Crazy Undefined (and Unrefined)

Autumn is for falling leaves...and lowered expectations.

2011-09-12T22:38:00.001-04:00

It's that time of year again. Time for our yearly trek to the local biker rally. Nothing says hard-assed biker like a weekend at the Bean Blossom Bluegrass Campground. Rebels we ain't. Thankfully we had various and sundry crazy folk to keep us entertained.We enjoy camping. Before we sold the camper, we spent many weekends "roughing it" with our expensive grill and ipod-compatible soundsystem. But camping at a biker rally? "That's a whole 'nuther dealio.First of all, we were sharing a camper with some friends. Their '89 Shaggin' Shack sleeps four people. This detail will become very important as the weekend progresses.

Weekend Address, Site 218. Once everyone is settled in and fed, it's time to go tour the facility and take stock of what is available for our unbridled amusement.

Probably NOT sanctioned by the Health Department

Probably working in her "Official Capacity" During a party a couple of weeks ago, I had a chance to re-connect with a friend from high school. As she is currently on a man-hunt, she expressed an interest in attending the rally with us. Now, never being one to deny another living soul the opportunity to see with their very own eyes the train-wreck spectacular that is a biker rally, I encouraged her to attend. (This had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I anticipated giggling with glee at the horrific expressions sure to come to her in light of what she was sure to see. Pinkie swear.)For the sake of anonimity, I will call her "Shaqueva Jackson". In fact, I may now call her Shaqueva forever. Or at least until I forget that I gave her a new name. After getting her settled and introduced to everyone at our campsite, I led her around the immediate area just to begin the acclimation process. (It's important to exposse yourself slowly to these things, so as to avoid getting the bends, or questioning your belief system.

Showing off his "talents" to a slightly uncomfortable Shaqueva.Last year, I posted about all the field games that take place as some sort of Biker Olympics. Yes I made sure that I marched Miss Shaqueva right down there so that she could witness the weenie catch herownself. I am convinced that she is now in awe of the technical skill required to bite the end off a dangling Oscar Mayer while perched on the back seat of a motorcycle.

Generally accepted method for beer transport.

*I don't even have any words for this, much less an explanation.*I took several more pictures of the field games, but honestly none of them were very good. In my defense, I was distracted by the Side-boob standing next to me.

I probably should put one of those black bars across her eyes like the magazines do, but she should really buy a damned mirror so really I'm calling it even-steven.As the weekend progressed more friends showed up and as predicted, much merriment ensued. We got a gander at the crowd gathered for the stripper pole contest, but since she was a first-timer, we generously gave Shaqueva the prime spot for viewing, complete with accompanying Cute Boy to hang on to for balance.

Trust me, you DO NOT want to see what was swinging around that pole. Shaqueva may have to bleach her brain to remove the image from her nightmares.

Some of the paint jobs on the bikes entered into the bike show were completely awesome. And the stuff nightmares are made of. (Sorry for the crappy picture quality, the bikes were parked under a red and white striped tent which made everything look like it was being viewed through some sort of bad 70's video.Here's pics of our gang in separate boys vs. girls pictures. Please do me a favor and count the number of people in these pictures.

*Not pictured, myself and Shaqueva. I was BEHIND the camera, obviously and Shaqueva had run off with a man who said he was a cop, but later his buddies completely ratted him out. He's actually the Street Commisioner, and is only a cop on the weekends. Which I'm not even sure is legal. Plus it WAS the weekend and he was running around in a golf cart sporting a sign reading "Needs Laid". Which actually is starting to make sense to me which only means that I need to wrap this up because I'm getting confused.So. To Recap..there's me and Shaqueva (2), and the three lovely ladies in the picture above (+3), and the four studly men in the picture before that (+4). Grand total of person in our campsite? NINE. Remember me stating earlier that the camper sleeps four? Um, yeah. Now, two of the people pictured brought a tent with them. Neither one of which was me. Or Shaqueva. So, nine minus two still equals seven adults to fit in the space of four. Twas a dilemna. Thankfully, after a certain BAC is reached, no one is real particular as to where they may or may not sleep. All available floor space in the camper was full of sleeping, snoring, bathroom-door-blocking bodies. Even Miss Shaqueva Jackson, who had never camped before, bedded down on the floor of the camper without complaint. Pretty damned tough for a first-timer and she handled it like a pro. As an award for how puffed-up proud I am, I will not post the pictures of her sleeping on the floor.For your viewing pleasure, some random pics from the weekend. Because I'm tired. And I have an assload of laundry to do because everything we took with us smells like campfire smoke and water that large pigs bathed in. So just look at the damned pictures and I'll be back later to answer any questions you may have.

Leave your questions in the comments and I'll get back to them as soon as my therapist says I can deal with it, or the pills kick in.

A sneaky birthday celebration

2011-08-28T01:10:00.000-04:00

Have ya'll ever seen this man? Better known as THE MAN on this blog.

Warning: That is one sneaky boy in that picture right there.

Even though he knows I have control issues,
Even though he has heard me say time and time again that I don't like surprises,
Even though he has only met my oldest friends once or twice in the last eight years,
Even though there were probably a thousand things he would rather be doing,

SURPRISE BIRTHDAY PARTY!!!!!

It all started a couple of weeks ago while discussing birthday plans. I had spent so much money just trying to get the teenaged Divas in school that I just didn't see any way to make big plans. Schedules were crazy, funds were low, and quite frankly I wasn't too concerned. Yes, I was getting another year older, but it wasn't one of the "biggies". It wasn't one of those numbers that ends with a "zero". There was no milestone attached to this anniversary of the day that I shot out of my mother's lady parts.

So we decided (he coerced me and I followed along like a well-behaved sheep) that we would have dinner on the way to a shopping location out of town, do some browsing and maybe a small amount of purchasing, then return home.

One of the towns on our way to our shopping destination is my old hometown. The birthplace of me. A veritable Smallville, US of A. And it was decided that dinner would be eaten there. Then we would proceed to shopping.

Did I mention that The Man was taking me to a Bass Pro Shop?

I joked on facebook and to friends that I was definitely getting some new rubber hip-waders for my birthday. Hopefully in pink camo, because nothing says sexy like a woman in a rubber half-suit.

*dead sexy*

(I did not get these for mah birthday. I am not sad about that.)

What I did get was a surprise party. My very first. The Man had contacted my friends and family and arranged everything. Food? Check. Cake? Check. Friends? Check. Booze? Double-check.

I had dinner with family and friends and drinks with friends that have only drank once or twice legally with me ever. We will not discuss drinks consumed while we were all of tender ages.

Long story short, (HA! fat chance of that) there was much merriment. I heard stories of niece's soccer games, cousin's motorcycles, sister's concert trips, friends dating woes.

I ran in circles around tables while being chased by by small children, ate fried chicken with people I love and laughed so hard that I probably ruptured that bladder repair that I had in '97.

Several hours and a goodly amount of bourbon (thank you Maker's Mark for your contribution to my party-ness) we all hugged and hugged and hugged and said good-bye. Now at this point my buzz was about a 7 on a scale of ten. Which means that I was dangerously close to being that silly-ass drunk girl that hangs all over everybody and can't speak in complete sentences. It was a good time to go home, is all I'm saying.

Have you ever tried to sit still, all drunk and shit on the back of a motorcycle and maintain? It's a lifeskill I have recently acquired. It does help tremendously to have a big strong man to hold on to. So I did. For an hour. It was like the Olympic trials of drunk backseat motorcycling. And I won. Even though at one point I was singing silly songs to the night sky and grinning way too much for the number of bugs flying down the highway at me. Style points deducted - me.At the end of the night, it was a wonderful surprise that has left me smiling through the pounding hangover the next day.

Since that night I have drastically changed. I love surprise parties.

Thank you again and again and again to everyone that attended. I love ya'll more'n strippers love body glitter.

Day Two. Which makes up for Day One. Almost.

2011-07-15T00:00:00.000-04:00

Do you remember that scene in the Indiana Jones movie (No, I don't remember which one and I'm too lazy to look it up)with the little Asian kid that Indy "sorta" adopted, before Angelina Jolie could get her hands on him? Remember the scene where he looks off into the distance and says dreamily, "Fortune and Glory"? That's exactly how I feel when someone mentions Memphis, Tennessee. I get all swoony (is TOO a word) and heart-mushy (also a legitimate word).

Day Two of vacation, which as I mentioned earlier, began with buying a new helmet for The Man and and cursing Jackson, Tennessee. There would be better, more powerful curses for them, but more on that later. Once the helmet was purchased we could not get out of that den of thieves fast enough. And the first road sign that looked interesting enough to stick in my addled brain.

Off we go!

Now when I say that Memphis makes me swoony (still a word, yo.) I mean it wrapped itself around my cold, black heart and gave it a little hug. From the lady that let us sneak into the "Members Only" parking garage so that the roving band of thieves that was surely chasing us couldn't take all my precious jewels and fine lingerie, to the homeless guy with no legs that I gave a dollar to and watched him hand it back to The Man and wish him a Happy Fathers Day. It was sweaty hot, laid-back cool, and beautiful. I may have sprained my shutter finger taking pictures of every single thing that passed in front of my sunburned nose. We spent the majority of our time there on Beale Street. Everyone should.

We shopped. We ate. We tapped our feet along with the street performers playing on every corner. We chatted with store clerks and tourists and waitresses. We tried on Elvis sunglasses and hung out in B.B. King's Bar. In short, we had ourselves a ball. One shop in particular stands out because it's where I purchased what surely will become a family heirloom.

My very own voodoo doll! Complete with instructions! (Jackson, Tennessee - you have been put on notice.) Sidenote: I never have to worry about The Man using it on me becuase he will not read instructions for anything. Ever. Which means that I may be in trouble anyway, because he is liable to just go throwing that thing around wily-nily and may likely throw an inadvertant curse on my ass. I think I'll hide it in the vegetable drawer of the refrigerator just to be safe.

After some damn fine barbeque, and many dollars spent on buying me foolish trinkets, we decided (read: I decided) to walk around and get some pictures. As we walked down a side street, me snapping pictures as fast as my Nikon could handle, we passed a gentleman sitting in a window sill shaking his head at us as if we were the most pitiful thing his eyes had ever seen. "You meeessed tha most emmpotant ones" he drawled.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr. Sonny James.

Mr. Sonny, as I now think of him, introduced himself as the "unofficial" historian of Beale Street. He launched into a diatribe covering architecture, music, city ordinances, outlaws, and the fact that every mention of Beale Street in any reference book EVAH was wrong. All this, while launching a bag of peanut M&M's into his gold laden mouth. He smacked his lips and proclaimed "The Oh-Fishul Peoples of this town would have you believing that Beale Street began as a Cull-choo-ral Center, but Nossir. They's wrong. Beale Street wus started by hoddlums an' swindlers."

For ten minutes we sat and talked...or rather he talked, and I tried to get my brain to record verbatim every word out of his mouth.

"See that building over there? The one with the large green braces holdin' it up? Now the townsfolk would have you believin' that they done went and put that up fo' your safety. Lies! All Lies! There ain't nothing worng with that there building. It's all a scam."

(It's lies! All lies!!)

"Did ya'll see that bar with the Diving Goats? Ya'll be careful if'n you go in there. Them goats was raised on al-kee-haul, and they's mean as can be, so don't you go stand near'em with a drank, or they'll attack."

From Mr. Sonny, we learned where we could pawn our watches for the best prices, which bars watered down there beer, and where we could get a hooker if we so desired. (No, Mother. We did not so desire.)

(Big ass beer pic)

Eventually, Mr. Sonny leaned back against the window, took a deep breath that announced that the informative part of the lesson was finished, and finished off those M&M's.

"Now if'n you folks found this info'mation at all helpful, any donation that you would like to pass my way would be much obliged. This is how I pay mah bills. The city don't condone it none, but they can't stop me from talking, now can they?"

Best five dollars I've ever spent. Thank you Mr. Sonny. You're all right in my book.

Ready, Set...Go Away

2011-07-01T23:23:00.000-04:00

I have a bad habit. Actually I have several which my mother can list in alphabetical order for you, but there's one that I would like to talk about. I am currently the Queen of Unrealistic Expectations. I will build something up in my head to be so wonderfully fabulous, that not even Willy Wonka or the Great Wizard of Oz or Her Royal Oprahness could fulfill my plans.

This year I put forth an assload of effort into NOT being that person. Everytime my brain would get all "IMMA GONNA PET AN ALLIGATOR!" or "I CAN SPEND FOUR HOURS SHOPPING AND GET GIFTS FOR SEVENTY TWO PEOPLE!", I would make myself go sit quietly in the corner at work and stare at spreadsheets.

And you know what? It worked. Apparently it isn't very hard to trick my brain. No one that knows me would be very surprised to hear this information.

So...We packed up some clean underwear and got the hell outta town. As I've mentioned before, The Man works night shift, so we left on a Friday at the crack of noon. Because falling asleep while driving me around on a Harley can lead to uncomfortable roadrash. Our first stop? Kentucky. Yes, we made it one whole state away.

My favorite picture of Kentucky.

There's a place in Kentucky called Land Between the Lakes. The scenery is beautiful, the road is idyllic, and there is an Elk and Bison reserve. Now since The Man is a hunter/gatherer/Ted Nugent fan, this was ideal. I could sit back and take beautiful pictures that National Geographic would swoon over, and he could stand at a fence and imagine shooting things. Wins for everyone.

Bison are kind of stand-offish.

After this was taken we headed of to the Elk Reserve to partake more of nature's beasts. Antlers are a priority for The Man. As we enter the Elk Area (Arena? Habitat? Hood?), we aew greeted by a large gate and a sign saying there is a charge for driving though the Elk Reserve. Fine, whatever. Just bring on the large mammals. As we approach the gate we see a second sign. "No motorcycles."
So, I guess Kentucky is kind of an asshole, what with the profiling and whatnot. But it was still purdy.

So while I told The Man over and over that the brochure said nothing about cars being required, we loaded back up and got the hell out of Kentucky. We decided to make our way to Somewheresville, Tennessee and get a room. It really didn't matter where, we just wanted to get out of Kentucky and closer to something fun. A few more hours of riding brought us to Jackson, Tennessee. It seemed like a good place to stop for the night, get a good dinner and prepare a game plan for the next day. We stopped at a well known chain motel, parked near the front door and went inside to hand over some money in exchange for a key to a hopefully clean room that didn't smell like a retirement village.

Now, everyone has done this. You walk in and are greeted by someone dressed as though they are impersonating an airline stewardess. You list your requirents for a room (single, king bed, smoking, first floor) and hand over the money. In return you get a plastic key card which will not work until the fourth time you try it, and a lecture on what additional charges you *may* incur. Total time for the process is what? Four minutes? Five, tops? We did all this, and returned to move the bike and take our bags inside. That's when we noticed it. Some asshat had stolen his helmet! Now lest you not be familiar with the motorcycle laws in the great state of Tennessee, let me inform you. Approved helmets are required for all motorcycle drivers and passengers.

After searching several times and taking to the airline stewardess, I mean front desk co-assistant manager Tammilou (who was entirely unhelpful), we resigned ourselves to walking to dinner and trying to figure out what to do over a couple of plates of barbeque. (I think much better when there's food present, don't you?)

Long story short, we called the police and got a weird sort of almost permission for The Man to ride to the Harley shop the next morning helmetless.

