Diary of a Mad Woman

Yeah ya right, brah!

2015-11-03T08:16:00.001-06:00

(Note: I wrote this last year and didn't publish it because I thought it was dumb.)

Every year I promise myself that I’m going to write a Christmas letter to myself, so that when I unpack the boxes the following year, I’ll be greeted with this lovely wave of nostalgia - a yardstick of sorts to assess our growth. I never do it. But somehow you muthas have convinced me to stop hoarding all the words, so voila. My Christmas letter to myself is now my Christmas letter to you, as promised.

I can’t even describe how hard this is now—publishing the words. I'm not sure when I became so vulnerable. I think it's something that just happened when I started morphing into a real human again. The grief was like a protective armor, and I'm nothing if not resourceful. I wore the armor out of necessity, but was almost giddy at the invisible shield it provided. I was never good at stopping the words from coming out anyway, and then you lovely humans took sight of my shield and bestowed me with this platform. It's no wonder the Diary became a beautiful collaboration.

My darling boys are now 13, 8 and 5. My face hurts when I type that, because my smile is so wide. God I could not love them an inch more. They just burst my heart wide open. I'm doing it, madpeople. I'm succeeding. Even when I'm not.

My big darling teenager boy is such a source of pride for me right now. In every aspect, he is just blooming and blossoming. His little boy-ness is completely gone, and I pray that I was able to extract every drop of it before it disappeared. With age I see him honing his wit. His subtle humor keeps me gliding most days. I always thought him to be so much like Dave. With Dave out of the picture, I see myself in him more and more. He is resourceful in the way that he uses his humor and shakes off the bullshit. I'm teaching. He's learning. Right now I think we're getting an "A-" in life. To that I say, “Fuck math.”

The middle darling and mini-me is now 8. The child has zero filter and feels all the feelings. He is fire. I didn't learn how to channel those feelings as a child, and my early adulthood was so tumultuous because of it. I would never take any of that back though, because those years provided the basis for nearly all of the hysterically insane stories I now tell about myself. I still feel compelled to teach him to lasso the emotions. I'm pretty sure I will have zero success because, like me, he already knows everything. It's a trip to look into a kid's eyes and see your very own. He's so gregarious; everyone loves his personality. He tricks people into thinking he's always smiling. I don't even mind that he saves the explosions for me. He whistles like an old man, always reminding me of my dad. I can't help but smile.

The littlest darling who was not even two yet when Dave died, is now 5. His chubby cheeks are finished, the dimples on the backs of his hands are gone, and with him I feel it all slipped away....and I know I didn't extract every drop. This causes my heart to feel injured. The lump in my throat starts to hurt. There’s no turning back. He's got no memory of Dave, so he makes up his own. Out of desperation, I allow it. Oddly it seems to affect him more, because he doesn't have the memories to cling to like the other boys. When I finally started to date again, I realized that his little heart was so desperate. The first time my boyfriend entered my kitchen, little darling announced that we should go put flowers on daddy's grave. A few days later my boyfriend fixed my dishwasher. To my bewilderment, he did this with little darling perched on his shoulders. When he left, baby darling kissed him and told him he loved him. I held my breath. It was quite overwhelming and surprising, although I acted like I hardly noticed. The boyfriend took it in stride. I was worried it would be too much. I texted him later and said, "I know this is alot, all this baggage, all these kids." His response? "We all have baggage, J. You don't get to be this age without it, do you? I wouldn't care if you had 20 kids."

I shan’t say more about the BF, except that he calls me his ‘enchantress’ and he speaks French, softly in my ear. Is there really even anything else to know? Perhaps one day I will tell him about the diary. Then I will immediately regret it. My male friends assure me the diary would captivate any man. I say I shall be judged in the here and now. His natural affinity for words and language is so like my own, so I can only assume he would understand the creative thrill. We share the same sarcastic humor as well. But I believe it is ill advised to hand over the sarcastic musings of your alter ego on the first date. Or the hundredth date. Or ever. I know in my heart that my happy ending exists. Never have I even considered that it’s not a possibility. I exist. Therefore I know it does.

Oh for fucks sake though, have I convinced you that we moved to this enchanted grassy knoll where little dwarves do our laundry? I shall just throw in a scene from last week, so that you'll be assured that in my absence from you we did not turn into some people you would pin under the “muthafuckas to be like” category. (Listen, if you are new to me and I just jolted you out of your chair…I curse to keep the pearl clutchers away. I get nervous when too many people read this.)

Big darling was conducting some business in the bathroom, with the door ajar about an inch. (I’ve learned to resist any reference to the term ‘shit magnet, by the way. The universe is LISTENING.) Little darling, who currently has a spitting 'issue', had just spit in middle darling's face. Middle darling punched him in the back, and a chase ensued. I happened upon them just outside the bathroom. The two littles were screaming about the spit and the back-punch, and the big one was displeased that the fracas was occurring too close to the bathroom door. By this time the door had been pushed ajar further. I hastily decided that this spit was the last straw, and the spitter would be taught a lesson. I grabbed the little darling's head between my hands, and carefully positioned it in front of middle darling's face. "Spit back at him!" I screamed. At once all eyes stared back at me, perfectly round and wide. Time stood still. I took note of the faces I could see. Big darling on the throne, in total shock but with the corners of his mouth beginning to curl into a smile. Middle darling, who at first thought he was in trouble. It took him more than a second or two to process that I was commanding him to spit back in the little guy's face. Then he too suppressed his smile as I watched him slowly gather the saliva in his mouth. The little guy sensed what was coming and started to buck, but I was holding him firmly. And then, BAM. Mostly on my hands, but his face was still splattered.

I still mostly have no clue what I'm doing. But my heart is pure and I'm parenting these boys the best way I can. It's still a happy house. They break something every day, it seems. They're messy. They exhaust me. But they've grown to know and appreciate my limits. They know when to scatter and when to hug and when to plant tender kisses on my tear stained cheeks cause I've just had enough.

I’m 46 years old and I do feel like I finally know the secret. The secret is that the world is your genie. It’s all yours for the taking. Visualize it, open your heart to it, declare it and then receive it. Too often my life is a blur and I can’t focus on anything. But it’s a big mistake. I know I need to slow my roll, and so do you. There’s no better investment in our time.

Our Christmas tree topper. We don’t have a star on top. I can’t find one I like. This annoys big darling, the funny yet subtle one. Yes, it’s a sock.

Hasta La Vista, Baby....

2013-10-09T10:20:00.000-05:00

Oh madpeople. I’ve made a decision. This will be my last blog post.

From the very beginning, I always said that I would wake up one day and pull the plug on the madness without warning. That day is today. It’s right now. For many reasons and for none at all. I’ve been so tempted to do it for the past six months. The only reason I have not is because I am still contacted weekly by other suicide widows, and I know my words are helping them to feel saner. I still want that to be the case, only it will have to be in a different venue. It can’t be here, on the web.

You see, I’m turning into a real person. I’m not a cartoon anymore. So it's time for Chardonnay to hang up the pom-pom marching boots.

So many people asked me about the anticipated book last weekend at the MMM. I’m blown away that you would read it. Blown away that you enjoy my words. Blown away at the number of people who have read the blog. Blown away that so many of you made the trip to party with me and the muthas.

But in my new life, as a real person and not a cartoon character, I’m going to do real people things. Like possibly date people and be normal and get a job. I hear it is ill advised to hand over the sarcastic musings of your alter ego on the first date. I tend to agree with this assessment.

I’ve always been a bit of a mystery girl, so this should not surprise anyone who knows me well.

Until we meet again….love and light and laughter. Especially laughter. It really has been the best medicine, hasn’t it madpeople? Just look at what it’s done for me…….

It's ok to fail. But failure is not an option!

2013-08-21T13:37:00.001-05:00

For fucks sake, my head is spinning. One minute we were at the beach trying to decide whether to eat the watermelon now or at dinner, and the next minute I’m careening through the air, having been shot out of a live cannon. This is how I know it's the first week of school.

When I put the kids to bed last night baby darling hugged me and said, “Thank you for being a good girl today.” That obviously means I stayed on green all day, without once moving my car to the yellow or red portion of the stoplight behavior chart. This is more than I can say for my beloved mini-me, who is now in first grade and already missed a recess for misbehaving in music. “He’s nothing like his older brother!” the teacher chuckled. Lady, I’ve been trying to warn the establishment of this for five years.

I swear to all things that are holy that I will be a good mom this school year. Which means that I will now embrace the popular bipolar parenting strategy, otherwise known as “ruining my kids.” This morning after an hour long conversation with the #2 mutha, it was decided that we should write instructions to ourselves on index cards, for handy reference when that first “D” or “F” test is found hidden in the back of the folder.

Apparently screaming, “Do you want to live in a filthy ditch under the interstate when you grow up?” is not good for the children’s self esteem. These types of comments should always be followed by the mixed message goodnight tuck-in, which might go something like this: “Look, so what, you made an F. You’re an awesome, smart boy. Everybody loves you. Try your best and you’ll pull your grade up in no time. We’ll study together.” That’s right. And if you don’t, you can just live with mommy forever. Who cares? I’ll be a lonely, cat lady by then anyway.

Getting this stuff right is so hard. Especially when ‘what is right’ changes every day. One day you are to push and encourage and demand that they stand out from the pack. Be the best! The next day you are to be accepting and allow the child to establish his own personality and identity. You are to study with them, and teach them good studying habits. Oh no! That was last week. These children are old enough to be responsible for their own lessons. Studying with them will make them unable to study on their own. Just take the video games away so they won’t have violent tendencies. Great! Now they don’t have any friends and can’t pick up M&Ms because their hand/eye coordination is so horrible. Feed them whole grains! That white bread will make them fat and stupid! Don’t you know anything, moron? Grains are the devil! Stop eating all grains. Try quinoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa! I’m sorry I must draw the line with quinoa. Especially now that I know it’s not even pronounced kwin-o-a. It’s keen-wa. Which is why I can never eat it. Because I’m not saying “keen wa.” It’s too stupid.

Honestly, I think I'll just keep flying by the seat of my pants. My parents didn’t have a fucking clue what they were doing…and look at me. I’m the sanest person I know.

The only thing that’s really easy is loving them. I’m good at that part. It's easy enough to apologe when I yell out the ‘f’ word and say that thing about living under the interstate. It really is ok to fail. I’ve failed a lot and I’m still not living under the interstate.

Guest Post for HotMessMom.com

2013-08-04T10:06:00.002-05:00

The Hot Mess is holding a gun to my head, yelling, “Type, type! Move your fingers, skinny bitch!”

Ahhh. Just kidding. I’m here because I’ve got madwoman lurve for her. When she first asked for a guest post I said, “Are you facking kidding me? I don’t even post on my own blog anymore?”

