Would you please pass the hooch?

Why is it, that mothers feel compelled to get around other mothers and talk shop ALL THE FUCKING TIME?

I was recently invited out, by my mother's best friend's daughter (got that?). She is a perfectly nice girl, she really is. She has three children, though hers are a little younger than my own, and is just...nice.

She has been asking me for a few months, to attend a meeting of MOPS, or MNO, some organization with an "M" in the acryonym, with her. Now, I am sure that MOPS, or whatever, is a lovely group of women, with lovely children, and lovely...hair. However, not really my cuppa tea, you catch?

I sidestepped the issue for a few, well, months (procrastination? Me?), and was finally cornered on the issue. All of the the "Uh, I think I'm having my tonsils removed that day" excuses had already been used, I was out of disposable body parts. So, finally, I had to explain that I just didn't want to go.

She proceeded to share with me how a "meeting" goes. First of all, not to iterrupt, but I don't want to attend ANYTHING with the word "meeting" in it. This is why I am self-employed. Apparently, they have a speaker, who speaks on a child/parent related topic, then they break up into groups, depending on zip code, and discuss the previous speaker.

"Sometimes we discuss disipline, how to handle temper tantrums, crafts to do with them, and sometimes we just share cute stories about our children".

Well goodie. That is exactly what I want to do, when I have two hours without my children. Sit around and talk about them.

And, by the way? Those "cute" stories we mothers like to tell about our kids? Other people don't think they're cute. They're either waiting their turn to tell what their kid did that was REALLY cute, thinking "OH MY GOD, WHAT IS WRONG WITH THEIR CHILD???", or "Why the fuck wont she/he SHUT UP about their fucking kid already?"

When did it become wrong, for a mother, especially a SAHM, to not want to be mommy 24/7? Why is it perfectly acceptable, in fact, expected, from mothers who work outside the home, to have other interests, hobbies, other topics of discussion than motherhood? I stay home with my kids, because it was important to Doug and I that one of us be home, and be with the littles when they get home from school, when they're sick, etc., and we've finanically, been able to make it work. Not because there was nothing else I could do with all that time.

Being a SAH, does not mean that I lost my ability to think about things not involving how to get little Timmy to shit on the potty, and not eat his boogers (for the record, NONE of my children are booger-eaters). I love my kids. I love staying home with them all the time. I really do. However, this does not mean that I have to immerse myself in them to the point of drowning the gal who I am, OUTSIDE of being da'momma. If I have a few child-free hours, I want to spend it celebrating who I am, outside of parenting, I want to use explicit profanity, have a screaming debate over world politics or religon, while smoking excessively over shots of bourbon.

You should have SEEN the silence on the other end of the phone when I told her that. I think she was a little shocked, but at the same time, I think it made her pause and think.

It's OKAY for us to not spend all of our time parenting. It's OKAY to need adult conversation that doesn't involve the words "potty", "binky", or "wooby". This isn't an excuse to get drunk at noon while they're eating their PB&J for lunch. Needing some time to be YOU, doesn't make you a bad mother. It might just make you a better one.

Hey, that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

The kids are gone for the day, so pass the hooch, would ya?

a tisket a tasket

shove that fucking basket right up your...

I'm in a funk.

Which is much different that feeling funky, let me tell you.

I do this a few times a year, feel blecky and hibernate. I'm firmly convinced that if more people wallowed a bit more frequently, they might not drive me apeshit.

I'm watching a person, whom I've always viewed as being just a hair above a functioning village idiot, achieve success in a field that has frustrated me for years.

One, I might add, for honesty's sake, I desperately desire to, if not succeed in, to at least be viewed as competent and mildly entertaining.

Goes to show how much I know, LOL.

I do not begrudge others success, at least, I don't think I do.

As long as it's not something I want that I can't have.

Not really all that gracious of an outlook, eh?

I made the mistake of, while not complaining (seriously, I take a break every now and again), discussing, if you will, my life with some friends of my mothers. They asked me about the boyos, which, in turn, lead to Lucien starting pre-K this year, I'll have more free time, and I mentioned that I was planning on going back to college.

They looked *shocked*

I guess when you get knocked up at 19, people's expectations of your life tend to fall off the chart a bit. I don't need a degree. I WANT a degree. Ask me what I'll do with it, the answer is a bit more hazy.

Everything I've accomplished so far, has been a combination of dumb luck, and biology. I've made three kick ass children. Biology. Doug has a great job, we have a great marriage. Hard work on his end, and dumb luck.

It was pointed out to me that I should be thankful for my children, rather indignantly, I might add. Well of course I'm thankful for them! What a stupid ass statement to make. However, not to be a wet blanket, but eventually, they will leave home. Hopefully before they are 30. I'll only be 43 when my youngest turns 18. There's alotta living' after 43 (or, so I'm hoping).