New helmet purchased with vacation monies. Thanks to Bumpus Harley in Jackson for commiserating and making me giggle while you called the thieves Motherfuckers.

I'm gonna leave off here, becuase this post has gone on way too long. Chalk up Day One of vacation to the thieves and assholes. Tomorrow will be better, I promise.

A lesson on how to vacation like me.

2011-06-28T00:53:00.000-04:00

Warning: Contains spicy language. Side effects may include indigestion and complete loss of respect for the writer.

Once again it's time for our annual vacation, just me and the Man, and many, many miles on a Harley. Now if you've been silly enough, dedicated enough or just plained bored enough to read some of my previous posts, you will see that we've done this before. We are professionals...do not try this at home.

Let me begin by talking about packing for a trip of this magnitude. Cramming enough clothes to last two people for ten days onto the back of a motorcycle is no easy task. Concessions must be made. Rain gear, sunscreen, comfortable panties...some things are just non-negotiable. Everything else is fair game. That cute summer top you bought to go with the sparkly sandals? Not gonna happen. Just go ahead now and resign yourself to comfy jeans and tank tops. Or do what I do. Take some crappy t-shirts that you don't care about and then when they are all dirty, throw them away
and buy new ones.

Everything you needs must be packed on THIS amount of space.

It will make you think twice before your order anything smothered in barbeque sauce.

Since I am assuming that most of you have never traveled extensively by motorcycle, I am going to educate you on some of the finer tips and techniques of this mode of travel. This is my public service to you. And I'm hoping my probation officer counts this as part of my community service. (It's a joke, MOM. Geesh.)

First of all, there's the biker wave. This differs greatly from the normal wave, the neighbor wave, and the pageant queen wave. Let me illustrate.

Drop hand casually, no finger movement, small head nod if you're feeling particularly friendly. Must be done while ignoring the insane person on the passenger seat that's waving like she just saw Bozo the Clown.

Road hazards are especially dangerous when traveling on two wheels. This particular trip we encountered gators, snakes and landslides. (Not to mention some of the worst roads I have ever traveled. Tax dollars for road maintenance, people!)

Lest you be confused and think that we drove through a swamp, let me 'splain.

This is a gator.

This is a road gator.

Do not confuse the two. Neither is fun to run over, but only one of the above will come flying through the air towards your head. Unless you have flying alligators alligators where you live, in which case I will not be coming to visit anytime soon.

Now we all know what snakes look like. I'm not going to google a picture of one just to post here for your illustration. If you really want to see one, go google it your damn self. But. But. This is a tar snake. It can make for slippery, weaving, jolting driving. It will also cause the Man to shout at you to "Sit Still!" when all you were really doing was spinning around 180 degrees to take a picture of a camel's butt. (True story.) These are tar snakes.

We all know what snakes look like. But these are tar snakes. They WILL cause you to get yelled at.

All the News that is news

2011-02-10T23:55:00.000-05:00

Ya'll, I've been busy writing. I've been writing everywhere but here. Plus, the internet is time-sucking my life away and I need a twelve-step program. In an active effort to change it up, I have resorted to paper and pencil and scribbled notes crammed in the bottom of my purse. I have outlined and plotted and charted my way through a storyline. And then in a fit of impatience, I went back and read everything that I had so far. And you know what? It's crap. Complete and utter overworked and stale crapola. But, it was practice and got me back in the habit of writing a small bit every day. It taught me to be a little more aware of my surroundings and the everyday language that I encounter.

Maybe I should try writing something less lofty. Lower my standards. Write what I know.

Today's work events and an earlier Facebook thread prompted me to discover my next Great American Novel:

Dear Customer
Or How Not To Act In A Retail Enviroment

Chapter One: Please Bathe

Chapter Two: I don't need business or love advice from a guy selling purses out of a van.

Chapter Three: Yes, I look like that girl you used to know, but she didn't like you either.

Chapter Four: Toothpaste and it's common uses.

What? It's a work in progress. Or I need more sleep. It's really hard to say at this point...

Talking to myself

2010-11-09T22:52:00.000-05:00

So there's a thread going around the blogger world concerning what you would say to your 16 year old self. Figuring I would rise to the occasion, I've decided to write a letter to the 16 year old me. If nothing else, it will be an exercise in LESSONS LEARNED. And if I drag a few skeletons out of the closet and expose them for the assholes that they are, then all the better.

Dear Teenage Me,

Yes, this is weird. You probably have never received a letter from yourself before, but try and pay attention. I know you may find it shocking that you even have any brain cells left at the ancient age of *cough* forty-six *cough* but there are at least a hundred or so still functioning to impart some wisdom on your skinny ass.

Listen up, kiddo. I've managed to keep your body alive for another 30 years and even managed to beat some sense into that hormone-addled brain of yours. It wasn't easy, but the main thing I need to tell you is that you will be ok. I promise.

Now that the big news is out of the way, here's a few pointers to make your life a little easier to navigate the next few years.

I know that high school sucks, but it pretty much sucks for everybody, so you're in good commpany. The only people that believe that high school doesn't suck are those three or four people that never grow beyond it. There will be good days and bad ones, but that's pretty much the rule of the rest of your life. It ain't all cruising in cars and hot dates. But again, you will be ok.

Embrace your inner dorkiness. I know it's hard to be different in high school, but one day soon, your originality will be something you are proud of. Plus you will never have to drive yourself bat-shit crazy again trying to find the exact same kind of tennis shoes that everybody else is wearing.

Keep your copy of the Thoureau book that your English teacher made you read. Otherwise you will have to spend some serious Ramen-noodle starving college student money for another one. (Which you will love and still have today, btw)

Stop perming your hair. Seriously. If Eddie Murphy can't pull off a Jeri-Curl look, neither can a white girl from the Bible belt of the Midwest. You will not achieve a tousled, carefree, "I just came from the beach" look for many years. Stop it.

Look down. See those legs? They are fabulous. See those abs? Get a good look now and ingrain it in your memory. Look behind you. That is an ass to die for. Trust me. Take care of those, instead of taking them for granted. Good genes will only carry you so far. The rest takes hard work.

Let's talk about your family. Ease up on your mom. She's in a bad position and you're not making it any easier. And about your dad? You need to learn when to keep your mouth shut. And when not to. Alcoholism affects more of your friends than you know and hiding behind lies and denying anything is wrong is denying you of support that you might have found. It will take years, but you can make peace with all of this.

Speak up more. You have things to say and haven't yet found the courage to say them. I promise that if you let your voice be heard, good thing will happen.

Stand by your friends. Hug 'em, love up on 'em, tell them that they are the greatest. Because thirty years later, they are still there and wonderful and irreplaceable.

Now, let's talk about college. You new-found freedom is not a license to lose your damned mind. Have fun, try new things, experience life, but for God's sake stop running around acting like you only have a week to live. Do not drink Cold Duck in the shower every morning before class. Do not blow a week's worth of grocery money on lingerie. Don't sign up for classes that begin at 8:00 in the morning. You are not a morning person, and never will be. And go ahead and have that fling with the guy named Jack. He will teach you how to truly enjoy sex. And when you see him? Tell him I said thank you.

P.S. Call your Grandma, she misses you.

I iz not dead.

2010-10-29T00:29:00.000-04:00

Holy shitballs, I haven't typed anything in like forevah! My sincerest apologies to all my fans (both of them) and the unwashed masses that have been trying so hard to find me. You can take a bath now, I'm back.

Somehow all the planets got unaligned, and my chi got way messed up. I managed to make it through the days and the nights, but not without sacrificing time from some of the things I would rather be doing. Like writing here. Or tweezing my eyebrows. So now, other than looking like Brooke Shields circa 1985, I have straightened my ass up and gotten back to what I WANT to do, rather than what I HAVE to to do.

I have kept a handy lists of things that I plan on writing about while I was busy doing other things. It's a list compromised of things like "the house is trying to kill me" and "has my ass always been shaped like this?", along with such chilling commentary as "how hard would I punch each one of my employees on a scale of 1-10". I know, real cliff-hangers, eh?

Give me a day or so to catch me breath and I will be back to tell you all about how my cat is and asshole and why you should never give birth to babies with big heads.

**Side note: I have just mailed out some disposable cameras to friends with instructions to take one picture and mail it to another friend. Last frame sends it back to me. Stay tuned to see me get kicked out of WalMart for trying to develop pictures that are sure to be NOT PG-rated.

As Promised, A Biker Rally

2010-09-23T22:03:00.000-04:00

Feel free to smack me on the ass and tell me I've been bad. I've been away so long and I don't even really have a good excuse. Except that work is hard. And relationships are hard. Raising kids is hard. Life is hard. As a result, I am whiny.

But this is not the time for being a whiny-ass bitching. It's a time for storytelling. Time to get my hand-printed ass(you shouldn't smack so hard)busy and channel the funny. For realz.

Anyhooters, not long ago the Man and I spent a long weekend at a biker rally, in a tiny little place called Bean Blossom. We and the besties loaded up the camper for the four of us and dived head first into the melee. The rally is held in a campground that is famous for hosting the Bill Monroe Bluegrass festival every year.

The next three days and nights were spent watching revelry and bad decisions. It was glorious. If you ever need a place to feel better about yourself, it's here. check out these distinguished members of society:

Someone should really tell her that this does not flatter her body type.

And there's this: (Sidenote, a backpack, thigh high hose and combat boots. Seeexxxyyyy!

I did how ever meet a knight in shining armour. Or a fool in a tin-foil hat. Either way he was drinking out of a horn.

Now, lest you think it was all horror and scenes that make you want to bleach your eyeballs, here's some man candy, who incidentally had the voice of an angel. I tried to buy him, the ladies surrounding him weren't hearing of it.

One memory from the weekend that stand out in my mind (through the drunken haze) is the field games. Think of it as the Biker Olympics, only for "special" or "challenged" bikers. Events included are the Slow Ride (yes, it's a contgest to see who can go the slowest without putting their feet down) The Weenie Catch, The Keg Roll, and The Great Escape. Since pictures of the Slow Ride are boring (I mean, really?) here's a self-explanatory picture of the Weenie Catch. Boobies Optional.

That's a hot dog coated in mustard hanging from a frame. I'll let you figure out the rules from there.

But my favorite is The Great Escape. A whole stage is set. It's a production! There are props! And a story!

First a mattress is placed on the ground. Then the "entrant" lies down and is joined by two girls. The girls are there to "hold" the guy down and keep him from getting off the mattress. The premise to the story is this: when the time keeper says Go! the man is to jump off the matress, throwing the girls all wily-nily to the ground, as if he has just been busted by a jealous husband. Next to the mattress is a window (frame) for jumping through, then they must jump a hurdle (in this year's case, it was a keg) and mount their bike. They must then start their bike and ride through a series of cones to cross the finish line. Confusing? I have visuals. Of course I do.

Didja notice that one gentleman decided to complete the task sans clothing? I have photographic evidence that he completed the task at hand, but did not win the gold. That honor went to the man-candy shown above. The cutie-patootie. The one I tried to buy. But naked man did ask everyone not to put any pictures on the net showing his face. Because he is a high school girls volleyball coach. But at least one of the women sitting astride his naked body was his wife. The other was her best friend. And they sat on every man that entered the contest. THAT'S the kind of weekend it was.

I'm leaving out alot , but this nonsense has dragged on long enough. I'll tell you next time about the killer camper (and I mean in a stabby kind of way, not an awesome kind of way) and the bike show and leaving one evening to accept my Mother of the Year award. I'm tired and that's all I got tonight. But I'll take my Geritol and write more tomorrow. Pinky swear.

hello...remember me?

2010-09-20T13:48:00.000-04:00

Yes, I know I been gone for like eleventy-billion years, but there has been so much life in my days lately. I'm still not sure who scheduled all this psychosis filled activity, but as soon as it slows down and my meds kick in, I'll be back to tell you all tales of wonder and merriment. Or naked bikers and camping failures. Your choice.

Seven things about me that you never wanted to know

2010-08-30T21:41:00.000-04:00

I read alot of blogs. Big blogs, small blogs, humorous and informative. With all this reading, I've run into a fair amount of lists. And since it's been a very (*ahem) long time since I've written anything, I thought I would try one of these new-fangled listy things all the kids are raving about.

So here are seven (unless I run out of things that are interesting or someone flashes a shiny object in front of me)things about me that you probably didn't need to know. If you're not a fan of useless information, you should just go ahead and clickity-click on that little red "X" up there in the corner. Go ahead. I won't cry. Much.

1) I have cartoon feet. The patron saint of Hanna-Barbara bestowed upon me the feet of Fred Flinstone. The are wide, squarish appendages with round, stubby toes. (You totally want to make out with me right now, right?) Plus, I can stop a car. Probably.

2) I like to touch things. Now before you call the cops, it might not be what you think. I am a very tactile person and certain textures just make my brain happy. Let's just say that I'm far better being at the Children's Museum, instead of the Art Museum. Also? Certain fabrics can give me the hhhhuuuuzzzzzz. You know that spine-shaking, creep-fest that crawls up and down your skin? That's the hhhuuuuzzzzz. Trees, flowers, kitties, marble, linen, and the softest leather? Love. Them. Hard.

3) Food. I love it, but on the other hand I may be the most non-picky person about food EVER. Animal, vegetable, mineral, blue, green, chunky, pasty? Whatev. Gimme. Just throw some groceries down my throat and let's move on.

4) Due to the nature of my job, I have acccess to some of the most exotic and eclectic alcoholic beverages in the U.S. I have a full stocked bar at home that would make the local tavern jealous. Lagers, and porters, and bocks and beers. Imported, domestic, micro-brew and craft vineyard. But. But. I drink the same bourbon every single time. I don't know if this a habit or laziness or loyalty. I choose not to think about it too much.

5) If my bra doesn't match my panties, I'm uncomfortable all day. Also, I cannot bear cheap underthings. They make me squeamish.

6) If there is less than 3/4 of a bottle of laundry detergent on the house, my teeth hurt. From the clenching. With worry. I might run out. I feel much better knowing that if there is a zombie invasion or a plague of pestilence that would keep me from leaving my house, I will have aleast 1.75 bottles of detergent at my disposal.

7) I would rather have someone beat me with a large pissed off squirrel than do dishes. So it's a good thing that I have teenagers in the house to do my bidding. And load the dishwasher. When I was a kid, my parents had a dishwasher but we weren't allowed to use. My dad made is known to one and all that that "contraption" wasted water that he PAID FOR. So I did dishes every night. It was good training for me because I know have the stamina to tolerate the whining from the teenagers when they have to put dishes in and push the button. O, the agony.

So, there are seven things about me that you really didn't want to know. You may now consider yourself my very good friend. The kind that bakes me cakes and tells me I'm pretty as they brush my hair.

I'm a Supahstar!!!!!

2010-08-17T22:41:00.000-04:00

Holy crapballs, Interwebbies! I'm famous. Or at least famouser than I was yesterday. Or possibly the day before that. Because I forgot to check the mail. Because the bourbon got in the way. Or something. I can't remember.

Anyhooters, see this?

That, my dear friendlies, is a postcard from someone I've never met. In person. So it's kinda like fan mail. But not really.

It's actually a postcard from the lovely Jam. She has started a postcard project and because I am ~~magnificant~~ the type to pester someone until they cave to my will, I received mine in the mail today. (Or yesterday. Please to see above foolish statement.)

