Diary of a Mad Woman

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 lunatics weren’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.

My suggestion is that we get up off our poo butts and start asking some questions. At the very least, investigate for yourself whether you should put mercury in your kids’ mouths. It’s bad enough we have it in ours. Consider whether you should actually be using fluoride toothpaste. Not buying it sends a message. We should also be asking our local governments how much they spend to medicate us with fluoride. (Last I checked, it was illegal to drug people against their will. Fluoride supplements are not available over the counter. A prescription is required!) Perhaps they could stop spending millions of dollars fluoridating all the water and simply pay for fluoride tablets for those who want to ingest it. They’d likely save lots of money. Cash is king. Just ask the lowly serfs, right?

“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 responses have 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! I’m anxious to use my new wine straws. You red wine drinkers will want to check this out. Because we can’t compromise our pearly whites, now can we? These are so inexpensive and they’re specially designed to deliver just the right amount, a sip, without compromising taste. They would make great gifts/party favors too!

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 always end this by asking people to vote for the Diary, and here’s why. I market the blog on Top Mommy Blogs because the site sends alot of readers my way every month, and vice versa. It's a bit of a game that I choose to participate in to increase readership. Blogging has become an enjoyable hobby for me. But there’s another reason, and it’s a huge one. A year ago I was standing alone on a deserted island and I didn't know a single other widow my age with kids, let alone a suicide widow. I can’t tell you how badly it sucks to be able to relate to no one. NO. ONE. Ya hurd me? Today, there is a community of people who read the Diary, and we do our best to lift one another up, so please find the brown Top Mommy Blog banner below and cast your vote by giving it a click. Thanks.

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 really British. 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.

Now I’m off to treat myself, and this is no ordinary retail therapy. Check out this etsy shop for some beautiful, handmade Baltic amber jewelry. I just googled Baltic amber, because I’m a neurotic googler. Did you know that Baltic amber is like 20 million years old? And is said to possess healing properties? I’m fascinated by this. And now I must have the healing properties of this jewelry!

If you enjoy the blog, please don’t forget to vote for it by clicking the brown Top Mommy Blog banner below.

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.

If you enjoy the blog, even just a little, then throw me a crumb and click that brown “Vote for me” button below. It’s a little ray of sunshine sometimes when I’m feeling like an asshole flower.

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. Now please, if you’ll just do this one thing for me and VOTE BELOW by clicking the brown Top Mommy Blog banner. On a mobile device, you'll have to scroll down and click "view web version" to see the icon. As a result of being curled up in the fetal position for a month, I’ve slid down into the boring mom blog abyss. If I get overtaken by a coupon blog then it’ll be just punishment for being a ninny loser.

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.

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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?

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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.

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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

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The Jackass Whisperer

2012-11-26T10:55:00.000-06:00

Everyone’s a ‘whisperer’ lately. If you’re good with babies, you’re a baby whisperer. Dog lovers want to be dog whisperers. It was suggested to me recently that I am a jackass whisperer, and I’m extremely fond of the term.

So, it’s been a busy week. Last weekend we camped out with the Boy Scouts in Florida, which required a wardrobe change into Princess with a Penis. All my friends were polished up in their fine Holiday attire for a fundraiser gala, and I was in a tent with a large pack of boys, all of whom smelled like goats asses. I had dirty nails and a smoky ponytail, but my darlings were happy. It was 40ish during the night and I totally hate the cold, but I zipped two sleeping bags together, and all four of us slept side by side with hats on. We were toasty and happy, although it wasn’t my best night of sleep. I sort of felt like a spy…being a chick at a Boy Scout camp out and all. The men were on to me though, so they remained on their best behavior and sadly I can’t even really make fun of them.

Then, a last minute slumber party was thrown together Wednesday night at my 93 year old grandmother’s house, since she hosts Thanksgiving every year. My laundry was still dangling from the ceiling fans when I had to quickly start packing bags. It was one of those ‘pick out what you’re going to wear tomorrow and pack everyone in five minutes’ deals. We left quickly and I (gasp) left dishes in my sink. I had cooked my own Thanksgiving Feast that day and we’d eaten it for dinner, and then bolted out of the house.

