Starr Trippin'

Nostalgic, But Then Just Offensive

2012-01-24T09:20:00.003-05:00

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

2011-12-19T09:54:00.003-05:00

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

2011-12-18T17:40:00.003-05:00

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

2011-11-29T14:41:00.002-05:00

*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.

No!vember

2011-11-26T18:26:00.002-05:00

November ends next week. Sometime. I think. It wasn't all that long ago that I was thinking, "Hmmm. It's August, but before I know it, it will be December." Well, that time has arrived. The halls are decked (due to an ultimatum from the Grief Guru), and the stockings are up (including a newly created "skull stocking" that Sutt wanted to replace his emotionally-outgrown Cars stocking-- as it turns out, one cannot easily find a skull Christmas stocking for purchase, so I had to make one. BEST MOM EVER, that is me.) Hark the Fucking Angels Sing, I'm ready for the goddamn holidays.

*sigh*

Actually, this year isn't bad so far. Thanksgiving wasn't my finest hour, but I have to say I have more Christmas spirit than I've had since Dad was sick. The little things help. For instance, Sutt made me a (construction paper) Thanksgiving Turkey and when I asked why it had X's for eyes, he said, "Because it's DEAD. HAHAHAHAHA!" It was frankly kind of awesome. The kids, for the FIRST YEAR EVER, helped me trim the tree and DIDN'T BREAK ANYTHING. I didn't have to put out all of the millions of decorations (half of them are lodged behind the airplane in the garage and absolutely unreachable) AND all the lights still worked, except for one outdoor set that I somehow managed to blow when I plugged them in (and watched a couple of them explode). All in all, that's pretty good for me.

To ice the cake, my ultrasound did not show anything appearing to resemble cancer, my sister-in-law found a job after being laid off from her former position and I've started wearing foundation and eyeshadow on a semi-regular basis (thanks for the encouragement, E). Life is marching on. Sutt is six. Mimi is eleven. I am thirty-fucking-four.

And for the moment, all is well.

Things I've Learned From Jabba the Sutt

2011-11-14T17:05:00.002-05:00

Tomorrow my youngest child (and the only one conceived on purpose) turns six. Holy fuck, where did the time go? I've always thought that it was bullshit, what parents say about time flying by when the kids are little, and frankly, usually it is, but in this case HOLY HELL. Sutt is growing up.

I think what really bothers me about this milestone isn't that he's turning six at all. It's not that he's in kindergarten or can finally pronounce most (but not all) of his r's and l's, or that he has a "big kid" haircut and just had a (very sweet) 10-year-old friend come over for a sleepover. All of that I can handle. What I CAN'T seem to wrap my head around is that the last time my Daddy saw Sutt, he was barely three years old. He had not yet started preschool, he still had sweet baby chub and sweet baby curls, and he didn't even understand that his Papaw passed away that awful January. Daddy knew a baby, but he doesn't know this little boy I have now-- this little creature who smells like lavender, thinks he has to open all the doors for Mommy, and has an imagination that rivals anything I have ever seen. He's amazing.

Dad would be so proud of him.

It kills me that Sutt doesn't have his Papaw. Literally, I get sick sometimes thinking about how Sutt is deprived of all the cool things that my Dad wanted so badly to do with him. Take him fishing, teach him about animals and cars and airplanes. Tell him stories about HIS Dad, my Grandpa Glenn, who was also a pilot and a character if there ever was one. When Dad died, he took so much with him, and that's something I often cannot reconcile with my reality.

So, in honor of my SuperSutt and my Dad, the rest of this post will be a list of THE REALLY AWESOME THINGS I HAVE LEARNED FROM JABBA THE SUTT, BOTH MONUMENTALLY IMPORTANT AND SEEMINGLY IRRELEVANT, ALTHOUGH, REALLY, WHO AM I TO JUDGE WHAT IS OR IS NOT RELEVANT, PARTICULARLY IN THIS CRAZY ASS WORLD THAT WE LIVE IN

1. Life is Weird~ One morning when Sutt was three, I was driving him to preschool and we were singing along to the music (AC/DC was his favorite at the time). All of a sudden, he yelled for me to turn the music down. I flipped the power off and said, "Yeah, buddy? What's up?" He looked at me in the rearview mirror, completely serious, and said, "You know what's weird, Mommy? Toast. Toast is weird." Um. Yeah. Does my kid even EAT toast, or does anyone ever OFFER him toast? No. We are pretty much a toast-free zone at Casa McPhail. So where in the hell did that even COME from? Who the fuck knows. But he has a point-- if you think about it, toast IS kind of weird. Much like lots of other things.

2. Be True To Yourself~ Yoda was the Ultimate Jedi Master, according to my now-extensive (after having a kid OBSESSED with Star Wars for going on three years now) Star Wars knowledge. Dudes are OBSESSED with their junk, and all seem to think it is the Ultimate Man's Best Friend. Sutton, absolutely by himself, chose to name his junk "Yoda" when he was four. At first, I thought, "What the fuck?" But once I considered it, I realized that Sutt was actually probably ahead of his game. He already KNEW that his bits were the bomb, so he might as well name them accordingly. Everyone he told laughed themselves senseless, but he didn't care. Yoda it was, and to this day, Yoda it is.

3. It's Better When Somebody's Got Your Back~ Sutt REFUSES to sleep alone (let's hope that this changes before he hits puberty). Every single night after he is tucked safely into HIS bed in HIS room, he creeps out of bed and down the hall and crawl in bed with Belly. She's used to it, and doesn't care anymore (most of the time). This has gone on since we moved here in '08 and took down his crib so that he was able to roam free. Lately, though, he's taken to getting up in the very early morning and creeping out of bed with his sister and into bed next to me-- I feel him very gently, very slowly crawling in and snuggling up against my back or belly before softly starting to snore within minutes. This morning, I awoke before he did and lay there, watching him sleep (and listening to him snore like a truck driver) for a few minutes before he opened his eyes and gave me a big smile. I gave him a kiss and then asked him, for the first time, why he was always sneaking into my bed and invading my personal space. He said, "Because I WUV you. And I WIKE to feel you next to me." I'm not a cuddler, and I don't WIKE feeling people next to me. But I realized after I thought about it for a minute that I kind of DID like having him there. It felt primal and maternal and, well, what I thought mother/child love would feel like, if I was capable of such a thing with my icy, granite heart and all. This was a revelation.

4. It's All About Perspective~ A few days ago, Sutt came in from playing outside to tell me that he had just seen a GIGANTIC alligator in the woods. It looked at him, came towards him, then saw how big and strong he was (all 36 pounds of him) and ran away. I considered this. I figured it was somewhat unlikely that Sutt had seen an alligator, and even more unlikely that if he had he had scared it away with his wanton manliness, but still, why burst his bubble? My Dad used to have this killer story about an epically large snapping turtle that nearly conquered the town before he sent it back into the lake with an ax in its back. Was it true? I'm sure the STORY was true. Just like I'm sure Sutt was gazing into the woods at some point and saw some underbrush move around. Was there a turtle the size of Rhode Island? Well, it was likely more the size of a breadbox. Just like the "alligator" was more likely a squirrel or a rabbit. Was I going to be the one to squelch those visions of grandeur? Oh, hell no. In their heads, I'm sure the story was absolutely 100% true. And being a great encourager or imagination, and a true visionary regarding storytelling, I would much rather have heard their "truth" than any other. Because their truth was the one worth telling.

5. If You Are Hungry, Keep Eating~ My Dad was known for having the ability to sit down and eat 4 or 5 sandwiches, or 8 or 9 hotdogs, followed by an entire half-gallon of ice cream or a whole pie or every bite of a new cake. That man could eat like you WOULD NOT FUCKING BELIEVE. He was never overweight, he had a metabolism that was incredible and he worked his ass off, but GODDAMN, he could eat. It was insane. On the flipside, if it was lunch time or supper time and he wasn't hungry, he did not want to eat anything. He ate when he wanted, as much as he wanted, and he was happy. Sutt is the same way. Jabba wakes up STARVING every day. His favorite food on the planet has always been, and likely, it seems, will always be, oatmeal. It doesn't matter what you offer him for breakfast--pancakes, donuts, pastry, eggs--he refuses. All he wants is oatmeal, and LOTS OF IT. Most mornings I feed him two of the little individual packets of Quaker Oats Maple and Brown Sugar, mixed with an entire CUP of regular from-the-canister oatmeal, made with 2% milk. He eats EVERY DAMN BITE and often wants a second helping. Now, keep in mind that Sutt is TINY. He is not even on the growth chart at the pediatrician for height or weight. He's skinny and short and still wears clothes from the toddler department, shoes too. But that kid will eat like there is no tomorrow when he's hungry. But if he's not? You can offer him anything-- cake, candy, ANYTHING, and he won't take it. Being a girl who will never say no to cheese or frosting-covered goodness, this boggles my mind. It's like he has his own little inner nutritionist. Likewise, sometimes I'll be starving but if it is not mealtime, I won't eat (I DO NOT snack--unless I'm drunk, in which case I don't know if I snack or not). I realize this is stupid. Sutt is way more advanced than I.

There's so much more. There is. But I'm tired. And I'm hungry. And, to be honest, I want to go hug my kid.

You know, Sutt is still very young. Hell, people say I am still very young too, although I doubt that more every single day. But I'm learning from him, he's learning from me-- we have that special Mommy-Son thing going on that I never wanted or expected to have. But I'm so glad I do. I'm a lucky girl. Lucky to have my happy, healthy Jabba the Sutt.

Giving Oprah the Bird

2011-11-10T18:21:00.003-05:00

One of my very dearest friends has recently gotten hooked on some Oprah bullshit called Oprah's Lifeclass. This friend, whom we will call Easy E, is pretty much the same person as me-- if you took me, put makeup on me EVERY GODDAMN DAY EVEN WHEN I HAVE THE FLU OR AM JUST FEELING SO LAZY I DON'T CARE ABOUT LIPSTICK, dressed me in The Loft, gave me a filter, and erased my proclivity for swearing. (You may be thinking, "Dear Lord, what's LEFT?" but there is a lot left. I promise. Oh, yeah, she's ALWAYS sober too. Hmmmmm. Maybe there ISN'T much left, now that I think about it. Anyway.) The point is, she's not one to fall for a bunch of sappy, Go Life! inspirational shit. She's hardcore. She's street. JUST LIKE ME. Well, just like me in dressier clothes and likely voting Republican.

So when Easy E got all caught up in Oprah, my first thought was, "Holy Fuck. I knew moving away from me was a BAD DAMN CHOICE FOR E. Those goddamn other Moms have BRAINWASHED HER. CODE RED! CODE RED!"

Now, don't get me wrong. I have the utmost respect for Oprah-- God knows she's done more with her life than I will likely ever do. I'm not dissing Madame O. However, I, myself, can't watch her on tv or read her magazine or any of that crap. It's just too fucking depressing to witness someone who has their shit together as much as she does. I mean, think about it. IT MAKES ME HATE MYSELF. And frankly, I don't like goody-goodys. And Oprah is nothing if not a goody-goody.

But E swore that this Oprah's Lifeclass was so inspiring and eye-opening and whatnot that this afternoon when I stumbled across it while I was ironing B's bazillion dress shirts (this promotion has him looking pretty sexy these days) I actually decided to watch and see what it was all about. And I did. For nearly an hour I listened to Oprah wax poetic about LIVING IN THE MOMENT and ENJOYING THE PRESENT. Blah blah blah. And it led me to give myself a little test-- tonight I would TRY this LIVING IN THE MOMENT crap and see how it went for me. I'm the world's worst about being off somewhere else in my head while everything else is going on around me, so made the conscious decision that tonight would be different. B was in class, the kids were home for a long weekend, LET THE OPRAH ROLL.

Item 1 on the LIVING IN THE MOMENT LIST: Feed the kids something fun. The kids were in their rooms. I called and ordered pizza. (Note: I NEVER order pizza. Pizza DESTROYS my blood sugar. Pizza isn't the healthiest choice for a kid meal, and we try to feed the minions healthy. I spent an hour on the elliptical today burning calories that pizza will LAUGH AT AND RE-HANG MIGHTILY ON MY HIPS. Me, ordering pizza, is a pretty big fucking deal.) Because I never order pizza, I do not have a "standard" pizza establishment from which I order, so I googled Pizza Hut on my phone, put in the ZIP code and called the number it gave. After placing the order, I ran upstairs and said to the kids, "Put your shoes on, we have to go pick up the PIZZA MOMMY ORDERED!" I waited, expecting applause.

Sutt cheered. (I LOVE that kid.) Bellamy rolled her eyes and said, "Why do we have to go GET it? Can't someone BRING IT TO US?"

*sigh*

I cheerfully tickled her and told her nope, we were going to go get it. Five minutes later we headed out the door. Driving down the street, the kids and I danced in the car. We sang to the radio. It took a lot of fucking energy, but I WAS HAPPY. HIP HIP HOORAY. I'M IN THE FUCKING MOMENT. We got to Pizza Hut and the kids tumbled out of the car. We all hurried in and went to the carryout counter, happy and hungry.

Turns out, it was the WRONG FUCKING PIZZA HUT.

Yep. That's right. When I googled it, I didn't check the address. I just assumed that one was the one I was calling because I thought it was the closest. It wasn't.

The chick working inside directed me to the OTHER Pizza Hut, the one we THOUGHT I had ordered from. It was just down the street. Dashing back to the car, we all climbed in and drove to the Pizza Hut in Portsmouth.

Turns out, it too was the WRONG FUCKING PIZZA HUT.

By this point, I'm pissed. It's dark outside, the kids are starving and fighting and I WANT TO FUCKING TEAR OPRAH'S "EMBRACE THE PRESENT" WEAVE OUT AND STRANGLE HER WITH IT while shouting, "The present SUCKS, Oprah. Why don't you embrace THAT, bitch?"

We get back in the car and drive to the LAST FUCKING PIZZA HUT I KNOW OF, in Chesapeake. Not knowing exactly where it is, I turn one traffic light too early. We end up in a Bank of America parking lot. The kids are complaining. I am swearing. I go through the bank drive-thru backwards (angering an black woman in a BMW who probably fucking LOVES Oprah), jump the curb, drive over the median (go, Xterra!) and park in the damn lot. I drag both kids inside, as I won't let them sit in the car in the GODDAMN 'HOOD, lest they get carjacked and sold into sexual slavery by some crackhead who lives in College Park. Everyone (most of whom happened to witness my stunt-car driving outside moments before) looks nervous when I enter, mascara smudged, ponytail falling, kids in tow. They have our pizza (HALLELUJAH, JESUS!). We pay and leave. It has now been an entire fucking hour since we left the house.

When we got home, we ate, and I gave the finger to embracing the present.

You can take your present and shove it, Oprah. I'm done here.

I'm Thankful for Mermaids

2011-11-08T17:59:00.003-05:00

Every time I go onto Facebook, it seems that some fool "friend" of mine is blathering about what he or she is thankful for this month. I suppose that this is due to Thanksgiving rolling around in a couple of weeks, but DEAR JESUS it is GRATITUDE OVERLOAD. I do not fucking care if you are thankful for your new four-wheeler, or your (3rd) wife, or your half a dozen redneck kids who all have different daddies. I DO NOT FUCKING CARE.

Which is why I hate November social networking.

Yeah, okay, so I've had a few blogs over the years near Thanksgiving that listed things for which I was thankful. But you know what? IT'S MY FUCKING BLOG AND I CAN DO WHAT I WANT. Plus, my lists are interesting. They are not full of sweet, cuddly crap like kids and Jesus. We all know that Jesus doesn't like me-- he's just waiting on a killer moment to strike me down (no pun intended) so why would I start spouting religion come November? I WOULDN'T.

So, as the antithesis of all the pansy-assed, bullshit FB statuses my pansy-assed, bullshit "friends" keep throwing up every FUCKING DAY, here is the Thanksgiving Blog, come early this year.

SHIT FOR WHICH I AM THANKFUL:

1. Nutjobs I know: So I have this friend Mia, whom I met when I first moved to Suffolk. She was in this Mom's Group that I toyed with joining, before I realized that I'd rather slit my own throat and bleed out in the desert, letting a pack of wild jackals tear apart my bloody body than join a Mom's group. Mia and I kept up a bit via email and FB for a bit, before she kind of disappeared. And then, last week, she reappeared in my Inbox, to tell me that she was still around and thinking of me, though her family had moved to Newport News. Oh, and one more thing-- She's "no longer a Christian, but became a psychic... lol" WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT EVEN MEAN? AND WHY ARE YOU LOLing? You can't just BECOME a psychic. And are Christians and psychics mutually exclusive (really, I'm asking, because I DO NOT KNOW)? But the important thing is what I gleaned from this whole situation-- I attract awesome (crazy) people.

2. My period. It was late this month. I'm NEVER late-- unless I am knocked the fuck up. And do you know what I would DO if I was knocked up (despite my tubal ligation)? I've covered this with you people before-- I would go to a bridge, slit my damn wrists, chug a gallon of bleach, and shoot myself in the head so that I would fall, backwards, over the bridge. BECAUSE I DO NOT WANT ANOTHER BABY. EVER. Babies are hard and frustrating and cannot discuss literature with me. They projectile vomit and explosively poop and CRY ALL THE DAMN TIME. Sure, they smell okay (sometimes) and are fun to dress, but I've got two, which is MORE THAN ENOUGH. I'm done (Mom, I hope you are reading this-- DONE AS HELL). Thank God I got my period yesterday.

3. Mad Madame Mimipants is my porky Yorkie whom I have had for eleven years. She does not come when called. She usually doesn't remember what "sit" means, and it took her two years to learn to do it in the first place. She is fat and lazy and spends more time snoring or looking at me with disdain than she does anything else. I can't get comfortable at night because she MUST sleep between my legs, which often means that I can't get comfortable. AND I ADORE HER. Maybe it's the excessive bitchiness and total disregard for authority. All I know, is that I am thankful to have my Mims. When B and I lived together but were not yet a couple, every time she got mad at him she would go to his room, climb up in the middle of his bed, and pee in it. I LOVE THE MIMS.

4. Dr. Skansi is a hyperactive, Croatian pediatrician who decided to start dabbling in psychiatrics. Somehow or another, she became my psychiatrist. She is crazy as all hell, and I adore her. We all know that I do not like people to touch me, and Dr. Skansi is well aware of this. Yet every time I visit her she grabs me and hugs me until I tell her to get off me. She tells me tales about Croatia, her children, and how all my problems would be solved if I put my children in daycare and pursued a career for myself, relegating them to second place. She has a valid fucking point. But, alas, I do not take direction well. The point is, Skansi and I have become buddies, and when I found out that she had no plans for Christmas, I invited her to my house for the holiday. WHY WOULD I INVITE MY PSYCHIATRIST TO A HOUSE FULL OF MY CRAZY-AS-FUCK FAMILY? Because I'm awesome. Do you know how FUN that would be? IT WOULD BE AWESOME. I hope she comes. I see institutionalization in the future for at LEAST two family members (myself not included).

5. B and I got a new mattress a few weeks ago. It replaced my twelve year old Serta pillowtop, which had seen better days (and worse husbands). This time we decided to invest in the highly touted memory foam shit in hopes it would help us both to sleep better, although I think we would both sleep better if B would just STAY ON HIS OWN FUCKING SIDE OF THE BED AND STOP SPOONING ME BECAUSE I GET OVERHEATED WHEN SOMEONE WRAPS AROUND ME LIKE AN OCTOPUS AND ANNOYED WHEN THEY ARE CONSTANTLY PUSHING MY HAIR OUT OF THEIR FACE AND I AM TRYING TO SLEEP. But, anyway. So we did our research and found our bed, purchased said bed and had it delivered and IT IS WONDERFUL. It's high and fluffy, and like sleeping on a cloud. I have no idea when he gets up to pee, he has no idea when I get up to wander the house and watch "Dexter" in the middle of the night, and everybody feels good come morning. I love my bed. If I wasn't a neurotic Gemini who can't sit still, I would lie in my bed all day, reading books and learning fluent Italian (not just "get-by" Italian) and eating bon-bons. Additionally, except for Hot Yard Man and that sailor I picked up last weekend in Portsmouth, B and I are the only ones who have ever slept in said bed. It makes it special. High five for new beds.

6. Amazon Prime is a lovely thing. I love books. Amazon has books. With Amazon Prime, you get free expedited shipping, which I also love. With a student account like B's William and Mary account (being a student and all) you are able to get Amazon Prime for a year for free. Our year just ended, but I must say, Amazon Prime and I made some lovely memories during that year. I miss that free expedited shipping. (On the bright side, now I must order at least $25 worth of books to get free shipping, so I often have to find "something else" to add to my order, which is never a bad thing.)

7. In the blink of an eye, we are gone. Gone from earth, from daily interactions in each others' lives, from our jobs, our communities, whatever. I have especially learned this during the past three years-- I lost my Dad when he died, I lost my E when she moved, I lost my friend Wilcox when he made a choice. What I am grateful for is resilience. Since losing Dad I have cried and starved and suffered and railed. Losing E has been more about a forlorn need for the close companionship of someone who isn't within reach. Wilcox was a piece of my heart, broken and gone. But the point is, I'm still here. I'm alive, and breathing, and laughing and dancing and swearing and living every single day. Sometimes it takes work. Sometimes it is fueled by fury or obstinance, but it still moves onward. I still keep going.

So, you see, I AM grateful. I may be complicated and frustrated and an array of other things at any given time, but I am grateful. I love my B. I love my kids. I love my home and my friends and my books and my awesome ability to keep on keepin' on (as my Daddy would have said). I am thankful to still have my Mom and my awesome brother and his wife. I have lost a Mo, but still have a Mims. I have burnt to the ground in grief and risen from the ashes.

I am grateful to be a Phoenix.

Poe-ster child

2011-11-03T09:25:00.005-04:00

Last weekend, B and I dashed away for a quick adult weekend in Richmond. We had not been back to the city since we moved to the coastal area, so since we were limited on time (and babysitters), we decided that we would just take the hour and a half jaunt instead of traveling further, mostly to return to our old haunts, eat at our old favorite restaurants (including the best Thai food EVAH at Mom Siam's) and just relax a bit and enjoy the company of one another. (Yes, we are THAT FUCKING FUN.) The weather forecast was a mess, calling for cloudy skies and a wintry mix, which made it sound all the more appealing-- time to snuggle up in a nice hotel, read, and drink lots of good red wine.

Which we did. The hotel was lovely, and on the 15th floor we had an amazing view of the city and the old Train Station and such. We ate our favorite Thai, but also found an AMAZING little upscale, authentic Italian restaurant in Shockoe Bottom for a romantic and delicious dinner. I was able to wander aimlessly through Crate & Barrel for over an hour (one of my favorite stores, and one that we do not have in Hampton Roads) with NO KIDS and no stress. We held hands and drank wine and slept late. It was lovely.

But now we're going to get to the part of the blog that really matters: THE CRAZY SHIT. We all knew that was coming, right? Right.

I'm putting it in list form because I have to go get my teeth cleaned in a little while and don't feel like diverting my energy from stressing over seeing a new dentist at a new office and putting what I have to say into melodious prose. Sorry, bitches.

THE CRAZY SHIT THAT HAPPENED IN RICHMOND AND ALSO SOME CRAZY SHIT THAT HAS HAPPENED SINCE THEN, ALTHOUGH NOT IN RICHMOND, RATHER HAMPTON ROADS, BUT JUST BECAUSE I FEEL LIKE EXORCISING THE CRAZY SHIT FROM MY MENTAL WRITING CACHE ALL AT ONCE AND BECAUSE THIS IS MY GODDAMN BLOG I WILL WRITE ABOUT IT BECAUSE, AS I JUST SAID, THIS IS MY GODDAMN BLOG.

1. Weird Fetish Shit~ So, B and I, while driving around on Broad looking for something interesting to do, decided to stop in at Priscilla's. (For all you holy and naive folk, Priscilla's is a sex shop.) We like to go in and make fun of the adult movie titles, as well as start our Christmas shopping for all the prudes in the family, as fucking with people is pretty much our main source of entertainment. Anyway, there we go into Priscilla's. Of course, being the week before Halloween, there are whore mannequins galore, wearing all forms of glittered, nipple-cut-out, crotchless mesh and whatnot, along with signs emphasizing that customers SHOULD NOT TOUCH! (You can't help but wonder how many times the employees have had to call the police on creepy mannequin-fetish perverts who come in and start humping the faux females. Well, at least I wonder that. Maybe nobody else does.) So we're meandering through the store, marveling at the merchandise when all of a sudden we see something that is STRAIGHT UP SO FUCKING AWESOME IT'S ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE TO BELIEVE. Seriously. SERIOUSLY. What is it? What, what, what? An old lady, probably 70's, on a motorized scooter, perusing the hardcore porn with her Hispanic midget probably 40-ish-year-old boyfriend.

I swear I am not joking. I swear.

NO FUCKING KIDDING. YOU READ THAT RIGHT. I'll repeat it anyway for you.

A 75 YEAR OLD WOMAN ON A LITTLE JAZZY SCOUTING PORN WITH HER MIDGET MEXICAN.

Enough said.

2. On Saturday morning, after breakfast, B and I decided to walk the seven or eight blocks to one of my favorite places in Richmond-- The Edgar Allan Poe Museum. I love Poe. He was dark and creepy and crazy as all hell, which, if you take away the "dark" part, is pretty much JUST LIKE ME. I've been through the museum a million times, but I just wanted to hit the lobby, which doubles as the gift shop, and see if they had a Poe Wineglass, because I already have a Poe coffee mug, t-shirt, bobble head, and action figure, so what else could possibly make my life complete but a Poe Wineglass? NOTHING, BITCHES. Because, again, it was Halloween weekend and because Richmond is a city packed full of creepy nerds (like myself) the Poe Museum was hopping. The lobby/gift shop is in a teeny tiny brick house that was built in the 1700's, and is roughly the size of my walk-in closet, so with me and B and the eight or nine other people in there, I felt like I was in a musty, highly macabre sardine can. After we had been there for a few minutes, I was smashed against the wall, checking out the Poe finger puppets and wondering how I might incorporate them into my daily life when I heard a woman behind me talking to a cooing baby. I turned around to check out said baby and try to scare it with a bloody, corpse-like Poe puppet, and to high five the woman on starting her kid on Poe early, only to get an eyeful of nipple--two of them to be exact. This twenty-something, velvet-shirted, vintage hat-wearing hippie chick had her (likely hand crocheted by somebody else in her Love Commune) sweater hiked up around her neck, no bra in sight, and both rather large and swingy, leaky, milk-swollen boobs on display for Poe, God, and all the world to see. It was traumatic for me, to say the least. Now, I am not opposed to women breast feeding in public or anywhere else. I think it would actually be extremely convenient to be able to have kid-food on tap, and I'm all about some convenience. Hell, I'd probably be all over that shit if it worked for grown people too as B is ALWAYS hungry. I am also not opposed to seeing boobs, because I think boobs are great and if somebody has pretty boobs, hell, yes, I want to see them. I might even want to touch them. But THESE boobs? FUCK NO. And CLOSE ENOUGH SO THAT I COULD HAVE HAD A SNACK FROM THEM MYSELF? Once again, fuck no. And before any of you earth mommas out there give me any shit, I'd like to remind you yet again that THIS IS MY FUCKING BLOG. DEAL WITH IT, BITCHES. I DO NOT WANT TO BE EXPOSED TO YOUR LARGE SAGGY BREASTS FIVE INCHES FROM MY FACE WHEN I AM IN THE GODDAMN POE MUSEUM. So there.

3. My husband knows everybody. He just does. He's friendly and social and has probably had a beer at some point with your cousin's sister's neighbor's former co-worker's mailman, because, well, that's just B. (Please note how unlike me this is, as I still do not know all the names of my next door neighbors after nearly four years in our current home.) So it shouldn't have surprised me one bit when we were sitting at a nice, romantic, late dinner at La Grotta's on Saturday evening when a waiter brought our wine and when he walked away B said, "Hey. I know him." OF COURSE YOU DO. *sigh* AND OF COURSE YOU WILL REMEMBER HIS NAME, ALTHOUGH YOU MET HIM IN A GODDAMN BAR IN OHIO SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO AFTER YOU WERE ALREADY SIX BEERS IN AND FOUND OUT THAT YOU HAD SCREWED THE SAME LESBIAN AFTER TAKING ECSTASY AT A 311 CONCERT. Okay, so not really. But B DID know him. And he DID remember his name (Zack). Apparently about TWO years ago, B had stopped at a sushi restaurant in Suffolk for takeout and had randomly started talking to one of the guys there who was now waiting tables in a random restaurant in a random city that had nothing to do with where they had met or why we were there. BECAUSE THAT'S THE MAN I MARRIED AND HOW HE FUCKING ROLLS.

4. The hotel that we stayed in in Richmond was beautiful. It was old-Richmond charm with all the modern conveniences (because we all know if the sheets aren't at least 800 thread count, Haley is NOT HAPPY). The one downside was that, in nineteen floors of pampered bliss, we got the CRAZY ASS NEIGHBORS. BOTH NIGHTS. We were staying in the next-to-last room in the hallway, with a room on either side of us. One room was quiet both nights. The other was not. On Friday night, we spent the evening listening to some sort of Asian themed 1940's (ukulele and flute, perhaps?) music. All one could imagine while hearing this music was a Geisha girl, teetering around on tiny little bound feet, serving hot tea to her Johns before she sexed them up, Singapore style. (Yes, I do realize I'm mixing a lot of countries here. Suck it.) While this made for some interesting mental imagery, it also got kind of annoying after a bit. Luckily, large doses of sleeping pills can drown out anything.

OR SO I THOUGHT.

Until Saturday night, when the same room boasted occupants that were hands-down two of the most annoying people I have ever met (even worse than you, Mom). A man and a woman, and their stupid-ass baby, who made more fucking noise than any three human beings should be allowed to make. The woman made moronic baby talk and baby-attention-getting shrieks every ninety seconds or so, and the man was a FUCKING IDIOT (I'm basing this on the very clear conversations I heard between them) who sang "Big Girls Don't Cry" ALL THE WAY THROUGH every goddamn time the baby made a peep. And that baby? She busted through my Trazodone haze at 5am and is lucky I didn't go down the hall, kick the door down, and duct-tape her 10-month-old-mouth shut. (I know how old she was because I saw them the next morning as they were leaving the room, gave them the evil eye, and said, "How old is that baby?") Anyway, after a solid chunk of time listening to all this bullshit, I decided to retaliate in the best way I knew how (being a parent and all). I moaned. I screamed. I thrashed about and made sure the neighbors could hear every second of ecstasy. Because every seasoned parent knows they won't have sex again for approximately the next four years, except for the one 3-minute hookup they'll have to create another noisy mini-monster, and it sure as hell won't involve any ecstasy.

5. At this point, I haven't even gotten to the "Back Home Shit." Guess that will have to wait for another blog. And I can do that because THIS IS MY GODDAMN BLOG.

Good Mommy, Bad Mommy

2011-10-28T11:13:00.004-04:00

One afternoon last week as I was leaving the gym, I was struck with an excruciatingly bad headache. Not some dull aching, but full-on, God awful, shooting pains of HOLY HELL RIPPING THROUGH MY SKULL. Suspecting I was likely having an aneurysm and would die alone in the Xterra, soaked in sweat and without makeup, where I would bake in the heat until someone discovered me, two days later, reeking of perspiration and decomposition, I sent a quick email to B indicating that I was dying and to look for me at the gym. Then, I reached into my purse, fished around searching for Advil, popped open a bottle and swallowed the last two pills I came across.

A few minutes later, though my head was still hurting like a motherfucker, I realized that I probably wouldn't die before I got home, so I peeled out for the house. (Logically, if you die in your driveway you are much more likely to be discovered quickly, thus smelling up the car less and subtracting from the Dead Haley Depreciation acquired by said car.) I got home, showered, dressed, grabbed the kids at school, and headed to the grocery store.

Now, visiting the grocery store is NOT one of my favorite forays into public. I do not like people. I do not like to touch things other people have touched. Handling a shopping cart makes my practically non-existent gag reflex (yes, B is a lucky man) go into overdrive when I think about all the germy, disgusting people who have touched it before me. No, it DOES NOT HELP that they provide Clorox wipes to clean the handle with before you touch it. People are ALL KINDS OF NASTY. Using a damn wipe is not enough to remove the potential nose-picking, ass wiping, naughty-part touching, vile swill of humanity that befalls those carts. IT IS FUCKING NOT. Trust me.

BUT, I needed groceries, lest my children starve and I be jailed for abuse and neglect (although, frankly, since Casey Anthony was acquitted I feel fairly confident that I could staple the minions together, throw their asses in the linen closet, and let them survive on bread crusts and Kool-Aid for months and still get away with it) so we headed to the store. Once we parked and got inside, I grabbed a shopping cart and headed in with the minis, thinking about eggs and frozen chicken breasts and whether or not I needed yogurt.

We meandered through the store. This, alone, should have been a red flag. I DON'T FUCKING MEANDER. I haul ass at all times. I am fast, and I am efficient. I am a well oiled machine of EVERYTHING (except geometric proofs-- those take me a while) especially grocery shopping, at which I am a GODDAMN GROCERY SHOPPING MASTER. This is what happens when you have kids-- you learn to get in, grocery shop at a breakneck pace, and get the fuck out before you kill someone, or cave and buy tons of shit just to shut up the offspring. However, this time, I MEANDERED. I looked at things. I read various labels. I zoned out in the cereal aisle for about twenty minutes, recalling days of my childhood (pre-diabetes) that were laced with Cocoa Puffs and a Poptart haze, which then led to a vast recall of various Smurfs and Muppet Babies episodes that I had watched with my brother on Saturday mornings. The kids begged for stupid sugary shit every six feet or so, but I sweetly turned them down, making wise Mommy choices. I never became angry. I never got frustrated.

