bitch bitch bitch bitch bitch

it’s a new and exciting kind of monotony

… THWACK-I’ve been slammed with adulthood. Crap.


I know it’s been a stupid long time since I’ve been here, and for that, dear (you’ve even changed your name! you sneaky little scamp), and readers (those of you whom there may or may not be), I do sincerely apologize. But here’s the thing. Life has been kind of, erm, fucked lately. Like, laundry-list-o-stupid-shit fucked. Some big, some little, some shrug off “meh” stuff, some “holy god you’ve got to be kidding shut the fuck up or I’ll do it for you” kind of stuff. And all the while, I kept thinking, I really need to write this. I really really really need to sit and write. But did I? Nooooooo. Did I curl up in the corner and cry like a baby? Yeah, a couple of times (ok, more than a couple times. Quit rolling your eyes, you lunatic of a sister, you). Did I seek solace in a few other places that shall remain nameless? Oh my yes. (You can stop shaking your head Professor, most of it was gin and tequila.) But did I sit down and write? Nope. Not a single freakin’ word. And wasn’t that the whole point of this blog in the first place? Uh, yeah, it was.  Carving out this little word-cave was supposed to give me a place to spew whatever blech I needed to so I wouldn’t have to slide into it and swim around until I was covered in the muck and dreck and dripping with ick. ‘Cause that shit is harder to get off than the sticky  shit that comes with the Easter hams. thankyouveryfuckingmuch.

And so here I am, we are, after a summer full of family drama/trauma, one kidlette in kindergarten and another in preschool, and a husband attempting to heal from back surgery. What? you say. Do explain! Drama? Trauma? Surgery? And what about being slammed with adulthood? That sounded painful! Yeah, well… there’s no one to play nurse-maid for ME, so slap a fucking bandaid on it, rub some dirt in your eye and get back in the game. Right? Fuck that, it fucking HURTS!!! And I’m TIRED! And everyone in this god forsaken house (which, by the way, hates me on some base level, but we’ll get to that later) is either broken, sick, 4-years-old, or some evil combination of the afore mentioned maladies.

Someone made the comment to me recently that “sucking it up”, although it is not technically a psychiatric term, really ought to be simply for it’s descriptive perfection. And she has the qualifications to say this, by the way, the MD after her name and everything. And she’s not one of those half-assed psych docs who get paid insane amounts of money to throw drugs at people without ACTUALLY doing any REAL therapeutic work with them. She’s a give-it-all-you’ve-got kind of doc, and dare I say human being in general, and I get to say this because, well, I’ve known her for that many years and through that many evolutions. But back to the “sucking it up” thing… So she makes this comment to me, and it was (is) so fucking appropos of the last couple of weeks.

(And yes, I know that EVERYONE has to just suck it up and get on with things, so don’t start finger waggling and head shaking and thinking Oh lord, here she goes again, all this Poor Me song and dance again because A. I’m venting here, that’s what this is for; B. Really? You think this is self-indulgent? and 3. Even those of you reading this who might 1. know me, 2. be related to me, or 3. think you may have some sort of strange stalker-esque soul connection with me, you still don’t know the whole story, so judge not lest ye be fucking judged. M’Kay? Yes, I’m a little touchy ’bout that. It’s an issue. I’m working on it.)

Moving on…

I had a point, there was one when I started this, although I think it may have morphed in the two days since I started writing. I was going to give you a sort of “best of” (hah-best of-more like blooper reel) recap… the reunions with two friends I haven’t seen in almost 20 years that made me feel indescribably loved, the family reunion that was strange in a California-meets-North Dakota in Montana sort of way (just think about that one for a minute, you’ll figure it out… it IS that descriptive, and it IS what you’re picturing… probably… just add elderly farmers and ranchers), and the annual family vacation that quite literally crushed a large part of my heart, twisted a medium sized chunk of my brain, and sucked just the smallest bit of my soul right out (no, not exaggerating on that one, and it all happened in the span of roughly, 0h, 10 minutes? 15?Families can be just so super duper sometimes). And then of course there’s the beginning of kindergarten, which is, dear Professor, beginning to atrophy The Girl’s brain already…