And that’s why this is perfect, right? Since the topic she suggested was “My love/hate relationship with my blog.” At first, I decided to just ignore her. But then I got scared she was going to tackle me and punch me in the tit at the MILF March in September. She's going to anyway.

So, here's the real truth about why I don't really post anymore. I started Diary of a Madwomanbecause out of sheer madness not very long ago I found myself randomly typing weird shit like “my husband is dead” into google. I could barely see the screen through my tears. You know what my search returned? A whole lotta jack. Nothing! Dear God, I’m the only one! I can relate to NO ONE. I’m a freak. Nobody gets it. NOBODY FUCKING GETS IT, YA HURD ME??!!

And so I started screaming and bashing my fingers into the keyboard. And the Diary was born. It was insanely therapeutic. Immediately, people started showing up, by the thousands. One morning I spent about 15 minutes writing “How Not to be an Asshole When You Grow Up” while I sat at my kitchen counter. Ten thousand people had read it by that afternoon. Watching that page counter flip numbers in rapid succession was like watching the gas pump, except it was incredibly thrilling! The truth is, I still didn’t think it was good. 700,000 readers later and these numbers impress me zero. Because some blogs have two million. Or four million.

There are some unwritten rules if you wish to be successful in social media. Relentless marketing helps. Other rules involve being politically correct, not cursing too much, not being too opinionated, staying in the middle lane, and accepting the fact that facebook censors.

Gag me with a Volatile flip flop.

I’m not ok with any of that. I try to be a middle of the road kind of person, but it harms me and I have reason to believe it might give me cancer. I’m a ‘push the envelope’ type of girl. What can I say? Not everyone appreciates that.

So the Diary is sometimes left waning. A victim of not being perfect. Add to that the embarrassing number of "mom blogs" floating around the internet. Oh my God! Please arrest and jail all those tired writers! I shan't be associated. I just can't. I'm too scared someone might call this a mom blog.

But I love writing. My writing is best when I am not trying to please anyone. Many times I reluctantly decide that the writing is too scary for you. Sometimes a whole awesome, touching, raw, emotional and funny yet scathing blog cannot be published because I fear the impact it would have on a single certain person. It’s various people at various times, depending on the subject. It could be Dave’s family, or his friends, or maybe my own family. Many times it’s the pearl clutchers. I imagine them clutching their pearls and speaking in hushed tones when I breeze past them in a dress that might be showing cleavage. “Did you read what she wrote?”

I mostly don’t care what people think but I’m also a realist. I have to live with the ramifications of the published words. It’s easy to step into my Madwoman alter ego and fling the words around. It’s harder to press the ‘publish’ button when I see my real name sitting up in the corner. I kick myself every day that I didn’t do this on the sly. A pseudonym. Just some random crazy bitch. But the story of the kidnapping and robbery on the morning of the funeral would have found me. Because who the fuck else has that ever happened to? Was that shit even real?

The blog neglect is shameful because it causes the blog to be buried deeper and deeper into the sea of words that is the internet. I do fervently WISH for it to be accessible to those who find themselves where I was that fateful evening….eyes red and swollen, throat burning from screaming, desperate to hear the real truth from a real person speaking real words. I’m humbled that the serious words have saved lives and changed lives. And tickled that the comical aspect serves as proof that if you maintain a good attitude and a sense of humor you will never suffer longer than necessary. Because suffering is for pussies.

Cue the pearl clutching.

Random funny ecard courtesy of The Klonopin Chronicles

If It Purrs, RUN!

2013-07-08T22:58:00.001-05:00

Welp. D-Day is behind us. We survived unscathed. I am getting so good at this, and I feel proud of myself. This year, I just simply refused to let it bother me. Refused to get anxious over it. Refused to give it air time. So take that, universe. This mutha will not be held hostage by the calendar. We'll see how the next few days go. Sometimes the gods trick me into thinking I’ve escaped their wrath, only to reach down low and grab me by the ankle after I get a few steps away.

Things were getting sort of monotonous around here, and I also have a strict rule against staying here on D-Day, just in case I suddenly lose my faculties and decide to lie down on the garage floor where he died to practice my crying, choking and screaming. So we booked a last minute vacation to a very overbooked part of the world. The beach. When I say overbooked I mean that I had the CEO of 15,000 rental properties personally looking for a cancellation. At 11:08 a.m. I was alerted by one of the futha’s to the very last condo available all the way from Orange Beach, AL to Panama City Beach, FL and by 4:00 p.m. we had toes in the sand. Don’t ever get in a packing race with me.

I made several observations at the beach. First of all, some of you men folk still have not read the memo regarding back hair. Women hate it. Shave that shaggy shoulder fro. Also, people need to get better tattoos. Getting tattoos is like designing and decorating your home, permanently. Mostly that’s best left to the professionals. You can’t just throw random shit all over and expect it to look nice. Also, I was the only woman my age wearing a two piece bikini bathing suit. This causes me to feel slightly uncomfortable and whorish. For about 2 seconds.

I thought a lot about my own fuckups too. Lord knows there are many to choose from involving much more than cosmetic flaws. Where did I go wrong with Dave? What red flags did I ignore?

The very first red flag is kind of funny, and Dave would kick my ass for telling this story if he were alive, but alas, this is what you get when you leave yourself defenseless against a scorned woman who likes to bang her fingers into a keyboard.

It was very early in our dating. We were both about 30 I guess. He had practically moved in with me from the beginning…not really his stuff but himself. I never asked him to stay or any of that…but I guess it didn’t bother me very much or I would have said something, like please leave. Anyway, I had plans with friends one night. He wasn’t invited or didn’t want to go, I can’t really remember. So I went out and had a good time and returned home around midnight or one to find his mom running around my house like a chicken with her head cut off. “He spiked a fever!” she is exclaiming in a very fast and nervous tone. Mind you, he is fucking 30.

Oh my God. I’m immediately thinking this wussy ass better be dead or dying, or this is really, really a bad sign. First of all, spiked a fever? Who says that? I hate that saying. Please just say he has fever. I quickly ascertained that he was mildly ill with a slight fever. Oh No. Disastrous. He has called his mommy. This is not exactly tough guy material. No. This is immediate break up material is what this is! Why is this mother here? Did this kitty cat really call his mom to come over because he didn't feel well?

She has brought soup, and a thermometer, and he is on the couch, wrapped up in blankets. She is hovering all over him, and I’m extremely alarmed. I’m not alarmed that he is sick. I am alarmed that I think I suddenly hate him. She is talking so fast and I’m working overtime in a rather inebriated state to just block out everything she is saying. I’m catching bits and pieces of the drama. He called…he said you went out….he needed help….he felt so bad.

I’m pretty sure I just stared at them. My annoyed stare face is not very subtle. She finally left and I went to bed and closed the door. In the morning I didn’t ask him how he felt. As soon as he felt better, I think I told him I needed a break and he needed to go home for a while.

When I tell this story to other women, they laugh like there is no tomorrow. Why is this funny?

I can’t imagine that I didn’t break up with him. Luckily he had some overriding good traits. He never knew that one moment was almost a deal breaker.

Let that be a lesson to you young girls. And mental note to teach baby darling that once he starts dating he must never call me unless he’s in an ambulance.

Time to get right

2013-06-25T11:52:00.000-05:00

This week my kids entered a special boot camp I’ve created out of desperation. It’s called 1976. Remember what we did in the summer of ’76? Bell bottoms, feathered hair, tube socks and these songs.

More importantly, in 1976, we climbed trees, drank from the hose, rode bikes, walked to Time Saver for Bubblicious and pop rocks, and played hide and go seek with the neighborhood kids, usually well into the night. Funny how none of us were kidnapped, raped or maimed, despite not wearing helmets and our parents not having a clue where we were.

We were not allowed to sloth around in the house all day. My mom’s favorite saying was “Go outside.”

There weren’t elaborate cooked meals for lunch. We ate baloney sandwiches. We weren’t aware of other options, like fancy pita breads, grilled Panini sandwiches, and various meat and cheese selections. Our choice of baloney was with olives or without.

There was no Minecraft, no Xboxes, no cable TV, and no IPhones. Therefore, none of these things are present in the 1976 camp. I’m debating whether I will force them to play frogger. Remember our version of Minecraft? It was called “Adventure”…it was the game with the dragons…they chased you through those ‘castles’ and you had to find that secret key.

The reason for the camp is because my kids are asses.

I’ve spent 30 days carting them around to festivals and parties. They’ve been to water parks and to the movies. Bowling and miniature golf. They’ve eaten from cool food trucks and have been to several restaurants. They spent a day in the French Quarter and have been to the Museum of Art.

I’ve finally come to the realization that none of this matters. They fight and whine and act unappreciative. And I’m sick of it.

I was so sick of them last week that at one point I actually refused to feed them. You think I’m kidding? The muthas were quite amused with this fracas.

They always get a good snack after swimming. On one particular day, they wanted hashbrowns and eggs with fresh tomatoes and bacon. They’re accustomed to the waitstaff here. I smirked and told them hell no.

I refused to feed them. I told them I wasn’t preparing another meal until they helped me clean the ENTIRE house. Then I told them as soon as they ate their snack, they were heading outside. FOR THE DAY. They were not to come inside until dark.

They whined that they would be hot and thirsty. I reminded them that they have a pool and a fridge stocked with water and juice boxes. A far cry from riding my bike all sweaty with a red face in 1976 and drinking from the hose. I mean seriously, did we even have trees for shade back then?

The day was quite amusing. They swam. They rode bikes. They dug holes in the yard. They picked tomatoes. They caught bugs. They walked to the park. They brought rocks home from the railroad tracks. They found old paint in the basement and painted the rocks. They did not fight. They did not whine. And I did not spend a dime. It was a jackass free zone.

Somehow, we were all righted.

Now, go here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DX7qvrG9vhc

You’re welcome. Enjoy your right side up day.

There's No Cryin In Rock 'n Roll

2013-06-15T11:20:00.000-05:00

Well madpeople, father’s day is upon us and my heart is bleeding for my precious boys. I’m the ultimate over-compensater. I can spin a bad situation into a lighthearted one, I can force my way through deep shit like a mad bull. My head is high and my heart is joyful, mostly. But I’m still just a chick. A mutha. I’m not a man. I’m not a daddy. I can’t replace him. And it’s so unfair.

These kids are the best. They are sweet and gentle and kind and funny and so full of love. They deserve to be sandwiched between a mom and a dad. They deserve to play football and baseball and soccer in the yard with their dad. They deserve to learn from a good man how to treat a woman, how to be a husband, how to be a provider. And they’ll have none of it. Not a lick. And it makes a part of me die inside.