Sometime during Thanksgiving Day we decided to meet family in Mississippi the next day. We returned home fat and lazy to dirty dishes, clothes and bags askew, and had to start unpacking then packing again. I felt like my eyes were going to pop out of my head at the disaster that was my house. I wanted to vomit at the number of people who had snuck out into their yards on Thanksgiving night and magically put all their Christmas decorations up. Are you fricking kidding me people? I haven’t wiped my counters in three days and I can’t even close the door to my laundry room.

In Mississippi we met Pal, a three year old white poodle whose elderly owner was recently admitted into a nursing home. Pal went straight up to my kids, sat down next to them, and was just really nice. “Oh, wook at dis cute puppy, Mommy. He wikes me,” the baby was saying. “Oh wow, this is just what I was going to look for at the pound. He doesn’t shed, he’s a nice size and he seems really ni….” And in about the next four nanoseconds, Pal’s bed and food were being loaded up into my car, because I’m the Jackass Whisperer.

I must say, I do like Pal. I’m not fond of these pussy poodle haircuts, so we’re going to let Pal grow out to enhance his level of coolness. Then I’m going to teach him to make a vodka tonic and smoke cigarettes. What I like most about him is that he gets outta my way. When he sees me cleaning, sweeping, doing my thing….he knows this bitch is in a hella hurry and he scoots his li’l behind right away before we collide. A lot of dogs follow me in the kitchen, and they don’t move when I’m coming fast. It’s terribly annoying to constantly collide with non-humans.

He slept with big darling the first night, and is in bed with the two littles right now. He ate a turkey leg in the yard today (no, it wasn’t the one from my sink, weirdos.) He peed on everything he could outside, hasn’t barked once, and is appreciating all the little hands petting his head. At bedtime, all the darlings were ‘thankful for Pal’ during prayers.

So there, you weird dog blockers, who said I couldn’t have a dog because I have little kids and no fence and didn’t meet your special dog whisperer requirements. I got one anyway. Cause I’m the jackass whisperer. That’s right....how ya like me nah?

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Black Friday

2012-11-21T11:57:00.003-06:00

I’m in the asshole free zone because we had a meeting of the Assholes Anonymous Club last night. The muthas ate, drank and were merry. I have come to the conclusion that vodka is a health food. Everything else makes me so hungover. But vodka never does. Hence, it’s health benefits.

Many people are gearing up for Thanksgiving festivities. Last year, I wanted to sling all the food to the floor, kick the table over, then scream and pull my hair like a madwoman. There seemed to be zero to be thankful about. If I had to pick something last year, I guess I could have said I was thankful that I had still managed not to be a violent psychopath, in spite of the gods repeated taunting.

I remember turning the radio up on the way home so my kids couldn’t hear the animal noises that exited my throat while I made ugly cry faces and tried not to scare them. Forcing my body to start the car, drive the car, pay attention to the road…it required monumental effort. I was a dead soul in a live body. I did it for the kids, and then I came home and got in bed.

It was the first real holiday without him, not counting Halloween. I got through Halloween by running up the stairs repeatedly in my Batgirl costume to do shots of Patron.

365 days have passed since then, and I can’t deny that I feel better. I’m thankful for the healing that has been bestowed upon my family over the last year. I’m thankful for the people who have not forsaken us. The people who still remember us, who still have a tight circle around us, the ones who felt our pain and agreed to carry some of it as their own. The Universe does rain down good tidings too. We live with our eyes open, so that we can scoop up every drop.

I won’t lie that I’m still a little nervous about this time of year. But I’ll handle it. I always do. I remind myself that I’m chocked full of all kinds of badassery. As I used to say before a half million people started reading this blog, and I consequently started feeling the social noose around my neck, “I’m the chief of the badass motherfuckers in charge.” I can’t be held down. I will charge through. This is my world. I’m living it my way.

So, a little advice…to those gathering with family this week. Hold your people close. Even those that are past due for attendance to the Assholes Anonymous meeting. Be forgiving. Be patient. Be kind. Be loving. Be ACCEPTING. Those people are not going to be here one day. Hell, they may not even be here tomorrow. You will never be sorry for doing the right thing. If that shit doesn't work, then kick the table over. At least you tried!