My children's needs determine what I do, and when I do it.

NOW.

Not always.

A gal has to plan.

For some reason, I guess I always assumed that when I was ready, the mantle would simply fall about my shoulders, and I would take my rightful place in the world.

Turns out that mantle is a poopy diaper.

I'm not handling it all that well.

The stupidest part is that I know that it means nothing. I know that her success is a good thing. It may mean that I'll get that $2000 she owes me back.

I'm just plain old jealous.

Green is my color, being a redhead and all.

Having to admit that you are jealous, sucks ass, just for the record. It's such an ugly emotion. I'm not jealous of girls that are prettier than me, or smarter, or have more money....

maybe it's that I just don't care about that stuff. Maybe that is what jealousy is all about. I suppose it doesn't really count when people have something you don't want. Not that I wouldn't mind having more money, or more brain cells.

So, anyway, in summation, there is no summation. There is nothing to be done for it, but to accept it, congratulate her, and keep on pluggin' away.

And maybe wallow. Just for a day or two.

a pinder a ponder...

WHY, do I have two cats? They needed to go to the vet this AM, to get get fixed. This requires mucho advance-o planning-o, as one of the cats, Lady Hotdog, loathes the cat carrier with the fire of a thousand suns. It terrifies the shit out of her. Sometimes, literally. So, last night, we locked them in the downstairs bathroom, since they're not allowed to eat or drink after midnight. This morning, Doug wakes up, and put them into the carrier. I then get up with virtually no sleep (that is a whole separate story),cranky, with just enough time to shower, drink enough coffee to be coherent, and get the cats to the vets on time. Everything is going swimmingly, until I attempt to PICK UP the carrier. Apparently, if you turn the little black knobs on the sides...the whole thing comes apart. Guess what Lucien did??

So, 10 minutes before we have to be there, I'm tracking down Hotdog. Ruby could have cared less, I just threw her lazy ass back into the bathroom. I finally corner Hotdog, she is clawing the shit out of me as soon as she sees the carrier, I get her in (no small feat), and scream at Caleb "SHUT THE DOOR! SHUT THE DOOR!", while the cat jumpsabout 4 feet in the air (I had the carrier on it's end, so the door was on the top), and takes OFF. Caleb then proceeds to watch the cat run away.

This time, she made it upstairs, where there is no abundance of places to hide.

Half an hour later, all the beds were flipped over, including my king size (working on pure fury at this point, LOL). Eventually, reason kicks in. I opened a can of wet food, and sat patiently.

Two minutes later, here comes Houdini cat, strolling up for breakfast.

We made it to the vets, only about an hour late.

So, feeling guilty, I took all the littles to get some munchkins, figuring a bucket-sized latte couldn't hurt the momma either. You should have seen the confusion on the woman's face when I ordered a "Ginourmous latte please"

"huh? What size"

"The biggest you've got. A bucket would be nice"

"Huh?"

"Large, please".

My humor is lost on some people.

Babies and batsignals...

..AH-HA! I have sucessfully taught the 'pews to refer to my sister-in-law's belly as the "Batcave"!

We've (by "we", I mean, Travis, Cameron and I), decided to name the babies Batman and Wonder Woman. Especially considering that Travis is convinced that he is getting a new brother, and Cameron is getting a sister. It's working out beautifully for everyone.

Did I mention that my SIL is not amused?

Excuse me while I....

..clear my fucking throat.
I've just spent the day with my fucked-up family.

To "celebrate" my grandmother's and mother's, birthday.

This means that in addition to the normal shit-fest that is a gathering with this group of people that I am, genetically speaking, related to, that there is an additional cat factor.

My brother was his normal charming self. His first remark, as he eavesdrops on a conversation between Doug and I, who were playfully fighting, and actually lip-locked for his "Yelling. That's what my sister does best".

Me: "Yes, Chris, because you know me oh, so very, very well. We're practically bosom buddies"

Him: "A leopard doesn't change his spots"

Me: Silence, while mentally screaming "The ONLY FUCKING CAT IN THIS ROOM IS THE FUCKING PUSSY THAT ROLLED THE FUCK OUTTA THERE WHEN I WAS 14, AND NEVER LOOKED THE FUCK BACK, SO STUFF IT UP YOUR FUCKING ASS".

Which, totally would have blown the whole "temper? What temper?" point, that I was trying to make.

My mother, in the role of loving peacemaker, looks at me, my pursed lips, and the pulsating vein in my forehead, and says "You can come up with a comeback for that!".

Why yes, yes I can.
Unfortunately, it involves bloodshed.
"It's my mother's birthday, I'm biting my tongue" was my response, forced out between clenched teeth.

