wait — what?

forget accidentally, it was totally on purpose

… I haven’t been neglecting my blog, I just refuse to post halfassery. And I can hear you rolling your eyes over there, yes you, in the corner, so just knock it off. The head shaking to . You look ridiculous.

Maybe it’s the fact that I now know that there are certain… uh… elements reading my blog that has caused my obvious lack of, well, blogginess. I could totally go with that except that I have this drafts folder that is chock full of bloggy goodness, now completely fucking obsolete as it was oh-so-timely in it’s inception and bloggy beginnings but completely totally pointless as this, well, point. And it’s not that the everyday stupidity of people has stopped irritating me to the point that I need to rail at the general populous via this, my all-purpose bitch-box, soap-box, kleenex-box, giggle-box, what have you, far from it. Mayhaps I’ve become so entirely overwhelmed with the present contents of my life that everything but the pinpointed task at hand has been relegated to a background blur. I so feel the picture of my avatar these days. Let’s call her Mavis. Mavis is tired. Mavis needs a nap. Mavis needs a drink. Mavis needs a vacation somewhere away from her daily life and to come home to a clean house with no laundry waiting. To dream the impossible dream…

Halfassery, general stupidity, and parents who raise their children and forget to instill a moral compass are at the top of my list of things that make me want to turn off the filter that sits between the complete asshole part of my brain that thinks things like “Seriously? You can’t read the fucking sign that says ‘Slow traffic to the right’ you dumb fucking cunt? Put down your cell phone and your cigarette you Jerry Springer white trash whore and CHANGE LANES you fucking IDIOT!!!” and my mouth. It’s a good filter. I know this, because I don’t usually say these things out loud. And if I do let it fall out of my face, it’s not with anyone else in the car and the idiot driver on highway 12 in the early ’90’s model red ford taurus with the blonde hair and blue shirt sure as fuck can’t hear me.


I’m beginning to wonder if perhaps a little more unfiltered spewage from the intelligent set might not do the dumbass set some freakin’ good. Lately, I have been inundated with not just dumbassery, but MEAN dumbassery. For no good reason, just mean spirited bitchy dumbassery. Some of it even borders on plain old fashioned stupidity, which just makes me want to slap that person. Hard. Repeatedly. With a blunt object. Now, I’m a yeller. Always have been. Just something cathartic about letting it all go in a loudly projected voice. Perhaps it’s the actress in me, or the third-child-screaming-to-be-heard-ness that’s still lingering around my edges, but I am a yeller. So when confronted with dumbassery that borders on stupidity presented to me on a bitchy silver platter, my poor tongue has a hard time remaining not only filtered and civil, but… INSIDE voice. Not such an issue say, inside a speeding car on the highway, but in pretty much every other situation? BIG HUGE GINORMOUS ISSUE.

So I’m tired. Tired of filtering, tired of keeping my volume down, tired of having the joy sucked out my life by the continual stream of assholes and idiots that seem to run so rampant around here. Tired of the shit The Husband is putting up with from every conceivable direction, tired of The Children who are too smart for their own good and exhaust me mentally as well as physically. Tired of not having everything I need to make me feel altogether whole, complete, and at home… so tequila and bad tv and sleep and off to another day of the same idiots in different shirts. Or different idiots in the same shirt… I do live in a small town with limited shopping…


full frontal nudity (edited. I’m on a roll folks. Deal with it.)

… mom, why is the front porch naked? 

Ah, summer in The Other Dakota.


