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.