This was only the first round, illegal before the sounding of the bell.

Aidan: "Mommy! Let me show you my new trick", proceeds to show me how he places the butter knife like so, and then taps it with the mallet, cracking cleanly through the crab claw.

Me: "Aidan! That's great! The claws are my favorite part also!"

Grandmother to Aidan: "Don't go all the way through the crab leg Aidan, you're doing it wrong. Don't go all the way through, you'll waste that last morsel of meat that is clinging, stubbornly to the disgusting membrane with the crab leg. Don't you know that I paid good money for these crabs? You're doing it wrong. Don't go all the way through the crab leg...." ad nauseum.

Aidan to grandmother: I like to eat them this way. I get both ends out" with a "what the fuck is wrong with you?" bewildered look on his face.

Me: reaches for a drink.

Second bell rings. Aidan wins the first round.

My mother: This week is vacation bible school"

Me: "Aidan has tutoring at 10:30 on Monday and Wednesday."

Mother/martyr: "It's only one week Danielle"

Me: "I'm aware. However, Jen is having her gallbladder out this week, so I'll have Delaney and Emma for her while she recovers"

martyr: "Delaney can go with them"

Me: "Only if I strap 4 week old Emma to the luggage rack on the roof of the van"

martyr: "You asked me to sign them up for VBS, Danielle, so I did. I only did what you asked me to. It's all I can do"

Me: dumbfucked astounded by the fact that this conversation "Danielle, you need to sign them up for VBS this year.

Me: "noncommittal grunt" has been turned into a burning desire for them to go to a church I cannot stand, and learn about a god whom I do not believe in, and/or worship.

Third round

My father: "Dani!

"DANI"

"Yes Dad?"

"DANI!"

"What?

"DAAANNII!"

"WHAT!!!"

"Do you know where LUcien's bathing suit is?"

"no"

Me: "Lucien, did you leave it in the bathroom?"

Lucien: "I don't know"...skips off down the hallway to check.

Father walks halfway down said hallway and again yells "Dani! Do you know where Lucien's bathing suit is?"

"NO! I DON'T KNOW WHERE HIS DAMN SUIT IS! I HAVEN'T WORN IT TODAY!"

This is after repeated conversations such as "Dad, we're out of plates. Do you have anymore?"

him: "I don't know. Go look"

Me: "This isn't my party, though I can see how you might be confused, since I arranged all the food, made both birthday cakes, and the salad. I also, do not live here, have never lived here, and wouldn't have the slightest idea of where you would keep them"

Him: "grunt"

Knockout in the fourth round

Mom: "There is this distance between us, Dani. Are you mad at me?"

Me: "No.

Really"

Mom: "okay"

When, what I should have said was, "Yes, there is. There is distance between us. It's about the size, weight, and diameter of a bible".

I've got a wild hair...

...up my ass...or is that a "wild hare"?

In which case, this has gone up quite a few notches on the creep-o meter...

I've decided that, since I'm wild to get to the business of ripping down the crumbling plaster walls in my house, which, I recently noticed, have moved a few blocks down from "ghetto chic", to, in addition to straightening up the house, hitting the grocery store and dry cleaners (who, at this point, are probably legally entitled to keep my husband's shirts), I'm tearing down the chain link fence out in the front yard.

You see, one of the many joys of owning an older home, is the plethora of projects you get to chose from. We, however have a system. Projects rank in this order:

1-If this shit doesn't get fucking down in the next 2 days, we must immediately move the washing machine as well as the dryer to the front lawn, and the cars must have all tires removed, and be situated on cement blocks. No fancy-schmancy round things here, no sir-e-blob.

2-It can wait. Like, maybe a week. Then, if not finished, the washer and dryer must be relocated, but the wheels may stay attached to the evil-mobile that is my mini-van.

3-Whatever. White trash is back in vogue, no? It'll be alright to sit there for a month or so.

4-Fuck it. If you don't like it, don't fucking look at it.

The walls, are currently, at #1. Since I, while not being overly attached to the process of doing laundry, I do enjoy, no, appreciate being able to do it in my underwear. This, would be severely curtailed if the appliances were moved the front lawn.

My dear, dear, baby daddy, however, has a different list than I do.

WTF? At what point was there a time when TWO lists were allowed? Everyone knows that there is only ONE list of projects allowed at a time. Since I have tits, mine automatically trumps his.

He, however, is not persuaded by my logic, that two boobs, beat one penis, any day of the week.

So, in order for him to help me with the walls, I have to help him finish his list.

HIS list.

Like, totally, whatever.

He's insisting that he finish the deck for the pool we put in over the summer, as well as getting the fence down in the front lawn, and finishing the treehouse. Though, he graciously is making allowance for the last item slipping down a few notches on his list, making room for fixing, you know, holes in the walls in our foyer.