Now listen up lovely people. Since I changed to the new website and the Top Mommy icon is no longer in the upper right corner, I'm sliding down the ladder into the land of 'average mommy blogs'. I can't reside there. It makes me squirm. They stare at me with wide eyes when I say BAMF in charge and shit. They don't get my schtick. The voting banner is still on the page! It follows each and every post. You still have to click "view as webpage" to see it. Click it. Please.

Delusions of Grandeur

2012-11-12T08:20:00.000-06:00

Things were getting sort of boring, right? The kids were even bored and were beginning to overuse their British accents. I was just thinking the other day that I haven’t done a public service announcement in quite some time. When lo and behold, a cause has landed in my lap. So here’s a little public service announcement for “Dave’s friend.” She has now left two hysterical, angry messages on my answering machine, where she shouts about how sober she is now, provides me with detailed information about her urine testing, then angrily screams that she has spoken to her lawyer, and will be filing suit for defamation of character. She goes on with outlandish babble like “if you can write a book, I can too!”

Apparently this delusional person has gotten wind of the Diary, and is alarmed that a book may be forthcoming. Of course one minor detail is that she hasn’t actually read the Diary. She has erroneously jumped to the narcissistic conclusion that she is an important part of the story and that I have called her out by name. But, alas, we regret to inform you that your character has been eliminated. In other words, that means, “You ain’t a pimple on my ass, crackie.” Not that the madwoman has pimples on her ass. Occasionally, I might have one on my chin. Anyway, what she says is so true. Anyone can write a book. But convincing others to read it…well…therein lies the challenge, right? I’m not even sure I can do it. So, good luck with your little book. And please, never, ever scream and curse into my answering machine while I have PMS. If you are not aware of the intricate details regarding my cycles, then you should err on the side of caution and just do that…never. Not to mention it took me 16 days to even know you left a message on my home phone. Little darling doesn’t even think that phone is real.

You all are probably wondering what in THE FACK is even going on here. So, let me just say that negative, weird, insane people who were friends with Dave have no place in my life. And that any person who colluded with my husband to secure pills on a regular basis did, in fact, contribute to his addiction, and thus ultimately contributed to his death. If that thought makes you a little uncomfortable, it’s because it should. I don’t provide the discomfort. I just provide the words.

I’m so disgusted that the door to the past was absent-mindedly left ajar, and a sliver of Dave’s addicted past was able to slip through. I’m seriously thinking about throwing that phone away, and buying a new one. Just thinking of the vile message and even all the words that were spoken between Dave and I over the years on that very phone make me feel quite sick.

All the many times I pleaded with him, threatened, cried, said crazy things, poured my heart out, begged, promised…just all of it…so intense, so frustrating, so SAD. No wonder it was so hard! I had no clue what I was even up against. I realized today after I was left shaking from her message that Dave’s death gave me the ability to close the door, once and for all, on all of that. And I vow to put a lock on that sucker that the Navy Seals themselves can’t penetrate. Cause I’m done with crazy. I’m on the healing path. Surrounded by positive, loving, sane people. We ain’t cray cray here no more. No indeed. We’re British.

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I might have PMS

2012-11-06T08:30:00.000-06:00

Yeah, because I killed some cute baby squirrels and I hate election wavers.

That’s right. The heinous and grotesque hairy creature that was scratching and rummaging through my attic was not a rat after all. Unfortunately it wasn’t a baby giraffe either. It was a poor squirrel. We watched him go in this afternoon. I should have known because when I drew a picture of his poo for one of the muthas yesterday, her eyes got wide and she said, “That’s big.” Not much I can do to save him now because I got into a bit of a frenzy and threw the rat poison everywhere. You know why? Because baiting disease-y, scurrying things is not my job. I shouldn’t even be doing this, Dave! It’s creepy up there, with all these rules about where to walk, constantly hitting my head, being distracted by old things everywhere. Why, why, why do we even put stuff in our attic? I’m balancing on a small board with poison in my hand and the hair standing up on the back of my neck. I’m certain rats are staring at me, but I’m still pondering whether I should muscle this wooden table downstairs and paint it and use it somewhere. Facking hoarders! Now I’m going to have dead squirrels in my attic too. I should be approved for the hoarding show soon.