And then of course there’s The Husband’s back surgery and consequent convalescence, which does pretty much throw off my whole fucking day. As a person who is NOT built for constant companionship,  this constant companionship is driving me batshit. I keep thinking it wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t so broken, or if he was handling it better, or more helpful while he’s here ALL FUCKING DAY, but mostly it’s just that I’m The Mom. And at this point, I’m The Mom to a kindergartener, a preschooler, and what amounts to a college kid living in the basement. At least he’s not as stoned as he was before the surgery, and yes, he does help with the kidlettes, but there’s too much yelling. Too much impatience. Not enough love. Doubles my work, makes everyone feel like shit. Kids, me, Husband, everyone.  It’s like walking a very tight, very thin wire in bare feet-it cuts, and you bleed, but you have to stay up there and balance because you finally made it up there, you managed to get all the shit balanced in your hands, on your shoulders, and you’re keeping your eyes closed because if you open them you might not see the end of the wire-there might not be anywhere to set anything down. So yeah. I’m tired of sucking it up. And I’m just tired. Really fucking tired… and thirsty. Where’s the goddamn gin?



so here’s what happened

… I mean, it’s a blog for godssake — it’s not rocket surgery.

This is, roughly, the twelvteenth post that I’ve started to write since I got up on my little soap box and had my little verbal tantrum about the state of the public education system and my fears about what will happen to the Girl once the system gets her into its clutches next year. Apparently, after my small tirade, I sat down on my soap box, and have yet to stand back up from my little meditation. Why? Good fucking question. I’m not sure I have any concrete answers yet, but while I was writing and then NOT writing those other eleventeen witty little bits of … uh… blogginess, I did develop several theories regarding my soap box sit-in.

So here’s what happened… After I unintentionally abandoned my darling little blog due to the finally undeniable pull of the universe and the unfortunate incident with the sucking vortex that was the laundry monster, there were a couple of weeks were I actually had my shit together. I KNOW!!! Tell me about it! I was as surprised as anyone. Probably more so, considering I was the one who did all the work, and there was no bribery involved, no threats of … well, anything really. No reason other than an apparent need to defy the universe and exert my all-powerful mom-&-wifeness with a giant Fuck You, Natural Descent Into Entropy, I’m Cleaning My House. And then the last day of school came, and I decided to take the afternoon off, drink a beer (or two), and that’s how I ended up on my education soap box. I was not, however, expecting to actually get RESPONSES to the freakin’ thing. So, that sorta’ sat me on my ass right there.

Now, I said I had “several theories”, as in more than one. So theory 1: knocked on my ass by the fact that people are reading my blog, just by coincidence happen to be stuck on a soapbox at the time.

Included in those responses was one particularly affecting… erm… comment from someone both near and dear to me but is not, and this was the real surprise, my lunatic sister. (Who, btw, you should all know is NOT, in all reality an actual lunatic, clinically speaking anyway, just really really goofy at times.) So this near-and-dear, we’ll call her Professor, because she is (among other things), wrote me a really long, really heartfelt, really personal… response, really, that dredged up a lot of shit from my own frequently painful school years as well as making a lot of good points from a teachers perspective. Again, THUNK, on my ass, this time with my jaw sort of hanging open (but not drooling, thank-you-very-much) because 1.) the Professor reads my blog? Seriously?     !?!?!   and 2.) recalling various and sundry memories of the years between the ages of 10 and 17.

Now, the Professor comes from the Right side of my family. And by that I mean the side of my family that is always right. We have a tendency to not only speak our minds, but we are strongly opinionated and tend to speak in a manner which makes people think we know what we’re talking about even if we’ve no freakin’ clue. Can you say German heritage? So poor Professor, knowing that she had brought up a lot of that less than pleasant muck, was having clicker’s remorse about sending that particular message. (I know this because I ran into her and im’d about it that day.) But ‘cept I’m a growd up now, and have gained much perspective by having my own children. The decade plus of therapy may have helped too…

So as I continued to sit on my soapbox, I wrote back to the Professor, addressing her points, and making a few more of my own, because, as I said, although I was jaw-agape I was not drooling incoherently, just becoming slightly glassy-eyed and dizzy from the height of the soapbox. There was one more note from the Professor because 1.) she’s got the teacher’s perspective, 2.) she’s got a mother’s perspective, 3.) she’s seen 2 bright girls through the public school system and 4.) one of those girls did really well and one of those girls not so well. So she’s got a lot of wisdom to share, and I’m more than glad to be on the receiving end, even if it knocks me on my ass for more than one reason and renders me slack-jawed and just a little dumbstruck (okay, I admit there may have been a little drooling, but just a little!).