I try not to freak out because I know surely there must exist men who achieved greatness despite not having a father. I know books have been written and statistics charted that say my boys are likely to be deficient in some way, solely due to their lack of a father figure. I desperately want to believe that my love, my passion, will make it untrue.

I once boasted that my love was not regular. Someone once told me that knowing me was like knowing fire. I try to convince myself that I can be everything they need. Deep inside I feel it’s untrue.

I don’t need him. I really don’t. But they do. The brutal agony turns to anger so that I can function. I know what to do with anger. I don’t know what to do with agony. The anger fuels me. The agony destroys me. This is one of the benefits of being a suicide survivor. The anger props you up, nudges you. I’m the best when someone tells me I can’t do something.

I’m sobbing now, but not hysterically because my boys are in the next room. We’re going to my dad’s today, to get what little bit of dadness we can swipe in a short time. The big boys recently discovered an affinity for Lynyrd Skynyrd, so we’re going to dry the tears, open the roof and crank it up loud on the way. There’s no crying in rock n roll.

This was sent straight from Dave today...give it a whirl. A little Freebird is good for the soul.

If I leave here tomorrow
Would you still remember me?
For I must be traveling on, now
'Cause there's too many places I must see

If I stayed here with you, girl
Things just couldn't be the same
'Cause I'm as free as a bird now
And this bird you cannot change

And the bird you cannot change
And the bird you cannot change
Lord knows, I can't change

Bye, bye, it's been a sweet love
Though this feeling I can't change
But please don't take it so badly
'Cause Lord knows I'm to blame

But if I stayed here with you, girl
Things just couldn't be the same
Cause I'm as free as a bird now
And this bird you cannot change

I'm the bird you cannot change
And this bird you cannot change
Lord knows, I can't change
Lord help me, I can't change

Oh, I can't change
Fly free bird

Fuck that day

2013-05-21T15:01:00.001-05:00

I was grocery shopping with all three of the darlings this week. Madpeople, I’m getting so good at this. A man even stopped us to comment that it was nice to see a mom shopping with her kids and not looking completely frazzled and bent, but instead laughing and being happy and calm. My response was to laugh. I clearly remember blogging about being completely overwhelmed and fighting with assholes in the store last year. I think it took me a solid year and a half to get used to being a single mom.

When we arrived at the display which holds the hummus and cheese, I reached down and pulled out a tub of hummus, and checked the date as I normally do. Good till July 5, 2013. Immediately an electrical shock ran through me and I felt my asshole quiver. D=Day. Son.Of.A.Bitch.

I’ll count this as my first warning that D-Day is fast approaching, no matter what I do. There’s no stopping the calendar. The arrival of June brings our wedding anniversary, Father’s Day, Dave’s birthday, and then D-Day…all in a span of 30 days. On my next shopping excursion I need to buy some big girl panties to get ready for the onslaught. Maybe this year I’ll go for a nice thong. I’ma try not to wear depends and be in the fetal position with a pack of lit cigarettes in my mouth and one of those silly drinking hats on…you know the kind that holds a gallon of Tito’s vodka and has two straws going directly into your word hole?

Yesterday I was lying on the bed with the littlest darling. He’s so insanely cute that I was trying to figure out how to just eat him up. I was tickling him and he was laughing the cutest laugh that has ever fallen over the earth. Then all of sudden “Dave” flashed across my mind. It was intense. I quickly pushed it away, as I am so good at doing. I didn’t skip a beat….I said nothing….just kept laughing and tickling. In that instant baby darling went from laughing to crying. Just like that. I scooped him up and asked him what was wrong. “I miss daddy” he cried. Shivers. The veil was lifted for an instant. We are still too wounded.

The two littles are already done with school, and big darling has only a couple days left. I’m so excited to spend summer with these boys. Please remind me of this in August when I am lamenting that I haven’t had four minutes to myself in three solid months and I am mere seconds away from clawing my hair out and running wildly down the street while babbling incoherently. At the very least, remind me to drink more or get a prescription for medical marijuana.

In other news, I stepped on a dead rat while barefoot the other day. Actually, it was just the rat head and tail, the middle part of the body must’ve gotten eaten. I realize this will cause many of you to believe that I live in a garbage dump. I swear I don’t. I had to quickly spray bleach on the bottom of my foot. Then I had to pick up the body parts and throw them away. Ya hurd me? I had to handle a fucking rat. Big darling assisted for moral support and to hold the flashlight. I put my hand inside three plastic bags and picked it up like I see people doing when their dogs shit in my yard. Through three bags, I could still feel the squishy-ness of the rat flesh. Through three bags I still thought I could feel some moist rat guts. I will never get used to doing that kind of thing, and I will curse Dave like a motherfucker every time.

As soon as I walked inside I found baby darling in the bathroom wiping his own ass. Why does baby darling think he’s an ass wiper? He’s always thought he was one. When middle darling used to yell for me to come wipe him, I would have to sprint really fast to the bathroom in order to beat baby darling there. I would usually enter to find him running towards the soiled ass with a piece of toilet paper the size of a dime.

BLESS YOUR HEARTS

2013-04-16T09:35:00.000-05:00

Bless your hearts.

If you are from the South, you likely just read that title in a southern accent, and then you probably smiled. If you’re not from the South, then I almost feel badly that you probably don’t receive these blessings nearly enough. This is Southern Speak. It’s just who many of us are. “She got so drunk she lost her shoe, bless her heart.” I’m not sure any of us really put great thought into what the word bless means. We’re just southerners. We bless people. Around here, black people always tell me to “Have a blessed day.” I love that! I love being blessed. I love feeling the positive energy from a fellow person spilling over into my own personal energy field and offering a soothing vibration.

Here in Louisiana, we even have a special blessing-type slogan regarding our football team, the Saints. It’s “Bless You Boys!” That’s right. We bless the heck outta those boys. That’s why they kick your asses regularly. Umm hmm. Dat’s right.

Lately I'm more aware that the invention of Facebook has caused the neat and tidy little bubble that I was raised in to burst. I’m not sorry about it. It’s good to know stuff. Good to expand your world. I’ve realized that some people don’t appreciate ‘blessings.’

In fact, they are downright offended by ‘blessings.’

This photo appeared on my feed yesterday. It was posted by a friend.

It’s a traffic sign on the Causeway over Lake Pontchartrain. The first comment about the photo was from an agnostic person, who posted to say that he was OFFENDED by this sign. He cited the separation of Church and State provision. He asked what about the people who don’t use blessings. Of course I responded by saying something that I LOVE TO SAY…”It’s called freedom OF religion, not freedom FROM religion.”

I couldn’t help but wonder why this person was so bothered that some highway workers wanted to offer blessings and good tidings to the people of Boston. People are DEAD. An 8 year old child is DEAD. That hurts my heart in a special, stabby kind of way. It causes me to get that familiar hurt-y lump in my throat, and then I breathe fast and wonder if I shouldn’t take my kids to the Jazz Fest or any large sporting events. I am immediately reminded of the trauma we all lived through here in this house. I'm acutely aware that these families will be facing similar trauma. And I know without a shadow of a doubt that the blessings and good tidings and well wishes and positive vibrations from others are indeed what carried us through a period where we could not have been left alone. We would have certainly survived without those blessings. But don’t we want more than to merely exist?

I’m here to tell you all that I’m offended that you’re offended!

That’s right. Ya hurd me? I’m OFFENDED that you are OFFENDED.

Here’s the thing. A blessing is really the same thing as saying “Good tidings”. No one is asking you to kneel down and pray, heathens. We are simply spreading good will.

I’ve heard many agnostic people stating that they are ‘not bad people’. They are not harboring evil. They just don’t believe in what others believe in, and they don’t want to pray or be around people who pray. And to that, I say, “OK.” Sounds fine with me. I will refrain from kidnapping you and tying you up with jump ropes and driving you to my Catholic Church and asking you to kneel down and pray. Yeah, I’m gonna stop doing that to people, okay? Because to each his own, right?

But I am not going to stop blessing people. I’m going to keep saying GOD BLESS YOU when you sneeze and expel that demon and I’m going to keep saying BLESS HIS HEART, HE’S SUCH A PRICK, and I’m going to keep bursting with happy when black ladies tell me to HAVE A BLESSED DAY. Sometimes, I even pretend I’m black, because I almost am, and I say HAVE A BLESSED DAY too.

Why be so offended by those who wish to release good vibrations into the universe? Are we brave enough to ask people to stop spreading joy? After all, our prayers and blessings are joyful. After yesterday, are we brave enough? After Connecticut, are we brave enough? After all the BAD that is in this WORLD, would you really dare to say no, we do not need these good tidings at all. In fact, let’s try to live with less positive energy in the universe. Less blessings and prayers.

Some agnostics will no doubt say, “The prayers aren’t working!” They will say that Boston and Newtown are proof. And to you I say, how do you know? Might it actually be worse if all these lunaticsweren’t praying and blessing us all up and down and side to side? Have you thought about that? My prayers are not hurting you.

I’m getting pretty damn tired of being asked not to pray. In fact, just to piss you off, I’m praying FOR YOU. That’s right! How ya like me nah?

I’m blessing you. I’m blessing everyone. And I’ma keep doing it. You can’t stop me.

So, GOD BLESS YOU. BLESS YOUR HEART, YOU POOR SOUL WITH ONLY A HORIZONTAL VIEW OF THIS UNIVERSE. HAVE A BLESSED DAY.

How Not To Be An Ass When You Grow Up

2013-04-08T11:28:00.000-05:00

I have these three beautiful boys under my thumb and raising them is a task I take seriously. I want them to be successful adults. Everyone wants that for their kids. But I want more. I want them to be good husbands. In fact, not just good husbands, but incredibly awesome, irresistible, can’t-live-without-you, can-you-believe-this-guy husbands. Only I have to raise them without a husband as a role model, because they don’t have a daddy. It’s suddenly occurring to me that this is not a damning scenario. (Queen of spin.)

If you’ve been reading my blog a while, you know that I have a fear of my geriatric years. Why? Because the women who marry my sons are going to determine whether I’m in a quaint mother-in-law cottage with some pretty flowers and a carafe of fresh water on my bedside table, or whether I succumb to death in a pee smelling nursing home. Nursing homes are full of old men flashing their putrid body parts. I certainly won’t want to see that when I’m 98. I want the cottage, baby. Preferably near the ocean. And to get the cottage, I need to make sure these boys know how to be men. Not just men, but men that the madwoman herself would marry. Who better to teach them how to be awesome men, than a woman who loves men, right? I mean, granted, the madwoman has landed in unfamiliar territory. The madwoman has loved and lost. But, I have extracted superior knowledge from life’s lessons. I know what I like. Hence, the madwoman’s guide to being the perfect man:

1.) Tell the truth. Always. Tell the truth when it hurts. Tell it when it makes you look like a fucking clown. Tell it even when it ruins your day, and hers. Tell it even though the world may crumble and fall apart around you. There is no other option. Truth.

