dried, and separated, seeing as how I was scoring essays full-time while I performed my housewifery. (I like that word-- "houseWIFery."  I hope you are pronouncing it correctly in your head, as I do not care for the pronunciation "houseWIFEry.")  When I got around to folding Belly's laundry, I realized that there was a pair of unidentified underwear in her pile-- cute little navy and white checked cotton panties from Victoria's Secret.  VICTORIA'S SECRET?!  MY THIRD-GRADER HAS UNDERWEAR FROM VICTORIA'S SECRET?  Perplexed as to HOW THIS COULD FUCKING BE, I put said panties aside and made a mental note to ask Belly about them later.  (This is one of those instances where I COULD have written "Ask Belly about panties" in my blank-but-lined notebook.  However, I did not remember to do this.  Additionally, I did not remember to ask Belly about the panties.)  That night, as I was tucking Bells in, I noticed that with the oversized Dr. Seuss t-shirt she was wearing as a nightgown, she also had on the Questionable Underpants.  Finally remembering TO ASK WHERE THE FUCK THEY CAME FROM, I cross-examined my kid.  Her response?  "Mommy, they are Aunt Shawna's panties.  I borrowed them from her so that whenever I miss her a lot I can wear them."  WHAT THE WHAT?  (Note:  "WHAT THE WHAT" is the phrase that Aunt Shawna uses for "WHAT THE FUCK" seeing as how she's a preschool teacher at a church and can't go around saying "fuck" all the time.  I found the phrase completely appropriate to use in this situation.)  WHO SWIPES THEIR AUNT'S PANTIES TO WEAR WHEN THEY ARE FEELING HOMESICK FOR HER?  (My kid, apparently.)  Normal people borrow books or t-shirts or sawhorses (I don't know-- B just seems to always need the neighbor's sawhorses) NOT THEIR AUNT'S PANTIES.  But my little sociopath?  Well, I guess nobody has ever accused her of being normal.

4.  And While We're On The Subject of Belly, Underpants, And Unusual Choices~  On Sunday, B and I were rushing to get the family situated so that he and I could dump the minions off with the in-laws and go have GROWN UP DAY at Busch Gardens.  Per the usual, I was ready to go and my crazy-ass family was running late.  (Okay, WE were ready to go and my crazy-ass HUSBAND was running late, if I'm going to be completely honest.  And you know, I feel that my readers and I have reached that point now where we can truly bear our souls to one another, and BE honest about things like my distaste for Asians and how my husband does everything at a snail's pace.)  Anyway, I was cleaning up the kitchen and Sutt was sitting on the sofa reading when Belly came bopping into the living room, wearing jeans, a purple sequined shirt (if it isn't sparkly, it isn't worth wearing) and her iPod.  She walked over to Sutt, plopped down into his lap and starting wiggling her butt around and waving her hands in the air and shouted, "Look, Mommy!  I'm giving Sutt a lap dance!"  Yes.  That's right.  A LAP DANCE.  (Those of you who I have not kicked off my FB have already heard this story.  Lucky, lucky you.)  The bright side?  Sutt seemed unenthusiastic about said lap dance.  THANK YOU, GOD.

5.  I am not writing a #5 right now because I am grading essays between writing, and I just realized that a) I'm getting ready to time out of my secure essay webpage if I don't get my ass back to it; and b) I have written enough to keep most of you entertained for at least a little longer, hopefully at least until cocktail hour when I can down a few Oxycontin and Jack and Cokes and write about MORE OF MY ADVENTURES.


Wait for it.