Once we reached the produce aisle, we decided to look for pumpkins so that we could carve them on Halloween. For over half an hour, I hoisted pumpkins out of a bin that was as tall as I was, lining them up and helping the kids decide which pumpkins were the best. When they changed their minds halfway to the checkout line, I laughed and took them back to the bin, where we compared pumpkins for another ten minutes or so. We were giggly and sweet, and I thought repeatedly, "I LOVE being a Mom! This is so awesome."

And then I realized-- HOLY FUCK. I'M HIGH.

Yep. You heard me. As my mother would say, "High as a kite," (or, in Haley speak "FUCKING HIGH AS A GODDAMN KITE).

Remember those "Advil" I popped at the gym? Yeah. Not Advil. SO not Advil. Hydrocodone. Leftover Dad-strength, cancer pain fighting Hydrocodone that I had swiped after he passed away and stashed into my purse for cramps or migraines or really shitty parenting days (don't push me-- this is a totally valid reason to take drugs). And I didn't take the ONE that was prescribed for Dad. I took TWO. No wonder I felt so warm and happy and fuzzy around the edges. And the sad thing? IT WAS FABULOUS. Probably my best Mommy Day ever (at least, until I realized that those were my last two Hydrocodone and that, unless I purposefully snapped a bone on my way out of the store, my Happy Haze was permanently over).

Ironically, this week is Red Ribbon Week at the kids' school. They keep telling me how DRUGS ARE BAD. What the fuck ever. I'm thinking of jumping off the roof just to score some more. Or at the very least, make a run to Portsmouth where I'm pretty sure I could score just about anything on just about any corner. For now I'll keep that to myself, but you can be damn sure that when my KIDS have kids, I'll be encouraging them to build their own damn meth lab.

Whatever it takes to get by.

We're All Special

2011-10-17T18:25:00.002-04:00

Ever since Sutton started kindergarten back in September, he has been coming home telling me about his friend, whom we will call "E." According to Sutt, E is awesome because he has a "little hand," with "these [indicating four] fingers stuck together", and "it's awesome" and SUTT "wants a little hand too because it's cool!"

Jump ahead to my first stint volunteering in Sutt's class.

I'm at the school. I'm sober. I'm wearing mascara and a shirt that doesn't show too much cleavage or have swear words on the front. I'm assisting children with their work and calling them "Sweetie" and "Honey" and "Darlin." I'm (begrudgingly) smiling. I'm SUPER-FUCKING-MOM (of course). And I'm also looking for this kid, E, to see what's up, as I'm sure he's just a regular kid with some weird webby fingers that make my kid jealous for the creepy side of life. But as I cut out construction paper apples and grade papers and help the minions take reading tests, I realize that there is no E and there is no weird hand.

What. The. Fuck?

I spend the next half hour wondering if Sutt has an imaginary friend. Does he have mental health issues? Did he inherit them from me? Should I get him a psychiatrist? Or a priest? Is this because one time when I was pregnant I had half a glass of wine and then cried for two hours because B wouldn't let me have more? Before long, I had myself pretty wound up. (Side note: It doesn't take much to wind me up. I get crazy and frantic at least 200 times a day, over random things like when the mail might come or if I accidentally packed Cheez-Its as Sutt's snack because I was talking on the phone when I packed snack but Sutt DOESN'T LIKE CHEEZ-ITS so DEAR JESUS what the HELL am I going to do if he's SNACKLESS?)

Until we went to lunch. I had promised Sutton that I would go to the cafeteria and sit with him while he ate lunch (because God knows I'm not eating that swill they serve in the cafeteria, and I'm not packing my lunch like I do for the kids because I LIKE LIQUID LUNCH. And, much like firearms and farm animals, vodka is not allowed in the cafeteria). We sat down and Sutt meandered into his Thermos of mac and cheese while I chatted up his classmates and counted down the minutes until I could get the HELL outta that sideshow, quit being so goddamn nice, and say "fuck" in a conversation without getting sent to the office. But as we were sitting there, Sutt started to shout, "Hey! There's my friend [E]! The guy with the cool hand! Hey, [E]! How are you today? This is my Mommy!" He was jumping up and down in his seat and pointing behind me, so I turned around. I wanted to see this kid E, and introduce myself as Sutt's Mom-- maybe instigate a playdate. And, for the first time, I saw E. E was not what I had expected. Not at all. E was in the Special Education class. E was severely physically and mentally handicapped. He had to have a special teacher JUST FOR HIM.

I realized then what I had been told early on but had forgotten-- my son was in the Inclusion Class for kindergarten, which meant that some of the kids in the class were more challenged than others, and that once a day for about an hour severely challenged kids were brought to the class also, if only to listen to a story or be around the "normal" kids. E was one of those kids, and frankly, his "little hand" with which Sutt was so enamored was likely the least of his problems. But Sutton hadn't even noticed that, he only knew that E was cool. Why? Because E liked to poke him "in the eyes to tell me where my eyes are!" and because his "little hand is like Nemo's!" Sutt realized that this kid wasn't broken, he was special. And that made me realize how special MY kid was. Sutt, my gifted, perfect, whip-smart little guy didn't notice E's weaknesses, he noticed his awesomeness. He wanted to BE LIKE E. And that made me think.

Yeah, a lot of us are fucked up. Some of us are way more fucked up than others (as I bow to my followers). But we're all people. We're intrinsically all the same (even if we live in a trailer with a meth lab and have been engaged to our cousin-- this is a shout out to my TN relatives). Sutt doesn't see the black and white, the odd, the different. He just sees a kid with a cool hand. He just sees another kid he would like to play with, and introduce to his Mommy. That makes me happy.

Maybe we should all be a little more like Sutt.

Square Peg, Round Hole

2011-10-06T11:42:00.002-04:00

This morning, as I was perusing the Bizarre News Headlines of the World (because who wants to read about wars, politics, and the economy when one can read about CRAZY RANDOM SHIT?) and I stumbled across an article from Europe, about an Irish woman who is suing her husband for misrepresenting the size of his penis. According to the Irish lass, she and her beau chose to refrain from sexual contact beyond kissing throughout their courtship, focusing on how wonderful their wedding night would be after all of the anticipation leading up to it. Mr. Irishman talked a big game during this time (literally) as he rhapsodized to his lady love about how he was going to rock her world with his ginormous Irish shlong. He was hung like a stallion and he knew how to use it. Or so he said. Turns out, when their wedding night rolled around and he whipped out his junk for his blushing bride, she was more than a little disappointed. As a matter of fact, she had their marriage annulled, citing fraud (it also helped that it had not been consummated).

High five, Irish Chick. You Go Girl.

Said article immediately sparked my curiosity. You hear the old stereotypes-- Asian men have tiny dicks, black men are hung, blah blah blah (although, for the record, I have found this to be true, though it is based solely on television, movies, and porn)-- but you (at least, I) never hear anything about European penises in general. Clearly, I needed to do some research.

Several million websites and photographs (so many uncircumcised penises!) later, both medical and official, and personal and trashy, I had gleaned the following:

1. Of European men, Irishmen have the smallest genitalia. However, they either don't realize it, or just try to overcompensate for their small size by bragging big. Condensed version: Small dicks, big egos.

2. Of European men, Italian men (Western Europe) and Russian men (Eastern Europe-- and yes, I know Russia doesn't exist any longer-- suck it, bitches. This isn't a goddamn history lesson) have the biggest, but brag the least. Condensed version: Big dicks, small egos. (For the record, Italian men supposedly flaunt their prowess and skills in the boudoir, even though they don't have much to say about size. Irishmen will straight up tell you they have no skills when it comes to foreplay, but their giant penises (that don't exist) make up for it. Whatever.)

You are asking now, "What is the point of all this, Oh Great And Awesome Haley?" Well, I shall tell you. It's not penises. I only told you all that shit because I figured if I spent all that time researching worldwide penis size I might as well DO something with it (like educate you guys). The POINT is, that Irish Chick who sued her under-endowed husband is clearly not your average woman. And I love that.

Life, to me, if often so damn BORING. Everybody I meet is the same. WHY WHY WHY be like everyone else when we don't have to be? I wonder that a lot-- do all these people really TRY to be so fucking dull, or are they ACTUALLY that way? That's why I love the Bizarre News. It's about my PEOPLE, y'all. Where the FUCK are the rest of you?

Last week I was checking in at the gym and a woman came in behind me carrying a box fan. She had her workout gear on, her ponytail, her water bottle. And her big-ass box fan. I didn't think THAT much about it until I watched her go upstairs to the cardio area, plug in her fan, aim it at the treadmill, and start power walking. WHAT THE FUCK? The gym is not hot. The gym has fans aimed down from the ceiling in addition to the air conditioning. And this fan was big as hell. Most people would have just bitched and moaned to their friends or themselves if they were hot at the gym. But this bitch-- she BROUGHT HER OWN DAMN FAN. People looked at her like she was a lunatic, including the staff and trainers. But I got the impression that she didn't fucking care. High five, Gym Lady. I applaud you.

So now, my friends, I encourage you to go out into the world and be somebody interesting. Don't use your filter. Divorce your husband and his small dick. Wear your hot pink Converse with the stars on them when you are 34 years old, and don't even match them to your clothes. Take your damn box fan to the gym. Teach your kids to mix a martini. Most of all, be yourself. If you're boring and you suck when you're being yourself, at least you are still being what you really are. And that, my friends, I applaud as well.

The Tuesday Rundown

2011-09-27T17:43:00.003-04:00

It's Tuesday, which means that all hell breaks loose in Haley's World. For most, the fact that this happens once a week would be overwhelming. For me, well, it's just the norm. Here is neat little outline of how today has gone for your favorite blogger.

1. Got up. Had huge fight with daughter over appropriate footwear. Was accused of always "making her wear those same shoes!" even though she has only owned them for four days and they are her FAVORITE (her words, not mine) shoes. Mentioned that she has only worn them twice EVER and that I don't give a DAMN (I try not to say "fuck" directly TO the kids, only AROUND them) what kind of shoes she wears EVER AGAIN. OR CLOTHES. OR ANYTHING. She pouts. I pout. Kids go to school.

2. I race, late and with shower-wet hair, to yoga. Get there late. Find myself crammed into yoga class between an old Asian woman who needs Beano and overweight real estate agent who breathes louder than Darth Vader. Reconsider attending yoga for stress relief. Suffer through an hour of air pollution and Star Wars flashbacks. Do not find my Zen. Rush out to head to Wal-Mart.

3. Purchase Poster board at Wal-Mart (for Belly's school project). It is not lavender. She specifically demanded lavender. I think, "Suck it, you spoiled little heathen." Poster board catches wind in parking lot and blows away. While chasing it, I accidentally hit the fucking button on my keys and set off my car alarm. Catch poster board. It's dirty and bent. Fuck it. Locate car. Kill alarm.

4. Run to Pier One to pick up beads/glass leafs for my fall table centerpiece. Dash in. Dash out. Crash into "In" door while trying to get "out" and develop a mark on my forehead.

5. Get home only to realize that I didn't pick up glass leaves, but glass acorns. I DIDN'T KNOW THEY HAD TWO DIFFERENT KINDS OF BEADS IN THE BOXES. FUCK. I hate acorns. Gather up library books to return on way home. Go back to Pier One.

6. Switch FUCKING ACORNS FOR FUCKING LEAVES, while babbling to sales clerk who also had not realized there were two different kinds. Dash out to get to library so that I can make it home in time for the bus.

7. Get to library. Set off car alarm again (accidentally-- note: this usually happens once a year, not twice in one day). Stop fucking alarm and start gathering books only to realize that I only brought half-- my half, leaving Belly's books-to-be-returned at home. Roll eyes, swear, return books.

8. Check with librarian regarding book that is supposed to be held for me. Am told that book was released to someone else (accidentally) and it will never happen again. Tell them "that's what I thought the FIRST damn time I set off my car alarm today." Leave. Tired.

9. Get home. Clean. Walk dogs. Drink vodka. Greet children. Help children with homework. Drink more vodka.

10. Decide to lie down as vodka has made me sleepy. Just as I lie down, Minion #1 comes in screaming, "There's a snake in the driveway!"

*Side note: For any new readers. I FUCKING HATE SNAKES. I'm not scared of spiders, I'm not scared of ghosts or murderers or hurricanes. The thought of a goddamn snake, however, can send me into Code Red Freakout Mode.

11. Go outside. See snake. Notice that snake is heading INTO MY FUCKING GARAGE. Have mental image of going into garage to take out recycling and being attacked by evil, hiding snake that curls its way around me and smothers me to death next to my deceased Father's airplane as I croak, "B, save me!" only to realize that B is at work or school, as usual. Momentarily black out. Pull my shit together. Grow some balls. Grab shovel. Charge at snake. Decapitate snake.

*Second side note: This is a HUGE FUCKING MILESTONE FOR HALEY.

12. Come inside. High-five self for killing evil (most likely garter) snake and disposing of its writhing, creepy dead body.

13. Open wine. Start drinking wine. Quickly.

And here we are.

In other news, today is my Grandma's birthday. She's 86.

Happy Tuesday.

Have My Cake And Eat It Too

2011-09-26T18:46:00.004-04:00

This past Sunday was my Father-in-Law's 64th birthday. Per our yearly tradition, the family was invited over to the in-laws' house for lunch following church, and, like any good guest, I asked what I could bring. I expected my Mother-in-Law to say "a bottle of wine" (because, frankly, everybody knows that we drink a lot) or, at worst, "some kind of salad."

It turns out I underestimated the MIL.

Badly.

She asked me to bring the cake. The goddamned cake.

Now, everybody knows you don't ask ME to bring the cake. The cake is the centerpiece of any birthday. Everyone looks at it and forward to it and gets excited about it. Hell, most people set it on fire and sing a damn SONG about it, for Christ's sake. It's THE CAKE. I can't be in charge of THE CAKE. My reputation for fucking up shit is known near and far, especially important shit. Especially SHIT LIKES CAKES. ESPECIALLY SHIT LIKE BIRTHDAY CAKES FOR MY FATHER-IN-LAW WHO IS WAAAAAAAAAY FANCIER THAN I AM AND WHO STILL HASSLES ME ABOUT A POT OF MEATBALLS I FUCKED UP SEVEN YEARS AGO BECAUSE MY BITCH-ASS MOTHER GAVE ME SHITTY MEATBALL-MAKING DIRECTIONS.

Motherfuck.

Now, I will mention two additional things: 1) My Mother-in-Law makes EVERY FUCKING THING INCLUDING ALL CAKES from scratch and they are always PERFECT and ungodly delicious and; 2) My Mother-in-Law suggested in the email she sent asking me to bring the cake that perhaps I should just order one from Farm Fresh and bring it, no big deal.

What EVER. Like that's ever going to happen.

You see, the one thing I have learned over the years, as I grew and became more wise and awesome is that your must treat parents like you treat small children. You can't just give them what they ask for whenever they ask for it and expect them to grow into what you want them to be. Oh, no. You must MOLD them into the kind of citizens this world really needs (i.e. more like me). Which means that you can't just run up to Farm Fresh and drop $20 on some generic, standard (but delicious) run-of-the-mill cake. Oh, no. My FIL is 64. Who knows how many more birthdays Philosaurus will have-- he deserves the very best. Particularly because my in-laws DO treat me really well, and have worked hard to acclimate to my crazy. I love them dearly. So there was no way in hell Phil was going to get a dull cake.

No, Phil was going to get a Haley Cake Extraordinaire.

I decided to start with some hand-me-down cake pans from my Grandma that I found in her basement about ten years ago and that she had had since the 1940s. I suspect they were supposed to be used for wedding cakes, as there were four of them and they were round and tiered. Not that Grandmama had ever baked a damn thing other than Breakfast Casserole once a year and Weight Watcher muffins, but, whatever. They were cool pans. Because Phil is so awesome, I knew that his cake needed to be layered, and a variety of flavors. Because I also knew that my ingredients were limited and that I was too lazy to go to the store, I knew I needed to tone that idea down a bit, so we ended up with two chocolate and two vanilla layers (alternated, of course). Once I had the cake baked, I used approximately 42 boxes of confectioner's sugar, half a bottle of vanilla, a gallon of milk, a pound of butter, and a bottle of Shiraz (to help inspire decorating ideas) to make homemade frosting. (Side note: I was going to make my friend EB's yummy cream cheese frosting, but I realized--luckily before I added the cream cheese to the batter--that the cream cheese had likely gone bad during the three days we had no power during the hurricane, but that I had neglected to throw it away. I was saving it for hard times. That's what happens when you grow up in Tennessee-- you hoard spoiled cream cheese.) I broke out the electric mixer, and mixed away.

By this time, I had powdered sugar in my hair and down the front of my clothes. It was also probably in my wine, but frankly, I wouldn't have been able to tell if it was. Now armed with four layers of cake and a ginormous bowl of vanilla frosting, I considered my options. And considered them. And thought some more. What I WANTED, was a Jesus. You know, one of those Jesus action figures you see in some stores. I could frost the layers in green, put Jesus up on top looking all holy and shit-- it would be AWESOME. My FIL LOVES Jesus-- and I wanted to make a cake that reflected something he loved. But I had no Jesus. And since I didn't know how to create an interior decorating cake (his other passion), and had no Jesus to park atop my baked goods mountain, I did the next best thing. I decorated by association.

The equation:

Sutt loves Star Wars. Pops loves Sutt. Therefore, logically, in an extended sense, Pops loves Star Wars. (Hey, it made sense after three glasses of wine. As a matter of fact, it not only made sense, but I felt like a FUCKING MATHEMATICAL GENIUS.)

A Star Wars Cake it would be.

So I snuck into Sutt's room and rounded up all the Star Wars men I could find. There was some monkey dude with a couple of guns, a frog-headed looking guy with guns, Luke Skywalker with a lightsaber, a storm trooper, AND the piece de resistance............an over sized Chewbacca holding what appeared to be a bowstaff.

Now, I have carried these little men around in my purse. I have watched Sutt play with them in the bathtub, on the toilet, in the front yard, and at various nasty, germ-laden establishments all over Hampton Roads. They have dated and married a variety of Barbies and Strawberry Shortcakes, and they occasionally have gone on cross-country roadtrips in the Barbie RV and towing the Batmobile. These men have been around the block. They are carrying all KINDS of the crud. Did that deter me? Nope. I soaped those little bitches up, scrubbed them down a bit, rinsed and started parking them all around the cake.

But wait. Rewind.

Remember that white frosting I made? You can't have a WHITE STAR WARS CAKE. That's insane. I dug around in my spice cabinet looking for coloring options but the only food colorings I could find were red, green, and black. (Side note: No, I do not know why I have black food coloring. Mind your own business.) I threw back some wine, threw in some black, and BAM! Frosting magic.

Back to the Wookie.

I had Chewbacca left once the other men were settled, because I had special plans for that big, hairy fella. Using a steak knife and a lot of drunken determination, I pried the bowstaff from his furry wookie hands and made my own little flag to him to hold, bidding my FIL a happy birthday. I stuck the flag in Chewy's hand, shoved the beast knee-deep in the frosting, threw on some sprinkles and was good to go.

I had made cake magic: a four tiered, slightly tilted, grayish-blackish-frosted, silver-metallic sprinkled cake peppered slightly used Star Wars figures and sporting a giant Wookie brandishing a day-glo yellow Post-It Happy Birthday sign on top, just like an Eastern European color guard girl.

As I said, CAKE FUCKING MAGIC.

When I presented it to my in-laws, I could see the love and joy in their eyes. The respect. The admiration. The gratitude. And the knowledge that I should never, ever be put in charge of the cake.

Next year, they would like me to bring wine.

I'm Bringing Awesome Back

2011-09-21T20:56:00.002-04:00

Tonight I was sitting in bed sorting through some books when I realized that I needed some sugar because my blood sugar was getting low. I had had a salad and a couple of glasses of wine with dinner, and did not really feel like eating anything. On top of not being hungry but needing sugar, I was already feeling grumpy because it was JUST ONE OF THOSE FUCKING DAYS. You know-- the ones where you feel all itchy and uncomfortable in your skin for no damn reason at all. (Yeah, even in my extreme awesomeness, I still have those days too. Makes you feel better about yourself, doesn't it?) SO, I said to B, "Hey, B. I need some sugar and I'm not hungry. Got any ideas?" His response? "You need a cocktail."

And that is why I am still married after all these years.

But that is not the point of this blog.

What IS the point, you ask?

Well, for starters. after several months of mulling things over, I have decided to reestablish the blog. Although it technically never went anywhere, I stopped writing because I had no intention of picking it up again. It was not a break-- I fucking retired. But, as often happens, I have come out of retirement and for the first time in my life, actually have time to write something.

Hooray for you. Now you have something to read.

Secondly, last weekend I reached a monumental milestone in my life: I met an Asian girl that I actually liked. Yes, you heard me. Take a moment to consider that and its impact, then recover. BAM. No, there is not more to this story (except that I was also watching SESAME STREET-- alone, mind you--and watched an Asian girl hip hop dancing to a rap song by Elmo and Oscar and realized that Asians are stereotyped as scientists and computer nerds for a reason, because they sure as hell can't fucking hip hop dance....but, whatever). It's just that everyone knows I have an extreme distaste for Asians, and now I met one I like. Her name is Natsuko, just in case you don't believe me, and she's quite lovely.

Lastly, I've decided to run for office. (Um, no, I'm kidding. I think politicians are idiots, I can't stand big election years, and everyone knows that I would be assassinated within about five minutes of being elected to anything from the HOA Board to Comptroller. Seriously, would you want me running ANY of your shit? No, I didn't think so.

There is no lastly. I just wanted to have a lastly.

I will leave you now, as I am exhausted and have a LOOOONG day ahead of me tomorrow (aka: Mom arrives in Virginia). But fear not, I shall return, promptly....bitches.

Here's To You, Mrs. Robinson

2011-05-27T18:27:00.003-04:00

Yesterday, my baby graduated as part of the Class of 2011. There were royal blue caps and gowns, red, white and blue tassels, visiting relatives, a slide show and pomp and circumstance, all to send him off into the great future that is bearing down upon him. In a word: kindergarten.

Yes. My son graduated from Preschool.

And it is weird.

For eight years I have been in Mommy Realm, where I was only allowed to work as long as it was some type of job that twisted and curved itself somehow into my fucked up Mommy schedule. So I worked from home off and on, did some freelance writing, then this year actually ventured out during the morning hours to a job OUTSIDE my little Bubble of Home, only to rush away each day at lunch so that I could pick up my little guy from school. I had no schedule except THEIR schedule, left to scrape together what I was able from the perimeter of their busy little lives. It was frustrating and irritating and, frankly, pissed me the hell of a great deal of the time. But after eight years of knowing nothing else, I'm left realizing that as I view my Elementary School Parent future in the fall, I'm not exactly sure where to go from here.

THIS is what I was thinking as I watched my great big, five-year-old accept his diploma. (Well, that and "HOLY SHIT. He's the SHORTEST KID IN HIS CLASS! HOW CAN THAT BE? He's nearly a complete year YOUNGER than some of those kids and he's still TINY. I GAVE BIRTH TO A MIDGET!" -- Side note: I saw an African American midget dressed in camouflage at the grocery store today. My weekend HAS BEEN MADE as that was the most interesting thing I've seen in a while. But I digress.)

My kid is big. I am overwhelmed. And so begins the Summer of 2011.

It's (Obviously Not) The End Of The World As We Know It

2011-05-23T17:06:00.002-04:00

On Saturday, I was all set and ready for the Rapture. Now that it's Monday and I'm still here, I'm a little disappointed. Not because I thought that I, personally, would get Raptured (we all know that Jesus wouldn't touch me with a ten-foot pole) but because I thought that at least a FEW other people would, at the very least cutting down the line at Wal-Mart or making it easier to find an unoccupied elliptical machine at the gym. Alas, no go. This afternoon I stood in line for ten minutes to buy a damn avocado, and my kids are still here (they may be hellions, but I'm pretty sure they could still get into Heaven at this point.) I think this solidifies the "Our World Didn't End on Saturday" theory I formulated yesterday. *sigh* What a shame.

In other news, leading up to the Fake Rapture, I had snake drama last week. On Thursday, EB came to pick up her son at my house, only to discover a large serpent on my porch. Not only did he slither up in front of her from the bushes, but he then proceeded to snuggle up on my doorstep. She called me, frantic, telling me "DON'T OPEN THE DOOR." (For the record, if I had been the one making the phone call, it would have gone more like this: "Code RED, Code RED! Don't OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR or ALL HELL IS GONNA BREAK LOOSE when the SATAN SNAKE falls INTO YOUR GODDAMN HOUSE." But EB doesn't have quite the penchant for crude language that I do (though she's seemingly quite tolerant of snakes). Of course, I lost my mind and flung the window open, hoping that the snake wasn't intelligent enough to crawl up the side of the house and loosen the screen from the frame, before entering the kitchen and battling me to the death. We called B and he left work to come home and slay the beast, while we watched it to make sure it stayed nearby (for the record, I stayed locked in the house with a shovel JUST IN CASE-- EB, on the other hand, followed it around the porch and landscaping, photographing its creepy little snake self and commenting on its girth. Her bravery astounds me.) B came home, it attacked (no joke) and he chopped its evil snake head off with my shovel. Praise (no show) Jesus.

Life, otherwise, is pretty standard. Sutt still wants to marry me. (Hey, I AM pretty awesome. I can't say that I blame him.) Belly is obsessed with wearing her hair in a side ponytail (hello, 1980's-- I can't say I'm all that thrilled to see you again). B and some other guys formed a new band (*sigh*). And me....well, I'm just Happy To Be Here (thanks, Robert S).

It's May. It's warm. I'm going to Tennessee next month to see my Mama and my brother and my sis and (maybe, for the first time in several years) my grandma. Things are okay. I have another week and a half to be 33. I have a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and work winds up for the summer on Friday. I'll be on vacation (sans kids!) during my birthday.

At this moment, things are.....good.

Time Is (Not) On My Side

2011-05-13T17:37:00.002-04:00

Life, it seems, is a blur to most people. Days pass. Months, weeks, years. Time trickles through our fingers like water, impossible to hang onto or stop from passing us by. Sometimes for a fleeting moment, I can agree with this theory--particularly when I consider things like how my Dad has nearly been gone two and a half years. TWO AND A HALF YEARS seems beyond impossible. But frankly, most of the time, I'm of the school of thought that thinks time moves slowly and life is long.

I credit this belief to being a mother.

Most mornings, I wake up after three hours of sporadic sleep and many hours wandering the house, reading, and sipping tea and think, "FINALLY." Followed shortly after by, "Will the fucking school bus (dinner, bedtime-- it's really rather fill-in-the-blank here) EVER COME?" This morning I had been awake for approximately seven minutes when, while sitting at the table while Sutt ate his breakfast, half asleep and hating the world, I watched Belly laughingly put her socks on her hands while screeching, "Look at my beautiful gloves!" I mumbled, "You look like you're ready for a tea party at the looney bin." And Sutt replied (still eating), "Isn't that the place where Papa and all the old people live?"

Um, no. That's the Assisted Living Facility. But, whatever. THIS IS WHAT I'M DEALING WITH, PEOPLE.

Every damn day I get older. I probably get more lines on my face and fat cells in my body, and absolutely receive more damage to my brain (courtesy of the minions) and my liver (courtesy of the amount of alcohol required to manage said minions). I realize that I'm supposed to be "making the most" of this shit that is my "youth" (in some circles-- personally, I think I'm rather aged {side note: that is to be pronounced ag-ed, please}) but I'm JUST FUCKING TRYING TO GET BY. Survival is key. I drink. I swear. I wear cute shoes and bathe my kids and kiss my husband and mop my floors and hope my dog is secretly immortal because I LOVE HER and can't imagine life without her. I have friends. I work. Life is good (and long and long and longer, still).

I wonder sometimes if when I'm dying I will think, "What the HELL was wrong with me, to waste all that precious time? To wish it away, to live it like every minute had ten minutes more?" Or if, like I do every morning, I will think, "FINALLY."

One can't help but wonder.

We, as a whole, waste food and money and gasoline and love, anger and frustration and jealousy and hate. But time? Can you really waste time? Or, like your skin, do you have to know it's there for a while and that you have to put forth at least a little effort to protect it, but that there's no true way to appreciate it fully? Because that's kind of how I feel. Because if I didn't, I'd hate myself for living so far away from my Mom, for all the years I lived so far away from my Dad, for the minutes my children are out of my sight, or the days that Blaker is floating away on a ship in the Atlantic. Regardless of how crazy any of them make me, when you think of the time you have with them in measured, certain minutes, it's frightening.

But then, Sutton starts to cry because I won't buy (or catch) him a "wobin" (Robin) a "wizard" (lizard) or a bunny for a pet and I realize that it will always be frightening. Even if I am 100 years old, it will be scary to part with this tangible self of mine. And, life, again, becomes shorter.

And I exhale.

Checking Myself

2011-04-13T18:34:00.003-04:00

Reassessment is something that I do from time to time. Three or four times a year, spurred by a book or an event or a dream, I will step back from my life and think, "What's broken now?" It's a good way for me to rearrange my thoughts and feelings, and to reevaluate my friendships and beliefs. In essence, it's Time To Fix Shit.

This week, I have entered a Reassessment Phase. Though often not particularly comfortable, this is a good thing, something I needed. I have, for the most part, stepped away from life-- taking time out from everything normal. I haven't been to the gym in four days. I have spent less than five minutes on Facebook since Sunday, and that was only to load some new photos of the kids for my Mom. I'm not talking on the phone, really. I'm not watching television. I'm ignoring the world. I score essays. I mother my children. I talk to my husband. I score more essays. I read books, piles and piles of lovely books, and bemoan the birth of the kindle and all it implies about the world. I think. I think a lot. Not worry, there's a difference. Not worry. Just think.

That is where I am right now.

What I've learned about myself is vital, just as important as my blood and bones and soul. Or perhaps it isn't what I've learned so much, as what I've allowed myself to actually FEEL, as opposed to racing through my days and ignoring what ails me until it builds up to the point of explosion. I let myself miss my Dad. My Grandfather. My Carpenter. My E. My Ray. I let myself stay up late and wander the house, reading my Dad's obituary at 2am, or to go to bed at 8pm because I'm too tired and sad to keep my eyes open any longer. I skip lots of meals. I forget what day it is. I just allow myself to be, with no expectations, as best I can. I am hollow and zen.

And I also experience the good things. I lie on the floor with the dogs and just play with them. I take deep inhalations of my children, smelling their lavender shampoo and sweet sweaty smells. I sit on the porch and spend twenty minutes alone looking at a double rainbow, the brightest I've ever seen. I taste my husband's skin. I find joy in our blooming lilacs, a quiet cup of coffee, a message from my Mom.

There is no how and why to my life. It's messy and hard-- messier and harder as I grow older and wiser. In a few days, I'll probably return to the whirlwind that is myself, hopefully with a sunny handful of lessons in my grasp that I will hold close to my heart and keep fresh in my mind. But even if I don't, even if nothing stays with me, at least I have now. At least I have these few sweet moments. And for that, I am thankful.

Perro

2011-04-02T14:19:00.002-04:00

Since Christmas when she received a Nintendo DS from her Yaya, Bellamy has had a virtual pet. Her virtual pet is a light-brown chihuahua with enormous Gizmo-looking ears that requires she walk, feed, and play with him every day. Virtually.

The Chihuahua's name is Steve. After my Dad.

I have chosen these past months to refrain from commenting on Bellamy's choice of names for her Nintendo pet. Specifically, I have held back from saying, "Seriously? SERIOUSLY? You named your goddamn Nintendo CHIHUAHUA (which, by the way, is one of the most fucking ridiculous breed of dogs in existence-- the Chihuahua part, not the Nintendo part) after your beloved, no longer with us GRANDFATHER? ARE YOU ON FUCKING CRACK?" The kid normally names everything some gay-ass girlie name, like Snuggles or Fluffy. This time, however, seemingly out of nowhere, we got "Steve." So in the interest of Positive Parenting, instead of losing my damn mind and verbally assaulting my daughter, I have smiled and watched her put virtual funny hats on Steve, take him to the virtual dog park, and play virtual ball with him. Because I am a good Mom.

It's hard to remember what kind of Mom I have generally been since the birth of the Princess in 2003. When I think of Belly's toddler years, I mostly remember crying a lot and wishing I could die a relatively painless death, immediately. I remember a two-year-old Bellamy slapping me across the face once because she did not want to get undressed and take a bath, and me feeling like my world was ending--what kind of child slaps their mother? I would have never done that. I must have screwed up somewhere to produce a child who would SLAP HER MOTHER. Though I have no memory of it, apparently I slapped her back. (Which normally would make me think-- what kind of mother slaps her child?) I know this because last weekend we watched old home movies for hours, and on one tape Belly was telling her Daddy, in detail, about how she had slapped Mommy that day and Mommy had slapped her back. She seemed relatively unscathed by the incident, though to this day I still feel a bit tender when I think of it, and have obviously blocked parts of it out since I don't remember slapping her back. Or maybe I drank enough to rot that part of my brain. Either way, it's missing.

Whenever B and I take the children anywhere, we get compliments on how well behaved they are. They have good manners (generally). They are high maintenance and precocious, but they are also well versed in how to behave, particularly in public places, and they are nearly always respectful and compliant when others are around. At home, they are rowdier and much louder, but are still good kids. We are lucky to have good kids. Exhausting, frustrating, talkative, frequently-annoying-as-all-hell good kids.