Now, I feel I must rant about ridiculous election wavers. Look, I hate mornings, and I hate people. I definitely hate people in the morning. But you….you outlandish election wavers…just get away from the corners I frequent. Seriously. I have PMS. This is not a parade, yet some of these jittery people are dressed like Uncle Sam. I just want to bring my kids to school in peace. Don’t wave at us. I’m busy in the car trying not to be Mrs. Asshole again. Little people are giving me papers to sign. I’m not even finished checking my important messages that I might have received in the middle of the night. My teeth are fuzzy. I still have another kid to come home and dress and bring to another school. I know it looks like I’m a functionally dressed member of society, but I AM NOT, so don’t mess with me. I have pajama pants on. Sunglasses. No makeup. A little tinted lip gloss so I can fool people. I haven’t finished my coffee. When I get home I’m not even going to be able to find it. So don’t smile and shake your sign at me, and definitely don’t wave at me. I don’t even know where to look. I get the same feeling when I see homeless people on the curb and I don’t have any money. A whole red light is such a long time for this awkwardness. I don’t want to be mean, but I sure as hell don’t want to look at all you extra people in the morning. It’s a safe bet that I’m not one of those cars honking back at you in support. If you hear my horn, it’s because I’m angrily honking at the slow moving car of supporters in front of me and yelling, “Go Jackass!”

I’m voting for the person who sends the whole lot of you to pick up trash by the interstate when you’re done. Stupid wavers!

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THERE'S A CUTE BABY GIRAFFE IN THE ATTIC

2012-11-05T09:22:00.001-06:00

It’s not a good day. I put the darlings to bed last night and about 15 minutes later I heard someone rustling in the kitchen. “Who’s up?” I called out. No answer. “What are you doing? Who is in the kitchen?” Still no answer. “Damnit!” I mutter as I get up and head towards the kitchen. Upon arrival there is no one there…but I still hear the rustling. It’s not coming from the kitchen. It is LOUD. It is coming from the laundry room. I nervously approach the dark laundry room. I can’t believe how loud this scratching noise is…and I nervously flick on the light and jump back. I see nothing, and the noise stops. Oh my fack. I know there is some kind of thing around here. No doubt it is furry and heinous and grotesque. Whatever it is knows I just turned the light on. I stand there for a minute. The rustling and scratching resumes. I know one thing for certain. This ain’t no damn mouse. No siree. This is a giant rat. The noise is LOUD. Please God let it be a cute baby squirrel. Or a giraffe.

My house is in semi-disaster state from the weekend. It rained yesterday and they were mostly inside. This morning I yelled at big darling on the way to school. He almost cried. I should have pulled over and hugged him. I apologized before he got out. I hate when I do that in the morning, and my punishment will be that I’ll feel horrible all day. I’ll imagine he is having a horrible day, crying when no one is looking, and feeling terrible about himself all day long. I know darned good and well he’s forgotten about everything I said, and probably hasn’t given it another thought since the first friend greeted him on the playground two seconds after dropoff. I can’t convince myself of it, though. I’ll wait for the phone to ring all day. “Hello, Mrs. Asshole, your son is crying in the office.” Because you’re an asshole. And assholes shouldn’t yell at their kids on the way to school.

On my list today is to put Halloween decorations away. In the attic. Where the baby giraffe is. The gods are snickering. I can hear them.

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The Day of the Dead

2012-11-03T09:43:00.000-05:00

My kids have always loved Halloween, and this year I was relieved that it wasn't especially traumatizing. Last year was a bit creepy because looking at lots of dead people with blood and guts spilling everywhere made us think about our own special dead person. That really sucked. We had walked into the big Halloween Superstore like we do every year, but last year we ended up running out after only a few seconds. None of us could handle it. Not even me. It was a total ninja surprise attack. Big darling was wringing his hands, the little ones were crying, and I was buckling them back into their seats as fast as I could, my own hands trembling and my heart pounding. What the fuck had just happened?

This year was better. Little darling was dressed as the po-lice. Or as my niece described, “A nark.” He literally ran from house to house, completely manic, high on sugar, just high on life. You couldn’t help but crack up at him. He was hilarious, and happy. He mostly is those things, to be honest. He’s such a blessing to me.