Wait — it’s only May. Why isn’t it still snowing? Or raining? Or at the very least, melting and flooding my basement causing me to fill the garage with various semi-soggy and slightly-damp crap and non-crap stuff from the overstuffed basement? It has been freakishly warm for the last few days. And while I am prone to hyperbole, this is NOT an overstatement. Today was in the 90’s. I kid you not. If I wanted weather like this, I would be in Arizona. Oh wait — the army decides where we live… never mind…

Thank GOD it wasn’t so freakin’ hot over the weekend. I was so proud of the Husband and myself. We were all kinds of grown up… tending to the yard with the mowing and the weeding and the planting and the weeding and the mulching and the weeding and the trimming and the weeding and the cleaning and the weeding and the weeding and the weeding. Did I mention that there was some weeding to be done? Between the crack quack grass and the insidious tree that seems bound and fucking determined to take over EVERYTHING including the cracks in the sidewalk (I don’t even want to THINK about what sort of rooting it’s got going on under the house, in the foundation, under the siding… it’s like that possessed tree in the first Poltergeist movie — you know, the one that was actually scary?) the weeding has been piling up. And that doesn’t include the iris bed that has been neglected since last summer, poor Dutch irises trying to push their way up under the fronds of death from last year that didn’t get cut down. Some are having more luck than others. The Boy finds this HILARIOUS.

“Look mom — they’re like accordians!”

Yup. They sure are. Smooshed, pale green accordians. I can hardly face those poor struggling fronds.

So as I was gardening my fingernails off, literally, and the kidlettes were making pretty pictures on the sidewalk and playing in the neighbors yard (they love her — she has a swingset. I love her. She has a swingset. She feeds them raisins. Of her own volition.) the Husband was removing the increasingly-dangerous lawsuit-waiting-to-happen railing-of-death from our front porch. I have no idea how old this wrought-iron railing was, but one of the main posts, as in THE main post that a person in need of support would grab onto for said support, had rusted through at the bottom footing. So, uh, yeah… no support there. Not to mention that the kidlettes have recently decided that they LOVE to hang onto the railings and swing like monkeys. I dare any thinking person to spend time with toddlers and then honestly deny the idea of evolution. I mean really. But back to the porch…

Apparently the Husband had put on his Grown-Up Socks that day, because not only did he mow the lawn, trim the edges, and vacuum the bits (yes, we occasionally vacuum the lawn. you should try it sometime. shop-vac instead of sweeping to clean everything up. Sounds insane, looks ridiculous while you’re doing it, but your lawn will look absolutely fan-freaking-tastically clean around the edges), he also took down the railing-o-death, took it APART, CLEANED THE PORCH, and THEN measure AND priced out new rails. ALL IN THE SAME DAY!!!!!

Yup,  Grown-Up Socks. Two pair. Unfortunately, those socks ended up lying in the middle of the livingroom floor at the end of the day… apparently they lose their magical powers once they walk into the house. I wonder if the Boxer Shorts of Maturity are immune to such boundaries… and do they come in a three-pack?

we all screw our kids up in our own special way

… that toothfairy is one stingy bitch. 


So, having the army be one of the higher powers that rules your life tends to fuck up a lot of holidays. We can generally count on at least half of our family’s celebrations being crashed by Uncle Sam every year. It’s usually at least 3 out of 4 birthdays, almost always the wedding anniversary (5 out of 6 years so far), occasionally Christmas & New Years, and very often valentines day. Easter and Thanksgiving are about the only holidays that we haven’t missed having together most every year. (I’ll think about the significance of that later… or not…) The point being, the actual DAY of the holiday has pretty much ceased to be important. It’s the event — the celebration — that is the important part.

Take birthdays for example. I can’t remember the last time anybody in our house actually celebrated their birth on the actual DAY of their birth. My birthday was last month, and the actual DAY was just another Tuesday; kids fighting, mom yelling, dad yelling louder, somebody made dinner, everybody ignored the dishes and tried not to get sucked into the vortex of the laundry monster in the hallway. Just another Tuesday. Later that week, however, I went out for an actual date with my husband. And just like that, Birth celebrated. It’s not the DAY that’s special, it’s the fact the YOU were BORN that’s special. My kids are sure that you can’t have a birthday without balloons, so they’re still not sure that I’m a year older, which is pretty much okay with me, as I’d like to stay this side of 35 as long as possible.