I have high hopes that when the kids hit the middle school and teenage years they choose their own path-- are special and different in whatever way brings them joy. But I hope they stay good kids, on whom I can depend and for whom I can keep my expectations high. I have a hard enough time worrying about them now, when I can keep them in my arms and safe. When they reach the years when there are dates and driver's licenses, not to mention drugs and sex, I may have a tough time not losing my damn mind. It's not like I'm the most stable person, you know.

But for now, we are safe. My minions want to color and cuddle, play Star Wars and Barbies. Going for frozen yogurt is an enormous thrill, and nothing is better than a lazy Saturday afternoon. Or more fun than a virtual dog named Steve.

The Birthday B(oy)

2011-03-30T18:44:00.004-04:00

Today is my husband's birthday. That means it is time to celebrate that he survived another year. I didn't kill him. He didn't kill me. We might have come close a few times (particularly when I was wearing my leather bustier and carrying my whip), but always stopped in the nick of time (and at the safe word). Therefore, I feel if necessary to make a list.

A LIST OF REALLY GOOD REASONS WHY I LOVE B, DESPITE HIS PENCHANT FOR DOING REALLY ANNOYING THINGS LIKE CRITIQUING MY DRIVING AND LEAVING HIS JEANS ON THE BATHROOM COUNTER FOR DAYS AT A TIME UNTIL I GIVE IN AND PICK THEM UP AND WASH THEM, JUST SO THEY ARE NOT LYING THERE IN THE WAY OF ME AND MY MASCARA ANY LONGER BECAUSE WE ALL KNOW THAT I FUCKING HATE TO HAVE SHIT IN MY WAY OR, FRANKLY, OUT OF PLACE IN GENERAL

1. Plane decent~ This past fall, B managed to get my Dad's plane to Virginia. It cost a fucking fortune and it's not completely finished, but it is here, it is dry and safe, and it is ready to be completed. B spent hours of endless worry on this project-- finding transportation, finding a location to keep it once it arrived, getting it here in one piece without any wings or tail pieces getting relocated as it careened through the mountains. He called and emailed and visited and calculated. You get the idea. Many guys would have said balked at the prospect of hauling a full-size Piper SuperCub from Cleveland, Tennessee to Suffolk, Virginia. But not my B. He made it happen. Yes, he did.

2. Bloody Saturday~ On the Saturday after Thanksgiving when Sutton decided to take flight from his scooter right across Bennett's Creek Park Road, it was B who scooped him up and carried him all the way back home again. This was past about seventeen houses, carrying a very bloody, screaming, thirty-seven pound five-year-old. Then he cleaned him up and took him to the ER for stitches. No drama, no worries. He even had me settled down (nobody likes watching their baby bleed-- if you do, you are one sick asshole). He took control. Likewise, yesterday when Sutton fell off the monkey bars at school and landed on his neck, he left work and met me at the pediatrician's office. He may have submarine meetings and important engineering shit going on, but nothing comes before his kid.

3. Except Maybe Me~ One evening, after I had had an especially shitty day filled with especially shitty goings on, B came home from work with the following, all for me: a bottle of my favorite wine, flowers, a trashy celebrity gossip magazine, and a bag full of Lindt's truffles. Another night, I texted him (already drunk-- he knew this) at school and told him I was craving champagne. On his way home from school, he stopped and bought a bottle and brought it to me. A few Fridays ago I was broken-hearted, so he took me for Mexican food because he knows that anything covered in melted cheese is comfort food to me, particularly when served with Dos Equis in a frosted glass. Dude's got my back, yo. Every single time. I'm lucky like that.

4. Hand Job~ One day, not long ago, for reasons I have yet to determine, B decided to wash my car. I do not wash my car. The Xterra is rough and rugged. It likes to go baja and run over shit. It does not like to be clean (on the outside-- inside, it loves clean. Clean is its best friend, inside.) I have washed my car...... maybe twice? Ever. But B washed it. Because he loves me. Why? I don't know. That would be a whole other blog about whole other things. Maybe one day, I'll let B write a WHY I LOVE HALEY blog on my blog site just to mind fuck you all.

5. My Merry Maid~ And the boy cleans too! I'm a super neat freak who loves things to be spic-and-span and shiny all the damn time. I want you to be able to eat off my kitchen floor. I like the laundry folded and put away. I want things to look clean and smell pretty. I crave PERFECTION. Yet this is impossible to reach when you work two jobs and have two kids and two dogs and a husband who thinks that the bar counter in the kitchen is his own personal junk depository. But last Thursday when I came home from the endocrinologist, sad and frustrated because I had been poked and prodded and declared unfit THE HOUSE WAS SPOTLESS. He cleaned. He did the laundry. He made everything in my quiet little bubble world all sqeaky and perfect because he knew it would make me feel better. And it did.

B does a million things for me on any given day. I return the favor. I iron his shirts and do the shopping, he makes quesadillas when I need to work instead of cook. I go for days at a time without wearing makeup or doing anything to my hair besides washing it and piling it on top of my head and he says I look beautiful. He gets me warm when I'm cold and lets me verbally abuse his family when I see fit. Now, ten years into our yin-and-yang, I still feel grateful to have him in my world.

I think I'll keep him.

Happy Birthday, B.

It Sucked And I Cried

2011-03-29T16:50:00.003-04:00

It seems that life is sticky as of late.

Usually by this point, I can see a light at the end of the tunnel. I know that if I just hold on tight and make it through March, Spring will be here soon and I can take a deep breathe and release my shoulder tension. Step back and breathe and all that meditation-sounding bullshit. Realign my chakras (this actually works most of the time). Detox my mind.

This year, not so much.

But rather than dwell on that--the disbanding of the IC, the worst HbA1c I've had in twenty years, the crazy work situation, etc.--I have decided to do what I do best.

Be awesome and make a list, of course.

A LIST OF REASONS I HAVE NOT THROWN MYSELF OFF A BRIDGE WITHIN THE PAST COUPLE OF WEEKS, DESPITE THE RELATIVE CERTAINTY THAT THERE ARE MANY PEOPLE ON THIS PLANET WHO NOT ONLY WISH I WOULD THROW MYSELF OFF A BRIDGE, BUT WHO WOULD BE MORE THAN HAPPY TO HELP ME PITCH MYSELF FROM THE SIDE AND INTO THE ABYSS; REASONS THAT GO FAR BEYOND MY HUSBAND AND CHILDREN AND ALL OF THOSE THINGS THAT ANYBODY COULD FIGURE OUT, AND RATHER DEEP INTO THE ENIGMA THAT IS...... MY MIND

1. I have become addicted to watching "Dexter." For those of you who don't know, "Dexter" is a show on Showtime about a serial killer named (obviously) Dexter. Dexter only kills people who have killed others and gotten away with it--technically making him a good guy, while he is also clearly a bad guy. (I love walking contradictions.) Dexter is introverted and weird as hell. I LOVE HIM. I want to run off into a creepy dark cave with him and make little future serial killer babies. Not because he's hot (although he kind of is) but because he thinks JUST LIKE ME. Does this mean that I, too, am likely a sociopath? Probably. I don't care. I love Dexter. If I die, I will never see if he ends up getting caught (nor will I have his little future serial killer babies). And currently I'm only on Season 3, so I've got some catching up to do, and there is no series cancellation in sight.

2. Our wine racks are currently spilling over. Who wants to jump off a bridge when they can first drown their sorrows in twenty-four bottles of wine? Not me. Maybe after the wine is gone I will reconsider, but there is no way in hell I'm jumping off a bridge before I try the bottle of Sobon Estate zin, autographed by the vintner himself, that I bought B for our anniversary last year. No way in hell. Same for the Forever cabernet sauvignon I bought him for Valentine's Day. I can't die without knowing how they taste. It would be a travesty. (And yes, I HAVE noticed that I bought him gifts that he can share with me. That's because I'm fucking smart as ALL HELL.)

3. When I was younger, I used to get envelopes in the mail from my Grandpa, containing nothing but little clippings from magazines about how various publications were looking for writers. Odd? Yes. But my Grandpa never had a reputation for being normal (which could possibly be where I get some of my issues). I have always wanted to be a writer, from cradle to, well, Kempton Park. I have written things that have been published-- poems, journal articles, part of a book--but I have not written my very own, 100% Haley novel yet. Which means if I die before I do, my Grandpa will track me down in Heaven and kick my slack ass. Since I'm not in the market for a celestial beatdown and am pretty sure that would NOT be cool with JC, I suspect I had better start writing something soon, as you never know when your time is up.

4. My dog needs me. She does. If I'm in the bedroom with the door closed and she's not with me, she lies at the doorway, presses her nose to the crack between the door and the floor, and devotes all of her energy to trying to use her Jedi Mind Power to open the door. If I sit down, she wants to lie in my lap. If I cry, she wants to lick me in the face (she also wants to do this if I do not cry). She would be lost without me. (At least, this is what I tell myself. Honestly, she'd probably vaguely look around, possibly notice I was gone, then collapse into a pile on a sunny patch of the rug and take a nap without giving me another thought. Yet I like to flatter myself, so I'm going to continue to claim that she would die without me.)

5. When my family gets together (what's left of us), it is my job to make stuffed waffles for breakfast. Homemade waffles, all warm and soft, folded over a concoction of cream cheese, confectioner's sugar and vanilla, then smothered in melted butter and brown sugar and sprinkled with pecans. THIS IS MY SECRET RECIPE (of course I didn't tell you everything I put in it). Only I can make it. And my family (at least, my Mom and my brother and sis-in-law) LOVE IT. If I meet my demise, they will have to eat Pop-Tarts or Cocoa Puffs, as that is what my Mom makes best.

So you see, I cannot die this week. Things may suck and I may cry, but I (clearly) have shit to do.

Clearly.

Onward.

Nailed

2011-03-22T16:48:00.003-04:00

Sometimes when I think about raising my children in this messy, chaotic world we have created, all I can think is, "Oh, Fuck. Fuck, Fuck, Fuck." Parenting is hard and frustrating and full of so many gray areas that most of the time you have no idea if what you're doing is good or bad for your child or yourself, in the short term or the long run or hell, whenever. In a word, parenting is a Clusterfuck. A straight up, hardcore Clusterfuck. But then something happens to make you think, "Damn. I'm the BEST PARENT EVER, yo." Sometimes this little epiphany comes via your child-- something particularly cute or brilliant or phenomenal that he or she says or does. But sometimes, SOMETIMES this comes via someone else.

Like a large black woman dressed in leopard print leggings and a hot pink tank top at Wal-Mart.

A couple of weeks ago, this is exactly the form that my guilt-release took, as I waited in the check-out line at the 'Mart. Shopping cart laden with groceries, I stood exhausted, reading the headlines on the trashy celebrity gossip magazines and ever-so-vaguely listening to my children beg me to buy them gum. It was a Friday afternoon, and the place was fucking packed as all hell, overrun with both the old and the obese, meaning that every damn aisle was blocked with a fucking motorized scooter and someone asking me to help them reach the Hamburger Helper. I was lucky to have made it to the check-out line alive (or rather, everyone else was lucky I made it to the check-out line without killing them).

As I was standing there, deep in a Mommy Brain Mini-Vacation (a useful way to pass the time in check-out lines-- you block out the noise, halfway read the headlines, and pretend you are somewhere warm and tropical, drinking beer and having your sunscreen applied by Johnny Depp) I spied a woman clearly vying for WORST MOMMY OF THE DAY. (Side note: WORST MOMMY OF THE DAY is a little award I like to mentally hand out on occasion to parents I see doing a particularly stellar job raising their wayward offspring. It's also a great confidence booster for myself, as, in order to win WORST MOMMY OF THE DAY, you have to have done something worse than anything I personally have done that day. -- Side note to the side note: I, do, occasionally win my own WORST MOMMY OF THE DAY AWARD. Like, when Belly was nine months old, and I accidentally taught her to say, "Fuck," which ended up being one of her first words.)

Anyway, what I saw was this: A very *healthy* black woman with a super elaborate upswept hairstyle, leopard print leggings, a hot pink tank with her (black) bra straps showing, and black high-heeled gladiator sandals strut up to the Wal-Mart nail salon, park her cart in front, and go inside to sit and and start getting a pedicure WHILE LEAVING HER INFANT (and her purchases) PARKED OUTSIDE THE STORE IN HER CART. That's right. Her orange juice, her maxi pads, and her (approximately 3 months old) infant (in his car seat) were parked in the front lobby of Wal-Mart, out of physical (and clearly mental) proximity of Big Mama or any other responsible, guardian-type adult. Because her nails were that fucking important.

Now, I realize a girl has to look her best, but REALLY? REALLY, BITCH? Your toes (in late February, at that) are so fucking important that you have to abandon your child in the Chesapeake Wal-mart in order to touch up your paint job? I could have snatched your kid (though we all know that hell would freeze over before I saddled myself with another minion) and been out of town before you even noticed he was gone. At the very least, I could have stolen your damn orange juice. He wasn't even old enough to yell "Get back! Stranger danger!" Or to even be awake for his entire kidnapping, for that matter. Seriously. GET YOUR PRIORITIES IN LINE, SISTER. I don't like my kids most of the time either, but I still realize they come WAY before my fucking beauty treatments (if I had any).

Therefore, BIG BLACK LEOPARD PRINT LEGGINGS LADY gets my Worst Mommy of the Day Award. But I get something too. I get the satisfaction of not one drop of guilt from refusing to buy gum for my minions, and the chance to use the line, "Stop your damn whining or Mommy is going to abandon your ass and go get her fucking nails done." And know that someone, somewhere, could say that and mean it. I'm the BEST PARENT EVER, yo.

The Sad Blog

2011-03-20T11:00:00.004-04:00

In the past week and a half, I have started (and nearly finished) five different blogs. All of them are saved in my editing list, but it's likely that none of them will ever get published. They are falsely happy blogs, funny lists and tales of craziness that has gone on, per the usual, as the days have rolled forward. I can't quite wrap them up because they sound so fucking forced it drives me insane to read them. That said, I think I need to finish SOMETHING before I can go back to my usual sarcastic self, and perhaps a Sad Blog is exactly what I need. So here you have it. The Sad Blog.

When I was a little girl growing up in Tennessee, I always loved spring. The farm where we lived was amazing this time of year-- overrun with forsythia, fruit trees, flowers and vines. One field in the back of the farm has a section that is nothing but thousands of daffodils, bright and lush and scented so strongly you can nearly taste them. They remind me of my Grandpa, and I have so many memories of going back there once the blooms had opened for Easter egg hunts, quiet time, or to pick bouquets with my Mom. We would fill Mason jars with water and flowers and set them all over the house. They were happy things.

Spring is starting to show her head in Virginia now, and our back yard is a burst of yellow from all of the forsythia. My gardenias are gearing up to bloom once it gets a bit warmer, and we have dwarf irises and Japanese magnolias and so many lovely things to focus on every day. I am grateful for them, because right now I'm feeling kind of empty, and they are probably part of the reason why I'm only feeling "kind of empty" as opposed to desolate. I shouldn't feel desolate. We've covered before that I have so many "blessings"-- a word that I despise and feel like a hypocrite for using, but which is probably the most accurate in this setting. Still, right now I feel a lot of loss.

It seems that grief, once it has set in and become an official part of you, rears its head in waves. It used to be that every minute of every day was somehow intertwined with the bitterness of missing my Dad. That it was impossible to ease that feeling that I had just been kicked in the stomach-- couldn't breathe, couldn't focus, couldn't think straight. But now, over two years later, Grief mostly reappears when I expect him least. He's settled and he's always there, but waits until I think I'm in the clear before he comes marching in. He's nasty like that.

A little over a week ago, I lost someone important in my life once again. The hard part was that this person was one of the very few people whom I actually went to when I was grieving, and knew how to put emotional salve on those wounds. This loss, in itself, is devastating enough, but it seems to have reawakened the feelings associated with losing my Dad. I'm back to choking on my sadness. Only now, my sadness is in tiers-- the absence of my Dad at the top, spilling down to the absence of others I have loved and love still. A big fountain of heartbreak.

As a result, I have had a frantic week of trying to outrun my melancholy, or at least beat it into submission. I worked endless hours at both jobs, plus put extra effort into my Mommy gig. I scrubbed the bathrooms. I hit the gym every day. I shrugged off my anti-social tendencies and went to a St. Patrick's Day party (during which I apparently made out with a girl--I have little memory of this, but I have seen the photographic proof-- my husband is so damn proud). I drank (a LOT). And yet here it is, over a week later, and despite all that effort, the sad isn't gone. It's just lingering, waiting to see what I'll do next.

And what WILL I do next? I don't know. I imagine I'll keep trekking onward, focusing on preschool carpools, doctor and dentist appointments, vacuuming, grocery shopping, laundry. And though time seems to ease all wounds, I have no faith in the theory that it heals them. Perhaps lack of faith is part of the problem.

Filter Change

2011-03-09T12:45:00.005-05:00

A handful of people who know me well understand that, although it does not usually seem like it, I DO have a filter. What goes on in my head is nearly always altered and cleaned up before it comes out of my mouth, believe it or not. This is what keeps me from swearing at preschool (most of the time), swearing at my mother (I swear AROUND her, but--usually--not AT her), and saying mean and hurtful things to people (like B) more often than necessary (and yes, sometimes it IS necessary). For example, when B informed me last week that he broke his toothbrush in half by using the handle to try to squeeze the last little bit of toothpaste from the tube, my response was a calm "Why didn't you just ask me to pick up more toothpaste?" instead of an exasperated "Goddamn it, Supertard. Can you SERIOUSLY not just tell me we need more fucking toothpaste? Is it REALLY that hard? I pass Walgreens EVERY DAMN TIME I LEAVE THE FUCKING HOUSE. It would take me TWO FUCKING SECONDS to buy more fucking toothpaste. JUST FUCKING TELL ME WE NEED IT, ASSHOLE."

*(Side note: two things. 1) I use a different kind of toothpaste than B, which is why I was unaware of his dental hygiene needs, in case you were wondering; and 2) Actually, I lied to you. I DID say all that stuff instead of just thinking it. I mean, for God's sakes, it's B we're talking about here. He's used to no-filter Haley. Sometimes he even PREFERS her, particularly if my shrewish tirades are directed at someone other than himself.

My filter helps me be polite to strangers (unless they piss me off). My filter helps me to be nice to my children (alcohol helps with this too). My filter keeps me out of jail when I get pulled over for speeding by some asshole cop. It may not work as well as other people's filters, but to some extent it still works. I NEED my filter.

Which presents a small problem because today, my friends, my filter does not seem to be working. At all.

Case in point: a friend and fellow preschool Mom is moving her whole family to Germany next week for her husband's new job. As she was explaining today how she would be left alone to wrangle her three children and a cat on the plane (her husband is already overseas) I asked why she had to take the damn cat. Germany Mom told me that the cat was eighteen years old, a member of the family, and HAD to go with them. (Here's where the filter broke.) Without thinking, I said, "Can't you just smother the damn cat with a pillow before you go and tell the kids he was old and didn't make it? That's what I would do."

A collective quiet settled over the preschool parents, with the exception of one Mom who LOST HER SHIT. Her mouth dropped open and she started gasping, "DO YOU KNOW YOU JUST SAID THAT OUT LOUD? It wasn't in your head. It came out of your mouth. I can't BELIEVE you just said that about their CAT! Who SAYS things like that? WHO?"

Um, me. I do.

At least, I do when my filter is off. I would always THINK them, but with someone I barely know (like these Moms) I usually wouldn't SAY them. I mean, I do have social skills. I know what is appropriate and what is not. And yeah, maybe I should have caught that comment before it made its way past my tongue, but I didn't, and frankly, I don't feel bad about it. Actually, I think it's kind of funny. Especially since Germany Mom told me, as I was leaving, "You know where I live. Bring over a martini tonight and you can kill my cat." Which immediately made me sorry she's moving to Germany next week because she's obviously fabulous. Like me.

So what I've learned today is that maybe having a dysfunctional filter isn't such a bad thing after all. It allows me to see who I can really appreciate, and around whom I can truly be myself. An important thing in this world, because life is too short to be anyone else. Anyone less awesome. Anyone but me.

Literally Life

2011-03-04T12:29:00.002-05:00

This morning Sutt showed up at the table for breakfast with his stuffed rhinoceros in tow. Rhinoceros has spent most of his life in the toy net hanging from Sutt's ceiling, watching life go by from eight feet above, and frankly I do not know how he came to be down on earth with the rest of us on this average Friday in March, but when I set the pancakes down on the table, he was seated next to Sutt. I am used to any number of creatures showing up at our table for meals--storm troopers, ponies, a pink gorilla named Roberta, Buzz Lightyear, monster trucks, Barbies--so a Rhinoceros was really nothing of which to take notice. However, I was approximately eleven minutes into my Friday when Sutt swallowed a mouthful of pancake and announced that he had decided to name Rhinoceros "Horny," because "he has three horns on his nose."

Well, then. This was not our average table guest after all.

I love how children are so literal, it has always fascinated me. For years, unbeknownst to us, Bellamy thought that B spent his days printing bills because when she asked why Daddy had to go to work our answer was "to make money." It is funny how their little minds work. I have never been one of those people who could relive the magic of childhood through my children (probably because I have been thirty years old since birth and never lived the magic of childhood the first time) but I do enjoy picking their little brains, questioning their thoughts and decisions. These explorations are often the most enjoyable and interesting part of my day, though sometimes I get myself into territory I would rather have avoided. For example, about six months ago, Sutton and I were talking about his Papaw and I said something about how I wish he had not died. Sutt immediately became very upset-- apparently by us always saying that "Papaw has gone to Heaven," he thought Papaw had physically packed up and moved to Heaven. He told me that he did not know that Papaw had died. That conversation was a rough one for both of us, me and my little guy.

Most of the time, my kids drive me completely nuts. Regardless, they never stop being perfect to me. There is nothing about them that I would change (except, perhaps, to give them a Mute Button). And though it will likely traumatize my in-laws when Sutt introduces them to Horny, and B and I may have to sell our kidneys to pay for Belly's future orthodontia, I doubt I'll ever feel differently about my minions. They will always be flawless to me.

Mom, Spelled Backward, Is Mom

2011-02-16T20:00:00.002-05:00

Just a list.

THINGS THAT HAVE HAPPENED THIS WEEK THAT ENFORCE THE REMINDER THAT I AM, INDEED, A MOM REGARDLESS OF MY AVERSION TO SAID POSITION AT TIMES, SPECIFICALLY WHEN SOMEONE IS PUKING ON THE CARPET OR DISCUSSING THEIR BOWEL MOVEMENTS, AND THAT I WILL NEVER ESCAPE SAID POSITION BECAUSE ONCE A MOM, ALWAYS A MOM, EVEN WHEN ONE WEARS NOTHING BUT STILETTOS AND PARADES AROUND THE HOUSE THAT WAY BECAUSE THE KIDS ARE AT THE IN-LAW'S HOUSE AND NOTHING SAYS ANTI-MOM LIKE A NAKED CHICK WITH FEET ENCASED IN PATENT LEATHER

1. On Tuesday, I took my breakfast (yogurt) to work with me. In a Hello Kitty lunch bag. With a green plastic snake spoon. And thought nothing of it.

2. Twice this week, my total meal has been whatever was left over on the kids' plates. At least an hour after they left it there. (A few spoonfuls of congealed oatmeal, and some cold, somewhat stiff, spaghetti).

3. When I undressed tonight to shower, my jeans had the following on them: dried urine (Sutt), vanilla frosting (Belly), mashed potatoes (Belly), snot (Sutt), tears (Belly), and toothpaste (Sutt). Which means they were actually cleaner than the jeans I normally take off at night.

4. Today I couldn't find a pen in my handbag, but I did find the following: granola bars, lollipops, several hair elastics with Belly's hair tangled on them, 3 army men, Obi-wan Kenobi, a My Little Pony plastic comb, a beaded bracelet that said "Momy," a pair of socks (clean) and a Barbie shoe. These were just the things of which I actually took note.

5. Yesterday, I heard the following from my son, and I didn't even bat an eye, but rather just got out the bleach and the Lysol. "Mommy! I went poop! Oh, great. It's the biggest poop I've ever seen. It's gonna be a plunger."

I need to write a blog on how easy Dads have it.

Jesus Loves Emily Post

2011-02-16T12:09:00.002-05:00

By now, most of you have probably gotten a reasonable idea of my religious views, as weird and warped as they may be. So you know that I'm high five for God, but that my Christian tendencies pretty much end there, abruptly, and basically smack-dab into a very thick brick wall.

This has created a bit of an etiquette conundrum, which sucks, because I am nothing if not polite. No, seriously. I am. Quit laughing.

You see, apparently, there are a lot of people out there who want to pray for me. Maybe it's because they have heard one of my swearing tirades, or learned of my interest in a lesbian tryst with Salma Hayek. It COULD be my threats to have my Mom put in a "home" against her consent (the cheaper and sketchier the "home," the better) or my refusal to play anything with my children that doesn't involve Mommy having vodka as part of the game. I really don't know, and frankly, the possibilities are so endless that I'd never figure it out anyway, so it's not important. What IS important here is that, being a good, sweet, Southern Girl who was brought up with impeccable manners, I do not know how to respond when someone says, "I'm praying for you." Especially if I don't know why the hell they are praying for me in the first place.

When Dad died and people told me they were praying for me, I was like, "Oh, cool. Thanks." I "got" it, you know? If something bad has happened and someone wants to "hold me up" (to this day, I still haven't figured out why people like to phrase it that way, and the mental image actually causes me undue stress, just so you know) then, AWESOME. More power to you, yo--it's not like I think it's going to hurt anything. I mean, God might not listen to me (otherwise I would have gotten that horse I wanted to badly when I was 11), but for all I know YOU might have a direct line to His Holiness. But when someone just randomly, on a Wednesday when nobody is sick or nothing unusual seems to be going on, says, "I'm praying for you" IT FREAKS ME OUT. Yes, it does.

Which leads me to wonder how in the hell I'm supposed to respond when someone does that, because I just don't feel like "thank you" is appropriate in this case.

From various experiences over the past two years, I have learned a few ways NOT to respond when someone informs you that you are smack at the top of their Party Line With Jesus. For example, when one of the vague Mommy acquaintances I made in Suffolk told me last week that she was praying for me and I replied, "Good luck with that, " she did not take it well. (So much for that relationship, not that I'm losing any sleep over being unfriended by someone who gardens regularly while wearing a sweater vest and pearls.) Likewise, "No thanks, I'm good, " doesn't seem to be appreciated, nor does, "Well, that's great and all, but I'd rather you offered to babysit my kids."

Recently I saw on my Mom's FB page where some dude I don't know asked her how I was and told her he was praying for me. Did I mention THIS FREAKS ME OUT? Granted it actually kind of makes sense that somebody who was a friend of Mom's would say this, as Mom spends an inordinate amount of time praying for my eternal soul (rightfully so, as we are all convinced that not only am I going to Hell, I will likely take over Hell when I get there and rule it with an iron fist). Even so, what does somebody SAY to that? Being the hateful bitch I am, it feels a bit offensive. And as many people can tell you, offending me is a bad idea, as it frequently ends in assault and battery (and I'm scrappy, people).

So next time you're feeling all holy and shit and decide to pray for me, I say go for it. But I'd rather you didn't tell me. And if you do, I apologize in advance for anything unacceptable with which I may reply. It's awkward for me, and during awkward times, I tend to say very random things. On the bright side, that would give you a valid reason to pray for me. Damn straight. Amen.

Love Is In The Air

2011-02-14T15:05:00.007-05:00

As people around the United States revel in the loviest, smushiest, snuggliest holiday of the year, I, Haleystarr, can't help but make fun of them. Yeah, I like Valentine's Day itself just fine-- I like red and pink stuff, flowers, hearts and crossbows. (Sutt refuses to draw any heart without an arrow through it and a crossbow drawn nearby. I like to think it's because even at his tender age he realizes that love is synonymous with pain, and love-gone-wrong often results in brandishing various weaponry, particularly in the South.) I do not sit around and wonder if B is going to present to me some splendid, romantic gesture, nor do I moon around all googly-eyed waiting for the florist to arrive on my doorstep or a velvet jewelry box to turn up on my pillow. The chicks who do that shit--those bitches are crazy. I mostly just hang out and use the day as an excuse to drink pink martinis (along with every other day in February), red wine (same), and watch the kids get all excited over the bag of those tacky, perforated, character-themed valentines that they all pass out at school which they then hide in their rooms and hoard for months until one day when I sneak in and throw them away while they are at school as THEY ARE A FIRE HAZARD, PEOPLE. Plus, they often come with stickers, and we all know how I feel about stickers. Ugh.

Anyway, since I am not a Cuddly Girl, I decided to share with you some of my fondest Valentine's Day Memories, via a list. A list of Valentine's Awesomeness, if you will, entitled:

HALEY'S LIST OF VALENTINE'S DAY AWESOMENESS, DRAWN FROM VALENTINE'S DAYS PAST AND WITNESSED FIRSTHAND BY HALEYSTARR HERSELF, USUALLY TO HER EXTREME ENTERTAINMENT, THOUGH OCCASIONALLY TO HER BRIEF DISMAY, "BRIEF DISMAY" ONLY LASTING LONG ENOUGH FOR HER TO INGEST ENOUGH ALCOHOL SO THAT THE TIDES TURNED FROM DISMAY TO ENTERTAINMENT, WHICH, DESPITE MY BIG TALK, REALLY DOESN'T TAKE THAT MUCH AS I AM A PRETTY SMALL CHICK WHO GETS DRUNK QUICKLY

1. Bitter Is The New Bard~ A few years back, during grad school, I had the day off from student teaching on V-day, so I went into my BFF Ray's school to watch her wrangle her 10th graders into English Literature submission. Ray is the kind of teacher who always had control of the classroom, always kept everyone on task, and radiated both confidence and enthusiasm as she taught. That day's lesson, however, wasn't quite going as planned. The 10th graders were super psyched about Valentine's Day and couldn't focus worth a damn, too busy chatting about who was dating whom and who had gotten cards/gifts/flowers from whom. Ray, on the other hand, WAS NOT FEELING THE LOVE. She had recently dated a string of duds, and her love life seemed to be going nowhere fast. Which means when one little sophomore girl raised her hand, gave a deep sigh, and said, "Why do we HAVE to learn today? Why can't we just make valentines?" Ray nearly LOST HER DAMN MIND. Turning, in a mad fury, she said the now-famous, BEST VALENTINE'S DAY LINE EVER (which I also got to include in my toast as the Matron of Honor at her wedding): "NO, you can't JUST MAKE VALENTINES! You don't NEED LOVE, YOU NEED LITERATURE!."

Best. Line. Ever.

2. Eat Your Feelings~ One Valentine's Day, I settled into work without really giving much consideration to the fact that it was a holiday (pseudo, perhaps, but a holiday nonetheless) and started plowing through the pile of work on my desk, oblivious to everything around me. A co-worker wandered in shortly after, dropped her things beside her desk and collapsed into her chair. Without saying a word, or even starting with her work, she proceeded to take from her bag and eat not one, but TWO boxes of Girl Scout Cookies, cookie by cookie, one after the other, with no breaks between cookies.

As she finished, she looked up and saw me watching her, speechless, as I had never seen a being inhale Do-si-dos in such an efficient manner (it was impressive, really). Brushing off her hands, she swallowed her last bite, looked me straight in the eye and said, "Valentine's Day fucking sucks."

I didn't ask.

3. (Do Not) Love The One You're With~One year during high school, I didn't have a date for the Valentine's Dance, didn't care, and had no intention of trolling for some pimply teenaged boy, rife with hormones, that would be willing to take me to a stupid dance where nobody actually danced and everybody left early to go hook up in their cars before rushing home to meet their midnight curfews. A few days before the dance, a relatively good guy friend of mine found out that I wasn't planning on going and asked me if I'd like to go with him "JUST AS FRIENDS" as he claimed there was no one he was interested in asking for a real date. I had less than zero interest in him, had known him a long time, and was 100% certain he had less than zero interest in me as well. However, I WAS somewhat interested in another guy who I had found out was going with a group of his friends, so I agreed to go, bought a dress, and double-checked-- JUST AS FRIENDS, right? RIGHT.

That Friday at school, the day before the dance, I heard my name called to the gym to pick up a Valentine delivery. This was unexpected. My parents are not the type who send flowers and balloons. I had no boyfriend. Perhaps a stalker? Oooh, that would be fun. But when I got to the gym, they were from my "friend"-- an enormous bouquet of two dozen perfect red roses, arranged in a vase, and looking like an ad from a magazine. Hmmm. After school I caught up with him, thanked him for the beautiful flowers, and asked, "What the hell?" He said he just wanted to send me flowers to wish me a happy Valentine's Day, thank me for being his date for the dance, no big deal.

Suspicious, but okay.

That night, he picked me up for the dance, and immediately took me back to his house to spend time with his parents. Who photographed us unmercifully. And repeatedly. Very repeatedly. Kind of creepy. We went to dinner, went to the dance, and all was going okay. He was a gentleman, but he acted normal. Just my guy friend, who always opened doors and minded his manners. All was well. Until near the end of the dance when, right in the middle of one of Foreigner's Greatest Hits, he tangled a hand into my well-sprayed, hot rolled Southern curls and mouth-raped me with his lizard tongue. YES, THAT'S RIGHT. MOUTH-RAPED ME WITH HIS LIZARD TONGUE. It was cold, it was flickery. IT. WAS. AWFUL. So what did I do? I bit him. Hard. Much bleeding ensued.