Here's a pic of the postage to back up my next claim.

Yup, you guess it. I've reached international acclaim. Check the postage. It says CANADA! Suck on that! Her royal mapletasticness has sent me this personal message of joy and goodwill from across the lands.

Alas, I did not receive the Beaver postcard, but I'm guessing that she is at least 87% sure that I have a beaver of my own. And won't be needing hers. Not that her beaver isn't lovely. Probably.

So thank you, Your Royal Jamness for the beaverless card and the kind words written upon it. And as soon as I find a card fantastic enough to return to you, I shall do so, posthaste. If you send your addy to my email. I promise not to stalk you. Much.

And to all of you who are not Jam. Neener. And Neener.

Oops! I is a dipshit. Here's her link. Go read and experience the funny.

Part Nerd, Part Awesome

2010-08-08T12:58:00.000-04:00

The last two weeks have been full of flash backs to my high school days. No, I haven't run upon a stash of mushrooms left from the eighties, it's just that my daughter has been knee-deep in band camp for the last fourteen days.

Ahhh, band camp. It's all sweaty teens full of hormones and angst. Now don't get me wrong. It's hard work. It's been ass-hot in Indiana this summer (and everywhere else, apparently) and stomping around on a school parking lot while carrying a heavy metal object is not for the faint of heart. In fact, most people would say it sucks. But sitting in the parking lot waiting for the kid...well can I just say that I was grinning like a fool just remembering what it was like for me.
But here's the thing. Now that the eldest is also in band camp, it STILL seems completely cool to me. Granted it's her third year for this, but I'm still not over the fact that just watching her play makes me giddy.

Yes, I was that girl. The band geek. And I have probably uttered the words " This one time... at band camp...". I played flute in the marching band and everything! I know! Total cliche' and I loved every minute of it. (I'm still a big noob, right?)

I spent a couple of years marching around playing whatever music the director was sure would win us some trophies (it's all about the bling) and trying to blend in with the others. Then suddenly, blending in wasn't enough. That's right. I tried out and became a majorette. MAJORETTE, folks. That's pretty heady stuff, right there. I'm talking pom-poms and batons and the whole nine yards. Not to mention the boots. Damn, I loved those boots. Still do.

Behold the awesome that is eighties hair and band uniforms.

That's me on the left. I'm probably sober.

But here's the thing...it hasn't changed. Looking at the pictures I've taken of the kid lately, I'm reminded of the pictures of myself as a marching kid. Mind is blown.

Me:

Her:

My band director:

Her band director:

And although as a MAJORETTE, I performed at basketball games during half-time in cute outfits such as this:

...the kiddo totes has me beat. She is the DRUM MAJOR. And way deserves capitol letters more than her momma ever did.

For Her. And Him. And Her.

2010-08-01T22:03:00.001-04:00

Three deaths. In two weeks. All under the age of fifty. All people I know.

I'm taking stock today of my life and the lives of those around me. Now I could make snarky comments about burning both ends of candles and lifestyles of bacon grease and Budweiser, but now is not the time. Now is the time to assess my own life and the mistakes I make. And to make decisions regarding how I wish to live and not live my life.

I am not going to get into final wishes and living wills on this blog. I won't discuss hows, wheres or what colors of funeral choices. I don't want to talk about my death. I want to talk about my life.

I believe that I have laughed more than I have cried and for that I am truly grateful. Tears have been shed, some joyous, some sorrowful. But each tear I have shed has come from a certain knowledge or memory that cannot be discounted.

I have held family and friends in my heart. They have brought me comfort and taught me gratitude that may not have come my way otherwise.

I have seen beauty and innocence and amazing sights with my eyes and felt these things go straight to my heart.

I have touched the softest baby's cheek and the weathered bark of trees from another century. I've been burned by fire and frozen by snow and reveled in the changes around me.

I've heard whispered words of love and angry words meant to hurt. I've learned to look beyond the words to find the meaning and the intent, and to deflect that which is not useful.

What does this all mean? It means that my life is good. Better than I realized. Too good to be taken for granted. It's time for this chickie to straighten up and fly right. Because there's still meaning and purpose that I haven't yet discovered. There's still more of me to find. And I need to be here for that to happen.

Phoning It In

2010-07-22T09:46:00.000-04:00

In the midst of the chaos and general nuttiness that has been the last week or so, I finally realized that I did not finish writing about my last day or so of vacation. So in the interest of finishing ONE DAMNED THING in my life, here it is.

We drove through Kentucky.
Dave had the oil changed at the Harley shop.
We went home.

Suck. AmIright? Yeah.

It appears that once you get to a state that actually touches the state you live in, things go downhill.

I have several things to blame. Laundry is at the top of the list. I was getting dangerously close to needing to do laundry while on vacation. This, my dear friends, is a cardinal sin (I'm pretty sure). Next, would be the calendar which taunted me it's "You have to go back to the real world soon. And no one will make your bed or bring you food." And finally there was the odometer, which politely told me that my ass had been sitting on this seat for almost two thousand miles.

See? It was like I had been on a week-long one night stand and it was now almost time for the walk of shame. Vacation had totally sexed me up and now was kicking me out of bed without giving me it's phone number. So really, vacation is a bastard.

I don't have any really good pictures of the last days of vacation, so instead I'll just show you what The Man refused to buy me at the Harley Shop (I don't care if we are almost home, Mr. Man!)because he obviously doesn't ~~love me~~ care about the condition of my ass.

So, I'm back at work now. With Monkey Butt.

Almost heaven, but weirder

2010-07-15T02:26:00.000-04:00

Ok, West Virginia. You made that John Denver song burn into my brain FOREVER.

This has to be the weirdest state we passed through on our journey. The disparity between the beautiful mountains and the harsh, belching industrial areas gave my eyeballs whiplash. And then there was the giggling. Over and over West Virginia provided a dose of crazy for my delight. But we'll get to that in a minute. First the obligatory scenic shots.

Yes, I know it looks like Virginia. You're just gonna have to believe me.

Then there was the crazy. Oh dear Lawdy, the crazy runs rampant in these parts. Here's my favorite shots of "What the Hell? Did I really just see that?".

Isn't this the best house you've ever seen? The subtle use of color. The comfort of the repeating pattern. The coordinating shed. It's a masterpiece. Better Homes and Gardens needs to hustle their asses out here and talk to these people before this trend catches on. For the record, that is not paint. It's every color of siding ever made and a few that should have never been made. It's like a giant box of crayolas that you live in. Fabulous!

Now this is fine art, folks. Giant spotted dinosaur being ridden by a cave woman mannequin carrying a compound bow. But really, it's the ivy around the dinosaur's neck that really ties the whole thing together.

Now, we need to talk about this next shot. This is quite possibly the best picture I have ever taken. And if this was the only thing I had witnessed all week, the trip would have totally been worth it. This image now lives in the happy place in my brain, so that I can go there when I need some giggle time.

DeHart's Bible and Tire. Oh, where do I begin? The Man, who was busy driving and not killing us, even did a double take and turned his head to say, "Didja get that? Please tell me you got that!".

Mr.(or Ms.) DeHart, I commend you for your resourcefulness. Now you can save our souls and our cars at the same time.

West Virgina, I love you, like that weird guy in high school that always made you laugh, but still smelled kinda funny. Yeah, like that.

Total Mileage: 1,592 miles
Times I almost peed my pants because The Man wouldn't stop: 3
Rainstorms waited out under an awning at a gas station: 1
Days left until I am home doing laundry and weeping: 1

The one where that damned John Denver song keeps going through my head

2010-07-09T12:39:00.000-04:00

Day Five and Six ('cause we ain't that interesting, or because I'm lazy. Hard to say.)
Total mileage: 1,189
Number of times I whined about putting on suncreen: 14
Number of times I griped about my sunburn because I wouldn't put on sunscreen: 15

After spending the last few days with a relative body temperature reminiscent of a three day hot flash, I was forced to yell "Get me to the mountains, man" and we turned southeast and headed to the bottom of Virginia.

Our route took us through prime Civil War battlefields and monuments to the conflict betweeen the North and South.

But first...

We stood in the blazing sun for over an hour waiting on a funeral procession to pass through. We weaved our way through traffic to get off the main highway and spent the next hour or so waiting on traffic to clear. As it started to clear (or so I thought) I announced to the man that we could leave now and still make it to our night's destination before dark.

Yeah, I may have jumped the gun on that one. We managed to catch up to the procession within a matter of minutes and were forced to sit in the full sun on the highway, sweating like a beer on a tailgate at a tractor pull in August. I spied a road ahead with a sign for a battlefield exihibit and pleaded with The Man to turnoff the highway and drive down the shaded road. I figured if nothing else we could kill some time and give the GPS a chance to re-route us away from the traffic. We made our way down the road, enjoying the slightly cooler air and the fact that we were actually moving. Moving! With air and everything! Divine! We rode probably four or five miles, then NOOOOOOOO!!!! we were right back where we had started. The road had simply looped around and took us right back where we started. Except that we were now five miles farther BACK and had to sit through the same traffic we had just left. This may have been when I started crying. Hard to say, I've blocked it all out. Eventually we passed the cemetary and slowly began to speed our way south as traffic began to thin out.

At the bottom of Virginia, we turned into the entrance of Skyline Drive in Shenandoah National Park. There is a ranger station at the entrance of Skyline drive, where a (Ranger) (lady in a Smokey the Bear hat) (State Park Employee) nice lady gave us maps, took our ten bucks and issued us a warning. Apparently the previous day, a motorcyclist was hit by a bear. WTF? No, he did not hit a bear in the roadway. THE BEAR RAN OUT OF THE WOODS AND HIT HIM. I can not even imagine the conversation with his insurance company. Does one need special Giant Attacking Bear coverage? Luckily, at the next gift shop I found a T-shirt answering all my questions.

No, it does not come in adult sizes. Yes, I asked. And of course, I will be searching online for one that fits me, because this is possibly the best T-shirt ever!

The next day and a half were spent riding through vista views and views of vistas and scenic wonderlands of mountains. What can I say? It was cool and refreshing and clean and peaceful and beautiful. There were wonderful granola-cruncy hikers, complete with eco-friendly shoes and tattered backpacks. The ride was a calming balm to the hustle and stress and smog of the recent cities. It was cool streams and woodland charm.

We traveled through curves and tunnels and the best parts of Virginia. I recommend that everyone take a drive on Blue Ridge Parkway at some point in their lives. It will renew your spirit.

Tomorrow's agenda: West Virgina. It's all that you have heard, but weirder.

Hot for Teacher

2010-07-08T13:06:00.000-04:00

Day 4: Washington, DC
Temperature: 102
Likelihood of heat-induced brain trauma: 75%
Likelihood of me fanning my T-shirt so vigorously that I inadvertantly flash a senator's aide during his lunch: 90%

I'm feeling not funny today, so this post is likely to be full of suckage. But whatev. I'm committed to finishing this thing. I jotted down a few notes yesterday, so the chances of this being mildly coherent are up slightly. So at least there's that.

So, where was I? Oh yeah, Capitol Building. We parked there and died. Not really, but now that we were no longer moving, the air seemed stifling. (Gah, I need spellcheck. Is that right? Stifling? Doesn't seem right.) Looking around the Mall, we personafied typical tourists, all gape-mouthed and whatnot. As we stumbled towards the big fancy buildings, this approached us.

This is Dave. Everybody say hi, Dave! Dave is a high school science teacher and may have saved our lives. He kindly offered to pedal our sweaty asses around the Mall for an undetermined amount of money. Dave drives a Pedi-cab when he's not teaching science to adolescents and works for tips. Since we have cash and looming heat-strokes, we take him up on his offer.

I'm quite sure that Dave is the hot teacher at his high school and all the girls giggle whenever he talks about positive ion attraction and big bang theories. He is a fountain of information and told us more about the area and buildings than we could have gotten from any tourist-y booklets. Since he knew we were in town for only a few hours, he filled us in on which places were best and which would not be worth our time.

I have lots of pictures like this. I didn't want to lean too far out of my seat and take a chance on swaying the Pedi-cab rickshaw thingy, thus causing Dave to get irritated and throw me out, leaving me to die along the street.

After pedaling 2/3's of the way around, we disembarked, paid the cute teacher and started to head into the first of many Smithsonian biuldings. This is when we overheard Dave the Cute Teacher negotiating with his next client. He offered to take the couple HALF the distance we had just ridden, for well OVER the price we had just paid. Clearly, we are cheap and he is re-thinking the whole "working for tips" thing. But in our defense, he told us to just pay whatever we thought was fair. Meh. I hate being cheap. I also hate being guilted into paying more. FAK!

We loaded up our guilt and plowed into the first building, surrounded by middle schoolers on field trips and Griswold family vacationers. First up, the Air and Space Building.

Then the Museum of Natural History

RAWR!

I think this one looks sneaky. I suspect that dinosaurs were assholes like that.

And that's when it happened. You know how you can go somewhere, somewhere far away, somewhere no one ever goes and then you see someone you know? Well there he was. My Ex. The Milkdud himself.

Hi, Asshat.

After that, it was time to change buildings and hope The Milkdud wouldn't find us. The Museum of American History. (My apologies for the poor quality of pics, it's really dark in there and my camera is ashamed of the fact that it is smarter than me.)

You can almost smell the napalm and weed.

I have oodles more pictures, but I'm afraid this is turning into a slideshow at Aunt Liz's house of their trip to Bumfuckville while eating crappy appetizers and inhaling Uncle Raymond's second-hand cigar smoke and beer farts.

A few more buildings later, as our blood reached the temperature of lava, we headed back to Chesapeake Bay and comfy beds and air conditioning.

Stop back by tomorrow, there will be bears, hikers and funeral processions. Not neccesarily in that order.

Bye Dave! You'll always be my Capitol Crush!

Mr. Man Goes to Washington...But First, The Beach!

2010-07-06T23:16:00.000-04:00

Chesapeake Bay...Day three. After spending the night in a wonderful room with working locks on the doors (Thank you Baby Jeebus), we woke with visions of Beach! Sun! Sand! Charming Seaside Village! Scenic Lighthouses! We donned our fashionable beachwear and skipped merrily outside. (Note: The Man will be be all up in my business about that one. He. Does. Not. Skip. Fine, whatever. Duly noted, Sir.)

After a cup of coffee and some continental breakfast in the lobby, we then WALKED (geesh) outside and were hit with an ass-hot wave of air that threatened to melt my non-functioning ovaries and sear our flesh from our bodies. But we were determined. We had traveled far. We would see the beach or else.

Scattered up and down the bay side of Chesapeake Bay are lovely little towns, all with beach access. We traveled up the coast stopping at three different places to enjoy what they had to offer.

The breeze was deceiving and the air was clean, and once again all was right with the world. The horrors of the MOTEL WHICH SHALL NOT BE MENTIONED AGAIN was temporarily erased from my skeeved out brain and I was again in a vacation-y type of mind. We walked down the pier and talked about the local architecture and watched kids playing on the beach. We sat on benches looking at local maps and stood staring out at the bay. It was nice to stop for awhile and just not move.

But, there's only so much of this stillness that can be tolerated. It IS vacation after all. There are things to be seen.

One hour later found us at the edge of Washington, DC and also the edge of a heat stroke. Buzzing along at 55 mph, the heat isn't usually an issue. No, the issue came later. In DC proper, so to speak. First there was this.