My niece and I had our 2^nd Annual pumpkin carving contest the night before. Big darling selected a Jesuit Blue Jay for me to carve, because he intends to go to high school there.

My niece showed up here with two selections. Super Mario and Tinkerbell. She tried to get away with carving Tinkerbell because Mario ‘looked hard.’ The boys just laughed. No way in hell 3 boys were going to let her get away with that. Are you kidding? My kids won’t even dry off with a pink beach towel. I don’t care if its 25 degrees and they are soaking wet. They will wait for you to go get another towel. I once bought a pink raft on purpose, so they would stay off it. They got on it after a couple hours, saying it was “mommy’s raft, but they were just using it.” I have no clue what makes them fear pink more than zombies. I should buy a pink comforter on sale and put it on their bed for punishment when they are bad. Now there’s a great idea.

We lit the chiminea and had dinner outside, and carved our pumpkins while they ran wild in the yard. Funny saying of the night: Me to little darling, sternly "We don't roll over burritoes with a scooter!" You guys can judge the winner. Our judges here are the boys so they always declare me the winner. I had totally forgotten about this, but last year, they were hesitant to tell my niece that she didn’t win, so middle darling placed 3 soccer cones by her pumpkin, and put a toy fire truck next to mine. Then he announced that the person with the cones did not win. The pumpkin closest to the fire truck won. We got a good chuckle out of his diplomacy.

This year, we finished carving and I headed to the fridge to get a beer. As I walked away, I called out, “So who won?” I turned around two seconds later to see that the soccer cones were already around Mario, and my Blue Jay had a toy helicopter near it. I spit my beer and cracked up till my stomach hurt. I had totally forgotten they had done that last year. Big darling is a sly, funny boy. He reminds me so much of his daddy. That is a total Dave move, to not say anything but just do something quietly funny.

They danced in the kitchen on Halloween night until 10 pm, and I let them all stay home from school the next day. We wrote notes to Dave and put them inside helium balloons, then released them at the cemetery. We watched them fly higher and higher and higher until they just disappeared. I was a little nervous that something terrible would happen….like they wouldn’t fly or we would see them pop…but that didn’t happen. They looked like teeny tiny stars up there…until they were just no more.

I worry that I’ve confused little darling, as I have no clue what exactly he comprehends. Through my choking tears, and with my dark sunglasses on, I tried to explain to him in a trembling voice that daddy wasn’t ‘really’ going to get the note. It’s just a symbol. A 3 year old doesn’t have a clue what a fucking symbol is. Clearly I don’t know what I’m doing…but my intentions are good.

We had a nice lunch outside at a restaurant afterwards. Little darling announced in front of some other moms I barely know that “mommy farted.” He shouted it twice for good measure. I have no clue why the little asshole said that, because I didn’t fart. Of course I made it worse, by crying out, “No I didn’t! Why would you say that?” and then looking right at them to see if they heard him, which of course they did.

I was starting to like Dave a little bit again. Starting to feel nostalgic for him and all. But this morning I woke up to find that a raccoon popped the inflatable ring around the pool, which is what keeps it from collapsing and spilling 10,000 gallons of saltwater onto my grass. It hasn’t collapsed yet, but my attempt at fixing it while 10,000 mosquitoes bit my legs was unsuccessful. So I’m a little perturbed at him again…although he won’t know it when he gets my balloon.

These are pumpkins that Dave carved one year, when we only had one kid and apparently lots of idle time.

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PS: You can't comment as "anonymous" anymore, because apparently "anonymous" is synonymous with "Sri Lankan asshole spammer." I couldn't take it anymore. If you don't have a usable ID to comment, just do it on the FB page.

Things You Need

2012-10-26T10:02:00.000-05:00

I’ve been tired and run down with a cold the last few days, so I decided yesterday to DO ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. I never ever do that. I must say it was quite nice and I feel more energized today. I'm also a little bit scared that I might want to do that alot more. I was thinking about the Holidays getting near, and was tempted to start shopping online. I think that might be my new method of shopping this year, because I will buy less. I get impulsive otherwise. This led me to thinking about things I like, and this rug I really want...so instead of shopping online, I decided to save my money and make a list of a few clever things I think you need.