It was instinctual. Oops.

I'm not sure we ever spoke again after that night. And he possibly had to have his tongue reattached, or at the very least stitched.

So much for being friends.

4. Pussy Whipped~ In college, I did something I never thought I would do. I owned a cat. Mr. Pig was a stray kitten that my aunt found and whom I adopted because he was little, he was cute, and he was the meanest fucking cat on the face of the earth, which was the selling point for me. People used to be scared to stay at my apartment at night because he would lie in wait in the dark, then when you got up to pee he would run across the room, a rabid gray blur, and sink his teeth and claws into your ankles before dashing away. All in less than 2.4 seconds, start to finish, you would be left bleeding and enraged. Mr. Pig was BADASS.

Mr. Pig hated my boyfriend. Later, when he became my husband, Pig would hate him with even more vehemence, but at that time, Pig vaguely tolerated Boyfriend with an onslaught of death stares and claw slashes. I belonged to Pig, not Boyfriend, and everybody should know it.

For Valentine's Day that year, I had made a chocolate cake for Boyfriend-- his favorite--with chocolate icing and "Happy Valentine's Day" in my best script of red frosting and sprinkles. I fixed up the dining room table to look festive-- red tablecloth, pretty dishes, and the cake, which I set right next to the dozen red roses Boyfriend had sent me for the occasion. Boyfriend was working that night, but he was coming over after work, where I planned for him to find me pretty, surprise him with cake, and spend a romantic evening. Once everything was as I wanted it, I hurried into the bathroom to shower and do my makeup, get dressed, and generally make myself as hot as possible (which, honestly, is pretty much my standard anyway).

Thirty or so minutes later, I heard the door open and I came through to greet Boyfriend. Giving him a lingering hug, I thanked him for the flowers, then grabbed his hand and led him into the kitchen to give him his cake. He had a huge sweet tooth and I had seen him eat nearly a whole cake at one sitting, so I knew he would be pleased. But....it wasn't meant to be (the Valentine's Extravaganza, nor the marriage).

The cake was smashed. It looked like Pig had jumped into the middle of it, rolled around, then eaten as much as he could stuff into his little kitty face. The pile of chocolate goo had gray cat hairs in it, and teethmarks around the edges. The roses had been attacked, nearly every petal was off every stem, some with bite marks in them as well, next to the knocked-over vase, water still dripping off the table into a huge puddle on the floor. The "icing on the cake" (pardon the pun) was the chocolate footprints all over the table, the counters, and the kitchen floor. Apparently, after he mauled the cake and shredded the flowers, he also did a victory dance all over the damn kitchen.

Pig was sitting on the linoleum, grooming himself. I swear I saw him smile.

Pig, one. Boyfriend, zero.

Little romance took place on that evening.

So there you go, four (I HATE EVEN NUMBERS, but I'm getting a headache) little glimpses of Valentine's Days past. Just one more taste of my crazy, messed-up, sweet life.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Too Sweet

2011-02-05T19:24:00.002-05:00

Today, I had my ass kicked by my diabetes.

Being a girl who does not like to admit defeat, this is hard for me to say. However, I am also a girl who doesn't like to lie. And if I made myself out to be the Champion In The Glucose War today, I would be lying. Big time.

When I woke up this morning, I knew my blood sugar was low. Not unusual. I often wake up hovering around the low mark, this is what my doctor wants. Apparently, even "normal" people (like I'd ever be one of THOSE anyway) wake up with low-ish blood sugars. Fine. Whatever. I get up. I eat a banana. Life goes on. Today, the 55 (normal being 70-120) didn't take well to just the banana and had to be followed by orange juice, likely because I was running around like a crazy person, making oatmeal (Sutt), waffles (Belly), coffee (me and B), croissants (whoever), feeding the dogs (self explanatory) and wondering if I would get showered in time to get to the hair stylist because DEAR GOD I HAD BEEN WAITING FOR TWO MONTHS TO GET MY HAIR CUT AND IT FINALLY, FINALLY WAS THE DAY THAT MY STYLIST HAD AN APPOINTMENT AVAILABLE SINCE SHE IS NOW ONLY WORKING ON SATURDAYS-- AND WHY? WHY! WOULD SHE DARE TO CUT BACK HER HOURS IN ORDER TO GO TO NURSING SCHOOL BECAUSE DOESN'T SHE UNDERSTAND THAT MY HAIR IS FAR MORE IMPORTANT THAN THE SICK PEOPLE OF THE WORLD? SWEET JESUS. SWEET JESUS!

When I arrived at the hair stylist, my blood sugar was 70. Okay. Fine. Whatever. I had lollipops in my handbag, as well as a granola bar, and God only knows what else as, being a Mommy, I have random snacks on me at all times because IT NEVER FAILS that as soon as I need to run to the grocery store a kid will inform me that he or she is STARVING HALF TO DEATH AND NEEDS A SNACK, CODE RED, CODE RED, STAT STAT. I ended up eating nothing, though, getting my hair trimmed and shaped, then dashing off to Target (with my pretty hair) to grab a couple of things. Just as I was walking through Target, post-checkout, my blood sugar bottomed THE FUCK OUT. We're talking, my tongue went numb, my vision went blurry, and those little connectors that make your brain able to make sense of out things? Well, those little connectors SHORTED THE FUCK OUT. They sizzled and died. I probably had smoke coming out of my ears.

Which means I got to go BACK through the check-out line.

A granola bar and part of a Sprite later, I was able to drive, but had the headache from hell. This sometimes happens when I get a low blood sugar that either drops perilously low or stays low for an extended period of time. Before I even made it out of the parking lot, I had to dig through my handbag for Excedrin, which I eventually found and potentially overdosed on because 1). I wasn't thinking straight and 2). I have no qualms nor fear of overdosing on any medication at any given time and have been told on at least fifteen different occasions by fifteen different people that I am going to pull a Marilyn Monroe or Heath Ledger and be found dead by my housekeeper (if I only had a housekeeper), most likely in the nude (or, in my case, really cute underwear), dead and overdosed on whatever random pills I happened to mix and take thirty-two of consecutively within a two-minute time frame.

But back to the Excedrin. I took.....well, I don't know. Several. And an Advil or two. And some white pill that, looking back, may have been a stray melatonin, which would explain my extreme desire to curl up in a ball this afternoon and sleep (despite the Excedrin jitters) despite my normal aversion to napping. Bottom line is, my headache went away. For a little while, anyway.

By the time I got home and checked my blood sugar, it was 238. Damnit. I took some insulin.

Since I felt like I was going to vomit (pill mixture? high blood sugar? Sprite? Could have been any of the above.), I made a cup of herbal tea (unsweetened) and went into the bedroom to curl up in my Thinking Chair and Think. I did. An hour later and many deep thoughts later, I was down to 130. High five. I made another cup of tea and went to read my library book. An hour later (and nothing else-- no food, no drink, no anything) I was 268. And ready to vomit again. I took some more insulin. I returned to the Thinking Chair and my book. An hour later, I was 71.

Now it's two hours later. I ate dinner (soup-- I make excellent soup). I still feel awful. I have no idea why my blood sugar has bounced around like it has today, but know that I exacerbate the damage by worrying about the effect it has on my body whenever this happens. I know it's bad for my organs, particularly my heart and kidneys. I don't particularly care if this just causes me to keel over dead one day (as long as I am wearing the aforementioned cute underwear when this happens, as no one wants to be found dead in something unattractive) as being dead doesn't concern me much, but I don't want to have to deal with being alive and having only partially functioning, weak, pathetic semi-useful organs (barring my liver-- that bitch is already a goner) because, well, that just seems like it would suck. It's one thing if I screw myself over by eating a big piece of cake when my blood sugar is already 200. But when I'm behaving and TRYING REALLY HARD it gets frustrating when I'm chasing it all day. When I have no control. I hate loss of control.

Here's hoping that tomorrow is a better (blood sugar) day.

The Martini Vaccine

2011-02-04T10:58:00.003-05:00

Within the past two weeks, every single woman I see regularly has had the flu. As a matter of fact, I shared a bedroom with two of their germ-laden selves for three whole nights. They caught it from each other, and passed it along. They sneezed and coughed, chilled and ached. I ate and drank after them (particularly, from a large bottle of champagne down on the beach). Their kids also ended up with the flu. Some of them had it twice. But me? Did I get so much as a sniffle?

Hell, no.

I'm convinced it's because vodka kills flu germs. (Side note: judging from the text I just got from one of them, who happens to be at the doctor as we speak, it also kills strep germs, as that was just diagnosed as the illness of the moment. Awesome.) Between my wine consumption and my martini consumption, I have become the Bionic Woman. Either that or I'm just too damn Badass to get sick, which is also a possibility. Who knows.

One of the things I do on a semi-occasionally-regular basis is see my Witchdoctor, Frank. Frank is my go-to guy when my headaches won't go away, I'm overstressed, or just need a good dose of crazy and my Mom doesn't have imminent plans to visit. Frank is a homeopathic-blues-guitar-playing-vegan-chiropractor whom I'm pretty sure I could take down in a fight (if he wasn't such a pacifist) and whom likes to tell me that I'll never get cancer if I just eat cauliflower. (Additional side note: I do not eat white vegetables. Therefore, I'm taking my chances with the cancer rather than the cauliflower. I mean, seriously. It's WHITE. Vegetables shouldn't be WHITE. It goes against the natural order of the world.) Anyway, on Wednesday afternoon I ventured across town to see Frank and see if he could fix my screwed up, still damaged ribs.

As usual, Frank was chatty. Very, very chatty. This would be fine if I didn't have both kids in tow, was trying to get to gymnastics class on time, and was starving due to my complete failure to eat anything more filling than a warm string-cheese I found in my handbag that morning on my way to work. One of the topics about which Frank wanted to chat was my health. How was it? Had I been sick? I explained to him that nope, I was healthy as could be, despite every one around me having been stricken with a strain of the flu that apparently likened to the bubonic plague. Frank nodded knowingly and informed me that this was due to my diabetes. My diabetes kept me well. I should be grateful for my diabetes.

What the fuck?

According to Frank, illness does not come from cold weather or flu season or anything else. Illness comes from people's bodies being compromised from the intake of sugar and alcohol. Sugar and alcohol alone weaken the immune system. Therefore, because I don't eat sugar and don't drink alcohol, I don't get sick.

Yeah, you read that right.

I nearly had an aneurysm at this nonsense. I said, "Frank. Please. I eat sugar ALL THE TIME. As we speak, I have an entire bag of Lindt's truffles in my car, and two more at home. I just bought the ingredients to bake a pie, and I ate four cookies for lunch yesterday. I consume Redi-Whip for breakfast on a regular basis, straight from the can. I EAT SUGAR. This is why my diabetic self has a damn insulin pump. SO I CAN EAT WHATEVER THE FUCK (for the most part) THAT I WANT. And alcohol? Seriously? SERIOUSLY? For PETE'S SAKE, the whole damn reason I was so gung ho on Suffolk reestablishing their curbside recycling program was because I got so fucking tired of having to haul off enough wine, beer, and liquor bottles to fill a damn truck EVERY SINGLE WEEK. I don't care about the environment. I don't plan to live long enough for our murdering of the planet to impact me (obviously-- hence the chocolate and the drinking). I just don't have a trash can big enough to hold both the trash AND all the bottles. Clearly your theory is WRONG. I'm just BIONIC."

And I am. I mean, think about it. We all know something about me isn't quite right. We all know that my awesomeness surpasses any possible boundaries of even an excessively superior human. If anything, the sugar and alcohol make me MORE FUCKING AWESOME (anyone who has spent drunken time with me--especially if I'm wearing a Catholic schoolgirl skirt and a push up bra--will tell you that.) It goes hand-in-hand with the whole idea of "that which doesn't kill me, makes me stronger." I've been diabetic for 23 years and the sugar and alcohol haven't killed me yet, but rather made me stronger (bionic). Clearly.

Jesus. People are ridiculous.

The Weekly Kickoff

2011-01-31T20:11:00.006-05:00

Most of the time, I am not a girl who minds Mondays. Mondays, to me, are kind of a nice little surprise after a hectic weekend of trying to entertain two kids, two dogs and a husband. While most people wake up dreading Monday, I wake up thinking, "Hey. It's Monday," and not much beyond that. I don't dread it. I don't look forward to it with joy either, but it's certainly not something I really waste much time or energy thinking about (as opposed to EVERYTHING else in the world that I DO waste time and energy thinking about). Tuesday is MY bad day. Tuesday is my Dread It, Everything Always Goes All To Hell Day.

But today was kind of a rough Monday.

This morning, I overslept. I rarely oversleep, because I rarely sleep. And when I do, my automatic Haley Internal Alarm Clock wakes me up on time. I don't worry about oversleeping. Ever. But today I did. The reason for this is likely because I was up until 3am, with my ribs hurting like hell (long story), tossing and turning and swearing because I hurt so badly. After a few rounds of Advil, a not-prescribed-to-me hydrocodone, and a Xanax, I finally slept a bit. Overslept, that is. So I woke up in a mad rush and leaped out of bed-- not good for the excruciating rib pain, it turns out. After surviving a shower, I made the kids breakfast and poured myself a MUCH NEEDED VERY LARGE cup of coffee. Now, when I set the coffee pot at night (or, in this case, when B set it for me-- thank you, my hero) I make 5-6 cups which, when poured into my gargantuan coffee mugs, makes slightly over one Haley Sized Cup. Reaching into the refrigerator, I realized I had used the rest of my creamer yesterday without remembering to replace it.

Motherfucker.

Scavenging through the fridge, I found a container of sugar free creamer (I'm making gagging noises as I write this, because said creamer SUCKS, but SUCK creamer is better than NO creamer). I checked the expiration date, good until next month. Shook it up, poured it in, and.....it came out in clumps.

Big, spoiled, sugar-free dairy product clumps. All in my coffee, the pouring of which had nearly emptied the pot, and which I had no time to remake before I needed to leave for work.

Motherfucker.

Haley without coffee is pretty much like, well, Satan. A very pissed off, possessed by demons beyond understanding kind of Satan that would scare the hell (pardon the pun) out of the REAL Satan. Yet, I headed to work anyway, as Satan. I realized on the way that I had forgotten my water bottle too.

Motherfucker.

When I got to work, I dashed in without a minute to spare, pulling off my coat and gloves, hands full, juggling my handbag and my phone, keys, lipstick, etc. Only to realize that our office was empty. Totally empty, no computers, no chairs, no tables, no co-workers.

Motherfucker.

After a bit of frantic sleuthing, I discovered that we had been moved to another (much smaller) office in the building. Nobody had any heads up until this morning at 8am, so we spent the entire morning vacuuming, cleaning, and moving shit instead of getting ANY work accomplished. With my sore ribs I still moved tables and chairs, printers and boxes. I ended up working an hour later than usual and left the office with my black pants covered in carpet grit and dust bunnies.

Motherfucker.

And this just got me through 1pm.

Suck it, Monday.

But on a brighter note, tomorrow is February 1st. No more January, not for another whole year. No more plodding through the month that Dad and Papaw died, checking off the dates that make me sad. The 2nd. The 6th. The 8th. The 11th. The 24th. They are officially over for 2011. Thank you, God. So tonight, I painted my nails Passion Pink. I'm having a glass of wine. I am done with this motherfucking Monday. And looking ahead, beyond Tuesday--gotta get through tomorrow--but on to hopefully better days. Warmer, happier, better days.

A Typical Situation, In These Typical Times

2011-01-13T13:22:00.003-05:00

It seems that I've wandered into Thursday. I had to actually visit the calendar and count on my fingers a little bit to figure that out.

This week has been off (like I ever have one that isn't). B had jury duty (again--democracy and all its trimmings can be a bitch) on Monday, which screws up our normal schedule, then school was canceled on Tuesday (Sweet Jesus--iced in with the kids? Really? Why hast thou forsaken me?), which means that by the time Wednesday rolled around I had no idea whether I was coming or going. Throw in Mom's hospital stay, a sick kid, my own stupid cold, McPhail Family Dinner, and a variety of other happenings and SHAZAM. Apparently, it's Thursday.

Oh, wait. My phone says it's Friday. Oops.

Regardless of what day it is (like it even matters, really, in the grand scheme of things), the upside to this crazy week is that I've gotten to talk to my little brother way more times than usual, as he's been looking out for Mom. Unfortunately, most of our conversations have gone something like this:

Me: Hey, Man.
Z: Hey.
Me: How's Mom.?
Z: I haven't killed her yet, if that's what you're asking.
Me: Nice work. You haven't poisoned her milkshakes?
Z: No, but I did consider smothering her with a pillow last night when the pain meds made her start thinking that her stomach was talking to her.
Me: The coroner could probably identify asphyxiation. You need something less obvious.
Z: I could make it look like she rolled over face down, then because of the pain in her shoulder couldn't roll back over, and suffocated.
Me: Hmmm....that might work. I'll do some Internet research and let you know what I find. We might find something easier.
Z: Shawna probably won't let me kill her, so don't spend too much time on it.
Me: Shawna doesn't have to know.
Z: I tell her everything.
Me: Quit being such a damn pansy-ass. If you want to kill Mom, then kill Mom. Jesus! Stand up for yourself, dude.
Z: Yeah. I guess. But things are okay. I think I'll feel better when I get some sleep.
Me: Good luck with that.

But here it is Friday, nobody has killed Mom yet, and the world is still spinning. It's mind boggling. And still, January trudges on.

And trudges on.

Back to the Ground

2011-01-06T16:17:00.002-05:00

One of the things I like about my blog is that I can change the background on a whim. It doesn't take long, there are lots of choices, and it's a way to express how I'm feeling at the moment without having to say a word. After the new year, I ditched the holiday layout and put up blue skies and rolling green grass, because I was looking ahead to spring, as far away as it may be. Today, being the anniversary of the day my Dad died, I thought I would pick something that reminded me of my Dad.

As you see, I chose hot pink with purple accents and disco balls.

This may have you wondering if my Dad was a flaming homosexual who enjoyed leisure suits and Studio 54. While the answer is no (though my Dad DID enjoy a nice polyester suit from the 70's--as well as the BeeGees--until Mom put her foot down and replaced it with a newer, more modern look), the hot pink and disco balls remind me of him just the same. Why? Because they remind me of me, and my Dad reminds me of me. Or, I remind myself of him, I suppose.

My Dad always knew my favorite color was purple. He would buy me little, purple things that reminded him of me when he saw them. Tacky silk flowers from gas stations, a pen and pencil set when I started college, a case to hold my cds. Just something, on occasion, to make me happy. And it worked. It never mattered that he bought me something, or what he bought, or how much it cost, but just that he was thinking of me at some random time, some random place. That's always nice-- to know you are thought of by someone you love. Dad was good at that. Dad also knew that I was a girlie girl, and I liked a little sparkle. If I had turned Dad loose on the Internet and said, "pick a background that looks like me," I could definitely see Dad choosing this one. (Side note: That would never happen, because Dad's navigation of the Internet was rather limited. He developed a relative understanding of email, but never made it much further because he was a bit fearful of his laptop. In fact, after he had had it for months, I filled his iPod for him because he refused to learn how to do it. However, the man could build a working aircraft from driftwood, a tube of toothpaste, and his shoelaces. That's just how he rolled.)

My Dad and I are a lot alike. I cannot build a working aircraft from my shoelaces, but I am organized and smart and efficient. My Dad was all of those things. We make lists and carry notebooks, we like figuring things out and making things better. I stand like my Dad (arms crossed in a particular way), I concentrate like my Dad (tip of the tongue out and bitten between our teeth on the right side of our mouths), we have the same strong, graceful fingers and long-torsoed builds. I am a version of him in the flesh, and my children, particularly Sutton, is a version of me. Therefore, in some ways, I guess my Dad is still here. He's here in us. If I want to smell him, I can take a whiff of Brut. If I want to see him, I can look at my baby brother. If I want to remember him, I can reflect on myself. My Dad would be proud of that.

My Dad liked the colors brown and black. He liked old 70's rock music and driving a truck. Dad loved miniature powered donuts, and working on cars, and flying planes, and plain black coffee. Dad loved animals, tremendously, and holidays and being in the woods. But most of all, my Dad loved me and my family. He loved us a lot, and for that I feel lucky. Just like Dad would feel lucky that I thought enough of him to give him a pink background with a disco ball.

Party on, Dad.

Not A New Year's Blog

2011-01-04T14:45:00.003-05:00

Most of my friends seem to be penning blogs reviewing 2010, as of late. They rehash happenings of the year, reminders of the happy times and sad, the things they like, the things they don't. They wax poetic on the loves gained and the loves lost, the material items acquired, the lands to which they have traveled.

This is not one of those blogs.

I thought about writing one of those, but then I thought, "Why in the hell would I do that?" I don't like anything, and I only blog as an excuse to drink and swear even more than usual (as if that's even possible). Therefore, this is the anti-New Year blog. No, no, wait. THE ANTI-FUCKING-NEW-YEAR BLOG, BITCHES. Yep, that's better.

So it seems January is upon me again. Per the usual, I can't ever feel my hands or feet (luckily, this is due to the frigid temperatures and not diabetic neuropathy, in case you are wondering). I greet most people with a hiss and a sneer (if I greet them at all) and avoid leaving the warm cave of my house whenever possible. (Note that this is NOT possible often, as I work and--more frequently--find it necessary to make frequent trips to the ABC store for hard liquor. They really should set up a home delivery system, those fools. What a priceless service that would be.) I like to camp out in my favorite chair buried under my dog and my blanket, a stack of books and a martini shaker nearby. If I keep it low key like that, I tend to be less of a menace to society (though far less entertaining). As a result, thus far I haven't clubbed any baby seals this year or stolen food from starving orphans, but 2011 is still young, my friends, and there is hope for me yet. People never really change, you know.

My aspirations for the month would seem pretty reasonable. I just want to make it through Thursday and maybe read the new Anita Shreve book at some point (damn library, dragging its feet on ordering it). I'd say I have about a fifty-fifty shot of the Thursday thing if I start hitting the vodka around 8am that morning, the book thing is kind of a long shot. The library is short of funding and the closest Barnes and Noble is further than my hibernative tendencies will allow me to venture, even if I do have a Christmas gift card from my sister-in-law. Compared to my normal goals (master the German language! learn landscape design! finish a complete sentence without being interrupted by a minion!) they seem pretty tame. Unfortunately, that doesn't count for much in January.

Last night I was terribly bored and flipped on the television only to see that a new season of The Bachelor was starting. I do not watch The Bachelor (nor do I watch The Bachelorette) and think it is a ridiculously stupid concept--this square-jawed, narcissistic man moving into a special house to spend his days being pawed by multiple dimwitted bimbos whose main goal in life is to snag herself a husband. Seriously? This is the kind of woman they want to spend their lives with? Regardless, I was feeling too damn slack to change the channel so I watch for a few minutes, most likely killing at least a handful of brain cells. Oh, Sweet Jesus. It hurt. I'll never get those wasted moments of my life back. However, I did glean something from it-- a Deep Thought, of sorts.

The point of my meandering little story is this: (well, actually, there are several-- pay attention): 1) I was right, The Bachelor is ludicrous; 2) My January has not been improved by any amazing new television premiers; and 3) This is life. This is our new year.

Huh?

We all want a new start sometimes. January 1 seems like as good a time as ever to reach for that start. The spray-tan covered dimwits want a new life with a new husband. People want new television episodes (even if they are pathetic excuses for such, as in The Bachelor). I want a new life where my Dad is back and I don't hate January so much. People want cars and babies and bigger houses and different jobs. Want is a staple of our lives. I can't have what I want, which is why I decided to downgrade to living past the 6th and reading a book. It's time for the world to become more attainable. I need the world to be more attainable. Attainability is my new start this month. It won't last past the 31st, but it's as good as I can muster for January.

That's gotta come easier than snagging a husband on reality tv. At least, I hope so. And February? Well, February will bring new things, better things. It has to.

Spreading The Love

2010-12-12T18:53:00.004-05:00

It was suggested last week by the GG that, rather than gratuitous swearing, I say something nice to someone instead. A twist on the old, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all," I suppose. I was doubtful that this would bring me holiday cheer, but since I'm not the one with the Ph.D., I decided to give it a go and see what happened. The girl is always up for new experiences. Later that day, when an old man at the gym told me that if I was ever going to get a husband, I "needed more meat on my bones," I smiled and used my brute force to help adjust the weight machine settings for his fragile, elderly body, rather than saying, "At least I can lift more than ten pounds without snapping a damn bone, old man!" A friend who normally gets only my shining sarcasm got a heartfelt, "I love you, man" paragraph in his message, though I really wanted to give him shit for his chronic inability to reply to me in a timely manner, leaving me to Google him on occasion just to see if he's dead. On the family front, though Sutton spilled his drink on the kitchen floor three times in one day (THREE FUCKING TIMES), I never once muttered "Goddamnit" under my breath. I was sweetness and light. I was a saint.

And you know where it got me? NOWHERE.

The little old man didn't even say "thank you." I may have traumatized my emotionally deficient friend. Sutt spilled his drink twice the next day.

Did I at least feel better, after spewing all that merriness out into the world?

Nope. Not even a little. I just felt like somebody other than me. And why would I want to be somebody other than me? I'm awesome. Prone to fits of violence, drunkenness and crude language, but awesome nonetheless.

Therefore, old man? I want you to know that you are old, brittle, and hateful. And I can assure you that I have plenty of meat on my bones, and that if I took off my clothes to show you, you'd likely keel over and die from the thrill of it all.

Friend? You suck at email, and I'm going to kick your half-wit ass someday.

Sutt? Learn to use a mop, kid. I will teach you. My mopping skills are unsurpassed.

And everybody else? Don't look for anymore sweetness soon. I'm all tapped out.

From the Mouths of Babes

2010-12-09T17:20:00.003-05:00

AN INCOMPLETE LIST OF WEIRD AND/OR AWESOME THINGS THAT MY CHILDREN HAVE SAID OVER THE PAST WEEK, SOME OF WHICH I AM STILL WISHING I HAD NEVER HEARD, WHILE OTHERS I AM STILL USING TO ENTERTAIN MYSELF DURING DULL TIMES, SUCH AS STANDING IN LINE AT THE GROCERY STORE OR TALKING ON THE PHONE TO THE MINIMED REP

1. (Sutt): "Hey, Mommy. I dialed on Daddy's cell phone and I CALLED A REAL PERSON! It was awesome! They talked and everything! And you know who I called? 911!" (As it turns out, you can call 911 even from an old cell phone that is charged but no longer in service. Bet you didn't know that, did you?)

2. (Belly): "Hey, Mommy. My ear is all weird and plugged up. It's like the toilet gets after I go poop and we need to use the plunger. I guess I mean it feels like somebody pooped in my ear."

3. (Sutt): "Hey, Mommy. You know what my favorite flavor is? Mitten. Like Peppermitten."

4. (Belly): "Hey, Mommy. I think my cold has gotten better, and my eyes feel better, but I still have a problem. I have a crusty butt. Feel how crusty it is." (*To my relief, she was referring to dry skin on her extreme lower back. THANK GOD. One can only guess when one hears "crusty butt.")

*Side note: Have you noticed a pattern here with how my children begin EVERY FUCKING SENTENCE? And we all wonder why I drink.

5. (Sutt-- in the bathtub): "Hey, Mommy. What's this fat part of my junk called?" (Me): "Testicles." (Sutt): "TEXTICLES? What do I need TEXTICLES for?" (Me): "If you want to have a baby someday, you'll need them." (Sutt): "But right now, I don't need any texticles, right?"

6. (Belly): "Hey, Mommy, I don't want to eat anything, because every time I cough I puke in my mouth a little. So it's kind of like I'm eating all the time because I'm coughing all the time."

7. (Sutt): "Hey, Mommy. Guess what? This week is V week at school. And you know what word I told Mrs. Lentini starts with V? VINO!"

Ah, yes. The joys of children.

Cheers.

'Tis the Season

2010-12-03T18:19:00.003-05:00

A few minutes ago, I was sitting outside in the freezing cold looking at the sky while the dogs powdered their noses. A plane was sailing overhead. I wondered where it was going. I could look down the street and see a handful of houses all lit up with Christmas lights, just like mine. Some people prefer all clear lights, but at my house colored always wins out. Maybe it's the Tennessee coming out in me. Maybe clear lights are just a little too straight and narrow for my family.

This time of year is tough nowadays. I miss my Dad, and it's hard to explain to two extremely excited kids why Mommy feels sad at Christmas. My Grief Guru says that this year will be easier than last, and next year will be easier than this one-- so on and so forth. I've long suspected, due to her taste in hairstyles (among other things) and her penchant for vests that she may be crazy as hell. Regardless, what am I to do except believe her? Emotionally, it's my best option, I guess.

B is serving jury duty this week, sitting as a juror on a child neglect case. I hate the thought of that-- that there are kids that are cold or hungry or don't have medicine when they are ill. Or even worse than that, that nobody even cares that they are cold or hungry or sick. I may not be the greatest Mom ever, but my kids will never suffer neglect in any way, shape, or form. When I die, they will still have lots of people who love them. They are lucky that way.

You see, when I lost my Dad, I lost a great big chunk of "the people who love me." My Mom loves me. B loves me. My kids love me. Aunt Tina and Ro and a handful of friends love me. I'm lucky that way, too. I am grateful for them all, but I still miss the way my Dad made me feel. When people disappear from your lives, in whatever capacity they once were in it, it leaves a hole that just doesn't go away. You can't fill it with something else (I've tried), you can't ignore it (tried that too), it's just there. It hurts. Case closed.

So this is Christmas, and I'm hanging in there. It's confusing and uncomfortable, but it is what it is, and I can't change it. I would if I could. I put up the tree, hung the lights, and wrapped a few gifts. I haven't thrown anything at the mall Santa or started involuntarily swearing when Christmas music comes on the radio. I'm missing some people I love, though. I suspect that's part of life.

All Hail My Genius! or, It Must Be Idiot Night On Jeopardy!

2010-11-30T19:55:00.004-05:00

After an afternoon that involved light-saber fighting, second grade math homework, and teaching my children to make waffles (it was breakfast-dinner night), my IQ was hovering around 65. Technically, I was functional. To my knowledge, I was not drooling upon myself or suddenly incapable of tying my shoes or doing the US Weekly crossword puzzle, but I was definitely a little dull around the edges (the martini during math likely didn't help). Once the kiddos were tucked into bed, I decided it would be in my best interest to sharpen my mental pencil with a little help from Alex Trebek. It was time for a little Jeopardy!

(Side note: Hey! The Grinch just came on-- the old school cartoon Grinch. That's awesome. I, too, have a heart that's two sizes too small. I also hate Whos and would rather have a dog than a reindeer. But I digress.)

I settled in to watch Jeopardy! in my pajamas (with a lovely glass of Merlot--the martini had worn off) and sized up my television opponents carefully-- an anemic-looking Emo chick named Allie (whose anecdote was a ridiculously pointless story about using a hair dryer in France), an old dude in a red shirt named Tom, and the champion, who was so unremarkable that I can't even remember his name, only that he had exceptionally large ears and he kept giving the camera what I like to refer to as "seductive eyebrows," which is kind of a sexy little eyebrow wiggle that can either look suggestive or like a nervous tic, depending on how it's executed. (Please note that his was more of the nervous tic variety.) I was feeling confident. Even with 14.5% alcohol content coursing through my veins, I could kick these losers' asses.

Then the question board was filled. The categories included "Name That Country," "G-roceries," and "Massachusetts Symbols." My first thought was, "Shit. I'm going to SUCK at this board. And when Emo Allie beats me at Jeopardy!, I'm going to be PISSED." (My second thought was, "Who comes UP with this BULLSHIT? These categories BLOW GOATS. ") All the questions appeared on the board, and the nerdfest began.

But hark! (I used "hark" specifically in honor of the season. Please recognize and appreciate this for a moment.) You won't believe what happened. I. Knew. Every. Freakin. Answer.

No joke. I fucking mopped the floor with those fools.

Now, I'm damn good at Jeopardy! (Most of the time.) (Side note: It's KILLING me to use all these fucking exclamation points, as I HATE exclamation points. I love capital letters, but that's irrelevant. However, I feel the need to represent Jeopardy! correctly, and in reality, it does indeed end with an exclamation point. I felt the need to point this out in case anybody thought I was being overly enthusiastic--which is not the Haley way--rather than grammatically correct.) However, I am not Rainman. I do not mutter every answer in its full and perfect form under my breath while counting cards and demanding to change the channel to The People's Court. Yet somehow this time the stars aligned and I became the JEOPARDY! MASTER. I was still in full glory when Double Jeopardy! began. I didn't end up with a perfect score at the end, but I still did pretty damn well. (I shall now neglect to discuss how Final Jeopardy! was a question in the category SPORTS, the answer was something about a Canadian hockey team, and I missed it, subsequently losing all of the theoretical thousands I had raked in during my Jeopardy! massacre because I theoretically BET IT ALL. You heard me, I DO NOT BACK DOWN. I BET IT ALL, BITCHES.)

All this begs the question: "Am I that brilliant, or was it Idiot Night on Jeopardy!?" (It also begs the questions: "Does Merlot make me smarter?" and "What, exactly, the hell was Alex thinking with that black suit and tie and green shirt tonight?")

The answer? That remains to be seen. But for a girl who has never been to Massachusetts, yet got every single Massachusetts Symbols question right, I'm feeling pretty damn intelligent this evening.

Yes, indeed.