The entire length and breadth of Pennsylvania Avenue is under construction. And yes, this is the route that we took into the city. Sign-holding, neon vest-wearing men were everywhere. Plus each and everyone of them were looking at us like we had lost our mother-trucking minds to be in this traffic and in this heat and in this city. (Grammer is my forte, obviously.)

Push onward, Mr. Man...we're almost there. We are almost to the center of the politcal world, where movers and shakers think deep thoughts and are charged with the care and mantainenance of this great country. The Great and Powerful Oz will see you....wait, that's not quite right.

Back to the story. With the assistance of one very nice traffic cop, we found a place to park next to the Capitol Building.

I just realized that if I post pictures and write about the entire day, that this would be a long-ass post that would have you wanting to cancel your internet subscrpition after you scoop your eyeballs out with a melon baller. So I'm gonna stop here. But come back tomorrow. Because I need to tell you about running into someone that I know. Plus there will be more pictures. So come back. Pretty please?

A New Bright Shiny Day

2010-07-04T00:44:00.000-04:00

After spending the night fearing for my health and safety, not to mention dousing my entire body in 38 gallons of Purell, we headed out for rounds of antibiotics...I mean a hearty breakfast. Making our way eastward we proceeded towards the coast, with our only planned stop for the day being York, Pennsylvania.

Now you may ask what is in York that would attract two happy vacationers? Why it was the birthplace of Christine. Are you still puzzled? Christine is the name that The Man has given to his motorcycle and York is the home of the Harley-Davidson factory where it, I mean she, was born.

We arrived there that afternoon and signed in for a factory tour. We were only allowed a limited tour since the factory was currently making the 2011 models and they had not released them to the public yet. We browsed around the lobby until the tour was ready to begin and after a short introductory movie, we were fitted with protective eyewear and earpieces so that we could hear our tour guide.

Let me be the first to say that this may not be a girly-girl place. But on a coolness scale, this place still rates pretty high. The large machinery, the cool robotic technology, the brawny men walking around in tight shirts......wait. Where was I? Oh yeah, the gorgeous paint colors, the acres of bright shiny chrome...it was still enough to hold this girl's attention.

No cameras or recording devices were allowed inside the factory, but I have a few pictures from the lobby that show the process.

Pieces and parts

Frame (This factory only makes the larger touring bikes.)

The Man gets a look in his eye when he's surrounded by this much chrome. It's the same look I get when I walk in a designer shoe store.

It's starting to look like....something?

What I find completely amazing about this whole thing, is that it only takes them two hours to build one of these beautiful pieces of machinery. No matter what paint color, no matter what emission stardards (different countries have different requirements), no matter what bells and whistles you require, it's still two hours and out the door. Hell, I can barely get ready to go out in two hours! But then again, I'm an older model and they don't even make some parts for me anymore.

After again succumbing to the lure of the gift shop, we loaded up (I pushed The Man kicking and screaming) and headed back out on the road. Rural Pennsylvania is actually quite pretty and I enjoyed the scenery until we crossed into Baltimore.

Word of warning: Do not announce that you are from Indiana while in Baltimore. Especially if you are wearing a Colts shirt. They are apparently still quite bitter.

We tossed a coin, or followed a tractor, or came to some conclusion that we should head south. Another hour of so of wandering around found us here:

We did it! We made it all the way to the coast! We were on Chesapeake Bay and there we would stay for the night. In a real room, with clean sheets and hot water and eveything! Room service! Soap! Down-filled duvet on a king-sized bed!

Edited to add: Mileage totals Day 3: 853 miles
Condition of hind-quarters on a 1-10 scale: 6.5
Median Outdoor Temp: 418 degrees Farhenheit (estimate)
Number of poor meal choices: 3

Tomorrow - The Beach

Night of the Living Dead

2010-07-02T16:52:00.001-04:00

So...where was I? Oh yeah, headed out of Pittsburgh and towards a rainstorm.

We don't generally travel on the bike at night. Especially on the Interstate. Traveling east from Pittsburgh, and smelling the rain coming, we consulted the GPS for the nearest reputable motel. Judging from what the Garmin had to say about our position, and what Google weather said was headed our way, we weren't gonna make it. Everyone knows that the storms this summer have been horrible and this one prominsed to live up to that reputation.

Next best scenario for us was to find somewhere to ride out the rain, preferably under cover from the storm. We took the next exit that looked like it contained some form of human life and hoped for the best. Lo and behold, we spotted a sign for a "motel", and Sweet Baby Jesus I use that term in the loosest way possible.

Dear readers, I have been known to exaggerate in the past. (Shocking, I know) I can embellish and pretty up a story with the best of them. But, my darlings, but...I could not make this up. Not even close.

It was called Motel 3. As in half as good as a Motel 6, I presume. But it seemed to be the only thing for many miles, so we took our chances and stopped at the office, almost praying that there were no vacancies so that we would be forced to sleep under a bush or in some hillbilly's barn.

There was a vacancy and this is the point is the story where I get to warn you all. Ask for a look at the rooms if there is any doubt in your minds. We were foolish, dear readers, and forged ahead into the unknown. After being asked TWICE if we wanted the room for the "whole" night (shoulda been a clue to the type of place we were renting) we assured the front desk "clerk" that yes, we did indeed want the room for the "whole" night. 'Cause we're indulgent and on vacation. Ha!

In retrospect, this place seemed to be a landing ground for contract and day-laborers. Or hookers. Sometimes it's hard to distinguish. We parked the bike so close to the door that no one could enter but us, took our things inside, and promptly proceeded to freak the hell out.

My writing skills are sketchy at best, so let me woo you with pictures to accompany my words.

Note the fine draperies and fine imitation wood paneling.

No Gideon's Bible here. Or a phone book to call for help. But the busted smoke detector was a nice touch.

High quality electronics and furnishings make this place ultra-homey.

Thanks for the warning, creepy desk-clerk lady.

I saved the best for last, of course. Lord, give me strength to post these without the nightmares starting again.

Yeah, I think I'll just hold it. Or pee my pants. Either is preferable to this.

And the piece d' resistance....

Please, I beg you, don't tell my mother I stayed here. I just couldn't take the lecture on top of the nightmares. I foresee my therapy bill going up in the near future.

I promised that we didn't sleep a wink, and remained fully clothed all night. We were up before first light and took off outta there like our asses were on fire. So that's how we escaped western Pennsylvania without becoming dead, infected, or sex workers. All future rooms for the vacation were clean, furnished and did not contain chalk outlines of past residents on the carpet. We now prefer our motels to have at least three stars, not three STD's. ***Please remember, there was a storm a'comin, so WE HAD NO CHOICE.***

Stay tuned for tomorrow, when The Man gets to see where his baby was born.

Day Two, which means that I'm cooler than you.

2010-07-02T00:32:00.000-04:00

Day two in Cleveland may have been one of my favorite days of the whole vacation. But then again, it was vacation, so all my days were favorites. After a quick breakfast and checkout, we proceed to the place where cool lives. (Do the kids still say cool? Groovy? Neat-o? Gah, I'm old.)

Located on Lake Erie is the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. And folks, I was there. I got the pictures to prove it. And about a hundred dollars worth of stuff from the gift shop. And when I say pictures, I mean that the ones some punk forced The Man and I to pose for before he would let us in. And then proceeded to charge us twenty bucks to take them home.

But back to the story...this place, full of all it's wonderful things, well, it had me at hello (from the ticket counter). I stood next to John Lennon's piano and marveled at the wax dripping down the side from the candles he liked to burn while he played. I oohed and ahhed over Patti LaBelle's beaded and jeweled dress. I swooned for Les Paul's guitars. We laughed at pictures and remembered album covers that we hadn't seen in twenty-five years. I said a silent thank you to the powers that be in front of a Janis Joplin display, and was saddened by a black fedora and sparkly glove worn by Michael. I have laid my hands on Johnny Cash's tour bus and read hand-written lyrics scribbled on scrap papers and cocktail napkins from Jim Morrison. I know now just how tiny Mick Jagger is because I stood next to his stage clothes from tours past.

One wall is posted full of correspondence that passed between Hunter S. Thompson and Rolling Stone Magazine. It's worth the trip just to read the wit, sarcasm and uncensored talent from his pen. I felt surrounded by talent and music and joy. There is no way that I could relate all the fantastic things that this place holds, and I encourage everyone to make the trip. There is truly something there for every music fan. I left with a full heart and a smile on my face.

A mere forty-five minutes south of Cleveland is Canton, OH. For those of you not in the know, I am a huge football fan. Pro Football. None of that college crap. Or Arena Ball. Or especially soccer. I mean good ol' American NFL Sunday afternoon and Monday night football. Always have been, always will be. Amen.

In Canton is the Pro Football Hall of Fame. This might not mean much to most of you, but to me it was damned near better than bourbon. The Man and I walked through the hallowed halls with the images of those that we watched as kids and remembered as heroes. One particular section contains the busts of all the inductees. This is where the trouble started. And by trouble I mean that I may have rubbed myself on the bust of Joe Montana to the point that The Man threatened to leave me there. Or have me arrested. Or started filming sports porn. Hard to say.

After prying me away from the display, we toured the rest of the building (only getting lost once) and made our way out. After taking some obligatory pictures of the field outdoors and The Man in front of the building, we tore ourselves away and headed towards the next adventure. Where you might ask? Hell, we didn't know. We had general direction in mind and that was it. Our not-well-laid-out-plan took us to Pennsylvania. Down towards Pittsburgh we headed, still chatting about all the great things we had seen and no real plans for the the next day. Pittsburgh came and went and still we headed eastward. It was getting dark and storm clouds were starting to form ahead of us. It was time to find a room. But none were close by according to our GPS. Whatever would we do, dear readers? Well, our shelter for the night is a story in itself. So I think I'll save it for tomorrow. Stay tuned.

Total Mileage - 548 miles
Condition of Ass on a 1-10 scale - 8
Total Number of Time The Man called someone to come and get me - 1

Ohio Sucks...Except for Cleveland. I heart Cleveland.

2010-07-01T20:52:00.000-04:00

Vacation Day 1. Better known as the day we get the hell outta Dodge. Both The Man and I are suffering from serious burnout by the time vacation comes around every year. We are cranky-pants and short-tempered. I was not my usual ray of sunshine. *snort* But Joy! Elation! Happy-happy! Vacation has arrived.

The plan was to roll out at seven a.m., bound for parts unknown. Or Ohio. But what happens when we make plans? Chaos and mayhem, that's what. I was awakened at 4 a.m. by a horrific thunderstorm. And I'm pretty sure I could hear laughing in the background somewhere. We both laid awake until 6 o'clock listening to the storm, until we could bear it no longer and turned to the weather channel to see how bad it was going to be. We got lucky and the rain quit by 8:30 and we were able to hit the road by 9. Freedom was ours. With a wary eye on the gray clouds, we proceeded to Cincinnati. Which I believe is also known as the armpit of the Midwest. From Cincinnati we turned north and made our way through Ohio.

A little background for you. My dad used to pave roads for a living. He was an asphalt man. I understand the concept of road repair and construction. But Ohio, you shouldn't really tear the fresh hell out of a road and leave the speed limit at 70. It causes people to believe that they can drive at least seventy. Or ninety. Crimeny, there were Nascar wannabes racing for the finish line all over the goddamn state. And near me. Which made me feel stabby. I don't want to feel stabby on
vacation.

I don't have many pictures from that first day because as I said before, Ohio sucks. But rolling into Cleveland that evening was divine. The architecture is amazing and the peoples are friendly to a fault. Lake Erie and the pier were a refreshing sight and we took an enjoyable stroll down the pier on our first evening away.

After a wonderful walk, we went in search of lodging for the evening. We got a reasonable room with all the normal amenities and cleanliness. I trotted down the the restaurant and ordered a pizza to munch on while Dave unpacked our gear and found his favorite channels on the tv. I thought a barbecued chicken pizza with some monterrey cheddar and red onions sounded nice, but the smallish Vietnamese gentleman has trouble understanding what I wanted. After pointing my way through the menu, and determining that I did not want a smalleeeee, but a lahgeeee, he kindly offered to bring up my food to the room when it was ready. Wonderful!

Thirty minutes later, our food arrived. Now, most everyone I know has eaten at at least one Chinese buffet in their lives. You know that very red-colored barbequed chicken they serve? The one with the unnatural color? Imagine that laying on a puddle of pizza sauce and sprinkled with some cheese. Run that through an Easy Bake oven and throw some raw onions on top. Kinda reminds me of the crap we invented in our kitchen in college from things leftover in everyone's fridge. Either we were really tired and hungry, or just didn't care becuase we were on vacation. Yup, we ate it. And didn't care. This was about the time that I noticed something about our room. Something different. Something out of place. Something that didn't belong.

In case you didn't spot it, here's a closer look.

I promise this was a nice place. Marble floors in the lobby and leather club chairs. And pine tree air fresheners.

Spoiler alert: Day 2 was so cool, that we are now way cooler just by default. Or at least that's what I'm telling myself.

Vacation Totals Day One: Miles ridden- 373
Condition of ass from riding on a 1-10 scale - 9
Number of times I lost, misplaced, or forgot something - 2
Number of times I cared that I lost, or forgot something - 0

Stay tuned, it gets way better.

How to pack the whole world in a Ziplock bag

2010-06-08T22:46:00.000-04:00

So, in a few days the man and I are leaving on vacation. Being the free spirits that we are, we will not hesitate to jump on the Harley and zip off for ten days with no particular destination. Yep, ten whole days. On a motorcycle. Two of us.

While on the surface this sounds idyllic, let's look at the practicalities. Here is our mode of transportation for said ten days.

Notice the failure of adequate packing area? Holy crap! And this has to hold everything for TWO people. The last trip was for seven days, and I'm pretty sure I had to buy new underwear to make it through. Now it's time to make a plan of attack on this issue. Let's start at the top and work our way down. (That's what he said.)

Hair and various products to make it not appear like a taxidermied pelt. Travel size washing and rinsing agents are readily available. And cute. Various blowing, drying, curling and straightening tools. Not gonna happen. Most reputable motels with the exception of Chunky Bob's Love Palace provide hair dryers, so I guess that just leaves curling my hair around empty beer cans before bed every night. It's like recycling, folks! Hopefully the motel dumpster will provide enough Old Milwaukee cans to leave me looking like I'm ready for civilization.

It takes a daily plethora of potions and volatile solutions to prep this face for the world. I will be culling this down to the bare basics. I will only be packing the necessary items needed to not scare and/or scar children and/or small animals. The rest of world should just look away.

Clothing. Herein lies the problem. Sure, we could skip on undies and ride commando, but over a thousand miles on a small leather seat with the seam of your new cool jeans wrapping around your ovaries makes one testy. Seam chafing your labia majorly? Seam rubbing the jay off your vajayjay? "Insert your own disturbing phrase here."

Since we will not be attending any grand affairs or red-carpet events, comfy jeans and cute tops will suffice. Throw in some t-shirts for the man, and we will be all ready for All-You-Can-Eat-Barbeques and roadside flea markets.

Shoes. There will be arguments over the packing of shoes. Namely cute shoes. I choose to live in denial for now. Or at least until the fighting begins.