These last couple of weeks have been pretty monumental for our little household. Not only did I fall into and eventually conquer the sucking vortex of laundry monster (I can see my hallway again!!!!!), but the cupboards are full of clean dishes (we won’t mention the gnarly allergic reaction to the dishsoap — I told you, husband, NOW will you wash them?), but The Girl has become a Toothless Wonder.

I was beginning the think that she was dentally challenged. Her cousin, a mere 5 months older, has lost like, 7 teeth already, and here’s my kid hanging on to her baby teeth like nobody’s business. So one night as I was helping her floss (yes, we do actually floss their teeth. I can hardly believe it either) and I noticed that 1.) she had a loose bottom tooth and 2.) this was a good goddamn thing since there was nearly 3 mm of new tooth peeking out directly behind it. My poor child is mutating into a sharkgirl! But no, the dentist reassured me that this was perfectly normal. Which was a great relief when I noticed that there was yet another adult tooth vying for space right next to that one, and still not a baby tooth had exited.

Thinking that we might expedite things and avoid having teeth pulled,  we told The Girl that the toothfairy paid way less for teeth when the dentist had to pull them. This was, apparently, a mistake for two reasons. One, she had not yet heard about the whole money-for-teeth black market exchange. Oops. But really, how long could we have kept that one from her? The first day she shows up at school with a tooth missing, some “friend” asks her how much she got for it, and the jig is up. It’s not like we can tell her the toothfairy didn’t come because mom pissed her off — that’s why the Easter Bunny didn’t come this year. (Apparently I offended him with all of my bunny blaspheming on the way home from grandma’s house, and then again when I thought the damn things had invaded the yard. Mom blames the bunnies, Easter Bunny’s feelings get hurt, no chocolate treats in cute little baskets for the kidlettes. I’ll take the heat, I’m a big girl. But I digress… sort of…)

The second reason this was bad? She started working on that tooth and had it yanked out, blood running down her chin, in less than a week, and she ripped the second one out three days after that! On the other hand, her motivation could have had something to do with her dad telling her he could “get that tooth out”, as he holds up his fist. “No thanks dad, I don’t want a knuckle sandwich.” Totally serious, totally straight-faced this girl. And yes, she does understand the sarcasm of it all, so don’t get all DCFS-y or anything. But here’s the real kicker — after she lost her first tooth, she REALLY lost it. As I was looking for an appropriate under-the-pillow fairy-vessel, apparently the tooth went, and I quote, “tink tink tink  down the stairs.” I looked for that fucking tooth for an hour plus. No tooth.

I tried to explain the significance of the first tooth to The Girl, how the toothfairy was going to give her a gold dollar coin, but only for the first tooth, and how she would only lose her first tooth once. She was still more interested in playing with her bear than looking for her tooth. And The Boy? He kept picking up cracker crumbs and saying “I foundda tooths!” After about the 28th time, I found myself answering him back with a not-so-nice “no, no you didn’t sweetie”. I finally gave up and put them both to bed, explaining that no, we couldn’t just leave a note because think of the scams kids would run on the poor toothfairy. Yeah, I know, that was pretty harsh for a 5 year old, but I was tired, my head hurt, and she was the stubborn one who didn’t think my original little pouch was good enough, insisted I find something “better” for the tooth, wouldn’t let me keep the tooth whilst looking for said better something, and lost the fucking thing. Besides — I was pretty sure I could find it in the morning.

As it turned out, The Husband found it later that night in roughly 10 minutes.

I was so flippin’ excited, we tried to wake her up, but she was UNconscious. Once that kid is asleep, it’s like trying to wake the dead. Or a seriously napping cat. But she was incredibly excited in the morning, and the next night the toothfairy came, traded money for tooth, shook her head about the whole damn thing, and put that freakin’ tooth in a very, very safe place.

Now, as for the gold dollar? Yeah, she lost that the next day at school.