The Thanksgiving Blog

2010-11-23T15:59:00.002-05:00

Now THAT'S a creative title. You can tell that I'm really working hard today, no? Poor blog--I've put about as much effort into it this year as I have my gardening (which is why I have a bunch of dead plants in my front yard--in Tennessee, where we have things like lynch mobs [this is a little shout out to Polk County, y'all], the HOA would have already shown up at my house and lynched me. Except that in Tennessee, we don't have HOA's, particularly in Polk County. And since we don't have lynch mobs in Virginia, it looks like me and my dead mums remain safe.)

But I digress.

A few years ago ("few" because I don't really have any idea if it's been seven or one) I started my annual Thanksgiving Blog, where I like to publicly give thanks for the little things in my life for which I am grateful. Not my family. Not my home. But the things that rarely get the recognition they deserve. While I admit that I'm not feeling particularly festive this year (yet again), I'm going to give it my Haley Best and share my thankfulness with the world anyway. So here we go.

HALEY'S 2010 THANKSGIVING BLOG LIST OF THE LITTLE THINGS IN LIFE FOR WHICH SHE IS THANKFUL, WHICH MEANS THAT HER YORKIE, MIMI, IS EXCLUDED--BEING VERY OVERSIZED--AS WELL AS MANY OTHER THINGS THAT ARE TECHNICALLY BIG (LIKE 1.5 LITER SIZE WINE BOTTLES). HALEY WOULD ALSO LIKE TO MENTION THAT SHE WILL NOT BE RECOGNIZING ANY ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGE IN SAID LIST ONLY BECAUSE SHE IS BEING THANKFUL FOR THE LITTLE THINGS RIGHT NOW, AND FRANKLY, ANYTHING WITH ALCOHOL IS NOT CONSIDERED A LITTLE THING, BUT RATHER A GREAT BIG GIANT REASON WHY HER SANITY IS (MOSTLY) INTACT, AS B IS STILL GONE MOST OF THE TIME, THUS LEAVING HER ALONE AND AT THE MERCY OF THE MINIONS AND ALL THEIR LITTLE NEIGHBORHOOD MINION CRONIES

1. My crock pot~ Now that I am working so much, including two nights during the week when my children must still be fed but which I dislike leaving Blaker in a "what's for dinner lurch" (please reference the night he gave them scrambled eggs with peas for dinner, if you are questioning my feelings) the crock pot is my miracle tool. You can cook anything in that bitch, yo. Seriously. Throw in some meat, vegetables, water, bullion cubes, leftovers, whatever canned items are in the pantry and a little salt, turn it to low and wait 8 hours and BAM! You've got dinner. (Or turn it to high and wait 3, if you are impatient. Still, BAM! You've got dinner.) High five for you, crock pot. I do love you so.

2. Text messages~ I am not a big texter, in general. I think it's a great tool to have, and I like to occasionally let someone know I'm thinking of them or that I'm running late or that I wish they would drop dead and burn in hell via text, but it's pretty rare, in general. Part of my texting hesitation is probably due to the fact that I text so slowly an elephant could likely gestate its young before I can send out a quick message, but that's really not that important. It's not like I'm pressed for time, dude. Life is long. Anyway, what I like about texting is the same thing I like about a few other things (cleaning, ironing, shooting someone)-- instant gratification. You think of something or someone, you text, if they are well-mannered and in possession of their (charged and "on") phone, you hear right back. Quicker than email. Quicker than snail mail. A hell of a lot quicker than telepathy. You know they are alive. They know you need milk from the store. You know their kid wears a size 2T or that they will be 5 minutes late meeting you or that they think your kid might have just robbed a bank in New York while wearing a Darth Vader mask. Instant gratification.

3. Urban Cowboy, the movie~ So Kate Middleton and Prince William are getting married. The world is full of fairytale romances, happily ever afters, love and infatuation. But you know what the world is even MORE full of? Dysfunctional, screwed up, love/hate relationships between messed up people who need years of good therapy and a lot of mood-altering medications. Enter Bud and Sissy, the two main characters of the old 70's movie, Urban Cowboy. Every time I get depressed, all I have to do is pop in this classic gem and automatically I start feeling better. There's the iconic soundtrack ("Can I have this dance, for the rest of my life?), the fabulous one liners ("See ya, girls, I got me a cowboy!") and the overwhelming excitement over the wedding gift of a single-wide trailer. It always makes me want to put on my fringed boots and go ride a cowboy....oops, I mean, go ride a mechanical bull. Nothing can cheer a person up like watching Debra Winger get smacked around by John Travolta while they are both wearing ten gallon hats. Nothing, I say.

4. Lotion~ Ah, you think I'm going to whip out something dirty with this one, don't you? Well, my friends, sorry to disappoint. This one is all about my kids. You see, they get up in the middle of the night an average of six hundred times most nights. They have invisible bumps, scrapes, rashes, bug bites, itches, cuts, and various other alien ailments. There is no sending the little monsters back to bed. You can yell, you can throw things at them (not that I would know....), threaten them, and spank them. It doesn't matter, they still get up again five minutes later with some horribly incurable skin irritation that no one but them can see and that they did not have when they were tucked in twenty minutes ago. Enter: the lotion. Lotion works wonders. You tell them it's medicine and rub it on whatever body part is hurting. They think you've done something to help, you've pretended not to dismiss their complaint, everybody is happy. Vaseline works the same way. Hell, Belly can read now and the bottle clearly says "Lotion." She knows what lotion is, and IT STILL WORKS. Miracle stuff, that lotion.

5. Melatonin~ Many of you already know that I am an insomniac. I've taken sleeping pills, tried warm milk, done yoga-- nothing really helps much. I fall asleep rather easily most of the time, but I don't sleep well and I don't sleep long. Does Melatonin help this? Nope. However, Melatonin does something else that adds interest to my life: it gives me completely psychotic dreams. If you've ever tripped acid in the mountains with a hippie nudist colony, you know what I'm talking about. Sometimes they are bad, sometimes they are good, sometimes they are just crazy. Regardless, these dreams add spice to my life in a completely harmless way. My doctor seems baffled by this, but fully encouraging, therefore I continue to trip in my on little happy Melatonin stupor for a little while most nights. Hey, it's better then dreaming about being at work, or replaying events from the day. It's cheap, it's legal. I figure one day I'll get bored with it or it will quit working for me, but for now, all hail the Melatonin.

That's five. Only five. But at least it's a nice odd number.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Mommy Needs A Cocktail

2010-10-01T15:33:00.002-04:00

School was canceled in Suffolk today because it rained.

Yeah, it rained a lot, but SWEET JESUS, IT'S ONLY RAIN. I don't care if it was a torrential downpour for three days, or that water was standing several feet deep in some areas. I don't care if a dam broke on Holland Road and the flooding made it impossible for buses to get through. I don't care that it took me half an hour to get Bellamy less than one mile to school yesterday after a ridiculously stupid two-hour delay (like the flooding will magically disappear after two hours), or that half the roads in the city have washed away. I DO NOT CARE.

You want to know what I care about?

What I care about is the fact that I nearly had a nervous breakdown today, trapped with two kids who are going stir crazy because they haven't been able to go outside in three days and whom I had to take to the mall because it was the only indoor place I could think of to go. I care that I became that psycho Mom who, in the middle of the greeting card aisle at Target, had to threaten to beat her child if he didn't SHUT THE HELL UP from his incessant screaming for a C3-P0 stress ball from the dollar bin (sure, it's $1, but it's about the principle, not the cost) while his sister whined that she REALLY NEEDED MORE DAMN SILLY BANDS (no, she didn't say "damn," I added that myself) and I mentally kicked myself for not carrying airplane bottles of vodka in my handbag like all smart women should do. I care that I may well lose my mind if my children do now grow up very, very quickly. MOMMY DOESN'T CARE IF SHE GOES TO JAIL FOR SPANKING HER KIDS OR PUBLIC DRUNKENNESS, FOLKS. Jail might be a sweet little vacation, with three meals a day and downtime. Hell, if I'm naughty enough, I might even get solitary confinement, which actually sounds like my idea of heaven at this moment. Throw in a couple of bottles of wine and a stack of paperbacks and I'm set.

Seriously.

Dead Ahead

2010-09-04T20:07:00.002-04:00

As you can see, I'm on a death kick here with my subject lines. There is no hidden meaning behind this, you don't need to worry that I'm going to Sam's Club and buying Draino in bulk to mix with my Crystal Light or anything. My entry does, however, have a morbid element to it, as I am writing it to detail exactly how I want things to go down following my death. And you (YOU meaning every single one of you who outlives me) can bet your ass that I'll be haunting the hell out of you if I don't get my way. Damn straight I will.

But I should start at the beginning-- namely, what spurred this blog in the first place. A bad day? A bout of depression? Feelings of inadequacy? Nope, my day was fabulous, I'm not remotely depressed, and we all know that I'm so fucking awesome I that I couldn't be inadequate if I tried. What started it all was The Block Party on the radio station Power 99. Specifically, the Guns N Roses block.

Now I know it's a great big trashy trailer-park livin' redneck cliche', but I DO love some GnR. Those boys can just SPEAK to me. I hear them and I remember making out in a deserted cul-de-sac in my Honda in high school with a boy who was NOT my boyfriend (and who is most likely now in prison). "Patience," "Don't Cry," "Sweet Child of Mine".....I get a little weepy just thinking about them. Dude, I'd do Axel Rose in a heartbeat if he wanted me and I think he's about as nasty and disease infested as a public toilet seat at a a Nickelback concert. Yesterday, on the way home from the gym "November Rain" came on (during a rainstorm, which made it all the more poetic) and I had the opportunity to sing my heart out, much to the horror of my children (especially because it was the LONG, 11-minute or so version--none of that abbreviated shit the radio tries to play so often instead). It was soul-wrenching, and I can't carry a tune to save my life. YOU WOULD HAVE CRIED. (If you don't believe me, I can give you a small list of people to whom I sing to their voicemail on occasion. They will back me up.)

Anyway, today, on my way to the mall to search for end-of-season patio furniture on sale, I had the great fortune to hear the GnR version of "Knockin' on Heaven's Door" for the first time in years. *Everyone pause for a moment, with your hands over your hearts, and try to hear the song in your head. Axel's whining, Slash's guitar......focus, focus......* Yep. That's what I thought. IT BLEW YOUR FUCKING MIND. Mine, too.

On any given day at any given time, my thought processes skitter all over the place. I'm not ADD or anything, I'm just a hardcore multi-tasker, and I can literally think of about fifteen things, fully and completely, with total focus, all the time. Which means that today, while singing along (loudly) to the radio, I was able to link "Knockin' on Heaven's Door" to dead to who I know who has died to when will I die to what do I want to be done with me when I die (I certainly don't want to be donated to science and have some creepy med student defiling my still super-hot dead body in some formaldehyde smelling classroom somewhere--we all know those med students are weird as hell) to HMMMMM.....what DO I want to be done with me when I die?

I always told B that I wanted to be cremated and sprinkled partially in Barnes and Noble, partially in the Nordstrom's show department, but we all know he isn't going to go to the trouble to hit up two different places with my ashes and bone fragments, so I'd better just condense it as best I can.

And then I realized my death dream. I want to be cremated. I want to be dumped in a freezer bag. I want to be driven to the Ocoee River, sitting in the passenger seat of somebody's car, with "Knockin' on Heaven's Door" blaring on the radio, I want to be put in a raft (preferably with MT), and I want to be sprinkled all the way down the river, particularly in the middle section. It's beautiful there, and peaceful and spiritual. It's the closest to Heaven's Door I've ever come.

The EPA and all the other rule-making groups, be damned. This is what I want, and this is what I shall receive. Yes, I will. (Side note: Afterward, I expect all those present to go to the Ocoee Dam Deli and have sweet potato fries, dipped in honey mustard, because that's how I like them best. I also hope that someone from the Ocoee Dam Deli reads this and sends me a certificate for a lifetime supply of sweet potato fries, although now that I think about it, that really isn't that helpful because they are only, like, $2 and I only get in to Tennessee about once a year. Sigh.)

Just dump me in the Ocoee, bitches.

The Undead

2010-09-03T18:18:00.002-04:00

FOREWORD: I would like to dedicate this blog to Ro, with whom I was accidentally swapped at birth, albeit twelve years apart, and for whom I will always be ready and willing to make a Princess Bed in order to bring her good cheer. You are likely my biggest blog fan (see pink roses for reference) and I will always love you like my little sis.

So, as you can see, I didn't die. I mean, I wasn't planning to die or trying to die, but I HAVE been AWOL (again) for a while, so I thought perhaps some of you were thinking (hoping) I was dead.

I'm not.

A lot has happened this summer, per the usual. We've been to the beach house twice. I trekked to Tennessee, inherited some dominatrix gear, and rafted the river with my sweet MT. My E moved away, my Ray launched her website, and I got stood up for a drink for the second year in a row by a good friend whom I was really looking forward to seeing. I inherited a plane, yelled at a preschool director, and gave up my hopes of moving to San Diego within the near future. Yeah. That hits the high points. Now you're caught up.

However, none of that was worthy of pulling me out of my blog avoidance and spurring me back into writing mode. It takes something monumental for that--something that entertains me and fulfills me so thoroughly that I can't help but share it with the world via my (incredibly awesome) written words.

Two nights ago, I was finally inspired (and chastised by Ro), to write again. It all started with the trashcan.

You see, Thursday morning is trash pickup. On Wednesday night, I make the rounds through the house--bathrooms, bedrooms, playroom, kitchen, etc.--gathering up everything that needs to go. I bag it up, take the can out of the garage, and walk it to the curb. (Side note: I am proud to announce that this week, the McPhail family produced two small bags of trash. Our recycling can, however, runneth over. We're saving the world, one oatmeal canister at a time.) I usually do this around twilight (I love that word, and not because of the stupid books), when the neighbors are out, sitting on porches and watching kids play, having post-dinner cocktails, tiki torches lit, unwinding as the world twirls by. It's routine. I'm a girl who is all about routine. This is how I roll. Routinely.

This past Trash Day Eve, as I was strolling out to the curb I noticed that the Dad across the street was sitting outside, drinking a beer with his brother-in-law, and watching his toddler play in the driveway. A perfectly normal evening. Except........hmmm......something was not quite right. I looked closer. Toddler was playing with a ride-on car, inherited from Sutt who had outgrown it. As he wandered along, he pushed the car with one hand, and in the other hand he clutched something weird. What was that? Hmmmm.....yes....I think it's..... a bra. Yes, indeed. He was carrying a bra. A largish- D-cup-ish, nude satin bra. Fascinated, I watched as he dragged the bra along the concrete, picking it up from time to time to shove it in his mouth and suck on it a little around his pacifier. It appeared to be a push-up, the kid had a death grip on it, and my curiosity was peaked.

Interested, I did what every normal neighbor would do. I stared for a while, then shouted across the street, "Hey [neighbor]. Did you know [Toddler] has got a bra?"

Neighbor took a swig of his Budweiser and wiped off his mouth. Then he sighed. "Yeah, it's his security blanket. He doesn't have a Blankie, he has a bra. He takes it everywhere."

Silence all around.

Fucking awesome.

When my children were little, they had lots of things to which they were attached. Belly had Bun-Bun (a pink bunny/blanket that Ya put in her NICU bassinet when she was born), Green (a monkey/blanket), Roberta (a pink gorilla from her Papaw), and various other items. Sutt had a stuffed Buzz and Woody, Curious George, and a beagle (stuffed) that he named Power Ranger. They both had pacifiers. Nobody ever had a bra. Or any other kind of lingerie, just to be fair. At least, not to my knowledge.

After a moment of consideration, I yelled back to Neighbor, "You know this doesn't bode well for his teenage years, right?"

Another swig of Bud, "Yep. We're counting on some trouble."

[Toddler] squealed and shook his bra in the air.

I said it before, I'll say it again.

Fucking Awesome.

It's All Fun And Games Until Somebody Finds the Easy Bake

2010-06-29T09:50:00.004-04:00

I am now on Day 7 of SUMMER BREAK (Day 11 if you count weekend days, which I don't, as the minis would be around on those days regardless). Seeing as how I haven't faked my own death and absconded to Mexico, nor have I flipped my lid and taken off on a country-wide killing spree in the Xterra, chain-smoking Marlboro Reds while wearing cutoffs and mirrored sunglasses, and taunting the police from pay phones in really boring states like Missouri, I consider SUMMER BREAK to be a success, thus far. We have spent a great deal of time at the pool. We have been to the water park at the Y. We have seen a movie. We have gone on a quest to locate and purchase both a blue light saber and a green one, we have filled up the Barbie pool and let Barbie and all her boyfriends (Ironman, Batman, Wolverine, the Incredible Hulk, and Darth Vader--clearly the girl gets around AND has a certain "type" of man she prefers) have a pool party, and we've had a good dose of Jesus at Bible School. We've visited the library, the mall play area, and the park (in hundred degree weather, I might add). And what all this means is: I have officially shot my load. (I hope everyone enjoys that attractive sexual metaphor, as every time I hear it I feel mildly queasy and truly only chose to use it in this instance to see if anyone else also felt mildly queasy at the mental image. Please tell me if you did. However, if you merely got excited by it, I DO NOT NEED TO KNOW, SO KEEP IT TO YOUR DAMN SELF, PERVERT.)

Throughout all of these activities, I have plastered on a smile and pretended IT WAS THE FUNNEST THING EVER (yes, I said "funnest,"--suck it up and deal, yo). Why? Because I am a good Mom. As a matter of fact, I decided yesterday I am the BEST FUCKING MOM EVER. And for good reason: Belly found her Easy Bake Oven.

Now, let me explain how the Easy Bake Oven came into existence. (Please note, this is not the history of the Easy Bake Oven itself, but more of an overview of how the McPhail Family came to own said oven, as any Mom on the planet will tell you that EASY BAKE OVENS ARE THE DEVIL AND YOU NEVER PURCHASE THEM FOR YOUR CHILDREN UNTIL YOU ARE ON DRUGS, OUT OF YOUR EVER-LOVING MIND, OR BOTH.) One of my mother-in-laws (yes, I have two) purchased the oven for Bellamy for Christmas. When she told me, I immediately flinched in pain, then dropped to my knees to pray to God that perhaps he would deem me worthy to have just one teeny, tiny little prayer answered and the damn oven would magically disappear. He did not, and it did not. However, he did buy me some time--Barbara misplaced the oven for six months, which means that Belly did not receive it in December for Christmas, but rather for her birthday in June. Bellamy was ecstatic. I had a fourth glass of Chardonnay.

In the midst of the excitement over her other birthday gifts, I managed to swipe the Easy Bake and stash it in the closet. The "closet" being the storage closet upstairs, where random McPhail items go to hide for years at a time, and where no one ever goes unless B decides it would be really fun to go play in the attic for a bit, using tools and man things like air filters and such. Anyway, there the oven rested for a month. Until yesterday. When Bellamy, somehow, located it.

So last night I was forced to Easy Bake. Let me just point out that whoever decided it would be really fun to make an "oven" that "cooked" things like "cakes" the size of sugar cookies and "cookies" the size of dimes by using a light bulb that actually creates enough heat that one can be easily burned if one touches this oven should be dragged out into the street and shot, after being forced to Easy Bake for the duration of the life of an economy-sized pack of 100 watt light bulbs. Creating the batter involved opening a packet, dumping it into a bowl, adding a teaspoon and a half of water, stirring and putting it in the tiniest little cake pan you've ever seen, then shoving it in the damn oven with a big, yellow utensil. Being the watchful eye while all this was done by a seven-year-old and a four-year-old took OVER AN HOUR and ultimately involved one eye poke (Belly to Sutt), one punch to the arm (Sutt to Belly), LOTS of bickering (both) and cake batter on the table, floor, and children. Considering the amount of cake batter produced to begin with was probably less than a heaping Tablespoon, this was quite a feat. Twelve miserable baking minutes later, we had a cake. A very small, very rock hard cake. My children were enchanted. I needed a shot of tequila and a Xanax.

Needless to say, I think I deserve serious kudos for cheerfully Easy Baking the hell out of some yellow cake. I won't even mention suffering through making "frosting" and adding sprinkles. One more complicated Mommy activity down, only a summer full of more to go. Let's hope I'm still standing in September.

Deep Thoughts

2010-06-19T18:06:00.004-04:00

Sometimes I sit around and consider the following things:

A LIST OF THINGS THAT I OFTEN SIT AROUND AND CONSIDER, USUALLY WHEN I AM DRINKING OR WHEN I CANNOT SLEEP, AS I DON'T HAVE MUCH TIME OTHERWISE TO CONSIDER THINGS ALTHOUGH I AM INDEED A GURU OF MULTITASKING AND EFFICIENCY AND CAN LITERALLY DO TWELVE THINGS AT ONCE MOST OF THE TIME. ADDITIONALLY, IF YOU HAVE SEEN "THE INFORMANT" (A MOVIE OF WHICH I ONLY WATCHED THE FIRST FIFTEEN MINUTES BECAUSE IT SUCKED SO BADLY) YOU WILL SEE MATT DAMON DISCUSS HIS EFFICIENCY, A MONOLOGUE WITH WHICH I TOTALLY IDENTIFIED BECAUSE SOMETIMES I, TOO, LET THE CONDITIONER SOAK INTO MY HAIR IN THE SHOWER WHILE I BRUSH MY TEETH (ALSO IN THE SHOWER)

1. Playboy Magazine~ I get the idea of Playboy. I am not in any way, shape, or form opposed to Playboy, nor am I disgusted or jealous of it. I once got B a subscription to it for his birthday, because hey, who doesn't want to check out hot chicks? I love hot chicks. The cartoons are often rather stupid, but it's not as if anybody really buys Playboy for the cartoons (that's why you buy The New Yorker, or the Far Side desk calendar). The issue I have with Playboy is this: if you take a random sample of issues from the past five years THEY ALL LOOK THE SAME. The girls pose the same way. They look alike--large breasted, smoothly shaved, either olive skinned, dark-eyed brunettes, or platinum blonds, all with kickin' spray tans and a penchant for looking cute in pigtails. There was one edition a few years back where some tennis player chick was featured and her boobs were tiny. I wanted to high-five Hugh Hefner for giving the under-endowed a chance. However, she's the only one that broke the mold, unless you count Cindy Margolis with her landing strip. Which I don't, because she's still big breasted and platinum blond, so even her minimal (but existent) pubic hair isn't enough to set her apart.

2. What the world would be like if we spelled most of our words phonetically, and how I would lose my importance in our universe~ I know several very intelligent people who can't spell worth a damn. I am not one of them, and I do not judge them. (For the record, I was in hot pursuit of the National Spelling Bee title when I was eleven, but was thwarted by a bad case of chicken pox. Otherwise, that crown would have been mine, ese.) Because I am an excellent speller, I find it both amusing and exciting that some of the words in the English language are spelled in such a complicated and contradictory way. It gives me an internal shiver of delight when I consider how "cataclysm" has no "i," and a slightly giddy tremor when I see how many people misspell "definitely" as "definately." I want to go around teaching everyone to spell with my stellar skills and knowledge, saving the world one poor speller at a time. Not because I am superior to them, but because we all have to be good at something, and this is MY THING. I can't do math in my head, I can't carry a tune, my artistic abilities are atrocious, but I'll be damned if I can't spell the pants off anyone around me.

3. How can claims be made about things that can't be proven?~ Maine claims to be the only state without a single snake within its boundaries. Scientists claim that when a person tells a lie, he or she nearly always glances to the left while telling said lie. Texas officially states that it is home to the best Mexican food in our great nation. But you want to hear something scandalous? NONE OF THIS CAN BE PROVED. Can every inch of Maine really be simultaneously scoured for snakes and declared snake free? I don't care if the climate does not work in reptilian favor or that no one ever runs across a giant copperhead while mowing his lawn. What I care about is that it can't be PROVED. Just like I can look you straight in the eye and tell a whopping lie without ever glancing away, and it's my belief that the best Mexican food on the planet is pseudo-Mexican and located in Carrboro, North Carolina. BAM. There you go.

4. What if~ I once had a chance to run off and marry a marine I barely knew when I was twenty years old. I was angry at B the night I conceived Belly because he had done something incredibly stupid and almost didn't sleep with him that night (damn you, Corona with lime). I had a gun held to my head in high school because I walked in on a drug deal while looking for a bathroom at a party. WHAT IF: I had gone for it, I had stayed sober and gone to bed, I had used my biting wit to oppose my captivity? I might be happy or sad or dead. There's no telling what could have happened. Every day contains so many choices, so many options. Even the tiniest decision (looking for the bathroom when you have to pee) can affect you forever. There is always a "what if," no matter what you choose.

5. What would Maddie do?~ Remember those "What Would Jesus Do" bracelets from the late nineties? Those who jammed for Jesus sported them proudly, looking others square in the eye and daring them with their piety to explain the meaning of "WWJD." It was a way to not only show your devotion to your homeboy JC, but also to minister to others because hey, they asked, right? High five for Jesus. Although I never jumped on that collective bandwagon, I have since created my own: What Would Maddie Do? On my never-ending quest for eternal happiness, I sought far and near for those in my life who exhibited the most contentment, the most happiness, the most true joy in their daily activities. After careful consideration, the winner of the Convivial Award was.......my mutt, Maddie May. In 2002, I rescued Maddie May from the pound in Charleston, South Carolina, TOTALLY BY ACCIDENT. I went in looking for a nice, reserved small dog that would be a lovely, yet docile, companion for my cantankerous Yorkie, Mimipants, while I was off teaching high schoolers the importance of literacy. Instead, I left with this high-strung, high-energy, matted mess of a canine whom the shelter had nicknamed "Chatty," but whom I immediately christened "Maddie" all because I was intrigued by her spastic-ness and terrified she was going to be put down. Maddie is a (potentially) Westie, Poodle, Maltese, Who-Knows-What mix who was captured by Animal Control as a stray and was the HAPPIEST FUCKING DOG THE WORLD HAS EVER SEEN. Because of her vivacious personality, she had already been shipped from one pound to this one, rather than being put down, in hopes she would find someone willing to put up with her crazy. Since nobody does crazy like me, I figured we were a good match. A $75 adoption fee later, I hauled her off for a grooming and called her my own.

Maddie was ecstatic. No, really. You have no idea how fully I mean that--MADDIE WAS ECSTATIC. Maddie is the happiest little creature EVER. Maddie does not care if she has to take a bath, if she's not allowed on the furniture, or if the kids put a dress and bonnet on her and force her to be their "baby" for hours on end. Right at this exact moment, Maddie is wallowing in the floor and chewing on my toe, oblivious to the fact that she is being ignored, and has been ignored all day. Maddie is just happy to be alive. Food, shelter, petting, treats, toys--those are all serious bonuses to Maddie. She loves her people, she loves her blanket, she loves EVERYTHING. No matter what. So here lately, when I'm having an extraordinarily shitty day--my laptop gets yet another virus, both kids have a fever, it's 109 degrees outside and the air conditioner in my car isn't working, B has class that night, my IC is all AWOL, AND I forget and call my Dad's cell because I REALLY FUCKING NEED HIM RIGHT THEN (or now, the house phone too, as it has been disconnected)--I try to stop, take a breath, and think, "What Would Maddie Do?" Maddie would be happy, no matter what. And if Maddie can do it, so can I. Maddie is my mentor.

The things I think of are blips. They come and go so quickly that sometimes I can't even remember from minute to minute what's going on in my head. That said, this was your little peek into my brain. This was your Haley Invasion. This was what I thought of today--at least, for a moment or two.

Something I Stole...

2010-05-21T12:35:00.003-04:00

After writing my Gemini blog this morning, I came home to find an article about Geminis on the MSN homepage. I thought I would copy and post it, because in many ways it sums me up well.
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Versatility is a great keyword for this dual sign. Expressive and quick-witted, the Gemini presents two distinctive sides to his or her personality, and you can never be sure which one you're going to come face-to-face with. On one hand, Gemini can be outgoing, flirtatious, communicative, and ready for fun, fun, fun! Yet when the other twin is present, you can find this Air Sign contemplative, serious, restless, and even indecisive. Both Twins are able to adapt to life's circumstances well, making them wonderful people to know. Things are never boring when a Gemini is on the scene.

Friends and Family
Geminis are social and love spending time with friends and family. There will be times when this outgoing sign will want to go bungee jumping, and there will be times when sitting at home playing cards will suit them. Either way, friends are plentiful. Those who can match the Gemini intellect and love of variety will go the distance. One quality they seek out in others is communication. Gemini loves to talk and gain insight from others. Without a clear flow of talk, Gemini will lose interest pretty quickly. Family is important, especially to those of like mind. Friendship with siblings is quite common for the Gemini, and time spent together is cherished. Meeting responsibilities with family can pose a challenge at times, but almost always, Gemini comes through.

Career and Money
The best-suited careers for a Gemini are those that stimulate the intellect. "I think" is the key phrase for this sign. Geminis are inventive and often literary. It's important that the work they commit themselves to is dynamic and challenging so boredom doesn't set in.

Careers as a teacher, debater, reporter, writer, preacher, or lawyer are all well-suited to this sign. Any platform that gives the Gemini room to talk is best! A sales profession is another excellent choice. You can expect to see many tools for communication around this sign, such as PDAs, laptops, and cell phones. Generating new ideas and problem-solving are other areas where a Gemini will shine.

Deciding between practicality and pleasure can be a tough thing for a Gemini. While money is a necessary evil, most don't spend a lot of time worrying about where their next dollar is coming from. They don't put much thought into balancing their checkbooks, yet they manage to get by just fine. This is largely due to the flexibility Geminis have.

Love and Sex

Fun-loving and always up for an intellectual challenge, the Gemini is a spirited lover. The talk that precedes the interlude is just as important as the actual physical contact for this sign, and when it comes to wit, this sign holds nothing back. Flirtatious and curious, the Gemini must find one that can match their intellect and energy level. The Gemini needs to experience excitement, versatility, and stimulation to feel fully satisfied. Once the perfect match is found, though, a Gemini can settle into a lifestyle for two for the long haul.

GEMINI TIDBITS:

Health
Each sign has a part of the anatomy attached to it, making this the area of the body that is most sensitive to stimulation. The anatomical areas for Gemini are the lungs, collarbone, hands, arms, lower back, shoulders, and the nervous system.

Ruling Planet
The ruling planet for Gemini is Mercury. Representing intellectual urges and the avenue of expression, this planet rules reason, rationalization, words, awareness, and communication. Its action is quick, and it deals with travel, speaking, writing, trade, and emotional capacity and technique.

Lucky Numbers
Gemini's lucky numbers are 3 and 7.

Compatibility
Geminis are most compatible with Libra and Aquarius.

Opposite Sign
The opposite sign of Gemini is Sagittarius.

The Perfect Gift
A surprise party, gift certificate to a bookstore, any activity with friends, Scrabble or another intellectual game

Likes
Music, magazines, books, music, blogs, chatting with nearly anyone, short trips around town

Dislikes
Repetition and routine, being alone, being confined

Strength
Curiosity, ability to share ideas, adaptable, affectionate, kind

Weakness
Scattering energy in too many places at once, fickle in love, nervous, short attention span

Charismatic marks
Expressive eyes, quick, bright, often small-boned, refined features

The Reality Of It All

2010-05-21T10:04:00.002-04:00

Geminis are known for their split personalities. Being a Gemini, I am no exception (much to the chagrin of my husband and a few of my friends). I am very much "what you see is what you get," unfortunately, you just never know what you're going to see or get. I use this in the broadest sense of the definition.

In my last blog, I mentioned how Michael, The Workout God, voiced his concern regarding my gym vs. drinking habits. I've been thinking about this a lot the past couple of days. Michael is one of my oldest and closest friends, he knows me better than nearly everyone else on the planet. Yet this is an excellent example of the confusion of the Gemini personality--Michael has seen me have a glass of wine exactly twice in the eighteen years that I have known him. Once when having dinner at his house, once when he was up visiting me in Richmond. Michael knows that I am somewhat obsessed with being healthy--working out, eating well, managing my diabetes, caring for my body. He knows that I am frequently essentially a single parent because B is always working or at school, and that I am responsible and dependable to a fault. But all the joking and FB statuses and references to happy hour led him to confuse the two of me. How can this be? Am I THAT good at portraying myself as someone else? Does anybody really know ME?

Most people I know cannot tell when I'm being serious and when I am not. They do not know when I am lying and when I am not. They do not know when I am happy or sad or angry. I like it this way. It has been said that being like this makes your life less full, and perhaps this is true, but if it is, it's a fullness I have little interest in obtaining. I enjoy being a force of one. But I can't help but wonder--those few whom I have chosen to enter the circle, do they have a decent grasp of who I am? And why does it sting a little to think they may not?

Perception Deception

2010-05-19T21:00:00.003-04:00

Tonight, I had a telephone conversation with one of my dearest friends, Michael. Michael is a workout fanatic. He has been this way for years, and has the body of a Greek God to show for it. Women fall at his feet, weeping and begging for attention, because he's just so damned good looking. Fortunately, I am immune to Michael's hotness, which means for the past seventeen or eighteen years, we have been able to love one another without our otherworldly hotness getting in the way of our relationship. (Yeah, okay, so I'm not actually as hot as Michael. Not even. But that doesn't stop me from claiming to be, nor telling him that he's actually not all that good looking and should get over himself.)

As usual, our conversation turned to the gym at some point, as the gym makes up a large portion of Michael's life (because he likes to lift) and because I am there quite often myself (because the gym provides childcare and it's the only free time I get some days). After a brief discussion about my extensive cardio pursuits, Michael says, "Well, I hope you aren't binging on alcohol and then doing all that cardio just to burn off the calories."

Dude. Why the fuck else would I be there?

