Which is awesome.

I am unworthy.

And while this blog will stay here to remind us of days of old, I’m over here now.

BYOB.

I miss writing.

I miss you.

Let me know… ‘Cause I sure have a tale or two for you.

I don’t normally have time for these even though I always want to play along…

And, truth be told, I totally didn’t have time to do this one today…

But I wanted to…

So I did…

‘Cause I’m the boss of me…

At least when there’s no one else here, that is.

Plus I have nothing of note to blog about with the exception of an anecdote or two about the trumpet playing of a certain eleven-year-old. But since my ears hurt at the thought, you’re getting photos. With strangers in ‘em. Yay.

This one is edited using Totally Rad Actions (Botwell MG 100%, Warm It Up Kris 100%, Warm It Up Kris 39%, OhSnap 41%, TDW No Glow 51%, Green w/Envy on Trees, and a bit of Contrast)

This one is because I totally love the pastels. I took the previous edit and played Mad Scientist with color filters, contrast, and only god knows what else.

A lot.

Not like out of my chair and active kind of move (that would just be insane)… more along the lines of I can’t take this town/house/state another another miserable day, where the hell did I put my packing tape kind of move.

Sometimes, I look around at all of the boxes and bubble wrap and various knick knacks that are lucky to have survived this long and think that life would be so much easier on everyone if I’d just brush up on my dancing skills and buy a traveling show wagon already.

(Yes, dear reader, I just threw in a Cher reference. If this is your first time here, I feel obligated to warn you that such an occurrence happens quite often around these parts… and if Cher references don’t equal downright awesomeness in your book, well… then… I’m afraid that there’s just no hope for you. Which is sad. ‘Cause I totally thought you looked like my kind of people when you walked in.)

Some moves are big.

Some moves are small.

Some moves are planned.

Some are holyshitdidIreallyjustmovethreestatesawayon24hournotice.

And some moves, those of the worst kind, land me smack-dab in the middle of rural Arkansas, off the beaten path of two obnoxiously long dirt roads, 40 minutes away from the nearest superstore, and 120 miles away from the nearest Starbucks. (I’d like to assure you that I didn’t land there barefoot and pregnant… but I totally did and was and good lord, what was I thinking?)

Granted, there were no banjos playing in the background (those came when I moved to Alabama a few years later), but the cable reception was terrible and there was no alcohol (being a southern Louisiana girl and bred for lush-hood right out of the gate, I had no idea that things like ‘dry counties’ even existed… boy, was I ever in for a surprise). Needless to say, I got myself knocked up again shortly thereafter… well.. because…

Quite frankly, there was nothing else to do.

It was there, in that pissant of an Arkansas town, down two dirt roads, past no bars or drive-thru daiquiri shacks,  120 miles from the nearest Starbucks, with no contemporaries or hopes for some, no friends or family, six steps away from a total mental breakdown that I discovered that the internet was for more than just buying petty things and research… It was also for…

The MySpace.

And once I realized that while The MySpace allowed me to reconnect with not only the handful of awesome people that I’d accidentally lost somewhere along the way (Lisa, Angie, Philbert, et al) but the handfuls of not-so-awesome people that I’d totally lost on purpose, I discovered…

The Mama Drama boards, where I found a couple of forever friends and a whole lot of crazy.

And once I realized that sometimes you can’t lose crazy people no matter how hard you try, I discovered…

Shannon and Mishi and Piper and BD and Tara and Maria and Jenni and many others who made me realize that living down two dirt roads with cabinets full of smuggled booze and rooms full of screaming babies isn’t so awful when you have like-minded friends (who totally love your Cher references and are infinitely more attractive than your redneck neighbor who believes that shirts are optional- in and out of church) but a click away.

It was friendship inside of a box… Friendship when I was completely alone (with the exception of the pretty piece of meat that I married and the spawn, of course) and out of touch with everyone that I loved and anyone that could appreciate anecdotes about broken vibrators and inappropriate midget jokes. Friendship that could I could stuff in my favorite bag and move right along with me, no matter how far I roamed.

And even though it’s now years later… And some of us hardly blog at all anymore… And some of us have never met in person… Or have now branched out to other things that take up all of our time…

We’re still missing one another when it’s been a while.

We’re still listening to each other in some way, shape, form, feed or tweet.

We still know each other well enough to say, “where are you now?”

So much more than a community…

It was and still is and will continue to be a bucket full o’awesome.