2.) Tell your woman what you love about her. Don’t just say, “I love you.” Everyone says that. If her cooking is extraordinary, tell her. If her ass is to die for, tell her. If you like how it feels when she runs her fingers through your hair, tell her. You can thank me for this later. And you will.

3.) Be a good daddy. Play with your kids. Play with everyone’s kids. Encourage your kids to be like you used to be when you were little. Show them how to climb trees, ride bikes, wrestle and play sports. Build forts with them. Sit down and have tea and dress a baby doll. Your wife is sick of doing this shit. Your kids will think you’re a rock star.

4.) Whatever your career, be good at it. Whether you’re the lawn guy or a rocket scientist, be great. I get that we all can’t be the best, but we can all try damn hard. Being lazy is not sexy. Trying hard is.

5.) Be sexy. Very few women really like the hair on your back and shoulders. If they love you they may lie and say it doesn’t matter. It does. Shave it. And tidy up that cock fro while you have the clippers out.

6.) Burn your copy of Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus. Because that shit is over, that’s why. If you want to slink off to your man cave everyday and pretend you don’t have a family, then go marry a cave woman. This isn’t the fucking stone ages.

7.) Put your family first. Making lots of money is great, being non-existent because of it isn’t. Every day is precious. If you knew this was your last day on earth, would you really work till 7 pm? Would you really stop for drinks on the way home? Would you really just get your kids every other weekend like the court papers say? Or would you come home and wrap yourself up like a pretzel around the ones you love? Any old man will tell you the truth. Ask one what he regrets.

8.) Learn to cook. Cooking is important, since without food we die. Participate in meal planning, like you are shooting the fucking game yourself. Women get overburdened when responsible for every meal.

9.) Learn to be funny. Humor is everything. When your world is spinning out of control, a fucking belly laugh is an anchor. Some people are born comedians. It’s in their genes. If it’s not in your genes, then learn to relax enough to find the funny and laugh at yourself.

10.) Be positive. Find the good in whatever you can. Seek God. If that doesn’t ‘speak to you,’ then find a good vibration and hang on to it for dear life. Negative people suck.

I’m not even going to give a number to ‘don’t be an addict, don’t beat your wife or kids, don’t be a gambler, a cheater, or a thug.’ If you are, I hope your wife leaves you until you come to your senses. Because ‘for better or for worse’ doesn’t mean living under the kind of oppression that comes from living with that shit. Been there. Done it. Survived it. I know what the hell I’m talking about. There is no piece of paper marriage license worth living under the black cloud. Sorry, but it’s true. Get right or get out.

Phase II

2013-03-20T10:41:00.000-05:00

I started writing this blog one year ago. I had no idea why I did it…and to be truthful, I still don’t. Back then I wrote for me, and for me only. Every night I sat here and vomited the words onto the page, and was freed. It was cheaper than therapy. Outside, I didn’t have to answer any questions. Everyone could just read the blog. I didn’t want to lie and say, “We’re fine” to the multitude of people who asked. We weren’t fine. And I’m not a good liar. I was in pain, and was intent on taking everyone down with me. I wanted everyone to feel my pain. I had never known such pain, didn’t realize it even existed, and I didn’t think it was fair to carry the burden alone. I wanted people to know that this could happen to them. I wanted them to know that we started out as just regular people. I was blindsided, and so I offered myself up as the cautionary tale. The blog became my bullhorn.

I’m not sure what I expected, but I sure didn’t think 600,000 people would read it. I wrote most of these posts in 15 minutes or less. I remember back then stumbling upon blogs with thousands of email subscribers and thinking that I would like to be like them. I wanted to have those readers. Now I do. I’ve won blogging contests and awards and have been ranked number one on different sites. And suddenly…..I’m not really sure it’s at all relevant or important.

I’m not sure what my ambivalence means. Maybe it means nothing.

I think right now it just means that other things are more important to me. My kids. Living in the moment. Being more present with them. Moving on to the next phase.

I’m terrified of the next phase. In the next phase, I have to go back to work. I have to make money, rather than just spend it. In the next phase, I have to do what I do with a whole lot less hours in the day. I feel I already have about 10 jobs. Now I’m going to have another one. And I’m scared.

In the next phase, I have to face reality. Because this next phase is going to last a long, long time. Like forever.

It’s hard for me not to blame Dave right now. I always hate him when I’m scared and overwhelmed. It’s his fault. HE should be working. NOT ME. HE should be HELPING ME. Not rotting in a casket.

I’ve been quietly contemplating my next move from the moon lodge. I decided I should consult Dave on what to do, since perhaps he can see things I can’t. I know I’m not that great at taking directions from most people, so I’m not sure why I’m asking a dead person what I should do. “So here’s the deal,” I say. “I need $1,092,000 so that I don’t have to go back to work.” This is no random number. It’s a carefully calculated figure of what I need until baby darling finishes high school. By then surely I will have figured something else out, right?

I bought a lottery ticket. I was quite surprised I didn’t win $1,092,000. I wrote the number down and folded it up carefully and put it in my wallet. I’ve made a few wishes since then, like when it was 3:13 on 3/13/13. Which, by the way, was the day Pope Francis was installed. Expect great things from Pope Francis, whether you are religious or not. I know that he will be great because I unexpectedly cried and got very emotional when he bowed his head and asked the world to pray for him. I prayed for him out loud, as did millions of people in the world simultaneously, and that is a degree of coolness that should not be lost on any conscious person. How often does that happen? Not nearly enough is my answer. That’s a lot of positive energy being released into the universe at one time. I hope you were smart enough to reach out and grab some of it, and then send it on its way. If you missed it, take that moment now. I happen to think the good stuff swirls around for a while, allowing ample time for people to reach out.

Now, where was I? Oh right…consulting dead people.

During the ‘consultation’, I somehow found myself opening this bereavement box, which is really just me trying to sound cool, because it’s a shoebox, for fucks sake. Anyway, it became the resting place for a lot of cards and letters sent to me shortly after the incident. I didn’t torture myself with all that…instead I read a letter I wrote to him in 2009, when I was pregnant for baby darling. We were separated at the time. The letter was very meaningful, because as I read it I realized it was ALL THE WORDS I would have spoken to him had I come upon him standing in the garage with the gun pointed just so.

As I read all the words, I realized that all this time I have really assumed that had he just TOLD ME what was going on, I could have FIXED IT.

No.

I said all the words. All of them. I wrote them down, even. And it didn’t matter. My words didn’t matter. Nothing I did mattered. This was his destiny. To die. His destiny was not to be fixed. Not even by me. The masterful and powerful fixer of all things.

My destiny, I suppose, is to just pick up the pieces. Phase by phase.

In this new phase, I’m not sure what I’m doing with all this social media. I didn’t post a single thing to the facebook page for a solid week. I felt very free. I’m not a good twitterer either. I just don’t like it. So if you want me, you probably need to subscribe to the blog, via email or google connect or whatever those boxes are. I will never not write. Writing frees me. It shows me things I can’t see.

Whether or not I share them…well…I just don’t know anymore.

I wish I could change that I’m a chronic oversharer. That I don’t know how to not say everything out loud. That my best communication occurs via writing.

You know, someone asked me the other day, ‘what my message was’? What is the message I’m selling?

I don’t even know the answer to that, which just really amplifies my current state of being.

I’m in a cocoon. Plotting. Planning. Focusing solely on a means to an end. I’ve received lots of advice over the past few weeks, everything from write a book, go back to school, start a business, or get married. The last one is most definitely not on the table.

Right now, I’m just being quiet. I’m listening. I feel certain a beautiful butterfly will emerge. I’m hopeful.

Until then, my message is to simply carry on. Keep growing. And love. Especially your children.

The Ignorant Serfs

2013-03-07T11:00:00.000-06:00

My children are constantly schooling me. No doubt, they were handed to me for this very reason. Or perhaps I’ve just been watching too many episodes of LOST.

I had a ‘moment’ this morning. I’ve been butting heads with my middle darling for a few days now. He blows everything out of proportion, he assumes the worst is going to happen all the time, he takes a very subtle and unintentional slight and turns it into Mt. Vesuvius.

My knee jerk reaction is always the same. I’ve explained the “mountain vs. a mole hill” scenario too many times. “Pipe down, little fella,” I tell him over and over.

Yet this morning, a light bulb went off in my head. The constant Rubik’s cube twisting and turning in my brain finally brought me to the place where I considered surrendering. Dare I raise the white flag and just let him be? Let the boy be one who questions!

You see, while I’m simultaneously trying to convince him to stop questioning every little thing, I’ve been actually sitting here once again questioning why people in general can be so dumb and unquestioning.

Here’s my Rubik’s cube for this week.

These new compact fluorescent light bulbs contain mercury. No biggie. It only comes out if you drop one and break it. No harm there. If you notice now, there’s a little blurb on the box that says you should “Manage in accordance with Spills, Disposal and Site Cleanup Requirements. In case of breakage, follow cleanup procedures provided by epa.gov.” Wow, suddenly this sounds all serious. If you go to the EPA site, they have this long list of precautions you should take if you break one. Open all doors and windows, move kids and pets out of the room, wear gloves, find a proper disposal site, etc.

Apparently this mercury must be slightly hazardous, right? SO WHY IN THE FACK DO DENTISTS STILL PUT IT IN OUR MOUTHS???

Duh.

Here’s the next one. Toothpaste. Specifically, toothpaste with fluoride. Ever notice that the tube says in case you swallow it, you should contact poison control? Poison control? Really? I caught myself saying to middle darling the other day, “Don’t swallow it, it’s poison!” His eyes got big and he spit it out and he said, “Then why are you letting me put it in my mouth?”

“Why, mommy?”

I had no answer. Because I’m just one of the serfs, I guess. I’m doing what ‘they say’ to do. And I’m not questioning it. Because even if you don’t swallow the toothpaste, you are likely gulping down gallons of it every day because our governments are putting it IN OUR WATER! So we are to call poison control if we swallow the toothpaste, yet we are not to call poison control when we drink our eight glasses of water each day? And this makes sense, how? I’ve read that one swallows the same amount of fluoride in 8 oz of water as is used to brush your teeth. Of course I’m no scientist. I’m just a mutha. What the fack do I know, right?

By the way, fluoride is now banned in China, India, Japan, Sweden, Norway, Denmark, Germany, Italy, Belgium, Austria, France, and The Netherlands.