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to do housework from atop a soapbox, but it’s damn near impossible. I did some directing, but for the most part, I adopted an Om pose and let entropy have its way with me.  Which brings me to the final theory regarding my continued residence atop said soapbo, sitting upon said ass. It’s been less than a week since I took up my Om pose (a grand total of 5 days — 6 if you count that first day off) and while nothing is out of control, there are no sucking vortexes of laundry, no battles between dirty laundry and dirty dishes for domain over the hallway  or kitchen, and the only thing that is really in desperate shape is the Things’ room (that actually may be close to sucking vortex status, but I refuse to get close enough to confirm), my Om has become disgruntled. I am well aware that as a Toddler Life Coach and professional Military Wife, albeit the worst one ever, the cooking-cleaning-laundry schtick is supposed to be my bit. Yeah, I know. But dammit, I am NOT the only person with arms in this house! Other people ARE capable of working the broom! And the vacuum! Picking up toys! And doing it BEFORE it reaches a full entropic state, thank-you-very-much.

So the final theory? I’m a disgruntled housewife who doesn’t WANT to come down yet. There’s no laundry up here, the floors are clean, and nobody just throws shit on the floor rather than putting it away. I like my soapbox dammit. Now if only I could figure out how to get my bed up here…

the whore of babylon goes to kindergarten

… and is like, um, underwhelmed at the um, education her um, daughter will be like um, getting next year. 


I was really excited about taking The Girl to her kindergarten orientation last week. The Husband took the morning off and The Boy was going to come with us, so it was a big ol’ family affair, even though we all sort of knew that things with The Boy might go awry since no one remembered to bring the Bag O’ Fun which was created for just such occasions but failed to make the transfer from the old car to the new SUV, which had been purchased a mere 6 days prior. Things were going really, really well. Surprisingly so, since everyone was awake, properly fed (not just crackers in the bedroom, hold your applause), bathed and dressed (again, no applause please, I am merely a mother caring for her children), and I had even blown out my hair and was putting on real makeup at 9:35am. Okay, it wasn’t a full blow-out, but that takes like 1 ½ hours and we had to be out of the house and in the car by 9:50am. And then I decided to sharpen my eyeliner. I know better than to sharpen my fabulous eyeliner (and here, I will advertise for Clinique, freely, since they have the most awesomest eyeliner ever. Only eyeliner that has never made me look like a raccoon by the middle of my day. Worth every penny.) and then apply directly to the lower lashline. Lower lashes require a slightly DULLED point. After five minutes of trying to fix the mess I had made, smudge-cover-reline-shit!-repeat, I looked like some strange hybrid of Cleopatra and the Whore of Babylon. Fabulous. My kid gets to have the white trash whorey mom.

Turns out I was way less noticeable than the cool rockin’ mom with the star tats up and down her arm. (I wonder if her kid listens to the Ramones and the Clash as much as mine kid does? ) Not to mention, The Boy took all the attention away from everyone when he had a lovely little tantrum upon being informed that No, he could not play with the crayons and marker in the classroom where we were sitting for the orientation because they belonged to the students and had not been put there for him as he had presupposed.