Pure Komachi knives. Every.single.person. who has ever used these knives at my house wants them. I have the 6 inch chef knife, which is lavender colored, the blue fish knife, and the red tomato knife. I love them all. Best thing about them: they’re ten dollars, baby. They are lightweight and super easy to sharpen. These knives taught me how to chop like a professional. If you watch me chop, you will think I’m some kind of sous chef. My brother gave me these knives years ago. I still get a tingly feeling when I take them out of the drawer. A few times a year I sharpen them on a sharpening steel, and I think everyone has one of those in their utensil drawer somewhere, right? It came with the knives you received as a wedding gift in 1995. I’m not a professional knife sharpener, and I’m not aware of any tricky angles, but this isn’t rocket science like some people want you to believe. I make a few passes on the tool thing-y and they are like new. Don’t put them in the dishwasher.

A rotating facial cleansing brush. There are a variety on the market. Olay sells one for $30, and I’ve seen them for up to $150. I can’t imagine why one is so much better than the other. I have the $30 one and if I don’t use it for a while, then suddenly use it, I get compliments on my dewy complexion all day. This happens every time I use it, so it’s no bullshit. If you’re over 35, you need this. Men too.

A sonicare truthbrush. Because are you still just manually brushing your teeth? If you are, they are not as clean as they can be and I might be able to tell by your breath. You’re in a panic now, aren’t you? I know this is expensive, but it’s one of those things that pays for itself over time. Before I had this toothbrush, I would go to the dentist for cleanings and the hygienists would scrape and poke and hurt and scare me. I actually go to the dentist less now because of this toothbrush, and when I go, there is no scraping and poking. They say, “You use a sonicare don’t you? I can tell.” One less trip to the dentist and you’ve paid for it. Can’t live without this.

A squishy pillow. In my house, everyone fights over my pillow. It’s a white goose down pillow that was a splurge item for me after Katrina. I cannot sleep on another pillow, period. Check around for sales. If you have allergies, you can put an allergy cover on it. When my head hits this pillow at night, it’s a happy feeling. I can’t be as happy with any other pillow. Be selective about the down. Cheaper feather pillows allow sharp quills to poke through. That shit can blind you and is not cozy. Nothing has ever poked through this pillow.

My sofa. I love my sofa. I coveted this Pottery Barn sofa for years. It was $3500. I would lovingly stroke it in the store, and even drool on it, then the ladies would say, “Ma’am, may we help you?” and I would be jolted back to reality. Of course I could never get the sofa. Doomed to cheap, ugly sofas, because of my house full of ~~boys~~ superhero sofa jumpers. Then one day, I discovered sofacraft.org. They sold the exact same Pottery Barn sofa, for about $675. MADE THE SAME WAY. WITH THE SAME FABRIC. This is no lie, people. I selected fabric and had it shipped for under $300. I got extra durable, dense cushions on purpose. I wanted it to be uncomfortable to everyone so they would just stay the hell off of it. I’ll never forget when it was delivered. It was all wrapped up and the guys set it down in my foyer and two of the boys ran to jump on it, and they bounced off. Ecstatic, I jumped up and down and squealed, “It repels children!” Oh, what a happy day.

This rug. Ok. Seriously. I don’t have this rug.

But I want it. Oh, how I want it. But I can't have this with my snot bag children. So I got this one instead.

It’s in their play room. It’s indoor/outdoor polypropylene fiber. So, if little darling spills his apple juice just a little bit and then steps on 4 goldfish in the same wet spot, which normally makes sort of a slop pig paste, then I’ma just take it outside and blast the shit with the hose, ya hurd? It’s plastic. But I swear it still feels soft to the touch and looks nice with a thick rug pad under it. I wouldn’t put it in my living room, but it’s perfect for their playroom. This could go under a casual dining room table too. Designers are using them alot in kitchens now as well. Although I don't think they're using $87 rugs like my zebra find. They're more like a few hundred. Still inexpensive for a rug, though. This market has come a long way since we were kids and indoor/outdoor carpet was that green golf course looking crap. I think manufacturers are starting to realize there is a market for this type of rug to be used indoors...you know, the kind you can hose off because kids are pigs who ruin our shit. Next, I might write a list called, "Shit my kids ruined."