Hey, Michael--do you have my kids? YOU HEARD ME, YO. DO YOU HAVE MY KIDS? No. I think not. Last time I checked, your life consisted of a hell of a lot of peace and solitude and zen. How long has it been since I have had peace, solitude or zen? Hmmmm......let's see.....Bellamy will be seven on June thirteenth, so NEARLY SEVEN FREAKIN' YEARS. I can't even shower in peace, as there is always someone ripping open the curtain saying, "Hey! It's boobies!" or "I spilled my cup of juice in the fridge!" Dinner, with me frequently the only parent available, is high drama ("I don't like shrimp on Mondays!") as is breakfast ("You cooked my oatmeal! I don't like it cooked! I only like it in the microwave!") as is EVERY DAMN MOMENT OF EVERY DAMN DAY. So, hell yeah I drink. We're lucky I'm not also addicted to Oxycontin and Snickers bars, weighing in at four-hundred pounds and with a raging reality tv habit. I eat super healthy, I go constantly to the gym, I manage my diabetes and pay my taxes and make sure my house is clean and my children are safe. Additionally, I know all the words to "My Country 'Tis of Thee" and make regular donations to Goodwill and the Humane Society. I'm square with Jesus. I'm good to go.

If you have to have an organ give out on you, I think the liver is your best bet. I've already got a dead pancreas, so why do I care if I kill off another body part? I don't. And at this point, it's my liver or my sanity, and my sanity is giving my liver the finger, as it holds a dirty martini in the other hand.

And that, my friends, is just how it is.

Roses Are Not Always Red

2010-05-16T18:30:00.003-04:00

Today I went rose shopping.

I am not one of those girls who is hung up on roses. In reality, they do not even make my top five favorite flowers (gardenias, hyacinths, tulips, poppies, hydrangeas). However, I wanted something that would bloom for a long time during the summer, and so my step-MIL directed me to a particular variety of rose, named the Knock-Out Rose. So this morning we headed out to the Smithfield Garden Center in order to seek out this Knock-Out Rose.

(This is the point at which you may think that the story will continue with a tale of rose shopping, with two children in tow, choosing from all the colors and varieties of the Knock-Out Rose. You are incorrect. We did purchase a double pink Knock-Out Rose, but that is not what the story is about--bear with me.)

You see, as many of you may know, the color of a rose is important. Different colors mean different things. White=pure love, Red=lust/true love, Yellow=Friendship, Pink=Happiness...there are likely meanings for orange, lavender, etc, although I am not savvy enough to be aware of them. Yellow roses remind me of my Dad--he bought me several when I was young, to plant in my rose garden in the yard, and a gorgeous one of the climbing variety as a housewarming gift when I built my first house. I planted it outside of my bedroom window and loved it completely. When I moved out, it was the only thing I regretted leaving (one might note that I left everything except my dog and some clothes, including my husband, so this is rather telling). When Daddy died, there were several arrangements sent to his service that were nothing but yellow roses. No one sent white. No one sent pink or red. Only yellow. I like to think this was because my Dad was a good friend, although I suspect it had more to do with yellow being the most socially appropriate rose color for a man.

I do not like red roses, though I keep the reason why to myself. I've only received white roses once, in high school, from my long-term boyfriend, because he "wanted to be different." No one has ever sent me pink, which are my favorite.

The point is that you can say a lot of things with nothing more than a color, a simple gesture, something that people seem so often to forget. I saw a bunch of irises today at the supermarket and thought about how lovely it would be for someone to give me one lone iris, just because they knew I loved the color purple. A Post-It that says, "I love you the way you laugh," or "this song reminds me of you because the tune makes me feel happy." The best things cost us nothing at all, except the price of a piece of our thoughts, a sliver of our emotions. These are the things that mean the most.

The Remains of the Day

2010-05-11T13:45:00.002-04:00

Lately, life has been busier than usual. Spring soccer started for Sutt, B has been traveling for work and trying to wrap up the end of his semester at school, and Bellamy wants to become legally emancipated and purchase her own home so that she can leave her Barbie Diamond Castle in the middle of the living room indefinitely without losing computer privileges. There hasn't been much time for blogging, and what little time I have had I seem to spend lost in my own thoughts. Therefore, to play catch-up, I present you with a list:

A PARTIAL LIST OF SOME OF THE REALLY AWESOME THINGS THAT HAVE CONSPIRED IN MY BLOG ABSENCE, BECAUSE I KNOW YOU ARE ALL REALLY DYING TO KNOW BUT ARE SCARED TO ASK BECAUSE I AM A TERRIFYING, YET VASTLY INTRIGUING, PRESENCE WHO TENDS TO SCARE OTHERS AWAY WITH HER AMAZING SHARP WIT AND SARCASM, PARTICULARLY THOSE OF YOU WHO ARE OF THE HALF-WITTED VARIETY (YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE, AND YES, I AM TALKING TO YOU AS YOU ARE THE ONLY PERSON I ACTUALLY REFER TO AS A HALF-WIT)

1. Angelic Belly~ One evening, while brushing Belly's hair before bed, she asked me, "Mommy, why do they talk about GOD so much at church? It's all God this and God that ALL THE TIME." Despite being noticeably absent from church myself most of the time, I still felt fairly confident that I could answer this one appropriately and knowledgeably for my six-year-old. So, stroking her soft little brown curls I said gently, "Dude. Church is God's freakin' house. Methodists are ALL ABOUT GOD, that's what they talk about. It's SUPPOSED to be "God this" and "God that," because CHRISTIANS DIG GOD." After a moment of contemplation, Belly sighed deeply before saying, "Well, I wish they'd knock it off for a while with the God talk and just talk about angels. I LIKE ANGELS." I'm still awaiting the lightning strike that will take us both to the angels.

2. Noticing that Sutt had been quiet for approximately two and a half minutes one day (which is two and a half minutes longer than normal), I wandered through the house looking for him. I finally found him in the kids' bathroom. Naked (except for a pair of black dress socks, but that's really irrelevant to the story) and sitting on the floor, legs akimbo, getting up close and personal with his junk. Uncertain as to whether I was going to interrupt some monumental Freudian moment in his life, I hesitated to question him, before my curiosity got the best of me. So I said, "Hey, Sutt. Whatcha doin' there, buddy?" Unfazed by my presence, he continued his examination, saying, "Why don't I have any HAIRS down here? Daddy has HAIRS on HIS boy parts." Fighting the urge to make something up (it's because you don't put your laundry in the hamper! it's because you won't eat zucchini!), I gave him a brief but apparently satisfactory lesson in adolescent development. He is currently at least temporarily appeased with his lack of pubic hair.

3. On a particularly lovely spring afternoon a week or so ago, I needed to run to the library and pick up a book that was being held for me. Because I felt as if I had been neglecting my poor somewhat geriatric Yorkie, Mad Madame Mimipants, that day, I offered to let her ride along with me, a huge treat in Yorkieland. En route, she hung her head out the window, let her ears blow back, and all was right with her world for the whole three-minute ride. Arriving at the library, I told her to stay put, made sure the windows were rolled down halfway, and dashed into the library. I was gone for three minutes. No exaggeration. Three fucking minutes. When I got back, I pulled open my door only to discover that my seat was full of dog shit, and Mimi was nowhere to be found. Taking a quick moment for a creative swearing tirade, I looked the car over and found Mimi cowering in the very back of the Xterra. I scavenged up some dried up baby wipes, cleaned up the mess, and took the car home to scrub the upholstery. Now, Mimi had just gone outside. But Mimi, she is a crafty one. She is not the sharpest tool in the shed (you may remember mention from a former blog about how it took her two years to learn how to sit), but she knows revenge like the back of her paw. And that bathroom break on the driver's seat, that was all revenge. Mimi does not like being left in the car.

4. I got my nostril pierced by a man named Bones who told me he was going to make it hurt, because "if it doesn't hurt, it doesn't count." Yeah, okay. I'll agree with that.

5. Yesterday, while waiting on Belly's bus to bring her home after school, I wandered up to my neighbor's house. Betty, my neighbor, is a curvaceous black woman with an attitude the size of Texas. I love her. For some reason, however, Betty was in a mood, and kept trying to wrestle me. (Yes, you heard me right. WRESTLE.) I was having none of this, however, as I do not wrestle other women, unless we are liquored up and in a kiddie pool filled with Jell-O. Politely inching away from Betty, I started making my way down the sidewalk back to my house. One minute I'm walking, the next minute, I'm flying through the air in a crumpled wad, then rolling down a hill towards the pond (which is, coincidentally, known for its poisonous snake population). Alas, it wasn't Betty pile-driving me. It was Chloe, the special needs kid next door, fresh from the handicapped bus who had mounted her bicycle and decided to fucking mow me over in an attempt to get to me as quickly as possible so she could get a hug (and perhaps, a Popsicle). I have a bruise on my leg you would not believe.

And THAT, my friends, is pretty much what you've missed as of late. I'll try to stay more on top of things in the future.

Jane Austen at the Chik-Fil-A

2010-04-29T16:59:00.000-04:00

I was standing in line at Chik-fil-A the other day because, in my constant quest to hydrate, I was going to get diet lemonade. Since it's non-caffeinated and non-alcoholic, it's not my beverage of choice, but I knew I needed fluids of that type and despite B's constant lectures about how Splenda is either going to give me Alzheimer's or a brain tumor, I drink it anyway.

There was this guy in front of me, probably early twenties, wearing khakis, a white shirt, a tie, and a name tag for FYE. He was waiting on his food, and staring off into space. I immediately ranked him about a 5 (straight up average) on my Dude Hotness Scale (I automatically rank every guy I meet, attractiveness-wise, on a 1-10 scale. This guy would have probably made it to 6, but he was a member of the Unfortunate Facial Hair List, because he was trying to grow a beard, but it just wasn't working out for him.) While I was discreetly studying his sad little beard, this chick tapped him on the shoulder and asked to speak to him. She was probably 18-- pretty girl, from what I could tell, but SUPER high maintenance. Tons of makeup, tons of hair products, big boobs in a tank top, and expensive sunglasses (that she was wearing despite being inside the mall).

Without ever looking up from her Blackberry, on which she was furiously typing, she said to him, "So, um, my friend over there? Her name is Kendall? And she thinks you're really cute? So, I'm, like, going to give you her number? And you can, like, text her? And, like, get to know her? And then maybe you guys can, like, talk or go out or something?"

The dude stammers for a minute and says something I can't hear.

The chick (still texting) says, "Hey, Kendall, come here."

Kendall, who is a less pretty version of the sunglasses-inside girl heads that way. Sunglasses says, "So, I, like, told him you think he's cute?"

Kendall does the high-school girl squeal, covers her face and runs away. Sunglasses (still texting) gives the dude Kendall's number, says, "Text her? Like, soon?" and wanders off.

This is where I step in.

I tap the guy on the shoulder again. His name tag says "Bryan." (Unfortunate spelling, by the way.) We have a conversation that goes like this.

ME: Bryan, how old are you?
Bryan: 20
ME: Okay. So, I've got over a decade on you physically. Mentally, it's probably closer to two. We need to talk, Bryan.
Bryan: (Looking nervous, mumbles) Okay.
ME: Have you ever read Jane Austen's work?
Bryan: (Looking more nervous.) Um. No.
ME: You should. Because back in the day, you didn't get to know somebody by TEXTING? How in the hell do you get to know somebody by TEXTING??? If you don't want to talk face to face, you write long, arduous letters, about your tortured love affair, and how beautiful you imagine her face looks in candlelight! You ask to court her, and then you spend hours walking round and round the parlor after dinner while being properly chaperoned! You don't text! (I had had a lot of caffeine that morning.)
Bryan: Um. I'm sorry?
ME: You know that girl is trouble, right? And not the good kind. She's the screw-you-once-then-stalk-you-forever kind. She will lure you to her house when her parents are out then spend the next two years posting psychotic comments on your FB and telling everybody that she miscarried your baby, whether that ever actually happens or not. She will jump out of the back of your Toyota Corolla crying her eyes out and brandishing a knife. Do you hear me, Bryan?
Bryan: (Now looking terrified.) For real?
ME: Abso-fucking-lutely. You have been warned.
Bryan: Do you know her?
ME: Nope. Never seen her before. But I know teenage girls.
Bryan: (His food arrives.) So are you, like, a counselor?
ME: I am today, darlin'. I am today.

I probably saved that boy's life.

Isn't That Perfect

2010-03-29T15:08:00.002-04:00

I have spent my life in an ongoing mission for perfection. So far, it's not going so well. Let's review the quest thus far:

The Perfect Daughter~ Not me. I kept my room spotless as a child. Like, seriously, white-glove spotless. This only seemed to freak my Mom out most of the time and give my brother even more reason to call me a nerd (neither of them are particularly neat). I made excellent grades. Yet, I still didn't go to Harvard or Yale or some other awe-inducing university covered in figurative (and literal) ivy. I didn't end up unmarried and pregnant. Okay, so that's a lie, but I was twenty-six and eventually married the baby daddy, making everything copacetic and creating the perfect little nuclear family. (On the plus side, I also didn't Lizzie Borden my family or join a cult, so perhaps we can call it even.)

The Perfect Wife (take 2, the starter marriage doesn't count)~ Not me. I cook. It's usually edible, although there is the time I threw the crab cakes out the back door and cried until B ordered Chinese, and the time I became angry when my crepes kept falling apart so I threw the entire batch on the kitchen floor and cried until B convinced me to try it again. I clean. My house is usually very clean, although all this has gotten me is ridicule from the neighbors who find it amusing that I vent my frustrations by spot-cleaning the carpet. I can't sew worth a damn. I do not enjoy socializing, particularly at B's work-related functions because they make me nervous (I use a different side of my brain than all of those freaky engineers). I'm extremely organized and focused, but can become agitated when disorder enters my domain, therefore becoming at least mildly bitchy (maybe a lot bitchy). (Plus side: I'm frequently naked and give great back rubs. Not sure how that evens everything out.)

The Perfect Mother~ Not me. I play with the kids if it involves books or things that interest me. I'd rather be tortured than play Barbies or trucks. I keep them fed, but am frequently a Nazi (though not as bad as B) about what they eat, therefore depriving them of many fun kid foods like Cocoa Puffs and Cheetos. I take my library book to soccer practice because I get really bored watching them run around the field. I'm just now learning from a friend how to relax and not freak out when they run with sticks or eat mulch at the playground (I'm more than a little overprotective). There are many days when I like them best when they are sleeping, and I can snuggle them up and smell their sweet smells and not have to listen to them ask for something every two seconds. They are clean, happy, fed, safe, healthy... but sometimes I yell at them when they fight over the booster seat with the red stripe or won't stay in their beds at night. (Plus side: I would die for them, in a heartbeat. I would do anything to make them happy, when it comes down to it. That counts for something, right?)

The Perfect Friend~ Not me. I hold the title of Worst Matron Of Honor In The Universe. I was pregnant with Sutt when my BFF Ray got married. I bailed on her bachelorette party because I didn't feel well. She had to jump through hoops to get extra fabric so I could have my bridesmaid dress maternity-ized. I was bitchy at her wedding (in my defense, it was July in Chapel Hill, hot as hell, an outdoor wedding, and I was ENORMOUS). I have missed the births of two children (so far). Pretty much, I suck. (Plus side: There is none. Ray's a saint.)

The entire time I was growing up, I watched my Dad do this same thing--strive to be perfect. And it didn't get him anywhere. Frankly, it only made him unhappy. When his father passed away, it almost seemed to set him free--he didn't have to keep working to be perfect for this person. But since my Dad died, I only feel it more. I have to be this person that he absolutely would have been proud of, no matter what. Everything has to be perfect, even though I know he didn't expect that of me, and he loved me despite my flaws. It's a lot of pressure. So I'm still plugging away, trying to be perfect. Gotta be perfect.

A Little Bit of This

2010-03-28T17:03:00.002-04:00

Last week was one of those weeks that left me contemplating exactly how wrong it would be to fake my own death, then hide out in the islands until 2012 when the world up and explodes are whatever the hell everybody thinks it's going to do. (For the record, there are people who have built concrete bunkers in the mountains of Turkey and think they are going to ride out this Mayan apocalypse. I say, go for it, dude. Because, first of all, the Mayans didn't say the world would end, it just happens to be when their calendar ends and when they believed "a change" would come about. Second of all, if I have to live in a concrete bunker in Turkey indefinitely in order to survive whatever the Universe had in store, I'd rather just keel over and die from the apocalypse. I don't even like to camp, in a camper with electricity and a shower. I'm most certainly not going to live off jugs of water and Spaghetti-O's while I recycle the same two pairs of underwear. I'm not even sure exactly where Turkey is on a map, or why they think these mountains are a safe place to hide. But I digress.)

So last week sucked hardcore, and rather than bore you with the details, I will talk about other things, like the few parts that didn't suck. As a matter of fact, because there are so few of them, I will make a list of the parts of last week that did not suck. A list seems like a pretty decent way to wrap up the week anyway.

THE PARTS OF LAST WEEK THAT DID NOT UTTERLY AND COMPLETELY BLOW, ALTHOUGH THERE WERE NOT MANY OF THEM, AND THE ACCEPTABLE PARTS THAT DID COME TO PASS WERE NOT ALL THAT FABULOUS, BUT SEEMED MORE FABULOUS THAN THEY NORMALLY WOULD HAVE BECAUSE THEY HAD THE GOOD FORTUNE TO LAND WITHIN SUCH A SHITTY WEEK, HAVING PRETTY MUCH THE SAME EFFECT AS WHEN B ACCUSES MY YORKIE OF BEING FAT, AND I POINT OUT THAT IF YOU STAND HER NEXT TO A HIPPOPOTAMUS SHE'S ACTUALLY QUITE SMALL, WHICH IS TECHNICALLY TRUE, THOUGH ONLY BY COMPARISON

1. My Pleasure~ Friday night I attended a Pleasure Party at a friend's house. We kicked off the night in a circle, passing a large rubber pink penis around using only our legs, partly because the rules of the game dictated no hands, and partly because we were holding glasses of sangria. This was followed by a spiel from the Sex Toy Lady, who passed her wares around and let us all handle them (at one point I got a great neck massage from a giant blue vibrator with a face on it), and some lovely snacks, including a delicious chocolate cake with a large penis on top (made out of cookie dough) and cupcakes that looked like boobs. Eventually we all ended up in the master bed with the host and hostess and a bunch of vibrators. While I give you a moment to work on that visual, I will mention that we were all dressed and stayed that way, and merely checking out her new mattress she got for Christmas. (Sorry to disappoint.)

2. Smile~ Wednesday morning I had my teeth cleaned. For many people, going to the dentist is a traumatic experience. I, personally, rather like it. Nobody is asking me to do anything but open my mouth and occasionally bite down or turn my head a little. My teeth feel great after it's over. It doesn't hurt, and I never need dental work. Plus, the dentist likes to say flattering things to me the whole time about what great teeth I have, which is a nice little ego boost. (I may not have had time to brush my hair this morning, but I have great teeth!) All in all, I'm down with the dentist, yo.

3. I'll take Manhattan~ On Tuesday, I discovered that Netflix had shipped me the newest season of Mad Men on DVD, for my viewing pleasure. I love Mad Men. I love that Don Draper sleeps with everything in a skirt. I love that his crazy wife, Betty, chain smokes and drinks martinis while she neglects two of their children and is pregnant with the third. I love that Joan Holloway makes me consider becoming a lesbian just because I think she's so freakin' gorgeous I could probably be happy batting for the other team. I.Love.Mad Men. Yes, I do.

4. Ace in the hole~ Last week it all become official that I would be working for Pearson, scoring first the 8th grade OSA essays, then, a few weeks later, the 7th grade essays. I did the hours of stupid training. I took my qualification exams (and kicked ass by scoring a perfect score on both). I got the okay that all is ready for me to begin working this Wednesday. High-five for Haley. None of my friends understand why I am excited. They think we must either seriously need money, or that I have lost my mind. The idea of voluntarily working when I could just keep doing what I do now (kids, laundry, waiting to die in the apocalypse) is appalling to them. I'm working so my brain doesn't shrivel up and die. The end.

5. Tumbler Troubles~ I have long thought that the perfect cup would be much like the plastic cups with lids and straws that Starbucks gives you for their shaken teas, only reusable. Light weight, a straw, dishwasher safe. I don't have to worry that a bug will land it in at soccer practice because it has a lid. I don't mess up my lip gloss because it has a straw. I don't have to throw it away when it's infested with bacteria (a kid sneezes on it, the dog decides to have a taste) because I can throw it in the dishwasher and disinfect it. Alas, this product has always eluded me. Until yesterday. HALLELUJAH, TARGET! Yep, I found it. It's perfect. It's like Jesus heard my plea, went to Starbucks, thought, "Damn, that's a great idea!" and created it, much like the sun and the moon. (For the record, Jesus, I love the cup but I can think of lots of other requests I would rather have had answered. Just so you know. But, anyway, thanks man.) It's plastic. It's sweat-proof. It looks like soda cup, and has a sturdy straw. It's awesome.

So there's five for you. Clearly, since one of the high points of my week was locating a plastic cup at Target, you can't begin to imagine what the low points were. And I choose not to discuss them at present. But I must say, take heart. Because if I can get through last week, I can sure as hell survive a concrete bunker in Turkey, should I so choose. All is right with the world.

Supermarket Smackdown

2010-03-16T10:12:00.003-04:00

A few Saturdays ago, I ditched the family and went grocery shopping solo. This is pretty much equal to a vacation to me, being able to study labels and peruse aisles without someone yelling that they want the cereal with the Transformer on the box or announcing when the cart is half full that they need to go potty. I see it as my little corner of Mommy Paradise. Some Mommies get pedicures (I'm not that fancy--I do my own), this Mommy looks forward to choosing what scent laundry detergent she wants to buy without any little people opinions in her ears.

As I put the last few things in my shopping cart and headed to the check-out lines, I noticed that as usual, there were only three lanes open, each with approximately thirty-seven people in each line. Though I am not one who enjoys standing in lines (who is?), I wasn't too distressed--since I was alone I could stand there and flip through a magazine and patiently wait my turn. No big deal. I chose the line that appeared to be the shortest, and settled in for the wait.

The woman directly in front of me was a petite Black woman, dressed in jeans, a furry jacket, and a snazzy hat. ("Apple Bottom jeans, boots with the fur, the whole club was lookin' at her....sorry, I digress.) Girlfriend was wearing more jewelry than I own, and day-glo fuscia lipstick that could have been spotted from the space station. Her arms were filled with random toiletries--toothpaste, shampoo, the biggest bottle of hand sanitizer on the planet, etc. I could tell by her demeanor that she was irritated about something, she was shuffling and tense and muttering underneath her breath. As the minutes passed and the line neglected to move, she finally dumped her armload of stuff onto the floor and whipped her cell phone out of her purse. This caught my attention, because her fingernails were roughly the length of my arm and painted bright orange, with a rhinestone of some sort glued onto each thumbnail. (We all know that flashy never fails to catch my eye. Why have I never had rhinestone nails???) She tapped away at the phone with her nails, then stood waiting for an answer, lips pursed, eyes wild.

This is where it gets good.

The phone was loud enough that I could hear a female voice say "hello." That's when Flashy Nails lost her shit. Seriously, yo. I mean, full-on, psycho bitch, LOST HER SHIT. It went something like this:

"WHORE! FUCKING SKANK-ASS WHORE! WHAT YOU DOIN' ANSWERIN' HIS PHONE, BITCH? WHAT YOU THINK YOU DOIN'? I AM GOING TO KICK YOUR FAT ASS! I WILL COME TO YOUR HOUSE, DRAG YOU OUT BY THEM NASTY-ASS EXTENSIONS, AND BEAT YOUR ASS, WHORE! YOU A WHORE! YO MAMA A WHORE! I'M GONNA KICK YOUR MAMA'S ASS TOO, BITCH. I GONNA KICK ALL YO WHORE ASSES!"

(Imagine this being screamed in the middle of the check-out line, please, complete with hand gesticulations and foot-stomping.) I was fascinated.

At this point, the lady on the other end of the conversation must have hung up. Flashy Nails then turned to me. "Can you BELIEVE that bitch? She hung up on me." I chose not to answer. I'm badass, but there's no way in hell I plan on tangling with a mentally unbalanced Black girl who's all riled up about some dude in the middle of the supermarket. There are security cameras there. That's an episode of COPS in the making, and I don't want any of that action, yo. I do not need my 15 minutes of fame.

Luckily, Flashy Nails was too excited to notice my feigned indifference. Chances are, with my unpainted nails and lack of rhinestone adornment, designer labels, or hair extensions I wasn't really worthy of her recognition anyway. Snapping the phone open again, she hit "send," redialing the previous number.

The genius female on the other end answered again. Clearly, she was either a dumbass, or found this whole situation as entertaining as I (secretly) did.

"YOU WHORE! YOU WHORE! YOU DONE ANSWERED AGAIN? HOW STUPID ARE YOU, WHORE? HOW STUPID ARE YOU? YO MAMA'S A WHORE. YO MAMA'S A WHORE. YOU MAMA'S A WHORE."

Click. Hang-up.

By now the manager had arrived. Gently, he explained to Flashy Nails that she was causing a disturbance, there were children around who didn't need to be exposed to her language, etc. He had a very soothing voice (you could tell he thought F.N. was as bat-shit crazy as the rest of us did). She agreed to come to Customer Service, where he went behind the counter and immediately rang up her purchases before escorting her out the door and on her way.

I was still standing in line.

Next time I'm in a hurry, I am SO going to fake some sort of crazy so that I can skip the line and get an escort to my car. Hell, if my kids are with me, I won't even have to fake it.

Lesson Learned.

(Un)Comfortably Numb

2010-03-15T20:16:00.002-04:00

I'm told it's March.

I didn't actually realize this in the kind of way that allows it to sink in until I was at the bank getting something notarized last Friday and the notary kept screwing up the date. Then she started laughing and talking about how she couldn't believe it was already March.

Well, hello, March. I'm so glad you came.

Do you ever wonder what makes "good" good and what makes "bad" bad? Like, who decided that stuff anyway? Who was it who had the authority to make those decisions? To decide that if you don't yell at your kids and feed them properly you're a good mother, if you don't sleep around you're a good husband, if you don't FaceBook at work you're a good employee?

It's sure as hell nobody I would have enjoyed knowing.

You see, I have my own ideas of what constitutes good and what constitutes bad. They may not always match the world's proverbial moral compass, they don't necessarily follow the Bible or the Constitution or the Golden Rule. But, you know, that's pretty much the norm for me. I think it takes more than making sure your kid eats his or her broccoli to make you a good Mom. And I don't think if I accidentally swear in front of them it makes me a bad one (nor does it make me a bad Mom if I swear on purpose). I think honor comes from being true to yourself, and respect is something that we have to work for, but not always in the way that we think we should. There is a lot in this world we can do, make, have--but we have far too many rules that we try to follow. Words change, thoughts change, feelings change. People change. You don't have to hurt anyone else, but you do have to be fluid. You have to be malleable. You have to take what you're given and make it yours.

Just like time.

Hello, March.

Not To Do

2010-03-12T17:50:00.003-05:00

A little bit of my newest list:

THINGS I SHOULD REMEMBER NOT TO DO, REGARDLESS OF HOW DRUNK, DESPERATE, OR TIRED I AM, OR HOW GUILTY I MAY FEEL, NO MATTER WHAT THEY ARE, EVEN IF MY MOM OR B TRIES TO CONVINCE ME IT'S A GOOD IDEA AND THAT I'LL BE HAPPY I DID IT LATER WHILE I'M SECRETLY AWARE THAT THEY ARE FULL OF SHIT AND I WILL NOT BE HAPPY I DID IT LATER, BUT RATHER WILL BE THINKING "WHY THE FUCK DID I DO THAT?"

1. Cut my hair into anything that might be construed as "soccer mom-ish," even if my Mom REALLY likes my hair better short

2. Drunk dial ANYONE, and sing "Wind Beneath My Wings." Nor should I do this sober.

3. Wear yellow. I look terrible in yellow.

4. Drink Long Island Iced Tea. Not only does it make me take my clothes off in public, it makes me take my clothes off in public THEN vomit. Not a pretty combination.

5. Speak French when B is near. He just laughs at me because his accent is better.

6. Read anything by Fenimore Cooper. He's, perhaps, the most boring writer in the history of American Literature.

7. Get my nipples pierced. Ick.

8. Allow the FedEx Man to tie me up when I invite him in for hot sex. You never know when he might leave you there for your husband to find you, tired, sweaty, and still bound to the bed. (Not that this has ever happened. Nope. Not even once. Or twice. Or with the UPS man.)

9. Buy the kids musical instruments, or encourage them to learn to play one.

10. Marry a third time.

11. Take up golf, particularly if it involves wearing a sweater vest and one of those weird little hats.

12. Say hurtful things to midgets. Or dwarfs.

13. Cave (this will only mean something to some of you--sorry to the others).

Marching On

2010-03-05T18:21:00.003-05:00

It never ceases to amaze me how, despite what may happen in the world, life goes on.

I don't remember the first time I actually considered this, but I know I was young. Likely, it was elementary school, when my fourth grade teacher sent me home for being a smartass (imagine that) and my parents grounded me for the first time ever. I can't really remember. But I know I've thought this through break-ups, divorce, births, deaths--I specifically remember thinking it after September 11th and the Tsunami in Thailand. It doesn't matter how bad things get for me or for someone else, life pauses for no one.

I still haven't made up my mind as to whether I think life is long or short. People say it passes in the blink of an eye. Other people say it is endless. I think it is what it is, filled with moments you want to hold onto forever that pass in the blink of an eye, and moments you think you'll never survive that linger on for what feels like forever. It's the way of the world, the nature of life. I look at my children and think of how I long for the days when they can give themselves baths without my assistance, then I think of how I love how Sutt still looks like a baby when he sleeps, on his stomach with his bottom pushed up into the air. I yearn for freedom, but once it arrives, will I actually lap it up? Or will it turn out to be not nearly as sweet as I remember? I won't know until then, and by then it will be too late to change anything.

This life is hard. It's survival and it's lessons and it's full of mistakes. But I'm trying to learn to embrace it. To own it. To just accept it for what it is, and make the most of it. To just be. And that, THAT, would make all the difference.

Mama Mia!

2010-02-24T18:33:00.002-05:00

Some of you got the call last Wednesday. Me, hunched over the phone, eyes darting furtively, whispering, "Code Red! Code Red! Sweet Jesus, Mom is here!" as I mixed myself another drink.

Yep, Special Kay is in the 757. (BTW, I just realized that 757 is an airplane. Or wait, is that 737? Anyway, I don't mean my Mom is in an airplane. I mean that she's in my area code. Just for clarification.)

Mom reads my blog, so she's probably perusing this at this very moment (Hi, Mom). Which makes it an excellent vehicle to express myself via the written word. I do not express myself well while talking to others (unless I am screaming like a banshee and throwing breakables--then I have no problem). As we have already established, I don't like hugs, snuggles, or anything remotely emotional and/or mushy. I'm like a dude with a really awesome rack (now that I have "the bra.") Feelings are not my forte'.

Some of you have met my Mom. She's a total spaz, and always has been. As soon as I'm able, I plan to stick her ass in a home and leave her there permanently (with no baby doll, Mom) so somebody else can deal with her crazy. This is if I don't kill her first. You never know. The feeling is mutual, she may try to come after me, but I'm extremely confident that I could take her down. We've discussed this before.

I know what you're thinking, Mom. You're thinking, "This is where she tells me, via her blog, to get my shit and leave." Except you would not have used the word "via," and probably would have thrown a "y'all" or a "over yonder" in there somewhere, potentially while whipping out your dental floss in public (this freaks me out, Mom). Alas, you are incorrect. I have something different to say.

I love you, Mom. For real. You make me bat shit crazy on a totally regular basis. Occasionally, I have to fight the urge to throw myself in front of a fast-moving semi when you are around, or takes swigs of vodka every time I visit the kitchen, but that's just become you're YOU. You've been this way my whole life--you're Fun Sandy. Not so much an adult, but someone who boggles my mind, thus keeping me on my toes. The inventor of sock pants, and how to turn Fritos into a dinner entree'. You are the Queen of Improvisation, and the most carefree person I know. But I still have a problem. You see, I have a lot of frustration and exasperation that comes from the fact that I can't protect you from the world, can't make everything all better, can't assure you a "happily ever after," even though you ask me for none of these things. I know you don't expect me to take care of you, but DAMNIT WOMAN, I feel like it's been kind of left to me. Much like I need to make sure my children are happy and healthy, I feel like I need to do the same for you. And I don't mind this--I really don't--but I haven't a fucking clue how to do it. I'm in over my head. Dad didn't leave me with an instruction manual, and I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to be doing, I just know that he would want me to watch out for you.

And I'm trying. But I think I suck at it. And you're uncooperative, so together we make a sad little package.

So where do we go from here? I haven't a clue. But Mom, know that I love you. Or at least as Bellamy would have said, 'most the time.

Baby Got Stacked

2010-02-23T13:41:00.002-05:00

Let's talk about my breasts for a few minutes.

(Oh, come on. This is not a family blog. If you find my breasts offensive, stop reading now. NOW.)

So, most of you are aware that I am not a girl of overly large endowment in the chest region. Translation: I'm a B cup on a good day. While I realize that there is nothing wrong with having small boobs, and that my frame probably wouldn't support enormous, Playboy-esque cleavage anyway without making me look like a severely disproportionate circus freak, I can't help but sigh every time I pull on a tank top, wishing that I had a rack like Scarlet Johansen. (B wishes this as well, but we're not blogging about him, we're blogging about me.) My Mom had giant boobs, followed by breast reduction, and those suckers are still oversized. Both Grandmothers have big boobs. Where the hell are my DDs? One can't help but wonder. Poor, deprived Haley.