Community Prompt: Community. Where have you discovered community, online or otherwise, in 2010? What community would you like to join, create or more deeply connect with in 2011? #reverb10

“Not a real gun, right?”

“No, not a real gun… Unless there are real zombies.”

“Oh, okay. Good.”

Running out of toilet paper sucks more than running out of diapers.

It sucks more than running out of milk or bread or coffee or (dare I say it?) vodka.

You know what sucks more than running out of toilet paper though? Running out of toilet paper AND paper towels AND tissue paper AND coffee filters AND anything remotely soft enough to handle my business without leaving behind a nasty paper cut or twelve.

Death, despair, pestilence, chaos and destruction… Pshaw.

This, dear reader, is what we call a true tragedy.

And to make it all more Shakespearean-like, my healthy supply of  drive-thru supplied napkins are in the console of my truck – MY TRUCK which is with HIM because HE likes it more than HIS truck, which I incidentally cannot use due to my ability to properly drive a stick (much like my great ass and calculus skills) going out the window at the onset of ‘mommy brain’. His truck, of course, has no supply of drive-thru napkins because he has no ‘mommy brain’.

He has ‘daddy brain’.

Which means that I’d probably only find lots of empty Redbull cans and old porn. *

And wiping my hoohoo with either just seems uncomfortable and highly dirty.

So I guess it’s just me and this pack of anti-bacterial wipes that smell awfully like formaldehyde-flavored lemons.. Which I’m fairly certain will take that not-so-fresh-feeling to a whole new level of  goddamnmylifesucks.

Wish me luck…

*Yes, the statement about the daddy brain leading to Redbull and porn was totally sexist… but you totally deserved it after snickering about me and my inability to drive a stick, and you know it.

** Oh! And did ‘ya miss me?

There’s a huge green grasshopper stalking me.

And I’m a little flattered that someone cares enough to do so.

2. Unfriendly Chick

I mean, seriously, I get that it’s retail- coffee-flavored retail, grant you- but retail nevertheless… And working retail sucks all sorts of hairy monkey balls on the best of days…

But you work at Starbucks, dude… You’re s’pose to make me feel like the grouchy bitch that I am and demand that I be more chipper… you’re not s’pose to be so bloody sullen and depressed.

Now, instead of walking out all caffeinated and refreshed, I just feel dirty.

3. Bitch in the Box

Believe it or not, there’s actually a  small part of me that is constantly demanding that we skip on the foreplay and get right down to the thick of  things as quickly as possible…

Of course, most of the time, I totally ignore that part.

Thankfully, iTunes totally doesn’t.

A quick click of a button, and I’m good.

Of course, when gratification is so close at hand… I often tend to get super greedy and super click-y. Which is all fine and dandy since I totally get the pay to play aspect of this relationship…

Matter of fact, I embrace it.

What I don’t embrace, however, is the silly system that lets me click and click (and click and click and click) and doesn’t bother to charge me until a week or two down the road…

In one freaking giant lump sum.

That I have to hide like a bad gambling debt.

And consider selling either a liver or a really good time to make up for it.

4.  Chick Checking Herself Out in Rearview Mirror

Yeah, honey, that Bump-it is still on your head… and it doesn’t look any better than you thought it did when you left the house this morning…

And your friend there? The one telling you how cute it is and that you’ve never looked better and recommended that you wear it with the spandex-esque skirt?

She’s what we southern ladies call an ‘bold-faced lying uber-cunt’.

5.  … And Goddemmit, could it be any freaking hotter?

“Hey Dad, what’cha doing?”

“Watching that new Spartacus show on Starz… Have you been watching it?”

“Nah… I haven’t had a chance yet. How is it?”

“It’s pretty good. Lots of fighting, lots of blood. Good stuff.”

“Yeah, I heard that Lucy Lawless is really good in it too…”

“Lucy Lawless? Which one is she? The tall red head?”

“Lucy Lawless, Dad. You know… Xena: Warrior Princess.”

“Xena… hell, that is her! You mean to tell me that I’ve been waiting to see that woman’s titties for over ten years and I’ve been looking at them all month and didn’t even know it?”

“Yep.”

“Well shit.”

But when I sat down to type it up, I realized that I’ve already used it already.

Which totally screws up my sense of creativity, let me tell ‘ya.

So instead of dazzling you with a spiffy title and whatnot and whosit, I’m just going to go ahead and tell you that this is a post about…

[da da dum]

Peer Pressure.

Yes, dear reader, peer pressure.