Various technological devices. *sigh* Dear Laptop-on-which-I-am-typity-typing, I will miss you. Please do not think that I have abandoned you for another. I promise to return to you with tales of wonder and will google all the places that I've been. I will upload pictures for you to see and download any new music that I find while I'm away. Yes, the new camera and the newer ipod will be making the journey with me, but only to keep me amused while we're apart.

The man will probably make me pack practical things like rain suits and sunscreen. I will argue for cute shoes. He will win as soon as I realize that it's vacation and I dont' care. Just don't expect any pictures of my feet.

Damned memories

2010-06-03T23:44:00.000-04:00

Something today sparked a memory. This evening in the course of dinner conversation the subject of cussing arose. Now, while I personally am a BIG fan, and a veteran in the practiced art of cussery, I generally frown upon the chirren blaspheming. As they morph into the teenagers that will be the death of me, I'm sure the words will become more frequent. It's part of growing up and expanding and finding boundaries. Fortunately, that's not the story to tell today. ("Cause I'm long-winded, ya know.)

When the eldest was about four years old, one of the hilljack aunts decided that she needed a parakeet for Easter. Sidenote: I don't like birds. As a matter of fact, I hate birds. Especially up close. Or in my house. Yes, it's irrational, blame Hitchcock. Whatev.

Unknown to the hilljack aunt, she had purchased the world's oldest parakeet. Guiness Book of Records old. Ought to be drawing a social security check old. I didn't know feathers could wrinkle - old.

Fast forward a couple of weeks full of me cussing birdseed in the carpet and annoying bird noises at 5:30 AM to one bright Saturday morning. I had planned to take the chirren to see their grandmother for the day, and in the process of breakfast, face-washing and clothing the offspring, I look up to see one dead bird in the bottom of one messy cage. Thanks to it's height, the kiddos hadn't noticed it yet. Being the non-dealing-with-shit type mom, I rushed us all out the door and into the car. One quick cell call to the hilljack husband to DEAL WITH THIS, was placed entirely in code. Or pig latin. I can't remember.

Remember the hilljack? Milkdud? That dumbass that I was married to? Yeah, that one. Well, he decides to go one a mission to find an identical bird to replace this one, hence leaving the chirren clueless and happy. It was a nice thought, I suppose, but we all know that those never play out well. Seeing as how he has the attention-span of a gnat on meth, he disposed of the WHITE BIRD WITH BLUE SPOTS, and purchased a BLUE BIRD WITH WHITE SPOTS. (Big diff, dud.)

The eldest childs comment to me upon seeing the new bird for the first time?
"Someone painted my damned bird!"

*At this point the mother went outside, crawled in the backseat of the car, and laughed until the pee in her pants almost dried.

My kind of church

2010-05-23T22:47:00.000-04:00

It seems as though our schedules these days only allow for free time on Sundays. Work, home, responsibility, sheesh...buzz kill. But Sunday, glorious Sunday. If the planets align, and someone remembers to send out a text message, we all get to ride. (And by "all" I mean our merry band of bikers, totaling 5-7 people.)

Today I realized that these Sunday rides have become like church for me. Since I don't have a bike and simply ride on back of The Man's, it allows me a freedom to reflect, absorb, and think. My ipod holds my songs of hope and love and serenades me down the road.

The trees and sky have become my sanctuary.

"Took a look down a westbound road, right away I made my choice. Headed out to my big two-wheeler, I was tired of my own voice" ~Bob Seger

I can contemplate my place in the world.

"All this time I can't believe I couldn't see, Kept in the dark but you were there in front of me" ~Evanescense

I travel through this day with those I love, while their minds also turn to greater thoughts.

"Fly the ocean in a silver plane, see the jungle when it's wet with rain, just remember till your home again, you belong to me" ~Jason Wade

At the day's end, I feel renewed and refreshed. My spirit has been healed of its bruises and bumps and I can face a new week with a strong heart again. This may not be for every one. It may not be the stereo-typical service on bended knee. There may not be prayers recited by rote, but there are prayers.

It's not a hoot.

2010-05-22T23:11:00.000-04:00

As I'm sitting here writing this, the man is snoring in the recliner. Did I mention that it's 11:00 pm on a Saturday night? And that he's been sleeping for an hour? Ummm, yeah.

He works nights. I work days. It sucks.

For the seven plus years that we have been together, this has been our schedule other than a few odd months here and there. Occasionally the powers that be would change his work shifts, but the majority of our time has been spent...apart.

From Sunday nights until Friday mornings, we spend the days with brief phone calls during lunch breaks and with notes and reminders left on the dining room table. Again, sucks.

Yes, we have a three day weekend together every week. (Neither of us works on Friday unless something important comes up at work.) But some days I'm not sure it's worth it.

We only eat dinner together as a family once or twice a week. Bette and the Blonde are at their father's house every other weekend, so the chances of us all four sitting down together for dinner as about the same as the odds of my mother not saying something to make me feel guilty every damned time she calls. It's rare, I say.

Friday mornings he sleeps. Sunday nights he stays up until 5 am, while I sleep. Sometimes I hear him snore way more than I hear him talk. I'm much more likely to see him wrapped in sheets than clothed.

I hate being home at night without him. I hate sleeping in the big bed by myself. I hate not having someone to say Goodnight to. (Yes, I say goodnight to the chirren, but they just roll their eyes at me and sulk away to tell their friends how lame I am.)

Most people don't get the hassle that is working a "different" schedule. Hell, his mother still doesn't get it. She still calls at 9AM on Friday morning. I rush to the phone, trip over the dog, knock the phone to the floor trying to keep it from ringing again, just to hear her say, "I didn't want to bother you, but...".

I joke to my friend that the secret of our longevity is all our time apart, but the truth is I wish it wasn't so. His job pays well and the benefits are nothing to sneeze at, so there will be no changing jobs. It will continue to be 12 hour shifts with a ninety minute commute each way. I will continue to adjust and try to be thankful for my flexible schedule that allows me to be home on Fridays with him.

And maybe...just maybe, when the kids are grown and gone, I can be a night owl too.

55 MPH Photography

2010-05-17T22:05:00.000-04:00

So we jumped on the bike Saturday morning and met up with some friends.

It was a simple plan. Just five people, four bikes and no particular destination. Our only criteria for the day was to play follow the leader. See, everyone has their "spot". There's a leader and he determines which route we take. Next in line (staggered for safety) is the one I keep my eye on. His/her illustrious job is to point out potholes, large debris, and roadkill. Glamourous it ain't. The man and I always ride in the back. He likes the back. I tell myself that he likes riding back there so that he can appreciate the bikes in front of him, the way they lean and glide in synchronized movement with the road. Truth is, I have no flippin' idea why he wants to be in the back. The others don't mind, mostly because they don't have to see the blinding whitewalls on his tires.

This was not a scenic route. It's pretty much typical of every other county highway in this state. But sometimes, blue skies, good friends and some wind in your hair makes everything...better.

The first small town we came to was holding some kind of ummmm.... reunion/festival/tribute to Lotus Dickey. Who's Lotus Dickey you ask? I have no friggin' idea, but I have the mentality of a 12 year old boy, so the large name on the large sign had me giggling on my passenger seat. Also check out the big gold roof section (cupola? turrent? thingy?). It was an awesome over-statement of fabulous in a simple small town.

The festivities were to be held in the courtyard. From the amount of chairs, Mr. Dickey was well loved. (*still snickering*)

Past fields and barns, towns and places too small to be called towns, we made our way south until we ran out of Indiana and right up to the river.

There's a diner/bar that we have visited before and that's where we stopped for lunch. We sit outside on a deck at picnic tables surrounded by others, most of which are doing the same thing we are doing. They too have ridden down. The parking lot is full of bikes (as it has been everytime we've been there)and you can hear tales of trips and discussions about bike parts and gear.

We joke about being bike snobs. But I know that for all their joking, my friends are not snobs. They're simply opinionated. And mouthy. And slightly snarky.

After teasing the waitress and eating our lunch (hello new waitress that shouldn't have admitted that she was new and we were only her second table)we made our way back out. The plan (as if there ever really IS a plan) was to take a different route back and wander our way home. Sounds like a goood plan, right?

Mother nature had different plans. First it got less sunny. Then it got grayish. Then wet stuff fell out of the sky. The end. (just kidding)

There is no such thing as a gentle spring rain when you're on a motorcycle. Twenty miles an hours feels like you're being pelted by a swarm of hard-shelled bugs. Fifty-five feels like a shitstorm of angry bees all jacked up on testerone and Red Bull. In other words, it hurts like hell. Since we are opposed to hurting, we headed for sanctuary. Better known as an abandoned carwash.

There was much discussion and cloud studying. There were mild profanities directed at tv weathermen.

It was a small shower, so as soon as it stopped we headed out again. Tempting fate. And the weatherman.

Ten miles or so down the road (it seriously could have been 500 yards or 300 miles, I have no sense of distance) the big rain came. It was like a giant tattoo needle of rain. Quick! Find another place to pull over.

Alas, our heroes made it home safely and mostly dry. And a good time was had by all.

I really need to learn to focus my camera while sitting on the back of a bike while zipping down the road. I'll work on that.

It wasn't that kind of revival

2010-05-17T01:49:00.000-04:00

Today I had to have a Come to Jesus talk with other people. Twice. No, this wasn't religious in any form. It was more along the lines of "Straighten your ass up, or I'll make your life hell" kinda talk.

The first group was my employees. How I managed to hire a full dozen people that never matured beyond second grade is beyond me. The meeting was productive and I think that some necessary changes should help make everyone's day's easier, but sweet baby Jesus, they are a loud bunch. Ex-inlaws loud. Monster truck rally loud. I think I still have a little reverb going on inside my head.

The second talk was with my eldest. She's testing her boundaries as a teenager and pushed too far again tonight. There was the standard "Oh shit, I'm caught" moment. The five minutes of yelling time. The requisite twenty minutes of pouting silence, and then the hour long talk. Or should I say TALK. (It deserves capital letters.) My daughter seems to be under the misunderstanding that I should be her friend. All her friends are BFF's with their mothers. Their mothers understand. Their mothers share.

Ok, listen kiddo. I'm not your friend. You have plenty of friends for that. I've met them. I'm your parent. It's my job to make sure that you grow up to be a respectable human being that can take care of herself. Someone who will consider consequences before she acts. Please understand that when you're older, I'd love to hang out with you, but right now it's not in the job description.

Years ago, my cousins were causing some trouble. They were teenaged boys and involved in many stupid acts that teenage boys can get into. There was drinking, drugs, pregnancy scares, wrecked cars, detentions, arrests and boot camps. When their mother, my aunt, was filling us in one evening on the latest escapades of debauchery, she made a statement that has seared into my brain. She said, with all the nonchalance she could muster, "Well, someone had to be Charles Manson's mother." Ummm....really? She was excusing herself for everything? No-second guessing? No regrets?

Now what my child did is nothing compared to the cousins. It's a blip for an otherwise good kid. She goes to school, her grades are excellent, her friends are not wanted by the police. But did I over-react by not being her friend? I don't think so.

And dear Bette, if years down the road you ever read this, I love you but I was right. We can be friends now, but back then you needed a parent.

Milkdud with a side order of Asshole

2010-05-06T00:51:00.001-04:00

I believe that I have previously mentioned the hilljack that I married and divorced several years ago. Also known as MilkDud. See previous post as to why. I can go several weeks or even months without ever hearing from him...or needing to hear from him. But every now and then, he rears his ugly head and plunges it into my world.

Tales from Bette and The Blonde have informed me that his new wife has packed up herself and their two children and moved out. Now, on most levels I couldn't care less. On one BIG level, I worry about how it will affect my kids. They have been told by the evil step-bitch that they are the source of much of the stress in that house. Apparently, the twenty-something, young-enough-to-be-his-daughter, known around here as the Bimbo, that slept with my husband and then married him, has a hard time dealing with my teenage daughters. At one point a few years ago, she called to tell me how to raise my children properly. After all, she HAD taken a class on child development in college. Surely she must know more than the person that expelled said children from said person's girly parts. (Note - this took place before she had given birth to any children of her own. Clearly, she is qualified.)

So, no love lost on the Bimbo. But today, MilkDud reared that ugly head and plunged it into my workday. It started with my receiving a text message with him bitching about the summer vacation schedule. According to state parenting guidelines, he has until April 1 to inform me of what dates he would prefer for visitation with the kids over summer break. Ummmm, today is Cinco De Mayo. Although the MilkDud probably thinks that this means it's a national holiday for eating mayonaisse out of the kitchen sink, surely he must realize that it is at least no longer March. Or even April.

He did not ask for me to reconsider his schedule. He did not ask about the kid's activities and the problems in scheduling around them. He simply accused me of not wanting them, so therefore dumping them off on him at the earliest opportunity.

My children know that The Man and I take two vacations a year. One with kids and one without. They have no problem with that. They generally take a vacation with their dad, so they end up with two vacations also. The only person with a problem is MilkDud.

Our (The Man and I) vacation this year will be spent on a motorcycle. (Also see earlier post. Yes, we're "those" people.) We have planned a week-long, multi-city ride to vist some places in neighboring states. Now, according to The Dud, I should be sitting home with my children and not out being a "biker bitch". (His quote, not mine.)

So his problem is my mode of transportation? Or my bandana? Maybe it's the fact that I'll forget sunscreen and come home wind-blown and burnt? Who the hell knows. All I know is that I'm going. I refuse to let him make me feel guilty about this. I spend way more time with my kids, and participate in their lives and activities than he can ever imagine.

I have let him know that we have another vacation scheduled with the kids later in the year (not that it's any of his damned business)and then thoughtfully also let him know that he could go screw himself.

Blonde Bombshell

2010-05-02T13:19:00.000-04:00

In the past I have discussed my eldest spawn at great length. Now, in the interest of fairness (of which you will generally find none in this household)I will introduce you to The Blonde.

Blondie was an "Oh, Shit" baby. Not that she wasn't wanted or loved, but in the "crap, THAT'S why I feel so weird sense of things. At the time I had a two year old at home, a demanding job and a red-neck husband. And law classes. And a huge case of the tired.

So when the weirdness began, I did what any responsible adult would do. I took a break in the middle of business law exam and peed on a stick. What? You've never taken a pregnancy test in a community college bathroom? I'm a busy woman, folks.

After class, I called the red-neck at work and broke the news to him. His response was a grunt. Or a growl. Possibly a snort-grunt. Hard to remember.

After the whole cancer in my girlie parts, I quickly decided to go see Doctor Giggles and let him know that it was time for round two.

(Geez, cut to the chase woman!) Blondie was born about eleventy-hundred years later in what could possibly be a Guinness World Record Breaking How Frickin' Long Can This Pregnancy Last Marathon.

She is the quiet one. The shy one. The Oh My God Where did you get those manners living with us heathens,one. In all reality her name should be Empathy Gracious YesMa'am. If all children were like this child then everyone would be a Kate Gosslin. So see? Rotten children are saving the world. From The Kate.

Now the one thing about the Blonde is that she is well known for talking in circles. What starts out as her simply telling me what happened at school today, spins around and around and over and over to become a 2 hours babble-fest of the same thing revisited before she actually gets to the point. And while she also is wicked book-smart, she lacks a little....um, shall we say common sense? Now seeing how she isn't even officially a teenager yet, I suppose this has time to rectify itself, but it's funny and annoying at the same time. Let me share with you a few snippets of recent gems from the mouth of the Blonde.