But now, after 32 years of wishing I could lose things in my cleavage like my friend Ray (who can actually store things in there for later, if she so chooses, due to the size of her chest), the Cosmos have chosen to answer my prayers, in the form of the Victoria's Secret Bombshell Bra. (*Cue the singing angels and light from the heavens*)

Keep in mind that by nature, I am a skeptic of everything. Where boosting my girls is concerned, my skepticism reaches new heights. They are what they are, and no flirty little push-up bra is going to change reality. I had seen the commercials, I had read the print ads, all promising to increase your bust by two cup sizes, but had not been swayed by the hype. Two cup sizes, my ass. It was sheer boredom that led me into Victoria's Secret Saturday night, scoffing as I scooped up the Bombshell Bra, heading to the dressing room ready to denounce the claims and tell Victoria's Secret to suck it.

I peeled off my shirt, unhooked my bra, and slipped into the new one. I had my back to the mirror as I fastened the clasp and pulled the straps over my shoulders, turning around as I adjusted to see how it looked. Then my jaw dropped, and I nearly passed out on the hot pink push carpeting. Dear, Sweet Jesus. I was stacked. Like, seriously STACKED. Un-fucking-believable.

Nobody would believe me. I KNEW nobody would believe me. I had no witnesses. I could hardly invite the dressing room attendant in and request a letter of reference for my breasts. What to do, what to do......then I remembered my phone, and for the first time, appreciated the foresight of the man who decided to combine the camera and the phone, two things I always secretly thought were a mildly ridiculous compilation. I whipped out my shiny purple Verizon something-or-another (I am not phone savvy--I do not see the point in being so), screwed around until I got the camera on, and snapped a photo of my boobs. BAM. There we go. Documentation.

Slipping out of this satin Miracle of God, I contemplated the sheer joy of staring at my own boosted breasts. This is when I decided that I must purchase said bra. No dollar amount can be placed on total breast admiration (any guy will tell you that). It would be money well spent. And I can assure you it was. As can B, my Mom, and all of the random men I have caught staring down my shirt checking out my cleavage since last Saturday night, plus the ones I have voluntarily flashed just for my own enjoyment. It's my own little way of making the world a better place, two breasts at a time.

This Girl's Life

2010-02-15T19:54:00.002-05:00

Have you ever been dumped? You know that feeling, that empty, sad, heart-broken feeling right after somebody dumps you, when all you REALLY want to do is call them because they are what brings you comfort, but you know you can't because the whole point is that they no longer want you in their life? So you feel all weird and hollow and like you don't know what to do with yourself? That's exactly how I feel right now.

Except I haven't been dumped.

Everything is fine. B and I are wonderful, just had a lovely Saturday evening/early Valentine's Day extravaganza. I've been sick, so we went out for drinks and came home early where he made us a very nice dinner. We drank wine, I made chocolate lava cake. We watched "The Time Traveler's Wife." All was, and is, well. My family, as it has been for the past year, is intact, my friends are the same (as best I know--everyone is so busy I haven't talked to some of them that often as of late--CALL ME, RAY). Same old, same old.

Except my heart feels broken.

Why in the hell do I feel like this? What has made this come about? I'm an intuitive girl, I know myself rather well, yet I honestly have no idea what's causing this ache of mine. Let's take a quick review of just how normal life has been lately (minus the unusual amounts of snow, which do make me feel a bit out of sorts):

A LIST OF ALL THE REALLY NORMAL THINGS THAT HAVE HAPPENED TO ME LATELY, WHICH MAY NOT REALLY BE NORMAL TO OTHER PEOPLE BUT ARE ABSOLUTELY, COMPLETELY, TOTALLY NORMAL FOR ME BECAUSE WE ALL KNOW BY NOW THAT MY LIFE IS NOT NORMAL IN ANY WAY, SHAPE, FORM, OR STRETCH OF THE IMAGINATION AND PROBABLY NEVER WILL BE WHICH MEANS THAT I'VE JUST SAID "THE HELL WITH IT" AND ACCEPTED ABNORMAL AS MY NORMAL

1. Dental Hygiene is a plus~ Took the kids to the dentist on Friday morning. Turns out, this dentist has a WHOLE FREAKIN' PLAYPLACE in his office. Seriously. Like, one of those things you see at McDonald's with the big, enclosed slide and climbing apparatuses, all in the waiting room. The kids were thrilled. They ran amok, then Sutt came out while Bells stayed in the back and got her permanent teeth sealed. When she came out and it was time to go (nearly 3 hours later, mind you), he completely fell apart. MY SON CRIED BECAUSE HE HAD TO LEAVE THE DENTIST'S OFFICE. It took threats, bribery, and promises to return in six months just to get out of there alive. How sad is that? Pretty damn sad, I say. (Side note: nobody had any cavities.)

2. My in-laws are certifiably nuts~ The kiddos stayed with my in-laws Saturday night so that B and I could have a grown-up evening and the kids could go to church on Sunday morning at Main St. On Sunday we get a call from the FIL, saying he was concerned because Sutt slept in the same bed as Bells. Apparently, that's inappropriate. THEY ARE 4 and 6, FOR GOD'S SAKES. Suck it up and deal, in-laws. They like to snuggle. (And I'm from Tennessee, so they should just be glad that the kids aren't 18 and 20 and sleeping together, while engaged to be married.)

3. I keep getting texts from a cell number one digit off from mine telling me if I will "loan them 200 they will make it worth my while." I am tempted to call said number and say, "just how worth my while?" I mean, are we talking about babysitting my kids here? Because I'll take that deal, yo. Fold my infinite piles of laundry? Sold. Sew the missing buttons back on my favorite coat? Done.

4. I love you, but~ My Yorkie is on strike because I won't let her sleep in my bed. The new bedding came along before Christmas, and the Mims got booted to her bed in the floor. Now she won't have anything to do with me unless I'm crying, at which point she pities me and wants to lay in my lap (where she proceeds to belch and pass doggie gas the entire time--after all, she is 10 years old, so she's geriatric in dog years). Why is it that nobody pays me any attention unless I'm actively weeping? If I call her, she will look at me, turn around, and lie facing the other direction. Little bitch. Story of my life.

5. Rejected~ There is this kid in Bell's class at school and Bell really wants her to come over for a playdate. I sent an invitation via the teacher, who passed it along, then sent back to me the phone number for the kid's parents. I called and introduced myself, we chatted, the Mom wanted to meet me in person. Fine. I met her in person. The Mom wanted to get together and hang out before the kid came over. We email a few times. Schedules and weather always conflict. By now, much communication has ensued. She knows where we live, they live less than two miles away. She has questioned the teacher about me, and been assured that I am neither serial killer nor child molester, and that I passed the Volunteer Background Check the school runs to ensure the safety of the minions when I go to help out. Still, no dice, all because the "hang out time" has not worked out thus far. WHAT'S THE DEAL, DUDE? Should I send in a blood sample and a cheek swab, along with my SSN and a list of all prior addresses? Fingerprints? Copies of my passport? I DO NOT WANT TO KIDNAP OR DO ANYTHING INAPPROPRIATE WITH YOU CHILD. Hell, I don't want my own kids half the time, little hoodlums that they are, so what would I want with somebody else's? Sweet Jesus.

6. I'm sick. Again. That only makes the 337th time in the past year that I've had a cold or respiratory infection. I took so many rounds of antibiotics that I finally reached the point where I figured my GP feared I was addicted, so I just stopped going to the doctor. Nobody wants to go to rehab for Cipro. Now I wait it out, cough, sneeze, blow my nose, lose my voice, run the occasional fever, and try not to die. Airborne doesn't work. Vitamin C doesn't work. All that herbal bullshit doesn't work. Washing my hands a lot, eating healthy, exercising, and avoiding other sick people doesn't work. I'm apparently some sort of breeding ground for minor illness, with no end in sight. On the bright side, I'm probably building up enough immunities that someday I could survive biological warfare. (Gotta look at that silver lining.)

7. Strike or Spare~ My children are obsessed with bowling. Yes, you read that right. Bowling. They have been to a bowling alley to go bowling exactly once in their little lives. It was a painful experience, having to get that special rack so they could roll the ball down it and watch it meander down the lane. The shoes made them mildly nervous, and we could have probably paid the mortgage one month for what it cost to bowl two games. I refused to play (I don't like touching those freaky, germy balls--who knows what lurks in those finger holes) and B ended up doing most of the dirty work. Still, the kids somehow remember the whole experience extremely fondly, and all they ever want to do is go bowling. As a result, they set up bowling all over the house, with anything that will stand in as pins--Barbies, Batmans (Batmen?), cans from the pantry, bottles of shampoo and conditioner. You get the idea. Then they roll a tennis ball or any other rollable object down the "lane" and leap around screaming their heads off whether they knock anything over or not. Until yesterday, when they came home from the in-laws with a plastic bowling set. Now, they can "officially" bowl, which means that every second of my existence is inundated with shrieks of bowling-related mayhem. I can't walk through my kitchen without tripping over a pin (or 5), I have a bruise down the side of my leg from being whacked with an accidentally-launched ball, three glasses have been shattered, one dog has been maimed, and I have spent long minutes contemplating where I can get Xanax on the black market (I'm thinking Portsmouth is my best bet). All in all, it's fun for the whole family.

As you can see, normalcy is in full effect.

Which begs the question, what on earth is wrong with me?

The Things We Keep

2010-02-12T14:37:00.002-05:00

It has always been funny to me to think about the memories that we hold onto. There have been times in my life where I purposely said to myself "remember this," and I have, but I think there are many more times I've tried to imprint something within my head that just didn't stick. Some moments are like smoke, even if you try to catch them, they cannot be grasped and held. That scares me a little when I think about it too long. Some things you never want to forget.

On the flipside, so many memories are things that stay with you for reasons you can't even understand, and when you think of them they seem so ordinary and generic that it makes no sense why you remember them at all. Walking to the cafeteria in elementary school, and thinking my kindergarten teacher's red dress was beautiful; sitting awake on the sofa at four in the morning when I had the flu and wondering if Mom was going to make me go to school; curled up next to Dad in his chair and watching Star Wars while he ate Little Debbie Oatmeal Pies. Thousands of insignificant, not-particularly-special memories. I wonder why they stayed with me.

Like most people, I tend to remember the negative vividly--that which scared or defeated me. I remember what I was wearing the first time I had my heart broken in high school (jeans and a blue sweater). I wore that sweater for years after that, and never thought much about it. But the pajamas I was wearing when my Dad called to tell me my Grandpa had died--those I had to throw away. I never wore them again, they sat in my closet, foreboding and untouched for two years before B finally tossed them for me. My Mom was wearing my lucky earrings when she got word that she had cancer. You'd think I would hate them now, but I don't. I wear them all the time. I guess it all depends on how deep the cut reaches, whether we are able to reconcile with our memories and move on, or whether they sit on our mental closet shelf and molder. Two painful moments--Mom got better. My Grandpa didn't. The earrings I kept, the pajamas had to go. Relinquishing ownership of possessions that drag you down is a good feeling, if only that could be done with memories as well. Maybe someday.

Extreme Recycling

2010-02-08T13:13:00.003-05:00

Today, Jabba the Sutt and I decided it was time to take the recycling before it overtook the garage and scored us a spot on that new show "Hoarders." In Suffolk, I am told that the City used to pick up the recycling like they do the trash, but stopped a few years ago in order to save ten zillion dollars in the budget. (And we all know that Cities make really intelligent decisions with their funding, so I'm certain that whomever ended the recycling pickup has now allotted those funds for something else VASTLY deserving and important, because that's how they roll.) Now in order to recycle, we must amass our own collections of tin, plastic, and glass (they do not take cardboard, for reasons I have yet to determine) and haul them off to one of the many beautiful and appealing rusty bins that are stationed throughout the city. Which means that most people just chuck everything in the garbage, thus giving the figurative finger to our Mother Earth. But not we McPhails. We recycle.
(The sheer number of our wine and beer bottles alone would fill a landfill, so it seems like the right thing to do.)

After about seven hours of loading every box, bag, and crate of recyclable material into the Xterra (minus the cardboard, of course) we set out to find a bin. In our area, we have two locations with recycling bins that are within a reasonable distance from our house and easily accessible. One is at Sleepy Hole Park, a safe, sweet little park nestled in a lovely forest complete with picnic shelters and a Children's Garden and rangers who maintain it and keep it pretty. It's where you have birthday parties and family reunions. The other is at Pughsville Park, a sketchy little spot right smack in the middle of the 'hood where one can always score some crack or solicit a hooker, depending on one's mood (both, if you're feeling particularly frisky). It's where you dodge bullets and pimp out your baby sister. Sleepy Hole Park is less risky. Pughsville is on the way to the Y, and gives me that extra little shot of adrenalin I need just before I get on the elliptical machine. Which means Pughsville is the bin of choice.

We rolled up to the park around ten a.m. Things seemed pretty standard--dealer sitting on the monkey bars, crackhead curled up beneath the slide, random Hispanic man riding a shiny purple Bratz bicycle cruising the perimeter. Looks safe to me! I jumped out, pocketed my keys (they make an excellent weapon if necessary) and opened the back of the car to remove the first box. Hoisting it up onto my hip, I was distracted by keeping the cans and bottles from falling out and scattering all over the blacktop, so I was right up on the recycling bin before I whacked my foot against the the large wooden item in front of it. That large, wooden item being a coffin, of course.

Yes. You heard me. A coffin.

In my defense, the casket was hidden down near the end of the bin, so it's not like I missed a coffin just laid out in the middle of Pughsville (which, frankly, is probably not that unusual a sight). It was rectangular, medium colored wood, and lined with pink satiny fabric. It had handles on the sides and the top was thankfully askew, easing my mind about the contents (none) because you KNOW I would have peeked inside if the lid had been on tightly.

This is the point where I have to start wondering. Three-quarters of Suffolk don't even both to recycle their soda cans, but someone went so far as to recycle a casket? Is that what they were even doing? I mean, why would you leave a casket at a recycling bin? Hell, they don't even take cardboard, for goodness sakes, so did someone really think they would take a coffin? Or, did the owner perhaps think someone else who dropped off their recycling might think, "Oh, hey, I've been needing a good coffin," and take it home, like when my ex-father-in-law used to pick up people's nasty old furniture when they left it out on the curb for trash day and dumpster dive when the upholstery retailer threw out the old samples so that he could make his own throw-pillows? Was there once a body in it? Did someone already take THAT home? (It IS Pughsville, after all.)

Oh, the possibilities. And to think I could have gone to Sleepy Hole instead, thus living my whole life without ever knowing that I had missed a recycled coffin in Pughsville. What a shame that would have been.

Sing it, Bob Dylan

2010-02-01T15:19:00.005-05:00

This post is Number 171, which is good, because as many of you know, I only feel comfortable with odd numbers.

StarrTrippin' is going on hiatus, my friends. At the current time, I haven't figured out how to "suspend" my Facebook Account (I don't want to delete it because when/if I come back to it, I don't want to reload the photos, plus lots of the photos are tagged to my Mom and B's accounts), but within a day or two, I don't think I'll be around it much either. There's always email, if anyone needs me. I'm not THAT reclusive.

Part of what makes me comfortable in this world is having my own niche. Within the past two weeks, I've gotten emails from seven different people who have started blogs and want them to go viral. Everyone I know is blogging--recipes, parenting stories, work adventures. More power to everyone, and I wish them all the best of luck. But it's time to dig my way out and find another niche, be someone besides another purposeless writer. The world seems flush with us. Besides, I've found a new adventure to pursue, and it's going to keep me busy. Blog fodder, for sure, but that's not what I'm in it to accomplish.

I've loved this blog, wrapping it up feels a little like an old friend has passed. I won't delete it, and hell, being a Gemini, I may be back to it within a day or two--it wouldn't surprise anybody who knows me well. We shall see. I'm nothing if not a girl who feels entitled to change her mind.

In the meantime, I'll be taking care of some things. These times, they are a' changin'.

All Hail The Queen....

2010-01-29T10:54:00.002-05:00

...of Bad Decisions, that is.

Having spent most of the week in an accidental, doctor-induced version of La La Land, I was unable to get the grocery shopping done at the beginning of the week as is my normal routine. This left me only today to make the trek to the ever-exciting supermarket (Sutt in tow), for enough groceries to feed an army indefinitely (or, two small children for a week or less). This should not have been a problem. This WOULD not have been a problem.

Except for the motherfucking weather service.

In Tidewater, VA, snow is a bit of an anomaly. When the Universe and the Cosmos put their pretty little heads together and deem us worthy of the white stuff, we get a whole whopping inch if we are REALLY FREAKIN' LUCKY. This whopping inch will shut down roads, schools, businesses, etc. for days, of course, rendering the streets undriveable and the world at a standstill. However, there is rarely a reason to worry about all this confusion and chaos because, as I just pointed out, IT DOES NOT SNOW HERE. Hell, the weather service doesn't even PREDICT snow for this area most of the time, so there is even less reason to think about it.

This is not the case today.

Apparently, while I was lying inert contemplating how to formulate comprehensible sentences, the National Weather Service decided it would be a really great idea to issue a Winter Storm Watch for our area. Unbeknownst to me. Sometime within the last twelve hours (the first twelve during which I have been fully functional once again) this Watch was upgraded to a Winter Storm Warning. On the day that I need to go to the damn grocery store. Let the chaos begin.

First of all, I have no idea what people think they are going to DO with all that bread and milk they stockpile. Maybe it's just difficult for ME to understand, as I rarely eat bread and I don't drink milk. My version of batting down the hatches involves a trip to the ABC store and the library--who needs food when you've got a couple of bottles of Stoli and the new Amy Bloom? Alas, most people tend to think differently than me, so bread and milk it is. And they will FIGHT over that stuff, yo. Literally throw punches over a gallon of 2%. I kid you not.

Have you ever taken a four-year-old to the grocery store at 9am on a Friday before a shitload of snow is touted as a possibility? For those of you who can say "yes" to this, come on over. I will make you a nice drink and we can discuss our misfortune and how WE NEVER DID ANYTHING TO DESERVE THIS. Everybody else, suck it. Because you haven't lived until you've gone grocery shopping with a little kid. Not only did I have the squeakiest shopping cart ever created, but I also had a child (dressed in a Spider Man leisure suit, no less) shouting, "Hey! Can I have a cheeseburger? But NO PICKLES! It's TOO EARLY for pickles! Hey! I want that cereal with the big lion on it! Daddy gets it sometimes and HE WON'T SHARE! Hey! You know what I did with my straw in my juice box at school yesterday? I sticked it up my nose! hahahahaha! Hey! Mommy! Look at that man! He has GIRL hair! Hey! Why is them people so OLD?" You get the idea.

When we finally reached the checkout lines (all of which had a minimum of thirty-seven people in them, most of whom appeared to be very old men and/or butch lesbians) I had the amazing luck to end up behind a woman obsessed with her very small "Morkies" (half Maltese, half Yorkie) who spent the entire twenty-five minutes (yes, I timed it) that we were in line together explaining to me how she had to purchase pee pads because her babies wouldn't step outside in that snow AND how her vet had called and reminded her to be sure and put them in sweaters, as little dogs needed sweaters when it was below thirty-five degrees. Also, her dogs are only ten inches tall and the snow will be over their heads! Did I KNOW we were getting ten inches tonight??

(*Tangent: When I told my husband about this, he was highly disappointed that I didn't respond with: "Ma'am, this doesn't impress me, as I get ten inches EVERY night." Wink, wink, suggestive eyebrow wiggle. Gotta love those boys and their phallic obsessions.)

Anyway, there are several morals to this story. Being the good, sweet girl that I am, I shall now lay them out for you (in list form, of course). Please note that these are the HALEY morals, not the normal ones.
1. OCD is awesome, and should be left the hell alone.
2. Pickles for breakfast are not appealing to four-year-olds.
3. It is questionable whether it is more offensive to say "look at that man with girl hair" to a butch lesbian or a male with long tresses.
4. If you do not like apples, do not purchase Fuji Apple Pear SoBe water.
5. If you have a ten-inch penis, you should be a porn star, not an engineer.
6. I'm pretty sure "Morkie" is not a real word. Nor should it be. Nor is "Yaltese." "Mutt," however, IS a real word.
7. Kids are more observant than you think. If you buy Frosted Flakes and then hide them for yourself, they WILL notice.

I hope you all learned something from this.

Striking Realizations From The World

2010-01-27T17:11:00.003-05:00

THINGS I NOTICED WHILE IN A NEAR COMATOSE STATE THAT I AM JUST NOW COMING OUT OF AFTER 12 HOURS, THE ORIGIN OF WHICH I REFUSE TO GIVE DETAILS IF I HAVE NOT ALREADY EXPLAINED IT TO YOU IN PERSON, JUST TRUST ME WHEN I SAY THAT DOCTORS DO NOT ALWAYS KNOW WHAT IN THE HELL THEY ARE TALKING ABOUT AND NEXT TIME ONE TRIES TO "FIX YOU", RUN SCREAMING IN THE OTHER DIRECTION AND INSTEAD FIND YOURSELF A GOOD LOCAL BAR AND JUST DRINK UNTIL YOU FEEL BETTER AS THAT SEEMS TO BE A MUCH MORE EFFECTIVE SOLUTION FOR NEARLY EVERY ILLNESS I HAVE EVER ENCOUNTERED

1. Did you know that soup cans come with a warning regarding how NOT to hurt yourself on the can? Yes, they do. Campbell's Selections or whatever the hell they are called--the noncondensed variety--have a line on the can (should you ever be unable to move yourself and nothing except a soup can is within your line of sight to read) telling you to beware of sharp edges. Additionally, bottles of canola oil have a disclaimer about how to distinguish an oil fire, should one arise while you are cooking with said canola oil. You must wonder how many fools got sliced or burned before these labels were placed upon the can, to save us all from ourselves.

2. Your car will not go without the keys in the ignition. If anybody wants to get smart with me and give me some kind of nonsense about start buttons or whatnot, go ahead (and then keep one eye open while you sleep, as I'm currently highly unstable and likely without a conscience). Otherwise, it's true. If your keys are in your lap, you will sit in the driveway for a very long time unless you put the key IN the ignition.

3. Proper enunciation while reading aloud is much easier if you can focus on NOTHING in the universe other than that ONE SINGLE WORD at a time, because that ONE SINGLE WORD at a time become vastly important when you are unaware of ANYTHING else in the world. Likely, if one is overmedicated, one is much more likely to lose focus and forget to continue reading aloud, but rather to practice saying that one word over and over--in different accents--until someone unsticks you (like a broken record).

4. Fire, while fascinating, really isn't all that funny. Even if you think it will be. Pretty, yes. Funny, no. Particularly indoors (and not in a fireplace).

5. The Thai version of Guns N Roses's iconic song "Sweet Child of Mine" is actually somewhat alarming to listen to, particularly if it embeds itself in one's psyche and leaves you unable to stop hearing it over and over in your head.

6. There is a big damned difference between "tired," "lethargic," and "completely unable to move and pretty much a fucking zombie." One must be very, very clear when one explains that to people within the medical community.

7. Threats of bodily harm lose much of their effectiveness when one loses one's focus mid-threat and can't exactly remember what they were threatening or why they were threatening it. Which leads me to this bit of advice-- if you carry a taser, you don't have to threaten. You just tase first, speak later. It's a win/win.

Off to seek out serious amounts of caffeine, and perhaps, some uppers (preferably sold on a darkened street corner in Portsmouth, as those are probably the best--and cheapest--kind). Bon nuit.

Blunt Force

2010-01-26T14:35:00.003-05:00

Yesterday, I met a lovely South American woman named Viviana. She dresses in bold colors, lots of jewelry, and has a heavy accent. Viviana is a mother, a grandmother, a doctor of medicine, and a kindred spirit. She is also perhaps one of the happiest, most easily excitable people I have ever met--the kind of person who bounces in her seat and talks animatedly with her hands when something pleases her, which seems to happen often. Normally, I would find this vastly annoying, at which point I would tell her that she was getting on my nerves and I would immediately proceed to the nearest exit from wherever Viviana happened to be.

Not this time. Viviana is lovely and charming. I adore her. Within about three minutes of meeting her I broke 3 rules: 1) I let her hug me; 2) I gave her personal information; and 3) I let her tell me straight up and in no uncertain terms that I am ridiculously stupid (yes, stupid, not awesome). That's right--Viviana said, near verbatim, "You are a stupid woman, to be so bright and educated. You need to find someone to care for your children and go out to work in the world." Viviana has a damn fine point. I am a stupid woman to be so bright and educated, I need to find someone to care for my children, and I need to be out changing the world. This girl has an awful lot of awesome in her to spend it doing laundry all day.

At this point, you may well be wondering if I have lost my mind. I would say that the chances of this are likely about fifty/fifty at this point, leaning towards the "lost" side, rather than the "nope, she's still sane and intact" side. I've known for years that I wasn't cut out for this stay-at-home Mommy nonsense, but that didn't stop me from landing waist-deep in offspring and going nowhere fast. The guilt, the responsibility, the circumstances--there are many reasons why I am as I am. But now begs the question, what on earth am I to do about it? Who shall I be? What shall I do?

Two roads diverged, yo. It's time to make a choice.

Take Another Little Piece

2010-01-22T13:10:00.002-05:00

It was recently pointed out to me that I am emotionally detached. Ironically, this observation came from a person to whom I truly have no attachment: my grief counselor. She spoke of how often I can speak of things that I love or hate with no apparent feeling at all. Things that I say make me happy or sad, angry or frustrated are able to be voiced in monotone, without crying spells or washes of tears.

Well, of course they can. I don't actually HAVE feelings. Everybody knows that.

There is the old saying that it's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Bullshit. I've loved and lost a lot. It blows. I've had so much heartbreak over the years that I could supply the entire country music industry with enough material to last them a lifetimes. Births, deaths, marriages, divorces, losing your old hound dog and getting your heart stomped by the unworthy--check. I've had people come into my life who, in my opinion, only swooped in long enough to obliterate my emotions. I've had people who have spent years toying with them, just to see how far they could go, pushing ahead then pulling back (Bellamy is one of these people--I think she's waiting until her teenage years for the ultimate upheaval, but I still have a few more years to worry about that). Hell, there's one person in my life whom I'm nearly certain only exists to make my heart ache, yet I'm still unable to boot them out for good to save my own sanity. A glutton for punishment, this old heart of mine.

Or, at least it WOULD be if I had those feelings I mentioned earlier.

You see, it's easier to just love nothing. More often than not, I only say "I love you" to the people whom I actually DON'T love. (Yep, I'm tricky.) The ones I do, I just don't tell, because that way you're less likely to be taken advantage of and hurt. Obviously, my kids and B don't count, but lots of others do. Love is a mirage. I love cake frosting and snow and my purple handbag. Love is summer days and mail that isn't junk or bills. Feelings are something far more complicated, and something I choose not to embrace.

So, yes. I am detached. Maybe for now, maybe forever. Because it sure makes my life a hell of a lot easier. Better to have loved and not felt it, then to have loved and had your heart broken yet again.

2010-01-21T16:39:00.002-05:00

Today has been an interesting day.

First of all, I snapped awake this morning in a panic, thinking there was something big I should remember that I had going on today. Not so much. More that I have a friend who had something big going on today, and I suspect that was on the forefront of my mind. Second of all, I dressed and stepped outside, only to discover that it was FREEZING and I was not dressed appropriately. Oh, and that I had locked my keys in the house (we have a spare, but it is NOT easy to come by). After dropping Belly at school I realized that I had forgotten Sutt's bookbag, which lead to high emotional drama on his part (he inherited my OCD, which includes an extreme distaste for forgetting things) leading to the creation of an Imaginary Bookbag. This was followed by an excessively un-fun doctor's appointment, the discovery of a Corvette in a cow pasture, a discussion of babydolls and ghetto retirement homes with my mother (again, don't ask), and a horribly distraught 6-year-old who spent the entire afternoon in tears over the words of some punk-ass first graders.

I am, honestly, a generally eloquent, intelligent, steadfast woman. I back down from nothing (except snakes--even the little ones) and am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I'm just having a difficult day. Somewhere, someone (possibly someone I know) is having the best day of his or her life. Happiness, good fortune, and wonder abound. For this, I am happy, but I wish the universe would spread the love a little. Seriously.

Maybe February will be my month.

Irksome Is A Nice Word

2010-01-19T20:34:00.002-05:00

I'm feeling kind of itchy in my own skin tonight, so I have decided to compile a little list of things that frequently make me feel this way (aka: uncomfortable and out of sorts).

A LIST OF THINGS THAT, WHEN CONSIDERED EVEN BRIEFLY, MAKE MY SCALP AND UPPER ARMS ITCHY AND COULD POTENTIALLY CAUSE ME TO BREAK OUT IN HIVES IF I DID NOT USUALLY CHOOSE TO DISTRACT MYSELF PROMPTLY, THUS AVERTING DISASTER AND DELIVERING MY BODY TO SAFETY, FREQUENTLY IN THE FORM OF DRUNKENNESS

1. All things viewed beneath a microscope~ Cells are gross. Microbes, amoebas, and all things scientific and otherwise are gross when viewed at ten million times their normal size. I do not want to see what my bodily fluids look like up close and personal, thank you very much, which is why I have a B.A. instead of a B.S. So keep your creepy little magnified amoebas to yourself.

2. Jealousy~ I am not a jealous girl. I do not care if strange women rub up on my husband, or if he spends time with his exes. It does not bother me, because my awesomeness is clearly unsurpassed. That said, there are some situations that can, if handled properly, instill jealousy within me, and I cannot think of anything I hate more. Jealousy is weakness, and I am not weak.

3. Stickers~ We have covered this. I hate stickers. They creep me out. I have the literally fight the urge to vomit when removing them from produce, children, bathroom floors, etc. There does not seem to be a good reason, nor any rational explanation. I just hate stickers.

4. High blood sugar~ This is one that I get, but many of you won't (except Angela). Here lately my blood sugar has been a total freaking nightmare, and I honestly don't know why (although, for the record, I DID just eat a tiny slice of chocolate-peanut butter pie, but that's beside the point). When my blood sugar is high, not only am I irritable and bitchy, but I just feel horrible, like my insides don't fit right into my body. It's not a fun gig, this whole diabetes thing. Frankly, I'm kind of over it.

5. Weird kid crud~ Kids tend to get random nastiness upon them pretty much every single day. Rashes, snot, feces, etc....the list is endless and each item is more disgusting than the last. Normally, I can handle everything pretty well, but you give me a glimpse of a creepy kid rash and I'm a goner. I absolutely have no tolerance for anything that might even potentially be ringworm or anything fungal. I'm itching just thinking about it. There's nothing worse than some scaly kid rash.

6. Jon Gosselin~ Okay, so he doesn't really fit in with the rest of the list, but he does, indeed, make me feel terribly unpleasant. I would just like to say to the world at large: I do not care who Jon Gosselin dates. I do not care what he wears, what party he hosts, how much he paid for his penthouse, or what he had for breakfast. He is a chubby fame-whore who has yet to say one semi-intelligent word to the press. Plus, he's Asian, and as many of you know, I am not a fan of the Asian people in general. Suck it, Jon Gosselin.

7. Uncontrollable situations~ I am learning as time passes that sometimes things happen that I have absolutely no control over whatsoever. I can't stop them, I can't fix them, I can't change them. Hell, sometimes they don't even have anything to do with me, but somehow my emotions get tangled up in them anyway. Those are the worse, because you aren't even validated to feel as awful as you do. You can't talk to anyone about it, because then they will think you are nuts for being emotionally invested in something that doesn't even concern you (for the record, B is totally used to this happening with me, which is, to some degree, a relief). Bottom line, sometimes it's easy to take something personal that isn't intended for you at all.

My irksomeness and I have decided to retire for the evening, to try to reconcile with one another, and hope for the best. Wish me luck in shaking this cloak of weirdness.

Throwback

2010-01-17T12:04:00.002-05:00

Everyone on FB seems to be posting their Throwback Photo-- visions of bad fashion, spiral perms, and braces on their teeth. You will notice that I have not posted a Throwback Photo, partially because I choose not to follow the crowd, and partially because I hate to shame you all with just how awesome I was, even in my younger years. (However, should you want to see my OWN spiral perms, bad fashion and braces on my teeth, you are welcome to peruse my photos, as there are several.) Despite marching to a different beat, I am marching nonetheless, which means you get a Throwback List:

REALLY BAD DECISIONS FROM HALEY'S YOUNGER YEARS, LIMITED TO ONLY THOSE YEARS DURING WHICH HALEY WAS UNDERAGE, MEANING AGES 5-17, NOT BECAUSE I WAS NOT UNDERAGE AT AGES 1-5 BECAUSE I WAS, BUT ONLY BECAUSE I ONLY HAVE A COUPLE OF MEMORIES FROM THOSE YEARS AND THEY DO NOT SEEM TO BE MEMORIES OF MYSELF MAKING PARTICULARLY HEINOUS DECISIONS, OF WHICH I HAVE BOUNDLESS FODDER FOR SUCH LIST POST-AGE 5

1. I kissed a girl and I liked it~ I may have touched on this before, but my first "boyfriend" in kindergarten was actually a girl. In my defense, she had really short hair, thick Coke bottle glasses, and a 5-year-old swagger that resembled something out of a bad John Wayne movie. It was not until I had announced to the world at large (aka: both kindergarten classes) that "that boy over there is my boyfriend" that I was informed that that boy was actually a girl named Pam. Oops. The relationship didn't last.