I once had another theory, about poo, that made me rather famous. I know this because people bring it up to me all the time, and talk about how I forever changed their bathroom routines by voicing my concerns.

I think I’ve tried to push this one on you readers as well, by asking how you handle the situation if you are casually walking through your yard barefoot and you happen to step in a pile of dog shit? Do you simply wipe it off with toilet paper? Or do you head to the hose and squirt it off, and then go inside and perform yet another cleansing with soap?

Ahem.

That’s what I thought. That’s precisely why the rest of the world uses a bidet.

“Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, concerned citizens can change the world. Indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.” -- Margaret Meade

One Man Short

2013-02-25T11:51:00.001-06:00

I’m still here. I’ve been trying to follow that sage advice, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, then don’t say anything at all.”

I’m sick of my own damn self, to be honest. And truly, I’ve no reason to be so full of self pity. But I am. And I loathe it.

It’s dawned on me, repeatedly, during the last few months that this is it. Truly, this is indeed my life. And it’s always going to be a struggle. And I’m tired. I want to cry. Or kick myself. Or scream and shout. Or go to bed. Or run. I don’t know what to do anymore. Because I feel my life is hard, and the hand I’ve been dealt unfair.

I don’t like to be such a ninny. I don’t want to feel this way. But I do.

I love my kids so much. They are truly wonderful, adoring, innocent, loving creatures. I’m so blessed with them. They are good children. Parenting them alone is so HARD. I'M SO TIRED. And I’m tired of myself for even feeling this way, but I can’t and even shouldn’t apologize, because it’s the truth.

Did you know that if your husband is DEAD he does not EVER do the dishes, does not EVER put gas in the car, does not EVER cook supper, does not EVER bathe the kids, does not EVER discipline the kids, does not EVER help with homework, does not EVER pick up milk or bread on the way home, does not EVER do yard work, does not EVER fix things, does not EVER give you even a teeny tiny break, nor a morsel of support or love or caring or respect. Nothing is what you get. NO THING.

This is a hard life, even for me and I don't mind saying I'm a bit of an ass kicker. I’m smart and organized and spiritual and reflective and patient and kind and loving and all that. I have it together is what I’m saying. And despite that….I am overwhelmed. I constantly feel one man short. Man down. Man fucking down.

So now what? I have a child not even in elementary school yet, so I won’t even bother to calculate how many more nights of homework I shall assist with in my lifetime. I will live way more years without Dave than with him.

I’ve no idea why this panic has only now set in. I’ve no idea why I was fine, and now I’m not. I don’t know if this will go away or what I even need to do to make it go away.

My voice is the only one that disciplines now. No backup. No support. And I feel they are deaf to it. I think about their teenage years, when this stage will seem like a total cake walk, and the tears just start to flow. I’m scared. I’m tired. I hate this. I hate everything.

Except them. I love them.

Aaah Vacation

2013-02-13T14:05:00.001-06:00

I got slightly panicky a few weeks ago when I pulled the kids' calendars from their school folders and remembered that they were off an entire week for Mardi Gras. I love my darlings. I really do. But I wasn't exactly looking forward to a week off with them at home.

I started googling where we could travel by car because airfare is so expensive for an entire family. Unfortunately, I'm not a great vehicle traveller. By about hour six, I really start considering just jumping from the vehicle. I'm basically an infant.

Before I knew it, I had booked airfare to the mountains of North Carolina for all of us. Honestly, I blame the Hot Mess. She's always going on about her vacations and how we should DO MORE not HAVE MORE, and it's true.

As soon as I pressed the buy tickets button, I had a mini panic attack. What if we ended up like that Jon and Kate Plus 8 episode, where they were stuck on the tarmac for six grueling hours, forbidden to disembark the plane. She was crying and pulling her hair and the kids were going insane. I quickly calmed myself down by deciding if that happened, I would feign a heart attack and they'd have no choice but to let us off. Remember how we taught ourselves to faint in eighth grade? Yeah, I still remember how to do that, and don't think I wouldn't stoop to that level in a crises situation.

It wasn't too difficult to convince my niece to accompany us on a snow skiing vacation. Hopefully she forgets how much energy my boys have before it's time for us to book another trip.

I might have been a snow skiing mountain girl in another life, and I possibly died in that other life by being bitten by a spider the size of a mouse, or by careening off a winding, narrow mountain road engulfed in a soupy fog.

I won't bore with you the vacation details, but I do need to address a few things about vacations in general. First, do the housekeepers really wash the sheets? How do we know? Did they really wash the dishes? Or did they just give them a quick rinse without soap? Whose naked, smelly, hairy ass sat on this couch? You see where I'm going here? It doesn't matter if I'm in the Taj Mahal or the Super 8, this is where my neurotic brain leads me on vacation.

Little darling sets his pop tart on the bare counter, and I immediately wonder if the honeymooners screwed right there on the counter and the housekeepers didn't wash the counter with soap.

These towels...well...they don't smell like my towels. I imagine a big, fat, scaly, smelly guy pulling the towel front to back between his legs. What the FACK is wrong with me?

Does anyone else do this? I fear I'm a neurotic mess. Sometimes in a restaurant I look at the people putting the silverware in their mouths, and I almost can't put the silverware I'm holding in my mouth again. What if it fell on the floor?

Remember this picture?

Yeah...you know that really happens.

Anyway, I thoroughly enjoyed my vacation, as did the boys. We so deserved this. I'm so glad we did it. And now I know I can do it. I can travel with these boys and have fun and relax and count on them to cooperate and that's such an awesome thing.

Queen of Spin

2013-02-04T11:31:00.001-06:00

They’re gone! The house is quiet. I can actually hear birds singing outside. And I’m trying to decide whether I should have a twix day, or clean up this sad looking house.

Today is the first day in two weeks that I have been alone, without a sick child. The virus that swept through this house was scary. One urgent care visit, two ER visits, and one child admitted to the hospital for a day and a half.

This single mom gig is hard. I can’t lie. But when you are unable to leave the house to even get bread or milk or bring the well kids to school because the sick kids are so sick, well, it becomes impossible. I have no idea what would have happened if I would have had a job. Rushing people to the ER, carrying them around, and cleaning up vomit and diarrhea for So.Many.Days. The worry alone is enough to drain you and drive you to lunacy. Desperation is a six year old making your coffee, trust me.

Anyway, I won’t dwell on it. It’s done and I survived. I’m so used to doing everything by myself now (Goddess of Everything, ya hurd me!) that I don’t even think much about resenting Dave. I just do it. I guess I’m thankful for that. I’m thankful that our new normal is actually normal for me now, even though it blows at times. Thankful that people helped me, too. Because this is further proof that raising children is seriously a two person job, and most people will never know how utterly impossible it can be.

You know, I certainly never imagined that my life would serve as inspiration to people, or that so many strangers would relate to me like they do. But here I am. And last week I received this letter:

“I found your blog today, while voting on a friend’s blog. I don't know what made me click on your blog, I didn't check anyone else's out. I read the entire blog from the start to present through tears. I just want to say thank you for sharing your story and your journey. My husband is addicted to pain pills, we barely speak. Our life is a routine. We pass each other in the hallway and mutter grocery lists to each other or sports schedules for the kids. We are not happy but I grew accustomed to this way of life. I have seen him slipping away for a long time and have not done enough about it, frankly because I'm PISSED that he's so fucking weak. But I know he's sick. I know he comes from a long line of sickness. His father commited suicide, his grandmother, and his aunt. I have chosen to ignore all of it and convince myself that he wouldn't leave the kids. Well reading your blog changed that... For the both of us. I was able to make an appointment with his doctor for tomorrow and we dropped the kids off at a friends and talked for two hours. I know you never planned your life to be an inspiration to others, I know you didn't want to be the cautionary tale. But you helped more then I can explain and for that I thank you. God bless you and your children. And Dave smiling down on you.”

I can’t possibly explain the impact this letter had on me. So often, people find my blog too late. They relate to me because they are survivors. I mean, yes, I do get that the largest percentage of you relate to me because I’m slightly insane and it’s rather amusing to watch a person actually magnetize shit.

But I question WHY I do this at times. It’s becoming apparent that this is why. I clicked on this woman’s profile and through my tears I gazed at her, sitting on her sofa, with a gaggle of kids surrounding her. Children who will get their daddy back, for no other reason than because my own children lost theirs. Muthas, we have spun it.

I’m not really the inspiration here. This woman is. Her husband is. Because they are about to do what I couldn’t do. What Dave couldn’t do. And I’m incredibly inspired by them. I’m inspired to keep telling the truth. I’m inspired to keep communicating in the only way I know how. I’m inspired to keep doing it, no matter how uncomfortable some are with the words.

I understand that my style ruffles a few feathers. Believe me, it gets me into trouble in my real life as well. Because I don’t know how not to be real. I don’t know how to hold my tongue. I don’t know how to keep the emotion in. I don’t know how to say it with someone else’s words. And I don’t know why anyone would want to, either.

I had this page torn out of the Velveteen Rabbit on my fridge for years many moons ago:

“What is REAL?" asked the Velveteen Rabbit one day... "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When [someone] loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept.

"Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand... once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always.”

Truth teller. Evil slayer.

Amen.

The Diary is being featured on the very popular Canadian website “SheKnows.” Thanks to the writers and editors for the honor and the kind words.

In Good Company

2013-01-25T14:38:00.001-06:00

This parenting stuff. Easy peasy right?

NO.

I’m so thankful for you crazy muthas. Yesterday I blogged about how I thought I had some sort of mental disturbance because I’ve been secretly freaked out about my kids dying. I really didn’t even let on to the true nature of my frightfulness because I didn’t want anyone to call the muscled guys at the mental institution and tell them to trick me into the van.

Your responseshave changed my life. I’m not kidding. And so, in the spirit of the therapeutic nature of this here blog of mine, I will release my frightfulness into the blogosphere and then file this away under, “Other things they don’t tell you about or you would never have kids. Or sex.”

When I pull up at school, if big darling is not at the gate, I assume he is bleeding to death through his nose. He gets a lot of nosebleeds. I assume that they didn’t call me because they were too busy calling 911. And while I’m sitting there at the gate, they are in front of the school loading his bloodless body into an ambulance.

If middle darling is not at the gate, I assume he has been kidnapped. Yep. I immediately think that he has been lured by a sexual predator into the back of a van full of kitty cats and lollipops.

Little darling likes to sneak into my bed at night. If he doesn’t, I know it’s because he’s dead. He’s little enough that he could have all sorts of undiagnosed illnesses that I don’t know about yet. I’m pretty sure he might be diabetic. Big darling might have Marfan’s Syndrome too.