(On doing subtraction homework for math class) Why do they call it borrowing if you never give it back?

(On extra-curricular activities) You should totally let me run track this year. I run like a gazebo. {ummm, gazelle?}

(On watching a commercial for the Great American Smoke-Out) Why does everyone want to quit cold turkey? I love cold turkey. Would they rather have it warm?

(On being told that she has the attention span of a doorknob) "turning knob many, many, many times" I still don't get it.

I love her with all my heart. She's a wonderful person and her spirit is so pure that people flock to her without knowing why. But sometimes I have to pat her on the head and tell her that I hope she marries well.

I left my uterus in San Francisco

2010-04-21T23:06:00.000-04:00

Not Really. Actually I left it at the hospital. And while I can have no more children, I am more than happy with the two I have. Bette and The Blonde are more than enough for any person.

Have I ever told you that my children saved my life? No? Hmmm, lemme share a story with you.

I had been married for a few years when I became pregnant with the first-born. Now like most women I know, our own health care come last on a rather long list of things to do. I wasn't on any medications that required doctor visits. I had no medical issues at the time. Annual check-ups were things that just never happened.

With some sudden on-set nausea and a pee-stick confirmation, I made an OBGYN appointment and received confirmation that I was pregnant. Let the testing commence. Lord, the amount of tests ran on various body fluids for a pregnant woman is astounding. At any given appointment, I was apt to leave looking like a well-fed heroin addict. (I don't have great veins and seem to attract nervous phebotomists.)

To get to the point, at some point I was diagnosed with advanced cervial dysplasia. This is only one step away from cervical cancer. Now, it stands to reason that while pregnant, one's body is into growing things. Babies, hair, everything grows faster. I was a baby making machine, what with cells dividing and whatnot. Unfortunately, this also sped up the abnormal cells squatting on my cervix, like hobos moving in for the winter months. Chances are that the cells would have prgressed at a slower rate had I not been pregnant, and I would have ended up with undetected cervical cancer. Which could have spread to other places. Which could have ended me.

My child saved me before she was ever born. Post-birth, I had surgery. The hobos were removed and life went on. Three years later, the same doctor told me they were back. And yes, I was pregnant again. Post-second-birth, all offending female-ish parts were removed, and hobo-land was permantly removed from the map.

Moral of the story: Bette made me realize that I had something to lose. The Blonde made me lose it and live happier and healthier as a result. My children saved my life. I have a feeling that it was so they could make me crazy for the rest of it.

Don't mess with my minions

2010-04-14T02:52:00.001-04:00

I'm a people lover. No, really. I enjoy social interaction and just being around new and interesting people. But the fact is that I see the same old faces every day. This is the problem with working in a small town liquor store.

I don't drink like before. In my youth, I would drink myself stupid. Often. And with varying degrees of success. It's a known fact to all that I come from a family of alcoholics. I've been aware of this fact since early childhood. But that didn't stop me from forming a deep personal relationship with bourbon. And vodka. And occasionally rum. Chase those with a few beers and you have the recipe for my college years.

I've managed to temper myself in my old age and limit my drinking voluntarily. I really don't miss it. Now I still have a few drinks for occasions and sometimes just because, but it's now not a regular visitor to my days.

(Geez! Get to the point already. Enough drivel!)

My point (ahem*) is that I routinely come in contact with people that are much like myself in 1987. That is, drunk and disorderly and terribly annoying. Hell, they are how I make my living. These drunks (both professional and amateur) are for the most part affable and occasionally entertaining.

This past week (which shall be dubbed The Week That Crazy Ran Rampant In These Here Parts)was full of the annoying and obnoxious variety. We had a Seinfeldian Close-Talker, a Drama-Sharer (ummm, no thank you, you can have it all back) and assorted crybabies. And then the mother-of-all asshats. A total and complete fucktard.

A little backstory...the law recently changed in this state and now anyone purchasing liquor that appears to be under 50 years of age must show ID to purchase alcohol. The law here has always stated that you must be able to present ID at anytime that you wish to purchase alcohol. As part of some task force to reduce under-age drinking, these laws are now being more strictly monitored. And as a little incentive to make sure, the penalty for serving someone under-age or WITHOUT ID has changed from a fine to a Class B misdemeanor.

Now, I truly like my customers. Reallly, I do. Some of them are really good friends. But carding a fifty year old construction worker is not one of my favorite things to do. It has caused the bitching to commence, folks. Lordy, the whining that I have had to listen to lately. Grown men and women are dealing out a ration of shit to all my employees FOR FOLLOWING THE LAW. Cue last Friday night...

Loyal Employee: "Your total is $. And I need to see some ID, please."

Local Fucktard: "Are you f*cking kidding me? I've been coming in this store for 20 years and I'm not showing anything to some worthless c*** who doesn't know how to do her job. Just give my m-f'ing beer!"

Loyal Employee: "I'm sorry sir, but the law has changed and I must ask for ID now. I understand your inconvenience but I cannot risk losing my job."

Local Fucktard: "I'm calling your boss and telling her what a dumb*ss she hired.

Loyal Employee: "Would you like me to dial the number for you?"

At this point the asshat left the building and hasn't been heard from since. I have counciled the loyal employee on how to deal with insensitive bastards and identified the jackass from camera tapes. I WILL be dealing with this person, 'cause no one messes with my minions but me.

Round and round

2010-04-14T02:17:00.000-04:00

Sometimes life can get a little...oddly complicated. Sometimes we get in our own way and our stubborness refuses to budge. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I feel that I have let myself fall into a rut that is all too familiar. It's a procrastination/avoidance/denial rut and it's one deep motherfucker. Like, gonna need a tow truck to pull myself out of this.

I have a bad habit of extremes. I can focus on the larger picture, and I can focus on the minute details. It's the middle part. The part that matters. The execution. The work. I blame my brain.

Does anyone else wake in the morning with a clear plan of exactly how their day should go? I've done this every day for as long as I can remember. And not once has it happened the way my head thinks it should. Rarely my day turns out better than imagined. Mostly it doesn't live up to the plan rattling around between my ears. Sometimes it sucks way worse than I could have ever dreamed.

This however isn't the problem. I can handle change, go with the flow. The problem lies in the thinking. At the first sign of variation from my planned day, I must re-think the whole day. See the problem? As you can imagine these changes occur approximately 4,352,218 times a day.

Now on the surface it appears that I can make most (not all) decisions quickly and efficiently. I can delegate, administrate, and facilitate my ass off. In my head there are about a gadzillion scenarios spinning wildly out of control, each allowing for multiple variables.

The biggest problem with this whole mindset is that with each change comes a little disappointment. It's not what I wanted. (And yes, I realize that makes me sound like a conceited bitch.) But that's what happened and a little piece of my heart hardened with each change. By the end of most days I feel flat and weak, disheartened and shamed at my own ablility to make my world what I wanted.

This is affecting my life and I need to get off the hamster wheel. Is there a way? Does it require planning?

Queen for a day. Or Three

2010-04-06T23:44:00.000-04:00

As the manager of 3/4ths of the town's liquor stores, I'm used to the over all red-neckyness that occurs on a daily basis. I speak fluent Pabst Blue Ribbon but occasionally (read:rarely) something a little fabulous and sparkley comes into my life.

I live in an area where there's more farm trucks than convertibles, more good ol' boys than techies. Although it's 2010 and Cletus has a Blackberry, this is not a cultural mecca. Some days I long for culture and art and decent Thai carry-out, but overall it's a decent trade off for less crime, congestion and college students.
On a recent hiring spree at the stores, I had the usual applicants. There was Officer Doofus, retired local policeman on a pension. Next up was Billy Ray Jim Bob, whose momma told him to git his sorry ass offa the sofa and finally git a job, 'cause she was not having no 31 year old bum in her house. There was also Betty Barfly, who did not believe that the 9 previous public intoxication arrests would influence her ability to do good hair... I mean, work. And then there was the Queen.

Lawdy, the Queen. Words cannot express my unbridled shock as a real live drag-queen, born and raised here in Hooterville, sashayed in the door. Now for the purposes of clarity, I shall refer to him as, yeah, him. Since he did not come into the store in full drag, I believe this is proper. I stood, stammering my "May I help yous" while this pudgy, 40 year old gay man with impeccablebly groomed eyebrows gave me the once over and announced that he was here to answer my prayers.

My prayers? Are you kidding me? I know I mentioned to the man a few weeks back that I needed a new gay man in my life for shopping and gossip purposes, but I really didn't think that he would custom order me one.

I soon discovered that he was not shipped to me from Drag Divas R Us, but was a friend of a current employee and overheard that there may be a job opening. The Queen was thinking about taking a break from the show circuit and all the travel that it requires. Lucky me.

Now, I never want to be one to show any bias against anyone diffently colored, oriented, or classier than me, so after checking his references and liquor license, I offered him the job. (Here's where you scream "What the hell are you thinking? and Do you know where you are?)

Day one: Due to lack of personnel, I'm working Friday night. Perfect time to try out the new employee and see how he fairs against the masses. Quite honestly, I thought it went great. He knew many of the customers and came off as affable and helpful. This naturally didn't stop the snarky comments after the door closed behind said customers, but the evening flew by. (In hindsight, it may have been because I was running my ass off due to the fact that it was Friday night and the locals need cold beer. Could be. Possibly.)

Day two: I scheduled the new employee to work with one of my longer-standing employees. Let's call him Ghetto. Think multiple piercings and many bad tattoos. Also think under-motivated and involved in baby-mama drama. How could this not work?
Needless to say, it did not go well. There were phone calls in the middle of my Saturday night. Multiple phone calls. There were also dueling rounds of finger-pointing and name-calling. *Sigh*

Day three: On one of the rarest of occasions, I called in sick. This has only happened a couple of times in the past ten years, but a migraine hit me that made me want to call the Grim Reaper and invite him over, and give him ammo. And a highly accurate weapon. So, I placed some calls, got someone to open the store that I should have been in. I also sent the new employee in so that he could get some more training.

Several hours and many, many ignored phone calls later, I decided to answer the damned phone, if for no other reason than to make the fucking thing stop ringing.

(Sorry for that, but if you KNOW that your boss is home sick, and you KNOW that that sickness is a migraine, and you KNOW that said migraine is sensitive to light, heat, noise and smell, would YOU call 4,873 times for someting that was not death, dismemberment, pestilence or wolverine attack? I'm just saying.)

I basically told the caller, which was neither of the above mentioned goofballs that I would speak to the owners and deal with the aftermath tomorrow. Yes, I was the Scarlett O'Hara of bosses. Then I crawled back to my miserable bed and commenced the moaning again.

So, basically, today was spent mopping up the blood and putting band-aids on hurt feelings. But alas, the Drag Queen is no more.

Two miles to Crazytown.

2010-03-31T23:10:00.000-04:00

Five years ago, I packed everything that the girls and I owned and moved in with The Man. It wasn't a huge ordeal, simply because I had moved two years prior and as a single parent, didn't make a lot of purchases in those two years. It was still a big emotional move, since the wounds of divorce hadn't formed ugly scar tissue yet. They were at times still fresh, gaping wounds and reminders of failure. But, I had no regrets and was head-over-heels, flat out crazy about The Man. Still there are always issues. (Eye-rolling and heavy sighing...)

Now that the train of thought has definitely derailed...

After some thoughtful conversations and determination from The Man that he spent every night at the cabin I was renting while making a mortgage payment on a house that was TWO MILES AWAY, he invited us to move into his house. God help the poor bachelor, for he knows not what he does. He knowingly invited three females into the mancave. Two of the above mentioned females were under the age of eleven and prone to shrieking, squealing and whining. I, on the other hand, rarely do this. *Ahem*

So, after boxing up my life and driving it TWO MILES DOWN THE ROAD, I did what any self-respecting woman would do. I gutted his house. Literally. Within two months I had stripped the kitchen down to the subfloors and waterlines. I ripped up carpet and stripped the wallpaper off in the bedrooms. We painted, sanded, purchased and installed our way through the next three months. And through all this, his blood pressure barely raised. But...(isn't there always a but?)

Four days after moving in, I sold all his furniture.

Yes, you heard me right. Here's how it went down (according to my memory. Which may be faulty. I blame the bourbon.)

Me: Welcome home from your hard day's work dear. Here's your slippers and pipe.

Man: What the fuck?

Me: Dinner is on the table and I will give you a back massage as soon as you're finished eating. Can I get you a beer?

Man: Growl, rant, mumble, growl. Where is the table? And the sofa? And my chair and TV?

Me: I have thoughtfully sold all your furniture to a needy family of orphans and turned quite the profit. You may spend the proceeds at your leisure.

Man: What the fuck?

Me: Get over it, dude. My stuff is way better.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

2010-02-27T21:40:00.000-05:00

Life has been kicking my ass lately.

Work has been a continuous revolving door of employee issues consisting of hirings, firings and reprimands. I have hired three newbies in the past month and so far they have logged in a total of four sick days. One only made it a week, before getting all germy and pukey and greenish.

Home has been somewhat calmer, but with the normal amount of teen angst and girl-drama. With several snow days under their belts, they are as sick of me as I am of keeping them entertained.

The man was transferred to a different department at work and is showing the signs of stress related to such a move. He's well liked at work and respected among his peers. Yet there are employees that do not deal well with change. There is backlash folks.

In other news, there is a new puppy. After mourning the loss of Ralphie the Wonder Weiner, I slowly began to prepare myself for another dog. I researched different breeds, small ones and large ones, active and no-so-much. I considered the possibility of getting a dog that could accompany me to work each day. As I have mentioned before, I work in a chain of liquor stores. This made the option of a large dog unlikely. Large, furry tails clearing large amounts of bottles from bottom shelves would be a bad thing. From this aspect, a small dog is preferable.

So this narrowed my search. I watched dog shows. I checked breeders. I talked to everyone that had the unfortunate luck to cross my path. Long story sort-of-shortish, I kept going back to the dachshunds. Maybe its the familiarity. They are not the easiest breed, but I knew what I was getting into.

After batting my eyes and promising sexual favors to the Man, on Valentine's Day he purchased for me this:

Let me introduce to you Prince Dashing Romeo. Dash for short. He makes my heart swell.

Puppy breath

2010-02-13T18:13:00.000-05:00

It's been several weeks since my dear doggie passed away. He was my companion, my friend and occasionally the biggest pain in my ass. I loved him dearly. I've spent the last few days trolling the internet in search of puppies and breeders and rescue homes and such. But each picture has caused conflicted feelings. Can you replace a beloved pet so quickly? Is it really replacing, or just moving on? Can another dog fill the space left by Ralphie? I just dunno. But seriously, this face is killing me. Squee! Smoosh! Fuzzy! Soft! Heart!

Wordless Wednesday

2010-02-03T23:47:00.000-05:00

John Madden Is After My Man

2010-01-31T23:50:00.001-05:00

The man and his PS3 are making a very serious attempt to drive me over the edge of reason. Since I work days and he works nights, we rarely see each other through the week. He will come dragging in anywhere between 3:00AM and oh-my-freaking-Gawd-do-you-know-what-time-it-is. A sane person would toddle off to bed after working 14 hours and then driving another hour and a half to get home, but not the man. No. Huh-uh.