2. I see London, I see France~ Still testing the limits of kindergarten, I was once nearly kicked out of school for consistently exposing my underwear to my classmates. It only happened on one day, but it was a LOT that day. My mother (in a flash of poor decision making) had allowed me to wear my dance class red satin poodle skirt to school, and beneath it I had on a pair of bright red, ruffled panties that I thought were THE BOMB (they were, of course). Such devotion to one's panties can only lead to trouble, as well as the incessant urge to show other people just how awesome your underwear really are, which is exactly what I did. It did not go over well with my poor British teacher, or her strict Baptist assistant. (Side note: To this day, I think they could have just been jealous of my cool panties.)

3. Papa Don't Preach~ In the 3rd or 4th grade, my mother once again ventured into the world of poor decision making, deciding that sure, it was a GREAT idea to let me go to school dressed as Madonna. I wore no skirt, just a big-ass slip from my clogging days, a bright pink sweatshirt with the neck cut out (a la Flashdance--how that was related to Madonna, I'm still unsure) lots of jingly, tacky bracelets and necklaces, and my permed hair in a side ponytail with an ENORMOUS bow tied around it. My awesomeness was unsurpassed. My Mother should really have been turned into child protective services for that, and frankly, she'd better be glad there's a statute of limitations for things like that or her ass would be in trouble. Seriously.

4. In-vested~ Has anybody seen the photograph from the 7th grade Homecoming Dance on my FB page? The first dance of the school year, with my first junior high school boyfriend (Michael, are you reading this?)--I could not wait. Mom and I went to the mall one night to shop for an outfit, something casual, yet dressy. I suppose the 7th grade version of Business Casual, circa 1990. We found the perfect ensemble at Belk: gray pleated pants with blue striped cuffs, a blue shirt, and a floral brocade vest that incorporated both the gray and the blue, but added a lovely pop of maroons and peach. All I can say is, how can you go wrong flaunting your sex appeal with a brocade vest? You can't, I say.

5. Let's explore the string of bad romantic choices I made in high school. After finally ditching my junior high boyfriend, who had the IQ of a string bean and refused to get his hair cut in any way that did not involve shaving either a V or a lightning bolt into the back, I roared into high school ripe for romance. After developing a mad crush on a boy I met nearly the moment school started, who then promptly broke my heart by starting a long term relationship with a friend of mine, I plowed through a string of seniors (predominantly the baseball team), none of whom impressed me or were very good kissers. I then moved on to part of the football team (too dumb), interspersed with a handful of boys from the opposing high school (too dull), and a couple of guys from a school in Chattanooga (by far the least intelligent men I have ever met--didn't stop me from a lot of making out), which took up most of the rest of my sophomore year. Tiring of this flurry of silly boys, as a junior I decided it was time to find a boyfriend. Who did I choose? Brad. To this day, I have no idea what on earth possessed me to date this boy. There was nothing particularly wrong with Brad, other than his family, but he was not quite what I was looking for. However, time passed and he was fine, if a bit on the tame side. Thank God I didn't marry him.

6. Why I now need therapy~ Mom, I know you're reading this. And you need to know something. You fucked me up, at least in regard to my hair. Remember how you would always hassle me about wearing my hair down, how you liked it off my face? You gave me a complex, Mom. You damaged me to the point that my hair was never all the way down until I moved away from home and out of the clutches of your hair manipulation. You know why I always wear it down now? It's out of defiance for the many years of your Hair Nazi-ism. Yes, it is.

Wow, it felt good to get that off my chest.

7. Just getting warmed up~ My senior year in high school, some genius (whose name I will not name) made the incredibly intelligent decision to purchase WHITE warm-up suits for the cheerleading squad. We would wear them to school or over our uniforms when it was cold, we would wear them to various functions we had to attend, etc, etc. I'd like to mention again that THEY WERE WHITE. Why in the hell would anybody put a bunch of weight-conscious, 17-year-old girls who were ALWAYS starting their periods unexpectedly in WHITE warm-up suits? WHY? It makes no fucking sense. Not only did those things make us look fat AND showcase every drop of unanticipated menstruation, but they also got dirty within seconds of being worn. We were cheerleaders, for God's sakes. We were on the ground a lot (side note: some of us were on the ground more than others, particularly a few who spent an inordinate amount of time of their backs), so the white faded to a nice mocha or latte rather quickly. NOT good decision making, girls. Not good decision making at all.

While there is enough Throwback in my life to write an entire novel, I shall end with seven. I hope that you have all learned something from this. At least that way, I will not have suffered (in my floral vest) in vain.

We All Fall Down

2010-01-12T21:56:00.004-05:00

Of my readers, some of you have known me long and well, others lesser and for a much shorter period of time. This leads me to share a statement of truth, for anyone who is confused, unaware, or completely oblivious to everything around them and thus likely not functional in society or, at least, shouldn't be allowed out without a chaperon.

I am a love skeptic. I am an even greater marriage skeptic.

"What?" you say. "A love/marriage skeptic who has been married twice?" Yep. Never said I was a skeptic who made good, well-thought-out decisions, just that I was a skeptic.

There are many beliefs that come along with being leery of love. I don't believe there is one person out there for everyone, but yet many people whom we may or may not meet whom we may or may not choose to mold our lives around. I do not believe in love at first sight, although I do believe we can recognize souls we have loved in other lives and remember the feelings that we hosted for them in the past. I do not believe marriage should be work, because I do not believe you should have to work for love, but that it is something that should come, and operate, naturally and smoothly. On the flip side, I do not believe in happily ever after, as life encompasses far too much for a future made of fairy tales. Love doesn't equal marriage in my head, and marriage certainly does not equal love. Love is a choice. Marriage is a choice. They are not mutually exclusive.

A disclaimer: I am not angry, nor am I unhappy in my marriage. I love my husband, he is wonderful. We are yin and yang, night and day, but complement one another all the same. That said, I think marriage is a crock. The more I think about it, the more ridiculous it becomes, this tax break, this legal binding of two beings. Promising for better or for worse is bullshit-- making a promise like that is blind and and it's stupid. If B becomes an transvestite hooker someday, that's for worse, and you can sure as hell bet that I'm not sticking around. Should I be in an accident and become a veritable vegetable (and my family wasn't smart enough to pull the damn plug) I would expect nothing less than for B to find himself a someone new who was there, supportive, and real. Hell, I'd be railing at him from the Otherworld if he didn't.

We have these roles, these expectations, these hopes. There is pressure, from ourselves, society, our families--the normal is to chase, to claim, to breed. So often we want to "catch" someone, and then once we have them, we wonder what on earth the chase was all about. We make the best of it. We persevere, or at least try to, until we realize that we should have left a long damn time ago. We become muddled. We become lost. I have been there. I should know.

I am grateful that I am bound to a good man, one whom I do actually love, from an endless sea of those I did not. However, I still feel bitter sometimes that the law dictates my relationship, that God "blessed" our union, despite my never having felt his presence in our bond. I don't enjoy being told what to do, who to love, how to live. I think it is unnecessary and inhumane. For now I am lucky, but for eternity, I will love whom I love, and make promises only unto myself.

Woman Overboard

2010-01-04T15:44:00.004-05:00

In my 32 1/2 years of meandering through this world, sharing my awesomeness, I have learned many lessons. Don't marry someone who proposes to you during COPS. Don't call someone bigger and drunker than you are a whore. Don't throw away your clothes in a mad frenzy while you're pregnant because they will, someday, fit again. Or at least, they would have fit, if you hadn't donated them all to Goodwill, and so now you're left without that fabulous little black Audrey Hepburn dress that you used to look smokin' hot in while wearing. You get the idea.

One idea that I never really seemed to latch onto that well is that idea that I cannot be in control all the time. That has manifested itself occasionally in the past (like when my uterus decided to implant that fertilized egg against my will), but I always seem to forget it, conveniently, and continue to hold onto any semblance of control with a death grip. I hate riding in the car while (most) other people drive, despite the fact that I'm a terrible, nearly incompetent driver. I hate letting the kids pick out their own clothes, even though I know it will save me a huge headache and regardless of who chooses the clothes, Belly is going to come through in sparkle tights and a tiara anyway. I hate when someone else puts food on my plate because I have a specific order I like to follow when I arrange food (meat and starches opposite one another on the plate, vegetables in between and opposite other vegetables) and it freaks me out if it's not in that specific order.

I am a girl in control. I control my diabetes. I control my weight. I control my cravings, free time, Passion Tea addiction, and schedule. I'm a Type A, full-on, pain in the ass.

But now. Now that I'm two days shy of the One Year Anniversary, it's starting to sink in that maybe I can't control everything. Losing Dad was a total loss of control. My life this past year has been an exercise in having very little control--of my appetite (mostly none), of my sleep (very little), and of my emotions (which tend to be completely unpredictable). Suddenly, "me" isn't always me anymore, and I haven't yet figured out how to cope with that.

Everyone says that some good comes out of everything bad. I keep looking around for the good, but so far, I've been too blinded by grief to find it. I'm starting to hope that maybe this whole control thing will end up being some of it. Maybe I'll learn that it's okay to let whatever happen, happen, because that's the way the world works. It's going to anyway. I can't control everything. Let's just hope I can accept that.

The Coldest Day of the Year

2010-01-03T11:11:00.002-05:00

It's bitterly cold in Virginia today, the first Sunday of the new year, below freezing with great blustering winds. (I like that word, "blustering.") Just walking to the car is misery, there's no chance in hell that the kids will be outside today on bikes or scooters, which means it's going to make for a long day for Mommy, Daddy, and YaYa unless we figure out a way to burn some energy off of the minions.

I remember well the first Sunday of the new year last year, another incredibly, painfully, blisteringly cold day. Late in the afternoon, we had taken the kids and gone to the grocery store to restock from having been in TN for the holidays. I remember fighting the crowds, and B taking the kids to the car while I waited in the checkout line. I remember pushing the cart full of bags through the parking lot, and swearing under my breath at the wind. I remember reaching the car to find B answering his phone (I hadn't heard mine ringing and had missed the call), watching his face crumple as he spoke to my brother, the stab of panic I felt, and then the total confusion as Bellamy turned away from us into the darkness and vomited in the parking lot (thankfully unrelated--the kid has a curry allergy and had unknowingly ingested curry earlier in the day via a fancy grilled cheese sandwich at a brunch with her Suffolk grandparents). I remember talking to my Dad and asking him to wait for me. This was the beginning of the end.

Obviously, this isn't a happy blog. But part of the purpose of this blog is to say what I'm thinking, and today, this is what I'm thinking--that I know exactly what I was doing a year ago today, and it wasn't fun. Damn you, memory.

My New Year is going to start on Thursday, after I've crossed the finish line of the First Year Without Dad. I don't know if I'm going to feel better or worse on that day, but I'm rallying for better. Dad would want me to feel better, no question about that, but Dad knows that I didn't always listen to him (even when I should have). He's probably somewhere shaking his head at me now, wondering when in the hell I'm going to quit being so damn stubborn.

Sometimes I wonder the same thing, Dad.

32 1/2 Down

2010-01-02T11:40:00.006-05:00

Normally I write a blog at the end of every year telling my favorite things of the past twelve months. Afterward. as best I can tell, there happens a massive shortage of said items as my extensive group of readers all rush out into the frigid January air to locate their own so that they can be just like me. It's to be expected, because I am rather fabulous and I have unparalleled taste in everything. However, my dears, I fear this year you shall be disappointed as I am not making my list. It would be far too short, and I'd rather just move forward.

Instead, the premier blog of 2010 is going to focus on my recent trip to our lovely nation's capital, Washington, DC, and the new and exciting things I encountered while there. Of course, said adventures shall come in the form of a new list, as there is no better way to start the year (except for maybe writhing beneath Johnny Depp's naked--yet hopefully showered, as he always looks rather unclean--body).

A MIND-BOGGLING AND OCCASIONALLY DOWNRIGHT FUCKED UP LIST OF THINGS THAT I WAS PRIVY TO WHILE VISITING OUR NATION'S GREAT AND ABSOLUTELY, MIND NUMBINGLY COLD CAPITAL AS THIS USELESS BASTARD OF A YEAR, 2009, CRAWLED ITS WAY OUT OF OUR LIVES AND THIS NEW YEAR, 2010, OF WHICH MY FEELINGS ARE STILL VERY UNDECIDED, CAME WHISKING IN VIA ICE, RAIN, AND THE PREREQUISITE ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGE

1. My First Black Penis~ I have seen the paraphernalia of black men in movies (don't ask what kind, because if you have to ask, you really don't deserve an answer), photographs, and random Internet searches for things so unrelated I'm still working through how they were included in the list. However, somehow I've managed to live all this time without every experiencing a black package in real life. No more, my friends. I have now seen a black warrior, up close and personal, and on New Jersey Avenue. It was flaccid, and it was urinating into a pile of filthy, melting snow, as its owner stood giving directions to a young lady in a Ford Explorer. I figured if he was comfortable enough to whip it out on the streets of DC, then he would take no issue with me taking a good look, so I made sure to give it ample visual study. (And for those of you who are wondering, if this dude was any indication, yes, what they say about black guys is alarmingly accurate.) I immediately mentally added "see black penis in real life" to my LIST OF THINGS TO DO BEFORE I DIE, then checked it off. I'm a girl who likes to accomplish her goals.

2. Sitting Pretty~ Late one evening, as I was patiently awaiting the Metro (red line, I think, in case you are wondering) and trying not to touch anything as I'm fairly sure my immunities are not mature enough to brave the various bacteria that can be found in the metro station, I noticed in my peripheral vision that a very tall woman walked up next to me. She was black, she had long, curly hair, she was dressed somewhat like an extra from Flashdance (leg warmers, off the shoulder sweatshirt, Juicy Couture sweatpants), and she was wearing a tremendous amount of makeup, particularly a healthy dose of hot pink lipstick. She was regal. She was proud. Oh, and she was a man. (Mental addition to list "ride the metro with a transsexual," mental check. Clearly, I was on a roll.)

3. The Pleasure Palace~ In my previous jaunts to DC, I have had little experience with Georgetown. This time, finding some time to kill, I ended up in Georgetown. Let me just say, for the record, that I FUCKING HATE GEORGETOWN. Dear Jesus, it's like this creepy little Stepford Pod of women who clearly spend too much time with their credit cards and flatirons, and men whom walk that line between gay and metrosexual so steadily that there is really no way to tell which way they will tumble. Everyone carried shopping bags from Anthropologie. Everyone looked vaguely bored. All the dogs were on designer leashes and wore hand-knitted sweaters, most likely created by poor little Indian kids in sweatshops on the other side of the world. It was like a special version of hell created just for me. However, I did find that Georgetown had one entertaining, thus redeeming, attribute: The Pleasure Palace. The Pleasure Palace is a sex shop tucked away in one of the perfect little brick buildings right in the middle of Georgetown. The mannequins in the window are wearing crotchless panties and pasties. There is a room in the back that specializes just in S&M. Some of the sex toys are so terrifying in appearance that I had no idea for what they would be used, and had to read the back to figure it out. One can buy artificial, lifelike lady bits there for their own personal pleasure in not just white and black, but also Hispanic. What made this all so fabulous? (Besides the United Nations of silicone vaginas, of course.) The fact that it was almost directly across the street from a bevvy of overpriced designer stores, and the only patrons I saw while I was there looked like very cheap, and potentially meth-addicted, hookers. Awesome.

4. Anytime Karaoke~ Some of you know of my fondness for REO Speedwagon (along with Cheap Trick and Foreigner). When one (specifically me) hears REO Speedwagon comes on the radio--or, in this case, the overhead muzak at the Georgetown mall--it should be sung along to, and loudly. It doesn't matter who is nearby, or who you might embarrass. You just gotta sing. So that's what I do, and that's what I did. As the New Year's Eve crowds meandered through the 3-level, holiday decorated mall, hurrying into Express Men for their argyle sweater vests and into Victoria's Secret for their "getting lucky tonight" lingerie, I belted out "Can't Fight This Feeling" by REO Speedwagon in loud, full-on Haley. At one point, I suspected I might be arrested. I'm pretty sure I might not have been allowed into Pottery Barn. But as I said before, when REO Speedwagon comes on, you just have to sing.

5. Step Back, Asian~ Just as I love REO Speedwagon, I do NOT love Asians. Asian people drive me up-the-wall, fucking nuts. They are just so damn happy all the time. I mean, seriously, what other group of people giggles nonstop? I'm fairly sure that it's the Japanese that I despise the most, but being a good southern girl who isn't even remotely concerned with her political correctness, I will just say that Asians in general piss me off. They are short, they are obsessed with Hello Kitty, and they are always smiling. It's creepy and unnecessary. Additionally, you can't walk half a block in DC without bumping into one of them, wearing a backpack, carrying Louis Vuitton, and giggling. I have been known in the past to assault Asians in DC, and it very well nearly happened again, as the sheer number of them alone sent me into a blind rage. I'm pretty sure that if I ever go to prison for (non-premeditated) murder, it will be because my blood sugar was high and some Asian got in my way.

I realize that this list only contains five items, rather than my usual seven, eleven, or thirteen, but frankly, I'm too worked up regarding the Asians to continue on at the moment. (This is just a lame excuse, as I really have a headache.) I still have things to say about Madame's Organ in Adams Morgan, not finding a cab during a soaking wet, freezing cold hike on New Year's Eve where I licked things for half a mile, watching B get propositioned by a cross-eyed Asian chick on the bus, and trying my best to coax my new friend, Nathalie, into sleeping with B so that she was in the loop (of the group of us hanging out at the Pub, she was the only one who had NOT had sex with my husband). Alas, another story for another day.

Happy New Year, Everybody.

Santa Claus Got Stuck In My Chimney

2009-12-26T20:31:00.005-05:00

I have always suspected that whoever wrote the majority of the Christmas songs out there was probably someone I would have hated. Have you ever listened to the lyrics of them, REALLY? They're ridiculous. And half the time, they're full of things that don't even make sense just so they will pseudo-rhyme. It's bullshit. All the happy people and perfect snowflakes and cuddly fucking reindeer--it gives me holiday hives and makes me all itchy. And don't get me started on the goddamn Muppets and Chipmunks, those creepy little bitches. I get all pissed off just thinking about it.

With this in mind, a few nights ago, Mom, B, and I piled the kids into Mom's Jeep to cruise the nearby neighborhoods so that the kids could look at lights. Although this was my idea (via the kids' encouragement--plus I like to make fun of the inflatables because so many of them often look like they are touching themselves inappropriately due to lack of proper inflation), I was jimmied in the backseat between two carseats, so I really didn't have much of a view. To distract myself, I started paying more attention to Mom's Sirius radio, which was set to some All Christmas, All The Time station. Torture at first, but then things got drastically better. Why? Because it was at this point that I heard the GREATEST CHRISTMAS CAROL OF ALL TIME. It was Etta Fitzgerald, and the song was "Santa Claus Got Stuck in My Chimney."

I bet he did, Etta Fitzgerald, you naughty girl.

I have never in my life heard more pornographic lyrics to a holiday song. Sure, there is the occasional mention of a Yule log here and there, but you never hear much that makes you think, "Damn. That's just messed up," and makes you feel like you need to simultaneously use hand-sanitizer and potentially make an appointment at the free clinic. Yet, this year, I did. And it has now become my FAVORITE CHRISTMAS SONG OF ALL TIME. Because I was 1) drunk; 2) suffocating between the minions; and 3) laughing too hard to properly decipher some of the lyrics, I missed a few. Therefore, as my Christmas Gift to you all, I have Googled said lyrics and am posting them below. Please note that I enjoyed them all over again in the written form. Merry Christmas (a day late) and enjoy.

SANTA CLAUS GOT STUCK IN MY CHIMNEY
(William D. Hardy / Billy Moore Jr.)

Ella Fitzgerald - 1960
Lisa Nicole Carson - 2000


Santa Claus got stuck in my chimney,
Stuck in my chimney, stuck in the chimney
Santa Claus got stuck in my chimney
When he came last year

There he was in middle of the chimney
Roly-poly, fat and round
There he was in middle of the chimney
Not quite up and not quite down

Santa please come back to my chimney
Back to my chimney, back
Santa please come back to my chimney
You can come back here.

Cause baby, made a brand new chimney
Just for you this year!

Santa, come on back!

And I Find Myself Alone

2009-12-24T12:37:00.002-05:00

My Mom is here, B is off from work, both kids are out of school. It's Christmas Eve (which, incidentally, I ALWAYS type as "Christmas Even" and then have to go back and correct) and all are out running last minute errands. I am home alone, vacuuming. Yes, that's right. I'm vacuuming. Give me a break, I'm neat and I find it soothing. Plus I'm a fan of instant gratification, it's a great mood booster.

I have a vivid memory of sitting at my parents' kitchen table last Christmas Eve, drinking with my brother and sis-in-law (Crown for him, martinis for us), exhausted and sad, and talking about which would be worse--the Christmas we were having or the Christmas yet to come, which we knew would be our first without Dad. Everyone kept telling me that it was the first without him that would be the hardest, which was just an inconceivable amount of pain. I didn't think it could get worse than watching him suffer, and having to pretend to be happy. And you know, still, even with the First Christmas staring me in the face, I think I was right. I miss him so much it reduces me to a puddle sometimes, but he's not in pain. He's not suffering. He's not sick. I think, though it's an infinitely tiny amount, this one is easier. I imagine somewhere, wherever his soul rests, it's a better place than here.

Though this year has royally sucked for the most part, I have been giving a handful of blessings. My children are happy and healthy. My Mom is taking steps forward to better her life. B has been incredibly supportive. I have gained new loves (Easy E and my carpenter-- you know who you are, and I love you both), and I have made it this far. I will continue on, and grow stronger for it. Of that I am certain.

Dirty, Pretty Things

2009-12-22T18:41:00.002-05:00

I am a girl who likes lingerie. I have it abound, a bureau full of lace and silk, satin and tulle, in every color of the rainbow, every style one can name. (For the record, I would have a great deal more if I hadn't purged my collection of everything obtained during my previous relationship. Some of it I had never even worn, but it just felt creepy to hang onto.) It makes me feel like a vixen, pretty and desirable, regardless of how bad a day I may have had--you slip it on, and suddenly you're beautiful.

Tonight I went shopping for something new. There is a new year coming, it's a time of beginnings, and it's been a while since I added to the collection. A few minutes into my journey, I located a lovely black piece--a little sparkly, a little racy, but still quite elegant. Unfortunately, the smallest size they had was a medium. Since I can pull off a medium on occasion, depending on the fabric, I took it and headed towards the fitting room. A beautifully dressed, very robust, older black woman was the fitting room attendant for the night, and examined the garment, then me, shaking her head and making some type of "mmmhhh" noises under her breath. I wasn't sure if this was approval or disapproval, didn't care much. I just waited for her to unlock the door and allow me inside.

Once I was in the fitting room, I stripped down (it's 30 degrees outside--I had on several layers) and tried it on. Hmmmm.....it was okay. But just okay. The fit wasn't quite right. A little loose, gapping a bit in the top especially. Just then I heard a knock on the door.

"You okay in there, honey?" It was the attendant.
"Yes, ma'am."
"You got that thing on?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Now open up this door and let me take a look."

I paused. It's not often that one is asked to model lingerie by an African American woman old enough to have given birth to me. But, I'm not particularly shy. I figured "what the hell" and opened up the door.

She stood back, looked at me for a long moment, then shook her head frowning.

"Girl, you too skinny. You can't even fill that thing out. And look, your girls don't stand up like they should, because it's just too big." She stepped forward so that she was behind me in the mirror, reached around my chest, grabbed my breasts and hoisted them up. It was my first experience going to second base with a 60-year-old woman. Comparitively speaking, I've had better, and I've had worse.

I tried to gently shake free. "Yeah, it's a little big, but I think it COULD be okay...." I cocked my head to the side and studied my image.

She started shaking her head before I even finished. "Nuh-uh. Ain't no way. That thing don't half fit you. I could put two of you in that thing. Now, ME--if you had MY girls, you'd be spilling outta it, ain't now way it could hold you in. You young girls don't understand that a man likes a little meat on those bones."

I examined her and agreed. "True, I wouldn't argue if I had those suckers. I'd flaunt them all the time. Hell, I'd probably be wearing a tank top in THIS weather. They're fabulous." Anita (her name, by the way) was probably a size 16 or so, and rocking approximately a 38 DD.

She stuck out her chest and looked in the mirror, clearly in agreement. I may have been standing there nearly naked, but all eyes were on Anita. I love to see a woman proud of her body, regardless of what her shape or size may be. This was a woman who was proud of her body.

In this world, we are all different. In my 32 years, I've been enormous with child twice, I've grown and I've changed. At this point, I'll probably never make it beyond 5'3" (on a good day) and my weight has stayed within 3 pounds for about four years. I'm settled into myself. I like my hair long, my makeup sparse, my fingernails unpainted, but my toenails red. That's who I am. And even if something pretty doesn't fit, whether it's too big or too small, I'm okay with that. Even better, I'm glad that there are other women out there who feel the same, like the lovely Miss Anita. To channel my soul sister Ray, "if you've got it, work it." Stand proud, ladies. Every last one of you is awesome.

Call Me Crazy

2009-12-21T14:50:00.002-05:00

Today, for the second year in a row, I volunteered at the elementary school during the Gingerbread House Making Extravaganza. Last year I helped 30 kindergartners use frosting as glue to build gingerbread houses out of graham crackers, them trick them out with candy decorations. I came home with frosting in my hair, frosting beneath my fingernails, and frosting on my shirt. I drank for two days straight afterward.

This year, I helped 24 1st graders do the same. I came home with frosting in my hair, frosting beneath my fingernails, and frosting on my shirt. I am currently drinking. (As a side note, my Mom arrived a lunchtime, which is in fact reason enough on its own to drink. Considering the circumstances, you, my readers, are lucky I'm still functional enough to use the laptop.) At least this year I had the foresight to wear a white shirt so the vanilla frosting wasn't quite as visible whenever some kid bumped into me with an icing-coated hand or spoon or gingerbread house.

Why do I keep submitting myself to this torture, you ask? Well, the look on Belly's face when she sees me helping out at school is rather priceless, regardless of how much I often loathe being a mother. Some of these kids don't seem to have anyone to recognize their awesomeness, so I feel it is my duty to not only point it out, but to celebrate it (as in, "Yes, James, I think it's a fabulous idea to construct a fence out of Twizzlers! Way to be a GENIUS!"). I'm not a chipper, super peppy Mommy, but dude, I can tell when a kid needs a boost, and I'll be damned if I'm not going to help he or she get it. Kids may not be my forte, but I don't like to see them in need.

We live in a community that is so economically diverse that the range covers all kinds, types, races, and incomes. My kids fall somewhere in the middle, and I feel very lucky to be able to give them all that we are able. But it breaks my heart to think of those children who aren't so lucky--the ones whose parents don't care enough to give them the Christmas they deserve. Hell, I may be the antithesis of Christmas joy this year, but I will not deny my kids the best parts of it all-- watching "How the Grinch Stole Christmas," baking cookies for neighbors, saying their prayers every night to thank God that we are as blessed as we are, taking them to church for the candlelight service. These are the things that bring them the happiness, and hopefully, the memories they will carry. I only hope that they ingest that THESE are the important parts, not the presents or wrappings or bows.

If I could trade myself, just to give one happy Christmas to every soul on earth, I would do it in a heartbeat. The universe could have me, no questions asked. I only wish I had that kind of worth.

Those Presbyterians Know How To Party

2009-12-20T14:17:00.002-05:00

Last Thursday night, we attended the St. Andrew's Preschool Christmas Program. Sutton had been talking about it for weeks--Miss Emily, the music teacher, was preparing them well. There was to be caroling, bell ringing, sign language--all kinds of good Christian hijinks abound. From time to time, he had burst without warning into "Away in a Manger" and "Silent Night," as well as some song about "Happy Birthday, Jesus" that involved him singing so loudly and with so much fervor that he became red in the face and made me wonder, at least briefly, if he would have an aneurysm onstage. We had his black pants and white button-down clean and ironed. The kid was ready for his stage debut.

The show started at 6, but we arrived around 5:15, as Santa was also planning a visit to the program and was to be available for pictures beforehand. My children never miss an opportunity to suck up to Santa (and in Bellamy's case, remind him that a Barbie RV SURE would look nice in her bedroom), so we made sure to get there plenty early to talk to Santa. Of course, since we arrived early it also gave Sutt the opportunity to play tag with his classmates, hence dirtying the knees of his black pants and disheveling his hair, but alas, 'tis the price one pays to talk to get on Santa's good side, so it was all good.

At 5:45 sharp, we delivered Sutt to his classroom and found our seats. Pops and GrandBabs had come out for the occasion, and Bellamy was decked out in her Christmas dress. Everyone was ready for the performance. Shortly after we were seated, the children entered the sanctuary. They had all had red velvet bows with tiny bells pinned to their collars. Every one's hair was brushed, their cheeks flushed, their eyes bright. Until Sutt entered the room.

Clearly, poor Sutt had decided that he was adverse to performing for the masses. His eyes were red, his cheeks tear stained, his shirt partially untucked. He was herded into the room glumly, amidst a sea of festive little classmates. As the girls preened their way to the stage, the boys standing tall and ready, Sutt spotted our family in the crowd and immediately shoved his way free of his class and sprinted straight to our row. He leaped into his Daddy's lap, buried his face in his shirt, and informed us (albeit very muffled) that there was no way in hell he was going up on that stage.

Although this was extremely unexpected (at least to me) we shrugged and decided to watch the show. I figured Sutt might eventually decide to go onstage with his friends, and in the meantime we were already settled in, so we might as well check it out. The music began, and so did the fun.

A brief list of things I saw during the performance:
1. One kid from Sutt's class completely fell over, and crashed into the Christmas tree behind him, leaving nothing visible except the soles of his shoes that were straight in the air.
2. Two boys decided to start up a conversation during "Jingle Bells." This conversation turned into them each licking his own set of handbells, then allowing the other kid to lick them. Perhaps they were comparing flavors. I do not know.
3. Just as the infamous "Happy Birthday, Jesus" song came to a quiet moment before the (very loud) chorus, one child burst into tears, screaming, "I. WANT. TO. GO. HOME!"
4. A few children, mid-performance, decided that their reindeer antlers were indeed an impediment to their ultra-cool Christmas attire, and yanked them off to chuck them into the audience.
5. Mid-performance, post the one kid falling over, another kid fell over and dominoed the entire back row, save the one child on the end who, apparently, has super sonic balance. The performance never wavered, even as five children tumbled off the risers into oblivion, causing teachers galore to sprint onstage and help right the minions.

To add to the joy, Sutt decided, during the grand finale, that perhaps he would indeed participate in the program, but only if Mommy went onstage with him and held his hand. I agreed. We crept to the stage, but once we arrived he informed me that he was "too tired to stand up" and collapsed into my lap. I had the great honor of singing the finale with the preschoolers, while a boneless Sutt puddled in my lap and refused to utter a single sound.

Ah, yes. The joy of the season. Merry Christmas to all.

One More, Weak

2009-12-16T11:55:00.002-05:00

Christmas is apparently next week. As I have been choosing to ignore everything around me with the exception of the cocktail shaker and my torrid relationship with the North Suffolk Public Library, this somehow managed to escape my notice until this morning when Sutton asked if Christmas was tomorrow and I had to think about it (for all I knew, it really COULD have been tomorrow) and figure out exactly when Christmas WOULD be here. (As a side note, I have this theory that I could technically put Christmas off indefinitely as my children obviously have no concept of time. I would have to leave the tree up, and once we broke out the pool pass and sundresses, they might become suspicious, but then again, maybe not.)

True, there have been signs that Christmas was rapidly drawing near. The house across the street installed a large, lighted, inflatable chimney that boasts Snoopy (in a Santa hat) peeking from the top. I enjoy watching it topple over every night when the wind picks up. I have received a few assorted Christmas cards, mostly from people I can't stand and whom I wish would take me off of their Christmas card list (although the upside is that should I ever decide to have them killed, I will always have an updated home address). I think the kids get out of school for winter break at some point, although I'm not certain when this happens and suspect I won't know for sure until we arrive for the drop-offs and I notice that the parking lot is empty. (When this happens, I intend to just drop them anyway, as I figure it will give me a good hour or so of free time before they flag down someone with a cell phone and track me down.)

Sometimes I think about how I can't get this time back, and it makes it hard to stomach all the happiness I'm probably missing. I'll never get Sutt and Belly's 3rd and 5th Christmases back, not the goodness, and the only memories I have of it involve hospitals and cancer. Third and fifth Christmases are supposed to be good times for all involved. It's frustrating that there are no do-overs in real life. It also leads me to try harder this year, which believe it or not I'm doing.

Yesterday, we baked Christmas cookies after school. It wasn't that bad--they helped put the shapes on the baking stone. After they baked and cooled, I gave each kid a bowl of green frosting, red frosting, and a cup of sprinkles. (Sutt used all of his sprinkles on the first cookie, then spent the next half hour laughing at how "silly" he was. Belly mixed her frosting together and turned it gray, because "Gray is a great color for Christmas!") It was nice to see them so excited over something so small and easy. (The subsequent sugar high from licking frosting off of the utensils wasn't quite as nice.) The point is, as I said, I'm trying. Last year I just taught them how to mix Mommy a strong martini (and a useful lesson that has been).

There are people across the world having wonderful Christmases, miserable Christmases, joyous Christmases, and lonely Christmases. To each and all, I wish the same as I'm hoping to find myself at some point this year: peace, and strength in the knowledge that, somehow, we are probably all in this together.