The first time I put big darling in his backwards facing car seat as a 6 lb infant and drove off, I was hysterical. I pulled over twice. Did these crazy facks actually expect me to drive without looking at him? DANGEROUS. Infants do not breathe unless you watch them breathe. Gheez! Idiots!

When middle darling was born, big darling was old enough to tell me whether he was pink or blue. They sat side by side in the backseat, and I would say this, about every five minutes. “What’s the baby doing? Is he pink? Or blue?” Thankfully big darling always reported that he was pink.

And what kinds of assholes build balconies these days? On every vacation to the beach, I would walk in the condo and rip open that big curtain to inspect the balcony. I always imagined that the construction workers were alcoholics, and some of the nuts and bolts would be faulty. Then I’d have to drag my littlest kid to the balcony to see if his head could actually squeeze through the rails. I’d have to drag all the furniture far away from the balcony, of course. My boys will quickly tell you how you can die from accidentally falling over a balcony. If they so much as got near a chair on the balcony, the others would tackle the chair toucher. Yes indeed. That’s how I raise ‘em.

Don’t even get me started on falling down onto sharp surfaces. Little darling once busted his head open, resulting in a scary ER trip with blood gushing everywhere. I was sure he was dying on the way to the hospital, so I started yelling to just run the red lights, because he was going into a coma. It never occurred to me he was just sleeping because it was past his bedtime.

Now little darling isn’t allowed to run near anything. I’m constantly screaming, “You could fall on that and die!”

Sometimes when they are playing outside they scream like they are dying. Blood curdling, hysterical screams. When I rip open the door, I am not breathing, I’m in full blown cardiac arrest, and I know full well I will see a child with his arm completely cut off and laying mangled on the ground. I have actually punished them for this before.

After I blogged yesterday, one of my friends texted me to say that in addition to the horrible visions, her intuition and instincts are so strong, that she is afraid this will make some of them come true. Several of you commented about that as well.

I am so with you there, muthas. My intuition is so strong I’m also secretly scared I’m a witch. I am right way too many times. I have had premonitions. I mean seriously, I might be controlling people with my mind.

Just in case I am, I should be directing what I need my way, right? In that case I just need enough money to stay home and take care of my kids. Don’t need to be rich or famous or any of that. I just want to be a mama. Because even though it has turned me into a crazy, frightful lunatic, apparently I’m in good company.

Not So Well

2013-01-24T13:52:00.002-06:00

I’ve asked little darling how he feels no less than 400 times since Monday. And his response, each time, until today, has been, “Not so well.”

“Not so well,” in his smallish, cute, baby voice that I love so much.

I’ve been a mom for 11 years. And in 11 years I’ve been to the ER three times. Once on a weekend when big darling had pneumonia. Once when little darling split his head open so badly we could see his skull membrane. And Tuesday. Courtesy of the 3 year old baby darling again.

I am a hater of antibiotics. But after Christmas little darling had a round due to a nasty ear infection. When they rechecked his ears a couple weeks ago, they were still red. He had a cold at the time and so when they suggested yet another round of antibiotics, I was hesitant. My gut told me no. I was nervous about his gut immunity (or lack thereof) in the middle of this terrible flu season. I knew if he got the flu or a stomach virus it would be bad. Well, he did, and it was. And I want to kick myself because I KNOW BETTER.

Monday he threw up like he was trying to expel a demon. The only other time I’ve seen someone throw up like that is once when Dave tried to stop taking his pain pills, or maybe he just ran out of them. Monday night he was delusional. He was talking nonsense, pointing at imaginary objects and was just so incredibly sick and lethargic. I kept thinking about the boy from school who died. I slept zero. I watched him breathe instead.

This is particularly traumatic for me, because I am sure I have some sort of disorder. I’m way too scared my kids are going to die. I’m scared, I guess, because the worst thing has happened. Someone in our home has died. And I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN. I’m scared the worst thing is going to happen again. Because if it does, I can’t survive. I shan’t. I won’t.

I know that thinking everyone is going to die is not healthy. At Christmas, I even kicked it up a notch and had visions of someone dropping my brother's baby on the stone floor. I remember a mutha once telling me that while she took a shower she had a panic attack that one of her kids would get attacked by mountain lions. I've been in the parking lot before and had visions of cars losing control and rolling over all my kids at once. I once fought with my dad for standing too close to the balcony with my firstborn. I was absolutely convinced he was going to trip or sneeze and drop him over. What is wrong with me?

Does anyone else do this? Even slightly? Can the widdas chime in here? The slightly crazed muthas? I should clarify that it doesn’t really change my actions. I still act normal. I’m just secretly scared. A lot. I know I think about it too much.

Anyway, tonight, I have a date with Netflix and a bottle of wine. GOOD LORD DO I DESERVE THIS!

The Sisterhood of the Sacred Women Tribe

2013-01-14T13:29:00.001-06:00

Welp. The sun came out Saturday for a while. We were able to wear shorts and flip flops. The Kentucky muthas were here, and we conducted sacred patio meetings while the sun’s healing energies swirled around us. Good times, folks.

If your ears were burning, it’s because we were talking about you. If it’s a problem that affects the Sisterhood of the Sacred Women tribe, then you better believe it is important to us and we are hell bent on fixing it.

I hope that you all will report back to me that you are conducting your own sacred patio meetings in your own communities, with members of your own Sisterhood of the Sacred Women tribe. Because the world needs us. We can’t stretch ourselves too thin. This is very important work, this mutha stuff.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to pondering big darling’s latest piece of artwork, which I stumbled upon this morning. It is a beautiful drawing and next to it he’s written out the letters of his name, and next to each letter he has written some positive qualities about himself. I cannot read them without thinking about Dave. Because these are all the words I probably used to describe Dave when I first met him.

The muthas couldn’t believe how much big darling looked like Dave. They were wondering if it was okay to tell him how much he resembled his daddy? Heck, there’s no rule book here, mostly because I haven’t written one. So I quickly surmised that being like his daddy is pleasing to him. We’ve had some intimate conversations at night when we’re saying prayers and talking about our day where I have told him that having daddy’s good qualities is a blessing, and that nurturing those qualities and seeing them mature and blossom unhindered by stress and addiction would allow him to grow into the man that daddy should have been. I’ve explained that he mustn’t be afraid to be like daddy, because he has all the tools he needs to procure a different outcome.

Please Lord, let that be true. I’ll spend my last dying breath making sure it is true.

Even though I’ve been lazy and ridiculous, I had to take down my Christmas tree and decorate for Mardi Gras before the muthas arrived. Taking down the Christmas tree was as annoying as putting it up. There were several seconds when I considered dousing it with gasoline and setting it ablaze. I’m not sure how sedated I was last year when I boxed it up, because I did put it properly back into the box last year. This year, it appears that the tree grew, and the box shrunk. As I kicked it down the stairs and unsuccessfully tried to tape the box up, I screamed out how much, “I hate daddy” right in front of big darling. Then I muttered something aloud about how I was pretty sure this wasn’t what God intended for the celebration of His birthday.

The muthas have tasked me with being the girl who changes Christmas. So, no pressure there, right? But I’m pretty sure some changes are going to be made in our house. Rewriting the Holiday Season is going to require quite a few meetings of the Sisterhood of the Sacred Women tribe. So stay tuned.

I Really Am A Drunken Snail

2013-01-11T08:24:00.000-06:00

Uncle. UNCLE! UNNNNNNCLE!!!! Isn’t that the stupid word you scream to call off your torturers? Good Lord. I could not possibly be more sick of myself. I mean, for exactly how long can one be a ridiculous, lazy, whining asshole? Who is this person? And who shall I alert regarding this apparent body snatching?

I was once full of bad-assery. Quick-witted and courageous. A couger. Er, no that’s not right. I don’t want you guys getting any ideas here. No indeed. I was a leopard. Never met a leopard print I didn’t love. Hell, I’m just any old animal that runs fast (presently away from men) and is bossy and also a bitch and sort of queenly in the jungle. I was all ‘dat.

And now I’m a tree sloth. Or a drunken snail.

I’ve taken so many vitamins and supplements over the past week that I may have burned a hole in my stomach somewhere. Undaunted, I’m still wallowing in pills. Let’s see, two of these, a couple of these, gag, swallow, yuck!

I threw in the towel on my holiday diet weeks ago. The cookies are gone, the pies have been eaten. We’re back to brown rice and veggies and clean meat.

But it is dark as muthafacker outside, and I can’t stand it. I can’t spin the sun. If I were a single person, I would have gotten in my car and driven fast down a highway until I ran into the sun. Then I would have gotten out of the car, laid down on the hood, and just soaked up every drop.

Today I googled full spectrum lighting and treatment for Seasonal Affective Disorder. I couldn’t decide what to order on account of the brain snatching . Feeling confused and desperate, I scooped up little darling and bolted for the car during a tornado watch and a torrential downpour, and we headed for the hardware store. I didn’t see anything that said “full spectrum” so I bought the brightest natural light lumens I could find. I came home and lined up the lamps with no lamp shades on them and tried to pretend I was in Hawaii while I cleaned the kitchen. Little darling thinks I’ve gone mad. “What is dat?” he asked with his squinted eyes.

It’s mommy trying not to lose her shit during winter.

I suppose I should offer a disclaimer here. Because some of you will think I’m teetering on the edge of madness. The truth is my tolerance is zero. I’m a highly energetic person. So when I’m even slightly off my game, I loathe it. I’m having one of those stupid Oprah “Aha” moments right now this very minute. Because I know full well I need to allow myself time to be a slacker loser, and I should embrace it willingly without a bunch of blinding lamps everywhere. But I’m not in favor of this dormancy period. I don’t like being cooped up in the house. I don’t like cold and rain and fog and dark skies. I’m not reallyBritish. It’s just a fun way to talk. Gheez.

I finally started taking down the Christmas tree today. There’s an obligatory ornament holding a photo of Dave which I put high up, so as to inflict the minimal amount of torture during the festive season. When I took it down today, I looked at him and it was as if I had no fucking clue who he was. “God, who is this person?” I shouted silently to myself. I can’t believe you did this! I can’t believe this is our life! How did this happen?! And more importantly, who the fuck are you?!

Beware of those body snatchers! And keep your lights on, madpeople.

The Beautiful Ugly Flower

2013-01-09T10:08:00.000-06:00

Alternate title: gray skies are assholes.

I’ve decided that I’m a sunflower. And when the sun won’t shine, I’m that sunflower with the beautiful, giant bloom that insists on bending sullenly towards the ground. The kind of sunflower that really ticks you off when you finally decide to snip it and bring it in for your pretty vase. Because with such a crooked neck, the flower is just an asshole. So determined it is to be downcast, that it tips the vase over and spills the water everywhere. The beautiful asshole flower. No sun, no smile. The Sun gods are taunting me.