The Husband removed The Boy and I was left with The Girl to listen to the 20-something kindergarten teacher with the bedhead-that-takes-a-lot-of-careful-styling hair and style-by-Gap wardrobe, and don’t forget the not-beard-and-mustache but sort of face-framing facial-hair/stubble landscaping thing, talk about the great education my kid was going to um, get. The words “um” and “like” were um, like, falling out of his mouth so frequently I started flashing on the movie Valley Girl. It was not pleasant. Add that to the fresh understanding that my child will be adding(!) and subtracting(!) and reading(!) by the end of the year, and I was sort of wishing that I could throw a tantrum like The Boy and start wailing “But my kid can already do that! She’s doing elementary base 10 math and reading at a 3rd grade level! What is SHE going to learn this year?” Yeah, um, like, social skills? Maybe. Or maybe she’ll be bored out of her skull and have behavioral problems. Or maybe she’ll be the kid who always has the right answer who earns the animosity of her peers? Like, um, what then?

On the upside, Mr. Like-um will not be The Girl’s teacher (thank god we got THAT request made early) and her future classroom has a pretty bitchin’ play kitchen set.

… and the obligatory plug, because it seems to bring the readers…

he’ll be there with bells on

…but probably nothing else.

We’ve already established that Thing 2 (yes, they’re back on Thing status) prefers naked to any other state of being. He also happens to be a music lover. Today, in order to distract me from his lack of attention to task-at-handedness, which was, you guessed is, room cleaning, he decided to put on a one-man-band-in-the-buff show. Quite the site, I must say. Bells on both ankles, egg shaker in on hand, harmonica in the other, and a slide whistle in his mouth. Noisy and nude stomping through the house.

“I tried to put the bells on my guy (his name for his penis)” he said, “but they wouldn’t stay on. See?” At which time, well, you can imagine the frustration of the poor boy trying to velcro the wrist/ankle bells onto his genitalia. And me without my camera. His father will be so disappointed.

Yes folks, we’re currently embattled again in Mom v. Kidletts over whether the bedroom really does need to be clean enough to navigate without the lights on or not. I am currently losing. Again. I could really use some support here, and I know that there are at least a couple of people reading this crap, so COMMENT DAMN YOU!  And yes, sister love, that one was aimed at you. I’m in great need of some moral support, especially seeing as though I’m not getting the nicotine support these days, and there’s only so much carbohydrate support I can take before I support myself into an insulin coma.

reasons why nascar is not cool #1

And then… the phone rang.

The Husband and I are not phone people. Let me illustrate. During the 18 months he was in Iraq, we had approximately 68 phone conversations. That averages to be one call per week. But the math doesnt work! you cry. Yeah, it does, if you count the weeks he was home for leave and the weeks where we had nothing to talk about so why waste the phone card minutes. There are some people I can sit on the phone and chat with for hours. These are people who enjoy witty banter. And can engage in it. The Husband is not one of those people, no matter how hard he tries, for a variety of reasons. First and foremost his lingering apalachan accent slows his retorts down to the speed of a mildly retarded child’s pace. Yeah, that’s mean, but give me a fucking break! He hasn’t lived in the wilds of Hillbillyville in 17 years. I’ve met his friends, the ones who grew up in the SAME TOWN. They speak just fine. One can even banter in a mildly witter manner when he’s not stoned off his ass. The husband tends to blame his speech on ” my speech impediment”. He also blame this said impediment for his grammatical faux pas. Uh, no. ‘We was going to the store’ is not the product of a speech impediment anymore than referring to pavement as ashfelt is. Okay? Why does this get under my skin so badly? Make my want to scratch like a hallucinating meth addict? Because the man is not an idiot. He is not stupid, a dullard, slow, or dumb. But by god he sounds it sometimes. But I digress…

And then… the phone rang. Actually, it rang another 4 times before I picked it up, but I’ll omit that redundancy. This time.

When I answered it, I was addressed as beautiful, sexy, love of my life, and best wife in the world all within roughly two sentences. Oh shit.

Lo and behold, the promise of leave for a nascar race has been dangled at him like a moonpie in front of Paula Dean. And it will only cost… I am the keeper of the coins in our house. He has his allowance for playtime and whatnot, but it’s not much. He’s in the army for chrissake. We’re not even made of monopoly money. And in these times of Economegeddon, the fact that we are finally free of credit card debt makes the idea of “I’ll pay it off using my allowance” about as appealing as a bikini wax. And I don’t do those either.