That’s my girl…




dear condron.us,  

i know i’ve been conspicuously absent for some time now, and i do apologize for the abrupt and unexplained departure, but it’s hard to reach the computer when you’ve been swallowed by the sucking vortex of the laundry monster in the hallway. it was a long, hard-won battle; tears were shed, blood was spilt, fingernails were broken, detergent and stain remover were used in copious amounts, and socks were lost in the melee of it all. but the clothing has agreed to never again conspire to attempt consciousness and I have vowed to never again allow the laundry pile to grow taller than my knees, or my children’s heads, whichever comes second.


the help.










omg, it’s a minivan

… does this mean they have to play soccer now?

 A couple of weeks ago, we bought a new car. More precisely, we bought a very slightly used 2008 Toyota Highlander Limited. Now, I am not an easy sell on the car lot. I’m one of those pain in the ass women who come well armed with research from Consumer Reports, Edmunds, KBB, etc., and I know exactly what I will and will not pay for a given car, SUV, what have you. I learned the hard way to never walk onto a car lot without knowing at least as much as your enemy. Yes, it’s a cynical attitude, but years ago, I  ended up leasing a brand new car that I didn’t love and couldn’t afford because 1.) I took my father onto the lot with me and 2.) I was completely unarmed.  After that experience, I vowed to never again behave like a helpless girl on the lot.

And I haven’t.

The first car I bought (okay, Husband bought — Toddler Life Coach does not pay well in the monetary sense) after that debacle was the much loved Honda. I did all my homework, knew what I would pay and why, and when we stepped onto the car lot, Husband walked BEHIND me and told the salesman that this was MY car and MY sale and to direct all questions and comments to ME. This really threw the salesman because not only was I a woman, but I was also roughly 8 months pregnant. HA! Suck on that! Thrown is sort of an understatement. Freaked out, gobsmacked, dumbstruck, slightly terrified, these are all better descriptors than “thrown”.  And yes, I did enjoy every single minute of it. Especially when I told him that he had to replace the two rear tires with the same high quality (and high priced!) touring tires that were on the front or there was no sale. He really wanted to sell that car. He wanted to sell that car bad enough to convince his boss that it was worth it to throw in the $700 worth of tires to make the sale. He was right, of course, since we came back to buy a truck the next year and then this latest vehicle 4 years after that. 

So. As you might imagine, when we came onto the lot this last time, our favorite salesman was well aware that 1.) it was MY deal and 2.) he would not be “selling” me anything. The funny thing was, we had decided to go looking at cars on a whim. Yes folks, on a whim. I was completely unarmed. Our salesman didn’t know this, however, so we took a couple of test drives and went home, and THEN I did all my homework. On the one hand, it was nice to not have to worry about being taken for a sucker ride by a salesman or a dealership. On the other, it was really anticlimactic to not even have to haggle for a more than fair deal on a really great vehicle. We ended up getting more than book value for our trade in and a price on the Highlander that beat the book value as well as every dealership within 800 miles by at least $1,000.  Not to mention, when I was cleaning out my Accord for the last time, I found two lighters, and a button I had been searching for for 6 months! It was like the universe was saying “Congratulations on the new SUV.” 

So just imagine my sadness as I gazed out my front window at my (sort of) brand new ride, all shiny and big, and realized  *gasp* that my new SUV was actually a minivan with a nose job.

Those sneaky bastards at Toyota, brilliant. They realized that there was a completely untapped market of moms who were dead set against driving a minivan. And so, the Highlander was born. Oh, there are differences, subtle differences, and it’s classified as an SUV, but if you look at one next to a minivan, you’ll see what I mean. So I’m having some mixed feelings about my new purchase. On the one hand, I really really really really like it. Compared to the Accord, it’s like a hotel room on wheels. I mean, the Boy can’t even reach the back of my seat with his feet while I’m driving! On the other hand, it’s a freakin’ minivan.