I should really move to Mexico during January and February. Right after I get a job. And find new schools for my kids there.

I’ve tried to embrace the winter months. Yeah. Fuck that. I read on some zen website that we should try to approach the winter months differently. We should embrace the dark, quiet time and accept the natural inclination to go within for quiet reflection. That sounds ok to me. I know how to pull that down comforter over me just so…and go within. I do it every night. But who the heck is going to wash my clothes, shop for food, cook dinner and clean up after these darlings every day while I’m somewhere within?

I’d love to call it a day today. And it’s only 9:18 a.m. But on my agenda today is to finally take down my Christmas tree, and box it up so it’s not full of roaches next year. My house looks like a winter storm swept through it. There are 400 coats and jackets sitting on the bench by the front door. I need to find a new pediatrician for the darlings due to an insurance change. Middle darling needs tubes in his ears again too. I have bills to pay and supper to cook and a yard to clean up. Right after I clean up from breakfast. And bathe. The saltwater pump on the pool is on the fritz. One of my exterior stair rails was rotten so I had it replaced. Now I have to paint it before it gets rotten again. So, while I’d love to go within with these lovely zen people, I’m just not sure how to make it happen while I’m simultaneously out here doing all this stuff.

Plus, I don’t even like looking at what’s within. That’s so 2012. That’s the stuff I smash down and ignore and occasionally slap the shit out of when it begins to pester me too much. I’ve looked within a lot. I probably spent the last year and a half looking within. Ain’t nothing in there I care to see. I’ve examined it, turned it this way and that, flipped it over and done it again for good measure. Done. Next.

So what are people like me supposed to do now? Besides looking down with a big ‘faire la moue’ as they used to say in French when we were little.

Grey skies are assholes.

Morticia. the zombie. I will eat you with my sharp teeth.

The Art of Curmudgeonry

2013-01-05T10:09:00.001-06:00

Greetings madpeople. I’m returning from my longest blogging absence ever. Did you happen to notice? Gah, just throw a girl a crumb and say yes, ok? I’ve been very busy, being very curmudgeonly. It’s not easy being so surly and ill tempered. So bah humbug to you! Blech!

See, I’m still not back to normal. When you fall from higher up, the recovery is a bit of a challenge. This has been a great lesson this Holiday season. And please, when you read “Holiday Season” do it with a sarcastic and loathsome inflection, as I intended it.

I can’t put my finger on any one thing that has caused my descent into the abyss. Rather, I think it’s been many different things. We started December with a toddler at little darling’s school dying. A hit so close to home. I already live in fear of people dying. The Angel of Death has already visited my home. This is something that many of you fear from afar. You know it must be horrible….but until there is an untimely and overly traumatic death in your home, well, it’s impossible for you to have the appropriate level of fear. Kind of like how you really don’t know what having a baby is truly like until you have one. Words just don’t suffice. The anxiety started to get the best of me.

A couple weeks after the death at school, the Newton shootings occurred. Hysteria breeds hysteria. I watched nearly zero of the coverage so as not to alert my kids to the true horribleness of the planet, but being plugged in to the internet was enough of a reality dose to keep me off kilter. I can only repeat that I hate humans even more than I already did. And let me be clear, it’s not just the shooter I loathe. It’s many other people who proved to me how utterly insane they are just by talking. I’m so fucking sick of stupid.

I felt myself spiraling downhill. I felt the anxiety swelling up. I kept telling myself to get a grip. It was harder. Christmas was looming and I was going to have to deal with it like this.

Going into Christmas on a high note would have been difficult enough. Going into Christmas off kilter and with a wicked case of PMS to boot = disastrous.

So much healing has occurred over the past year. I guess I got cocky. When I go back and read what I wrote in the beginning of January 2012, I’m blown away. Completely blown away. I’m so thankful for the gift of time. But I’m still angry. I’m angry that I will have to deal with this forever. I’m angry that I can’t make it go away. I’m angry that all it takes is the slightest teeniest tiny gap in the fabric of my life for the grief ninja to slip in and bust my chops. I can’t go from Point A to Point B without this baggage. I try to advance in line without the bag…but the ninja will not be outsmarted. “Miss, you forgot your bag!” he calls out. Damnit! Fucking ball and chain. GO AWAY!!!

I gave up even trying on Christmas Day. I stayed in bed and cried. I can’t even believe I did that to my kids, but I did. I got up with them, they opened presents, and then I went to bed and cried for hours like a stupid sissy. The next day a pile of my favorite high school muthas gathered for drinks and merriment. I didn’t even go. I couldn’t even imagine laughing and cutting loose. I was having a hard enough time just not crying.

Over the last few days, I’ve read a lot of what I blogged early last year. My first thought was that I am definitely a schizophrenic, and my second thought was slight regret for publishing the shenanigans. But as I near the half million mark, I can be proud that apparently it was good enough to attract readers, and more importantly, I know I’ve helped a shitload of people to learn to carry their own bags. Your kind words have inspired me too.

Peace, love and blessings to you all for 2013. .

Standing in the middle

2012-12-20T10:49:00.000-06:00

I can’t believe some of the crazy shit I’m reading. People are sending their little kids to school wearing armored backpacks. Police are stationed at schools all over the country. Crazy lunatics are suggesting that kids should be instructed to ‘rush the gunman’ rather than hide, should they find themselves in a similar horrible situation.

Has the world gone mad? Yes. YES. YES. The answer is YES!

Every day I read the news and I’m in complete shock at the number of stories of knife wielding killers, students threatening to blow up schools, and people being shot in malls and parks.

I sit here on the eve of what has been touted as the end of the world…and I can’t say I’d be afraid or even sorry if God pressed the redo button.

The other day I posted this on the Diary of a Madwoman Facebook page, “It’s called Freedom OF religion, not Freedom FROM religion,” and the comments sent me into a tail spin. Obviously I live in a bubble, because I honestly had no idea so many people hated God/Christians/Religious people. Now I know. And I’m struggling with what to do with the information. And I’m a little ashamed that it’s taken me so long to become aware of this.

You know, I’m one of those people that is nearly unable to stop trying. I don’t think I can take no for an answer, if no isn’t the answer I want. I’m a very logical thinker. My modus operandi is common sense. I’ve survived for 44 years being a no nonsense kind of girl. I’m sorry I didn’t trademark the phrase just do it, because I could have.

And this is what I see.

The pendulum is swinging wildly. It’s rocking the world. The universe is screaming for people to come to the middle, to stabilize the planet. But the people aren’t listening. Frightened and scared, they’re running in opposite directions. This causes the planet to rock harder.

I honestly believe that humans are inherently good. Given the chance, most people would do the right thing. Most people want peace. Happiness. Prosperity. Love. But when the pendulum is swinging so wildly, you’re more likely to get knocked down by the vibration.

Our kids are more likely to get struck by lightning and eaten by a shark on the same day than they are to be shot up by a gunman in their kindergarten classroom. Yet the knee jerk reaction is to send them to school in a bulletproof backpack. Because the pendulum is swinging wildly.

A hundred years ago, people didn’t have cars or televisions. A hundred years ago. The evolution of our planet is so rapidly unfolding…it’s rocking the planet. There is no stopping it. Technology will not rest. But the people must learn to adapt. Stress adaptation.

Scientists have invented vaccines for most of our known diseases. Common sense dictates that we should vaccinate our children. But we are now learning that excessive vaccination may not be healthy. But we all ran towards the vaccines. Quickly. In a matter of a few decades. The number of vaccines tripled. The pendulum swung violently.

Farmers have learned how to keep up with feeding the billions of people in the world. Common sense dictates that we need enough food so that we don’t go hungry. So they genetically modified seeds and learned to give large amounts of antibiotics to cattle and pigs. But we are now learning that excessive antibiotics and growth hormones in our food supply may not be healthy. Genetically modified foods may not be healthy. Quickly, in a matter of decades, the farmers all ran towards increased production. But they ran too fast. The pendulum swung wildly.

Computers and smart phones and gaming devices were put into the hands of all of the children. Common sense dictates that we should keep up with technology. The world collectively decided it was good. But we are now learning that excessive computer time no matter the game may not be healthy. Quickly, in a matter of decades, the people ran towards to the technology. But they ran too fast. And the pendulum swung wildly. The kids became unable to function properly socially. They were labeled depressed and anxious and defiant. The answer hasn’t been to integrate them with humans rather than computers, it’s been to give them pills.

A hundred years ago there were no pills for depression and ADHD and OCD and bipolar disorder. The people were labeled with these diseases and drug companies invented the pills. The world collectively decided that the people should have help with their mental disorders, and they should. But quickly, in a matter of decades, the diagnosed cases of these diseases went through the sky. The people swallowed the pills. But they swallowed too many, too fast. The pendulum swung rapidly.

A hundred years ago Americans were religious. Most people were members of a denomination. Then some people started to question whether God/Buddha/Allah was real. Common sense dictates that a God we can’t see may not be real. Some should be able to choose to be no religion. But in a matter of decades, the people ran away from God. And they ran too fast. And the pendulum swung violently. Those who still wished to be religious were no longer afforded the opportunity to be religious in public. Because the non religious people were frightened.

A hundred years ago people owned guns. Most people owned a gun. Then some people started to question whether guns were necessary and safe. Common sense dictates that guns can potentially be dangerous, yet the Constitution provides for the right to bear arms and we have a right to defend ourselves. The gun owners don’t want to give in, for fear of the pendulum swinging too far to the left and all guns being outlawed, and the gun haters don’t want to give in for fear of the pendulum swinging too far to the right and no guns being outlawed.

The real common sense is in the middle.

In all of these situations, there is a more peaceful place in the middle. A place which stabilizes the planet. It’s not too far to the right, and it’s not too far the left. But the people are not budging. Refusing to see that too much or too little of anything is not good, all common sense is lost.

Eating cake = good. Eating too much cake = bad.

Exercising = good. Too much exercising = bad.

Drinking = good. Too much drinking = bad.

Having sex = good. Too much sex = bad.

Vaccinations = good. Too many vaccinations = bad.

Religion = good. Too much religion = bad.

Technology = good. Becoming disconnected from real humans = bad.

Defending oneself = good. Shooting up classrooms with military weapons = bad.

Having a lot of food = good. Making food unhealthy for the sake of having a lot of food = bad.

Access to drugs when ill = good. Taking drugs when not ill = bad.

Healing illness = good. Masking symptoms with drugs that cause additional illness = bad.

Spirituality = good. Too much spirituality = even better

Seeking the good = good. Too much good seeking = even better.