Peer Pressure.

That thing of lore that *supposedly* turns the world to gateway drugs, murder, mayhem, and forn-i-ca-tion. The thing that leads us down the wrong paths, around the wrong bend, and, occasionally, in my case, on the wrong guy. That thing that makes even the best of us into mere sheep.

We’re far too sensitive.

Baaaah.

I’ve been getting flack from the world at large about That Middle One’s hair since he turned two. With him now at six, I can’t tell you the number of times people have said,

“What a pretty little girl…”

“And what’s her name?”

“He? Oh, I thought he was a girl.”

“Little boys do not have long hair… you really should cut it.”

…all things that I’ve used to further strengthen my  “Reasons Your Mom Says That You Shouldn’t Listen to Other People” speech that I give my children at least thirty times per school year. Thesis of said speech being, of course, “The majority of people are stupid.”

(Yes. I tell my kids that people are stupid. You should totally appreciate the honesty.)

Which begs the question of why I’ve gone and done this:

Yes, I’ve gone and shorn my child. (Shorn, sheep… get it? Hehe. )

Truth be told, the kindergartners gave us all a bit of an unexpected pause with how often they brought up his long hair this past year– going so far as to push my kid in the girl’s bathroom at one point. (Thankfully, my kid’s got an awesome sense of humor and wasn’t bothered in the least by this.) And the teachers (outside of his classroom) didn’t seem to be much better, often referring to him as a “she” or “her”.

With That Middle One being OBVIOUSLY a boy in looks and stereotypical behavior, we, as a family, spent many a conversation laughing over the stupidity of them all.

So if my kid happened to look down his nose at you in a manner that clearly stated that he thought he was better than you… He was probably right.

And too mannered to call you stupid to your face.

So, again,  why did I cut his hair even though I swore I wouldn’t?

Was it the peer pressure? The grandmothers nagging my ear off? The school chums and the bathroom doors? The silly teachers without an eye in their head?

Nope.

It was a stray flea that found its way to my kid’s hair sometime during his bout of rolling around in the front yard like a puppy on crack.

A FLEA.

IN MY KID’S HAIR.

And quite frankly, dear reader, Judith freaked the FUCK out (profanity is fully proper under the circumstances, I assure you), loaded her kid in the car, and did not pass GO as she went straight to her sister’s house where we sat in a plastic chair on the front yard like a scene straight out of  You Might be a Redneck If... and proceeded to cut off my child’s beautiful, heretofore, sacred mane.

Paranoia… when Peer Pressure simply doesn’t cut it.

Quite literally, in this case.

Watching his shiny hair fall in huge clumps to the grass at my feet, hoping to make the best of a bad situation, I made the suggestion that an awesomely spiked  mohawk might be “just the thing”..  we could dye it blue or green or even pink… everybody would think it was cool… yada yada (Plus, I’ve always wanted a little mohawked kid or two to tote about all fashionable-like)…

To which my child promptly tilted his head, looked down his nose at me, and said,

No.

Which, to my ears, sounded awfully a lot like,

Stupid.

Which to my parental pride, sounded surprisingly like a

Boo Yah.

Which in my heart said that it’s time to set my grasshopper free to wreak havoc upon the world, methinks.

First grade better watch it.

Sorry I’ve been a neglectful sort here recently… But things stay pretty pear-shaped around here these days. I’m determined to be more thoughtful. Until I do so, however, here’s a little inspiration for your next visit to the in-laws.

And if you happen to like your in-laws (against all that is holy, of course)…

I’d be glad to give you the number to mine.

“To the back…”

“Why?”

“Because you keep looking at me like you want me to die.”

Humph. I guess someone ate his shredded wheat this morning.

When we were little girls, my mother always told us that bringing wildflowers inside the house would make us pee in the bed.

I think I was sixteen before I realized that that wasn’t at all true…

And what a deviously clever mother I had.

My children, unfortunately, are obviously much smarter than me.

Demmit.

The Baby’s name was going to be Emily.

Emily Ellis Bell Shakespeare.

Totally pretentious and totally perfect…

Except for the fact that she’d probably end up in a classroom with 12 other Emilys…

And her Valentine’s Day Cards would be addressed to “Emily¹²“.

Which would totally screw with my unoriginal sense of unoriginality.

And we just couldn’t have that.