After being punched in the nuts about fifteen gazillion times for waking me up with a "Hey Baby, ya wanna?" at No-Fucking-Way-O'thirty, he has learned to find other ways to amuse himself. I think he's now having an affair with John Madden 2010 NFL Football.

It's a tad bit disturbing to be woken by commentary by John Madden. I can be blissfully asleep, dreaming of having some sexy time with movie stars and college cuties, when out of the blue I hear:

"He's back real deep, waiting to return this one."

"Looks like he's going to re-enter."

"He's got a hot hand now and it looks like the other team is definitely gonna have to put some hands on him."

"He's got a valuable weapon there."

"He's feeling some pressure now and looking for a tight end to step up and help him out."

"They need to gather the troops now, because that's just poor execution."

See? John Madden wants to have orgies in my house! I can hear it in his creepy old man voice and to tell you the truth, it's scary. It's a good thing The Man likes bendy girls and boobs.

Looks like it's time to shave my legs and set the alarm clock a few hours earlier, 'cause there's no way I'm letting John Madden horn in on my game.

Wordless Wednesday

2010-01-27T12:14:00.001-05:00

Meet my new friend, Trigger

2010-01-27T00:19:00.000-05:00

I wish I knew how to describe it. I have heard it described beautifully, and I have heard it belittled, simplified, defined for the amusement of others. There are no flowery words, no hard lines of definition. It is vagueness personified. It is murky, foggy, shadowy nothingness with a healthy dose of hell mixed through. It borrows you, piece by piece, for its own. Depression is not always dark. Sometimes it is blinding white terror with the volume turned down for the sensitive. Drowning isolation occurs simply within your skull. Or your psyche… whatever. Depression finds what ever is the quintessential you and taints it, causing it to slowly rot away.

I don’t understand how some people don’t get it. But then again, most don’t grow up watching it. Seeing it personified in your parents, your surroundings, your life. For me, depression is as natural as breathing. It is the constant companion from my childhood. It is the make-believe friend that I never outgrew. It is the cause of my self-deprecating humor and the roots of my neurosis. I do quite literally picture this thing as a shadow, following everywhere, almost comforting in its reliability. Parents, friends, lovers, even husbands have left…depression never. Ironic that it is my longest relationship.

We make a good team, depression and I. We are on the same-wavelength. Soul-sisters. Damn. Talk about your fucked-up relationships. I wish depression and I could just take a break.

How do you break up with a disease? (Insert joke about ex-husband here) I know this relationship is unhealthy. I know I need to end this and move on. I see how it affects the real people in my life. I get it. Really. But I don’t know how. It’s like facing an abusive partner, one that is bigger, badder, meaner and stronger than me. Every time I try to leave depression, it makes me pay for my insolence. In spades. A dose of torture will be meted out and measured.

I find that I resent the good times, because I know that a crash is coming. The crash is around the corner at all times. I try, to see the beauty and good. I stop and look at the simple things that bring me joy. Not in a “Stop and smell the roses” kinda way, but in a “hang onto this moment, ‘cause you’re gonna need it soon to keep from doing something stupid” way. I am not suicidal. Would never act in this selfish way. My love for my children is too great. My fear of what would be said about me after I’m gone keeps me from ever acting. But have I played it out in my head? Yes. Does everyone? I don’t know. Maybe. For years I assumed everyone thought this way. And not in a trivial way, not in a “Here’s how I would do it if I absolutely, positively HAD to with no other alternative”.

So what now. Depression and I have fought again and I lost. Now it wants to wrap its arms around me comfort me with the familiarity that I recognize. Depression wants to hold my hand and my head and walk through my everyday with me. We can share some self-loathing with our dinner and discuss our denial. I don’t have the strength to tell it no again. So here we go. I’ll take care of my kids, give The Man and my job all I can, but right now, I am Depression’s bitch.

Picture Day!

2010-01-20T00:03:00.001-05:00

Here's a little taste of what I stare at all day at work.

And to the kind, portly gentleman who chatted me up today: No sir, I do not want to see your "Stimulus Package". And now my brain needs a some electricity jolted thru it to remove the image. Thanks for that.

Chrome, Chrome on the Range

2010-01-14T23:08:00.000-05:00

The Man and I have a Harley. I guess that makes us two of “those” people. Yes, we can see you looking at us. No, we’re not going to rob you.

Seriously, most people’s reactions to bikers are wary and frightened or sneering and judgmental. Honestly folks, you needn’t bother. We’re not that different and our criminal pasts equal that of the nearest nunnery. For the uneducated, let me school you in ten easy steps.

1) We are not poor white-trash. In our group you will find business-owners, skilled tradesmen, surgery technicians, corporate managers and other successful, tax-paying people. This is not uncommon. Chances are that shiny piece of machinery you see sitting in someone’s garage costs as much as your car. The extra pretty ones rival your cousin’s Beemer. Just ask the lawyer that was camped next to us at the last biker rally.

2) We are not members of a gang. This is true of many bikers. If we did have a gang, it probably just be everyone sitting at my house waiting on me to feed them. And then the phone would ring and it would be other gangs asking us to quit making them look bad. Yes, we give gang’s a bad name.

3) We do not park the Harley in the house, or re-build the transmission in the bathtub. Side-note: I cannot pry the top off a beer with either my teeth or cleavage. Just saying.

4) Yes, I own leather jackets and leather chaps. No, I don’t wear them all the time. Only when it’s cold, or for special occasions when the Man asks extra nice.

5) Yep, we’re a little bit excessive in our gushing on and on about how much we love riding. But we only do it because we are tired of hearing you talk at length about your new lawnmower/vacation/iPhone.

6) I could tell you that there’s a freedom that comes with riding, but as the bumpersticker says, you wouldn’t understand.

7) Biker rallies get a bad rap. There’s just as much drinking, cavorting and special happy-time making at any Sandals Resort, and their commercials are all over the TV.

8) I love my tattoos. They carry deep, personal meaning for me. I also got them before we ever had a bike. They’re not a requirement or anything.

9) The Man will not cut you with a big knife if you look at his “old lady”. I will however cut you if you call me “old lady”.

10) My experience has always been that bikers are some of the most generous, considerate, trust-worthy people I have ever known. Benefit runs occur every weekend for sick children, fallen soldiers, aging veterans, homeless shelters. The list goes on and on. I’ve personally seen hundreds show up and pay to ride and freely give money to parents of a sick child. I’ve been on breast cancer rides, and ridden in funeral processions. I’ve attended biker weddings more touching than the most elaborate Hollywood nuptials. I’ve seen bikers pull over to change an old lady’s tire and help push a teenager’s car at a gas station so that it would start and he could get to school.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that we’re just like you. We volunteer at our kid’s schools, we loan a cup of sugar to the neighbor and we probably drive more cautiously than you do. After all, there’s not much between us and the pavement. As spring draws nearer, please watch for us. We’re harder to see than some big ol’ four-door beast. In return, we promise to never text and drive.

Picture Day!

2010-01-13T01:56:00.000-05:00

Since all the cool kids are doing it, I'm starting a Wordless Wednesday. This will be just random shots of my life here in Bedrock including kids, animals, booze and potential partial nudity. Only time will tell.

Missing: Brains and Balls

2010-01-06T22:18:00.000-05:00

As I previously mentioned, I manage liquor stores. It’s a good job and seriously adds a convenience factor for Chardonnay and bourbon. But let me tell you about the shoplifters. Seriously, it’s like a brand new episode of Dumbest Criminals Ever every week without the bother of commercials. There’s like a bajillion video cameras in each store designed to catch you from every unflattering angle possible. You can’t miss them, is all I’m saying. But still they come.

The latest potential felon was last week. 30ish dude with delusions about his clothing choices. Obviously he believes that he looks like an eighteen year old thug. Or gangsta. Or Rap Star. Ummmm, no. Anyhoo, he breezes in and proceeds to wind his way through the aisles, assuming that we think he is just being a discriminating shopper. Yeah, right. In the course of his travels he puts not one, but TWO fifths of alcohol down the front of his pants. That’s a half gallon, folks! Holy cow! How is there room in his pants for these?
A copy of the video was sent to the local boys in blue and they have ID’ed him. It’s only a matter of time before he’s picked up. Because of the video tape I never get called to testify in court. My statement is read and the tape speaks for itself. But I really want to go this time. I have questions, yall. Questions about why anyone would do this in a small town where everyone can identify everyone else. Questions about what he thought all those electronic thingys were hanging from the ceiling and walls. And finally, dude, you fit two fifths down your pants…where are your balls?

Bad, Bad Mommy

2009-12-29T01:07:00.000-05:00

Yup, I'm a bad mom. I can't stop doing a happy dance because both Bette and The Blonde are gone for the evening. The whole winter break thing has been nice for them but it has caused me to have Maker's Mark daydreams. It's the chatter that kills me. The endless, mindless, ear-drum assaulting chatter. I've honestly tried to be involved and engaged in their conversations, but how many times can I whip my game face out for another conversation about seventh-grader ponytails and high school drama? Ugh.

But tonight is glorious. I actually had a nap. A NAP!! With sleeping and everything! The entire bed to myself. Oh, rapture and joy! I did not cook dinner and did not do laundry. I dumped some food in the pet's food bowls and considered myself done for the day. I didn't mediate any arguments, nor did I negotiate bedtimes. I did not yell in the vicinity of the bathroom about hot water or using my razors. I did not even have to tell anyone to put the damned phone down and pay attention!

And now, without further ado....pictures!! From the new camera!

We took the children to their first professional football game on Sunday. My beloved, undefeated, totally-awesome Colts were playing the Jets. The man and I have gone to at least one game each year for the last several years and thought that taking the kids would be a good idea. Family fun for everyone! Together time! Bonding and what-not!

Well.....if anyone actually follows NFL games, you should know that the Colts were undefeated this year. WERE. Yep, the one game that I chose ALL DAMNED SEASON is the one that they lost. I was crushed. They were disappointed. The fans were irate. In another feat of non-awesome mommy-hood, I managed to sit my children in an area surrounded by some of the most douche-bag, assholey fans on the planet. The team has already clinched the play-offs. We have home-field advantage. There's nothing at stake here, other than an undefeated season. So they pulled the starters and played the second and third string guys. Cue the assholes.

Note to the high-school coach wannabe: Calling an inexperienced third-string quarterback a "fucking worthless sumbitchin' jackass" does not help the situation. It does however shock my children into a fit of giggles.

Note to twenty-something metrosexual wannabe: Maniacal ranting and drunken slurring of profanity is not a good look on you. Sit the hell down and stop embarrassing your date.

Note to Colts: We love you. We really do. I'm not complaining about the few hundred dollars for tickets. Or the forty FREAKIN' dollars for parking. I will not bitch about standing outside in blowing wind and snow waiting on the gates to open. I gladly dressed in my licensed Colts NFL sanctioned apparel and allowed some
emo-girl to paint our faces to show our support. We gladly dished out 20 bucks for pre-historic pretzels and watered down sodas. Maybe you could find it in your hearts to show us the same love.

The Reason for the Season.

2009-12-26T22:48:00.000-05:00

Ok, I take it back. I was being entirely too Grinch-y and bitchy and such. Despite the crap-tastic circumstances of late, there was a Festivus miracle. Christmas went off without a hitch. There was joy and merriment all over the place. I was particularly pleased with the gifts I had purchased to bestow upon the loved ones.

You know who every now and then you find the perfect gift? Well, I did that alot this season. I am truly grateful that I was able to provide these things to my family. Here are a few sof the things that make me believe in the magic of the season.

One of the joys of having older children is that there is no one to wake you at 4:30 AM. For this I am truly grateful.

Food. Nom,nom,nom, yum. It was abundant and delicious. And I didn't even have to cook most of it! (My favorite kind of food is the kind that someone else slaves over.)

The fam was delightful, including the extended ones. The man's family descended upon us Christmas evening and a goood time was had by all. (I always wanted to write those words. Sounds just like the small town newspaper, right?) My own children seem to have left their ability to bicker in their pockets for a few hours.

The laughter, oh my the laughter. I love the sound of my kids laughing. It makes my heart clench just a little and reminds me that these are good days. My new motto will from now on be : Any moment spent laughing is a moment to be treasured.

And once again...The man has managed to shock the pants off of me. (Literally, but that is a story for another time.) After all the unexpected expenses of late, I felt that we were struggling to make Christmas happen. Or at least to the standards that we are used to. But the man had other plans. Or he actually does plan, something I rarely do. I knew he had set aside money for Christmas. I even had a rough idea how much. Boy was I wrong. After spending weeks telling me that he hoped I wasn't disappointed, and that there wouldn't be much this year, and that the bills were taking most of the available cash, he once again managed to buy me the perfect present. I am now the proud owner of a brand new Nikon DSLR and I couldn't be happier. My old camera (which he also bought for me several years ago) was very outdated and incapable of doing what I wanted. The new camera however is way smarter that me and is clearly embarassed to be owned by such a dumbass. I continually press random buttons for no good reason and take great joy in blinding my family with the flash in my quest to become Olan Mills.

I hope everyone had as good a Christmas as I did. I'm now ready to finish out the year with a smile on my face and a full heart. Expect many pictures to including here soon, so that I can have a visual reference for the world to see all the ways in which I embarrass myself on a regular basis.

2009 Can Kiss My Ass

2009-12-21T08:55:00.000-05:00

Had it. Up to here. 2009 came in like a lion and is going out like a drunk, annoying neighbor that borrows all your stuff and drops cigarette ashes on your new carpet. Maybe a new year will bring only wonderful things and eradicate the badness of this year like a bottle of cosmic Febreeze.

Yeah, I totally sound bitchy and whiny and ungrateful. I don't care. Not right now. I want my five minutes to feel sullen. I'm tired of repeating to myself every motivational mantra that I can pull from my over-taxed brain. Dale Carnegie can just suck it.I don't care that Patience is a Virtue, or that That which does not kill us makes us stonger. Is that really the best we can get? To not die? So, I'm stressed and I'm supposed to make a list of things that I'm grateful for? Bite me. I'm gonna make a list of things that I'm not grateful for and makes me want to punch 2009 in the nuts.

I'm Not Grateful List:
My dog died. (Yeah, I know. Start out with the most recent and sucktastic one)

My ex is being an asshole to my kids AGAIN. He recently told my oldest (Bette) that she was not welcome at his house anymore. She's fifteen and full of hormones. Just imagine how well that is going.

I've managed to hire some of the most juvenile, needy, unmotivated people in the area. Come on! The unemployement rate around here is 14%, can you really afford to not give a shit about your job?

Huge car repair bills one week before Christmas. Sure, the mechanic is a friend and cut us a break, but seriously, who needs this shit in the middle of trying to stretch the budget to provide decent gift-giving for the family?

Hell, I just realized that this is an exercise in carpal tunnel syndrome. It would take hours, even days to complete this. But then again, that woould put me smack dab into next year. And the no-good, very bad, terrible year would be over.

This post sucks, but I'm gonna put it out there. Maybe later, or tomorrow I can work on my missing gratefulness.

Big Fat Liar

2009-12-19T14:09:00.000-05:00

I recently read back through my posts and while they are true, they don't sound like me. Ok, maybe a little bit, but they are also stiff and over-edited. While I am a big fan of correct grammer and all, I never intended this blog to be as uptight as it has turned out. For God's sake, there hardly any foul language! I love to cuss! I have a master's in cussery and live for moments that I can whip out some shock-and-awe language. I love to refer to people as fucktard, asshat and dirty old bastard. My rants so far have been subdued and suburban. I sound like a soccer mom peeved about a practice schedule change.