The Universe is Talking

2012-12-14T20:21:00.000-06:00

I swear I feel like every time I turn on my computer, there is a suicide headline. Worse, half of them seem to involve homicides, where the sociopath first takes down a family member, or a group of kindergarteners, for Christ’s sake, before ending his own life.

I’m reminded of the crazed look on my sister’s face that fateful day, when big darling and I came barreling down the street after learning that Dave had shot himself. She was out of her mind, because until she saw me, she hadn’t known whether he had killed me too.

I often wonder if he did think about killing me. Did it cross his mind? Did he ponder killing all of us? Or just himself? How many times were we in the same room together, maybe even conversing, and he was consumed with thoughts of carrying out his plan? Did he hug me for the last time and think, “This is the last time I will hug my wife?” Why didn’t he tell the children goodbye? He let big darling just walk out the door…didn’t even tell him 'bye. He didn’t tell me goodbye either. Because he was a fucking sociopath. And let me tell you something….I’m a pretty smart mutha…but I DID NOT KNOW THIS. This, my friends, is scary. Normally, this would make me feel pretty stupid. Except that too many of my friends have been involved in similar circumstances. Dating someone, or even married to someone, all the while NOT KNOWING that this person had a whole ‘nother life going on.

I hate to attack men right now, but I’ma have to…because it’s the fucking men who do it. They kill themselves WAY more than women do. They kill others WAY more than women do. There are FAR FAR LESS women serial killers and very few women child molesters. It’s not women shooting up malls and kindergarten classes. It’s MEN.

Now, big daddies, don’t go all cray cray on me. I fully understand that the majority of you are about as close to normal as we can master as a species. But WHAT IN THE HELL is wrong with the remainder of you? How does this go SO HORRIBLY WRONG?

I’ve arrived at the conclusion recently that the single most important thing in all the world is called STRESS ADAPTATION. I just made that phrase up. How do we respond to stress? Because the truth is that stress isn’t ever going to go away. It’s here to stay. Some of us can let shit roll off our backs. Some of us pick up guns and massacre kindergarteners. WHY? I NEED TO KNOW WHY!! I need to know how my husband could have the balls to aim a .38 special at his chest and pull the trigger. I need to know how that crazed Colorado killer could walk into that theater and kill innocent people. I need to know why a handful of NFL players have killed themselves and their girlfriends recently. I need to know why I have legions of readers who are in the same God forsaken predicament that I am in. They’re widows. SUICIDE WIDOWS. Their children have no fathers. WHY????

Theories abound. The kids were not spanked. Were not disciplined. Were not loved. They played video games. They did drugs. They didn’t pray. They were narcissistic. They were depressed. Pick one…any one. Because I’m not sure it even matters. It could be one or none of any of those things….or….it could be….these people never leaned COPING SKILLS.

It has occurred to me, as I enter midlife, that I possess the ability to train my brain. All along I have assumed that the whole world operated this way. For example, if I don’t like something, I change it. Don’t like my thoughts, I change them. Don’t like my behavior, I change it. Don’t want to smoke anymore, I quit. Don’t want to be sad, I kick myself in the arse and get happy.

How do I do this? I simply declare it. I stay alert. I am alert to the subtlest of a shift. You can’t wait until you’re a psychopath. All day every day we gently ebb and flow. The audio tape plays in your head. What does it say?

Remember how researchers used to suggest playing a tape with all the answers to your science test under your pillow at night. Your subconscious would absorb it, they said. True or not? Who knows? I was never interested in sleeping with a hard tape recorder under my head.

But there is a tape playing in your head every day. It tells you that you are hungry or full. Cold or hot. Energized or fatigued. Listen a little more closely and pay attention to what is being played repeatedly. Do you have many anxious thoughts about one of your kids? What is the thought? Do you have many frustrating thoughts about your spouse? What are the thoughts? Why are you ignoring them? You can’t let the tape play on for months and months without acknowledging it...this 'voice' which is YOUR EMOTIONS. You can’t keep burying them. The tape is playing for a reason. Is yours screeching? Is the volume on 11? Why are you ignoring it?

The tape will tell you that you smoke too much. Drink too much. Jerk off too much. It will tell you that your kids are sad, mad or bad. How loud does it have to be for you to hear it? What exactly needs to happen before you take action? Why do you ignore the emotional channel, yet satisfy your physical craving for food or water or a blanket or a nap? Because your emotional health is no less important.

My tape recorder is set with the volume low. Because I listen. I’m paying attention. My eyes are open. My ears are open. My heart is open. The universe is talking to me every day. I’m listening. Are you?

Things Wrong With Christmas

2012-12-04T13:29:00.002-06:00

All that ‘holiday cheer’ you all claim to have…where does that come from? Will I go to hell for hating baby Jesus’ party planning? Gawd, I hope not. I don’t hate Jesus or his birthday. It’s his party I hate. And sometimes I think I’m going to beat you all to Heaven for hating it. Because I think he hates it too.

Thing wrong #1: Christmas trees. What probably started as a nice gesture in a little forest somewhere, has now escalated into a billion dollar industry that makes me take pills. First there is the tree itself, which costs way too much. Then stringing the lights, getting poked, scratched, etc. Hours of it. Everyone patiently waits for the lights to go on. It takes so fucking long that it ends up being a let down because you can’t decorate until the next day. Then when Christmas is over, you have to take the lights down. You no longer care about your priceless handmade ornaments; you carelessly toss them and rip them down. The party is over. Just get the shit OFF! More poking, scratching, tugging and cursing, all the while billions and fucktillions of needles cascade to the floor like a piney blizzard. Bet you don’t give a fuck about the scent now, do you? Some get mad and just cut the lights off. Some get frustrated and just throw the tree with lights to the curb. Heave HO. FUCK YOU TREE.

Last year I wisely decided Christmas would be different. And easier. So I bought a fake tree. Thing wrong #2. Fake trees are priced in line with small cars. You can get a cheaper one, but it will look like shit. You don’t want to look like shit at Christmas, so you spend another fucktillion dollars on a nice fake tree, because it’s going to last so long. Oh yeah…I’m gonna have this shit forever. So it’s totally worth it. Hahahahahaha.

NO.

I hauled my very long 50 lb box of fake tree up 17 steps yesterday. When I began the awkward struggle up the stairs I noticed the scent of shit. Not human shit or dog shit…no…no shit like that. NASTY SHIT. Shit magnet shit. Mouse shit or roach shit. So when I reached step 17 and the whole box slid nicely back down to step one, I decided it was a gift from the gods and that I should open the box full of mice or roaches OUTSIDE. And so I did. And while that was a right thing, the next thing that happened was

Thing wrong #3. Seven, 7, five plus two ROACHES ran out of the box. Now, at this point, in my past, being a business owner and having wads of cash here and there, I would have drug that fucker to the curb. However. I just bought it last year. I’m unemployed. I have no bread winner. No one wins bread here. Or any other food items. So I spayed it with Raid. Yes, fuck a pine scent. Pine scents are for pussies. Then, I got out the blower, and I just blew and blew and blew that tree. I blew the poo. Until I couldn’t blow the poo anymore.

Thing wrong #4. Now when I touch the tree, I know I am touching areas where roaches once ran. And not only that, Raid is poison, and I have an obsessive compulsive disorder with poison. I feel that one teeny tiny splash of any poison will send me to the terminally ill cancer ward immediately, and my children will be orphans.

I take a klonopin, so that I can touch said tree. Tis the klonopin season again, finally. Now here is an old friend that is welcomed during the holiday season. I have missed this guy.

I erect the tree. I plug in the pluggers. And guess what. The tree is fucked up. The middle strand of lights does not work. So my great idea to buy a fake tree so that I don’t have to fuck with lights is now ruined. Now I’m stupid. I’m in a hating Christmas frenzy. I’m still fucking with lights. And I don’t think Jesus is mad at me at all for not enjoying the process.

I might get a slight tap on the wrist at the pearly gates for saying fuck so much, but I’ma take my chances, ya hurd me?

As I said earlier. I would rather make out with this man:

Than string Christmas tree lights.

On a brighter note: Mutha t-shirts now available here. 100% cotton super soft bella tees, they make your bewbies look hawt.

Transformation

2012-11-28T14:32:00.000-06:00

Christmas. The joyous Holiday Season. Oh how I love to loathe you, in many ways. Look, let’s be honest for a second. Christmas is lovely because families gather and memories are made and I love all that. I really do. I get nostalgic for fires and egg nog and the scent of pine. I love decorating my tree with pretty ornaments and rediscovering all the Christmas things my kids have made over the years. But I could certainly love it more without all the fluff and commercialism. I’m such a logical person. Nothing inside of me feels good about wasting money on toys for children who already have so much. I constantly think about the children starving everywhere as I stand in the aisle at Toys R Us with a monumental list in hand. Yes, I do give money to needy children…but it’s all backwards, this world. We give the most to the people who need it the least, and we give the least to people who need it the most. It makes me hate Christmas and hate myself for participating in it. I have stopped giving to adults. And I don’t feel guilty. I use that money to give more to the needy. I can’t stop giving to the kids though. They don’t get it quite yet…although I’m working on them, little by little.

So, in preparation for the disgustingness of what seems more like ‘the toy season’ than ‘the birth of CHRIST’, I spent ten hours yesterday cleaning out my little kids’ closet. TEN HOURS. I swear to you, If anyone buys them a Lego set for Christmas, I’m going to retaliate by dumping legos all over your lawn. Believe me when I say I have enough to fuck you up.

I swear, I hate toys! I hate Legos, because what is the point, really? We spend hours putting this crap together, and then less than 24 hours later, they're scattered from one end of my house to the other. $49 for an hour of play? Really? Is that a good deal?

I hate stuffed animals too. You hear that people? Don’t buy my kids stuffed animals. Stuffed animals are a ridiculous waste of money because we hide them then throw them away, right? Around here, they end up in the Mardi Gras bin to be thrown in parades. So think about that when you are buying more puppies and bears for little darling. If you want to take a chance on catching it next year in the Muses parade, then go for it.

I hate transformers too. Another toy that is good for about three minutes. They watch eagerly as I carefully follow directions to transform the monster into a truck. I would rather chew my arm off on Christmas Day. As soon as it’s a truck, they anxiously ask me to make it back into a monster. And I smile and say, “Ok honey, I’ll do it in a minute,” and then I never do it. Ever. For years, I never do it. And I’m not ever going to. Because I facking hate transformers. Seriously, who puts the suggestions for age appropriateness on these things? Instead of ‘ages 6 – 8’ it should say something like this.

Recommended for:

Rocket scientists who have never thrown objects out of anger

Children who are taking the ACT this year

Women who washed down their meds with a vodka tonic

Other warnings:

Not to be used in the week prior to menstruation

Do not attempt to transform product unless under the influence of alcohol