(For the record, I was all for calling her Ellis. Otherpeoplewhowillnotbenamed pitched a hissy and wouldn’t give an inch– no matter how many times I explained favorite book and pseudonyms and women authors and countless Gawddammit, I’ll be pushing this monster out of my delicate bits while you’ll no doubt be eating Burger King and chatting on the phone as if there’s not a little thing like a HUMAN BEING coming out of my vagina and when is your vasectomy appointment again…s.)

So I named her after Elvis.

And refuse to pass by any editions of  Wuthering Heights not currently gracing my bookshelves.

I picked this one up today… The cover art is by Ruben Toledo, and it seems as if he has done an entire collection of classics for Penguin.

I’m totally in love…

And am determined to PACE myself in the spending of all of my money in order to get them all.

But then…

Determination isn’t at all original, now is it?

Not any run of the mill type mother though… more along the lines of the scheduling, uber-organized, “I’ve had a slew of children and could do this with my eyes closed and my hands tied to the doorknob with old shoestrings”  type of mother who would have no problem taking me in hand and teaching me how to sleep as normal people do.

Normal.

Heh.

It seems as if my body has decided to finally push me off that rocky ledge of sanity that I’ve been precariously balanced at the edge of for years by forgetting how to sleep.

Yes, dear reader, I’ve forgotten how to sleep.

And if the random bouts of woolgathering and inappropriate daydreams about purple rainstorms, Chuck Bass, and Jesus are any indication, I’m fairly certain that it’s making me CRAZY. (Dude- I can totally hear what you’re thinking right now… and, frankly, it hurts my feelings. A lot.)

Random fact: Alot is a town and nagar panchayat in the Ratlam district of Madhya Pradesh, India. A lot is the amount of times that I’ve managed to set my kitchen on fire by boiling water.

Granted, I’ve always been the  night owl… Needing a bit of peace from the roar of the maddening crowd that is my progeny (plus the man) (and the cat) (oh and the little dog that grew three feet and fifty pounds in a week too), the quiet found in that lovely space between midnight and 3 a.m. has always been a haven of sorts.

Now, however, thanks to a bout of asinine flu that put me severely behind on work and various other obligations that have me, well, obligated, that lovely space of three hours has become a hectic gap of four or five.

By the time that I am finished with whatever project it is that I set out to accomplish, I am, of course, too wired for sleep…

So I read.

A book.

A book that I can’t put down until I am finished- regardless if I’ve already read it a dozen times before. (Dude? Can still hear you over here.)

Which puts me just about the time that the kids need to be up and readied for school- the time that is supposed to mark the beginning of my day and the beginning of this obviously vicious circle of purple rains, Chuck Basses, and Jesuses (Jesi?)…

Which isn’t at all as fun as it sounds, believe it or not. (Although I won’t argue its potential.)

And since I can’t tightly swaddle and hold myself down in order to force a bit of much needed rest as easily as one might hope…

I need a mother, methinks.

One who could handle the situation with her eyes closed and her hands tied to the doorknob with old shoestrings.

One who has a slew of children and has seen this all before.

One who would tell me to quit all of this infernal whining, put down the damn book, close my eyes and go to gawddamned sleep already.

One who…

Oh…

Yeah.

Nevermind.

Days go by so very quickly when I have so very much to do.

Straight-up and bedraggled, my hair is starting to look like the hair of a crazy cat woman.

Very telling, that.

Must find time for flat iron before someone sees me. A little mascara wouldn’t hurt either.

I worry about the wrinkles in their clothes and the scuff marks on their shoes, what they ate for dinner…

Fiber counts and sugar highs

Too much television. Too little math.

Homework took three hours last night, and there are dishes in the sink, and I still need to work.

Bills. Bills. Bills.

I worry about the rent, about the electricity, about the various ends and outs of it being just me.

The ends and outs of choosing some sort of man-child who doesn’t worry about those sorts of things, who thinks that responsibility is an island off the coast of Africa.

Who leaves things like worry and bills to me.

Who never takes me anywhere…

Especially not to Africa.

“I’ll take myself,” I say, “just as soon as these bills are paid.”

Just as soon as the clothes are ironed.

Just as soon as dinner is made, and the dishes are done, and I feed the dog…

“The dog loves me more,” I explain, “because I feed him first thing in the morning and don’t force him to entertain an empty belly whilst waiting upon the whims of man-children.”

I sympathize with his plight.

Very telling, that.

Deep breaths are hard to come by…

Especially when you forget to breathe.

Pocket Buddha says, “Peace.”

And I do my damnedest to listen.