I'm over it. Completely. I think iit was the fear of someone actually reading this that scared me. But you know what? I don't give a rat's ass anymore. This blog is mine and if I want to talk about my boobs and the asshole at work and the man's technique in bed, then dammit I'm gonna write about it. I dont' care if the entire internet knows that the crotch stubble I'm sporting these days could sand layers of paint off the coarsest wood trim. (Ha! Trim!)

So prepare yourself. There will be talk of poop and vibrators and fucking idiots galore. Because this is me, warts and all.

Christmas is sneaky

2009-11-30T23:18:00.001-05:00

Yup, I’m calling it like I see it. Every damned year I plan and plan. I have grand designs on how the holidays will be and what I can do to make everyone’s dreams come true. It will cross my mind every now and again, sparking a plan. Then due to some brain abnormality or hidden psychosis, on or about the beginning of the school year, I gradually start forgetting that Christmas even exists.

Is this some form of survival instinct? Some primeval brain function that keeps me from decorating in October and making dozens of fruitcakes? Have we genetically progressed to the point where we do not feel forced to wear snowman embroidered sweatshirts everyday paired with dangly bells hanging from our earlobes?

Or is it that I am missing some fundamental gene that makes me able to have my shopping done by November first and thus allowing myself time to bake homemade cookies frosted with red and green sprinkles to hand out to one and all? Am I missing the festivity gene?

Assuming that there is nothing wrong with me (I always assume this), then the logical conclusion would be that there is something wrong with Christmas. There is a flaw in the scheduling or some sort of magical holiday hypnosis that occurs that causes me to whistle my way through fall until Thanksgiving lands right in my lap. Suddenly there’s talk of Black Friday and everyone is fighting over the sale ads in the newspaper. There is a sudden onslaught of phone calls to schedule family dinners, company parties, drinks out with friends and school Christmas plays.

Once again, Christmas has gotten all ninja on my ass and it’s game on, bitch. Damn

For my friends

2009-11-19T22:49:00.000-05:00

I have two dear friends that are struggling with an illness in their family right now and my heart goes out to them. Everyone should have the priviledge of knowing people like these two. One is a bestest friend ever from waaaay back and the other is her brother. (They have another brother also that I love more than Prada purses, but I'm closer emotionally to these two.)

Several times each day something crosses my mind that reminds me of one or the other. The smile of a friend, a terribly, horribly tacky joke, my kids laughing about some bone-head thing their mother did AGAIN...

I have something in common with these two. Each of us, at some point in our lives, has had to teach ourselves to be happy. Each of us has battled our own personal hell and emerged from the other side scarred and wiser. We have learned to laugh again by leaning on each other.

My shall-remain-anonymous girl friend is an art teacher for elementary school children. Egad, that alone should qualify her for sainthood. Can you imagine a billion nasal-y grade-schoolers all screaming for a red crayon at once. I just threw up in my mouth a little.

The other shall-remain-anonymous friend is a student, and care-giver, and all around truly funny, funny guy. His brain worked in mysteriously twisted ways. Top in his class of cleverness. He has an outlook on life that is inspiring.

It hurts me to see them struggle with this. No, that doesn't explain it just right. I want to wish away their problems, because wonderful people should only have wonderful lives filled with joy and uncorns and pixies and chocolate covered joy. Granted, that sounds a tad unrealistic, but what the hell, it's my wish and I can wish whatever I want.

In real life, I can listen to them, and occasionally make them laugh. I can tell silly stories and make fart noises with my arm-pit. (It's a family trait.) I can offer any lame advice that I may come up with and use any relevant experiences from my past to ease their fears. I can pray for their sick family member. I can distract and entertain and love them. I can be a friend. Just like they have been to me.

Ya git what ya git and ya don't throw a fit

2009-11-08T00:33:00.000-05:00

I've been thinking alot lately about what I want this blog to be about. I am having a hard time deciding what I do want, but I definitely know what I do not want it to be about.

I do not want to write about high tech devices or the state of the economy. There are people way smarter than me to address these topics. Unless I get something very cool, then I will have to go on and on about it, until I'm sick of it.

I do not want to write about recipes, laundry spot removal, or where to find the best coupons. That just ain't me folks. I make a lousy soccer mom. Unless I have a brilliant momma day, then everyone will simply have to know.

I'm not gonna write about my sex life. My vajiminy and what ever parlour tricks it performs are none of your bees wax. Unless it's funny, then I will totally tell. Honest.

I ain't writing about work. Ok, maybe occasionally I will write about whatever stupidity I have to endure, because I'm all about sharing. You understand, right?

I'm not writing about my kids and family. Wait...I've already done that, so nevermind. Whatever.

So see? I'm completely out of ideas.

I was born is a small town....

2009-10-30T23:35:00.000-04:00

Yup, I live in a small town. I was born in another small town. In between I have lived in several larger towns and a few more small towns. After sharing a fair amount of years on this earth sharing stories with family, friends, lovers, customers and co-workers, I feel vaguely qualified to write about the subject. This blog is my attempt to do exactly that. To chronicle the daily adventures and tales from the buckle of the bible belt. Maybe the only person that will ever read this is me. Or maybe one day it will be chronicle of my life for my children. Maybe my friends will read this and wonder what I've been smoking. But for now I'm typing...and remembering...and occasionally cringing.

I'm currently compiling a list of things that I never thought I would haved to say out loud. Here's what I have so far.

Do not lick the seatbelt.
You cannot go to Sunday School with purple teeth.
You may not wear two bras at once.
Please do not bring your sister to work with you simply because she is lonely.
No, you cannot marry the neighbor boy until after he has had his nap.
I have to leave work early becuase my child has a Tic-Tac stuck in her nose.
Do you need help putting ice on your llama?
Please don't encourage my child to cuss at the rooster.
You are not allowed to push the cash register down the street in a shopping cart at 3:00am.
No, I'm not pregnant. I left my uterus at the hospital.
You cannot rent panties.

On a related note, the single best red-neck sentence I have ever heard: (said to me after I had passed a friend in his car earlier in the day)

If'n I'da knowed it was you, I'duv retched out and wove.

So, imaginary readers, what's your best? Or the thing you never thought you'd say?

They served wine at the Last Supper, right?

2009-10-24T03:50:00.000-04:00

I work at the liquor store. Stores actually. I manage a small chain of liquor stores that are owned by members of my family. It is a good job and I enjoy it 95% of the time. But oh, that 5% can make you want to drain a shelf or two.

On the surface it seems like it would be a fun job. Bag a little beer, push a little wine, recommend a quality scotch. The reality doesn’t go down quite so smoothly. In this state it is illegal to sell alcohol between 3:00 am and 7:00am. So naturally we have a store that opens at 7:00. And every morning there will be customers standing outside at 7:00. In the morning. Before sun-up. Yikes.

Now a few of these souls will be night-shift workers looking to relax at their version of 5 o’clock happy hour. I get that. But others, trembling, shuffling, twitchy others will be looking for something to make the bad go away. My heart goes out to them and their struggle.

The next few hours will be filled with the unemployed, the retirees, the wives shopping for the weekend, the construction guys rained out for the day. They are familiar faces and some have become friends. I moved to this small town for this job after my divorce. I was the stranger that was in charge of their beer. It took awhile but I earned their trust and learned their favorite jokes.

It’s been over three years now, and a few times I have been confronted by outraged people for my career choice. I’ve been accused of poisoning the community, and instigating the downfall of others. One woman publicly accused me of being the reason her uncle died, despite the fact that I have never poured a drink down another person’s throat. (The exception would be that one time in college when we invented a drinking game that involved shot glasses and nudity, but that’s a whole different story. And I was drunk. And possibly nude. And no persons or animals were harmed in the playing of that game.)

I see my regulars at Wal-Mart, the gas station, sitting on the bleachers at the local middle school basketball game. Rarely am I greeted in these situations. Why? Because no one wants to admit that they are in the liquor store often enough that the employees know them or their lives. They won’t admit to their friends or their preacher that I know the names of their kids, that their boss is on vacation or that their wife just had her bunions removed. I get it. I hate it, but I get it.

To the few that greet me warmly and ask about my family, thank you. To the self righteous soccer moms that sneer through the windows of their SUVs as I pick my kids up from practice wearing a shirt with a beer logo on the front – fuck you, Barbie.

All the boys think she's a spy...

2009-10-22T00:31:00.000-04:00

My firstborn. The big girl. The first to call me mama. If you’ve read my previous posts, then you know that I refer to this child as Bette since we are quite sure that she is Bette Davis re-incarnated. She was a perfect infant, what with the sleeping through the night and what-not. She cooed and cuddled like she was auditioning for a Gerber commercial.

In the time between 9 months and 5 minutes ago, her manager decided she should work on some method acting and choose the drama and horror genres. My sweet baby morphed into Bette Davis. Think “What Ever happened to Baby Jane” dramatics in a onesie. Or bad Shakespearian community acting. To the unknowing public, she was the epitome of innocent cuteness.

See this?

And this.

Those pictures are full of smooshy goodness and sweet enough to slap between two pieces of white bread and gobble up. Don’t let that face fool you. It quickly turns to this without provocation.

This face is accompanied with wailing, flailing, and lamenting.

This is actually quite entertaining. Until it’s not. My Bette has always worn her heart on her sleeve and spoke her mind regardless of the situation. I admire this about my child. It really makes me quite proud. She will never cower to adversity. She will never let someone infringe upon her rights. She will stand up for what she believes. She will drive me and others nuts. Good for her.

(Note to the first-born…if you ever read this, I love you more than words can say. Now please be quiet.)

So there I was...10,000 feet and no parachute

2009-10-20T22:43:00.000-04:00

Some know. Some don’t. I generally don’t run around screaming that I have been diagnosed with clinical depression. (Although, it would explain a lot of things in some people’s minds.) Many don’t understand, others do not want to know. Of those who know and are aware that I have taken prescribed medication for this, they do not understand that the pill doesn’t cure anything. It simply makes it more manageable.

With that said, I am one of the millions of Americans suffering from another complication – no insurance. Now, I work at a job I love. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Love my bosses, and care about 82.5% of the employees that work under me. My schedule allows me to be with the people that I love when they are out of school and off-work (most of the time). But, it’s a small business folks. The insurance companies make it tough for small businesses to afford health care.

As a result, I’m going it alone, without professional medical attention or a parachute. Light therapy, aromatherapy, bourbon-therapy….tried them all. Add in some skin issues and a large dose of life and Mama needs a new approach. But I'm still looking and trying what I know helps.

This time of year is particularly hard for those suffering from depression. If you know someone that is tunneling through this darkness, please repress the urge to “fix” or “help” them. Unless they are new to this completely un-fun game, they are aware of the triggers, symptoms, the side-effects. If you tell them to “snap out of it” or “look at the bright side” then you are setting yourself up to get a big ol’ helping of snapped up-side your head. Depression masks the bright side.

After years of fighting the good fight, I can now enter one of these phases and still catch glimpses of the other side. I know what works for me (medication or lack-there-of aside) and what doesn’t. It all takes time. So lend your ears and your patience to someone you know that is struggling. They will appreciate it as soon as they are able.

I'm a deer widow, ya'll

2009-10-17T12:32:00.000-04:00

Now while I realize that those of you who are not afflicted with living in certain tracking, hunting and fishing meccas may not realize what this means, rest assured that I feel completely qualified in filling you in on the nuances of what it means to live with a hunter. No need to thank me, it's a public service, really.

Everything has a season. White shoes, new cars, football, and in this part of the country and many others…camouflage. The sheer volume of camouflage items in my house is overwhelming. It's a wonder I can even find the damned things, what with them being camoflage and all. But then again, why would I want to?

The man hunts deer. Now before you send PETA to string me up by my fake nails and throw Halloween blood at me, let me assure you that the deer population in this state is high enough that several are dying of a wasting disease that is caused by this over-population. With few natural predators (not counting SUV’s and night shift workers driving home) the deer in this area are bountiful to the point of self-destruction.

With that being said, one would think that it would be easy to take down one of these elusive creatures. Without much hoopla and such. Nay, nay.

Did you know that they make soap that smells like dirt? Body soap, shampoo, laundry detergent and dryer sheets. And they are all in my house. Now why pray tell would we pay good money for such items when there are cute shoes just begging to be bought? So the deer can’t smell the Great White Hunter lurking in the forest. Honest Injun, the man showers and clothes himself in “Fresh Earth”. In his attempt to enter the woods not reeking of cigarettes, Axe® and buffalo wings, he showers with dirt. Color me flabbergasted. It’s a good thing he’s cute. (I’m just saying.)

After emerging from the bathroom smelling like a freshly tilled garden, the packing begins. Oh my, the packing. Folks, I have run away from home with less stuff than this man takes for a day of hunting. After donning many layers of camouflage clothing, packing his camouflage bag with his camouflage equipment, and grabbing his camouflage bow and arrows, he will proceed outdoors to load all of this onto his camouflage four-wheeler. I’m sensing a pattern here.

All of this will continue every weekend until mid-January. There is bow season, gun season, muzzleloader season, throw a bowling ball at them season and probably others that I have no interest in. It’s a long haul folks, for a deer widow. Feel free to stop by with your condolences. And a casserole.

Ladies and Gentlemen, coming now to the stage...

2009-10-16T20:57:00.000-04:00

After much editing, here's my first post. In order to start at the beginning, I will take the time to describe myself and my life. The Reader's Digest version of a backstory, if you will.

Childhood – not typical and not always good, but no Lifetime movie tragedy. Sure, my family not only has skeletons in the closet, but is often prone to dragging them out and dancing around the living room with them. There’s the typical American version of success, failure, alcoholism, and drama. There was the struggling 60’s, the cautiously optomistic 70’s, the 80’s of excess and the reality check of the 90’s. And that was just my childhood. Adulthood has just been an extension of all of the previous ages, with more technology.

Family: Bette and Blondie – the teenagers (I know, don’t you feel sorry for me now? I’ll take the Pinot Grigio.) And The Man. You know…the one I’m living with. As in NOT MARRIED. Shameless hussy that I am. Divorced a few years back from the Hilljack currently referred to as Milkdud. Not because he’s full of sweet chocolate-y goodness and caramel, but because his head is shaped like one.

Occupation: Failing household enginneer. Needs put out to pasture. Or a disability check. Also works as a General Manager over a chain of liquor stores. Finds this extremely convenient.
Religion: Yes. On my terms. Which may or may not defeat the purpose of religion.

Friends: I am fortunate. I have old friends, recent friends, family that I would count as friends even if we weren’t related. I live with a man that I love that is also one of the best friends that a person could hope to have. I have far-away friends that I can count on for great catching-up stories and tales of what life is like way over there. I have near by friends that will bring you a pack of smokes when you can’t get out of the house. I am friend wealthy.

Love: Yup, got that too. The man and I have a all-around, everyday love. The kind that you can always be sure that it’s around. The kind that will surround and encompass the bad and smother it away. The kind that still makes my heart flutter just a little every day. Sappy, gushy, schmoopy kind of love. My favorite.

So, that's me in a nutshell. If anyone from the Nennernet stumbles upon this , welcome. Have a seat and let me pour you a drink. We're both gonna need it.