Bad, Bad Mommy

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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....

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?

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...

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

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

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...

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.