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The Art of Aging

2012-10-23T10:32:00.000-05:00

I’m in a bit of a panic over this year’s birthday, which arrives tomorrow. The agonizing number? 44. 44 facking years old. What da fuq? 45 is rounded to 50, that’s what. This is my last birthday being closer to 40 than 50, in my warped, anti-aging, don’t wanna get old, please-God-I’m-so-not-finished-being-young mind. I’m feeling kind of panicky.

I don’t want to hear that I ‘still look young.’ That I ‘still act young.’ Or even be grateful that I ‘still feel young.’ Nope. To hell with that. I want to be young. I’m rather sorry I didn’t embrace the beauty of it all more, when I was young. Why didn’t I live in a bikini and date ultra hot guys and just own the world? Oh, right. I did! I sort of forget the awesomeness of my youth because that was like 20 years ago. My brain doesn’t even go back that far, now. Sometimes I meet women and when I find out how old they are it freaks me out. Because I was assuming they were way older than I am. Nope…in their button up, flowered tops and their Capri pants, and their short, curling ironed hair, they are my age.

My kids laugh when I suggest to them I am old. They have this new thing, where they act ghetto and say, “Girrrrl, you cray cray!” and tell me I drink too much coffee. Recently I refused to carry little darling up 18 stairs while I was also carrying my purse and some groceries. My excuse, even though I carry him half the time…”I’m too old!” His response, while sobbing on the bottom step, “Mommy cray cray!”

Lately when I’m driving I can’t stop looking at my hands, because they look old on my steering wheel. Like, whose freaking hands are these? Apparently all these potions and lotions and burn-y, sting-y things I slather all over my face must be working, because I should have been slathering them on my hands all along too. I look in the mirror in the morning and I just laugh. Suddenly I have puffy things under my eyes. When did I start getting that? I keep saying to the muthas, “My hands, do they look old?” But they just curse me out. They yell, “Oh fuck you, who cares about your hands, look at my neck, my eyes, my lips.” This is what we do. We stand in front of mirrors and push our skin up with our fingers, just a tiny bit, and say, “This, you see this, this is all I need. Just a little pulling up here of this skin. What do you think that costs?” Then someone ruins it and screams, “Oh you can’t do that, they have to pull your whole facking face off and re-tack it into your skull with staples.” Oh bullshit, another mutha yells, you can get the life lift, or whatever the heck it’s called. We know damn good and well none of us is getting cut any time soon. We are too busy trying to solve the problems with potions and lotions and concoctions that burn the shit out of you. Not to mention the odd needle. These muthas really don’t look their age. I met a gay guy not too long ago who humored me for a few minutes talking about the muthas in our area. He leaned in close and said, “This is a haven for beautiful women. You girls rock it, what is the secret?!” “We’re moms,” I said. We do 400 things at once all day. It keeps you young. That, and we still dress hawt.

I’m trying to be grateful for what is good now. I have fabulous, beautiful kids. Friends who love me. I am so much wiser. I don’t worry or stress quite so much. I have LIVED. Survived a hell of a lot. It’s been a wild ride. A lot of fun. Some hurt and heartache and mistakes mixed in. I wouldn’t change anything. Well, of course, the one thing. I would change that. I wouldn’t let him die. And then who knows, I might be living with a deranged drug addict right now. Or probably in the process of divorcing him. There is the chance I would be angry and frustrated and wanting right now, instead of feeling mostly peaceful and happy and resilient. I wasn’t feeling very resilient in the end. I was quitting….leaving. Or rather, telling him to leave. I had no idea he would leave in the most dickhead of ways.

I received an email from the sister of a new suicide widow this week. “He broke her!” she hissed. Indeed, he did. Dave broke me too. The scars will always be visible. But they don’t have to remain so ugly. I’m reminded of the Japanese art of Kintsugi. When the Japanese mend broken objects, they aggrandize the damage by filling the cracks with gold. They believe that when something has suffered damage and has a history, it becomes more beautiful.

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