He's a grand fellow.

So, I spent today ripping up a fence. A nasty-ass, chainlink fence, completely rusted and nasty.

The lawn looks FAB. My evil-mobile, which I feel compelled to add, is only 2 months old, didn't survive quite so well, as I backed into HIS van with it.

I, who have never hit another car, (the incidence involving Melissa Russo's car in the school parking lot in the 10th grade does NOT count), managed to back the holy fucking shit out of the back side of Satan's carriage. I also, managed to bang up his (which, is a company car, BWAHAHAHA), to the point, that the passenger side door will not open.

I, am one clever hag.

With about to be new walls.

The storm of the eye...

Miss me?

Between the saga of the eye, and our trip to the beach, I've been horribly lax in updating my blog, for which, I sincerely apologize to my numerous fans. You're out there. I know you are.

Update on the eye...Only for the strong-stomached, LOL. I finally got a clean bill of health on Wednesday. After my initial posting, things went downhill, FAST. Apparently, my body walled off the infection to keep it from spreading (neat trick, now if only I could teach it to my dirty laundry pile), resulting in a huge, and extremely attractive, knot above my eye...So I, who loathes going to the doctors, sucked it up, and trekked back, for my third visit, in as many days. Once there, she informs me that it may be an infected cyst in there. Sounds fun, no? So, meanwhile, my head is throbbing like an elephant is pulling a Michael Flatley performance on it. She takes a big assed needle, and pokes me with it. Yup. So, since my baby daddy was sitting in the waiting room, I asked her to bring him in. Apparently, the needle trick didn't go as planned, so she numbed it (which is another word for poking and prodding, asking, "Can you feel this", to which the answer is "YES BITCH, I CAN!"), and then took a razor blade to my face. This just make me bleed like a stuck pig.

After fastening two beautiful butterfly bandages to it, she sets me up with an appointment with an eye doctor for the next morning, to have him cut it out. I'm freaking out, just a smidge, at the point. Not only is this my face, but I'm due to leave for vacation in 2 days! A girl has priorities!

The next morning, my father drives me there, where the doctor kindly allowed me to remove the bandages my self, since the doc from the day before, had stuck them in the MIDDLE OF MY EYEBROW. I looked funny enough, I had no desire to lose the middle of my eyebrow as well. He looks at it, and informs me that it is draining. Which, basically means, that was puss running down my face, not medicine. Hey, I warned you before this whole thing began. He can do nothing with it, without it hurting like hell, leaving me a "significant" scar, and probably not doing much good.

"Just keep the hot compresses on it, let it drain, and here, have ANOTHER antibiotic scrip".

This takes the antibiotic count up to FOUR. I could swim through raw sewage iffin I had the desire. Which I don't. Just to clarify.

So, finally, 5 days later, on Saturday, I was able to remove the bandaid I was using to cover it, and take off my "bandaid? What bandaid?" sunglasses. I still look a little funny. Well, funnier than usual, but I'll be fine.

So, rest easy, secure in the knowledge that I'll be around for awhile yet. I know you were sweating it.

Apparently...

everyone in my immediate circle is on a reproductive kick. Either that, or I need to stop drinking the water.

In addition to my friend Jen's, new baby, Emma, my cousin is pregnant, and I just found out that my sister-in-law is also knocked up.

I have to say, I think I could have done a headstand when Janell called with the news that she is pregnant again. Well, maybe not a headstand. I probably could have jumped off the floor higher than 3 inches though. I don't like to exercise. Even when excited.

My SIL, is married to my only sibling. He's an ass. She, however is a sweetheart. She also happens to be my Aidan's tutor (he is dyslexic). They have twin nephews, who turned 3 in May, whom I adore. I also spoil the living shit out of them. Janell's mother once said to me "You know, you can't BUY their affection".

To which I wanted to respond, "Really? How many toddlers have you known? The lady with the candy and toys is ALWAYS popular, bitch".

I've also taught them to call me "favorite aunt", which pisses off Janell's sister to no end. Which is another perk.

I informed Janell, when I dropped off a baby gift, about 2 hours after getting the news, that I was placing an order for twin girls this time. She was not thrilled, LOL....

As long as I don't have to raise them, I can dress them and send them right back to their mommas, little girls are fine with me. Just don't ask me to share a house with one when a pre-teen in the throes of puberty is PMS-ing.

Medical leave...

should be allowed to be taken just for life in general. I'll be the first to admit, I have my vanities. I'm a woman. I'm entitled.

I got bit by a bug. I knew I always hated those nasty fuckers. This particular bastard decided that my eyebrow looked yummy, and took a chunk out of it. Two days later, I woke up with my right eye swollen shut and a headache like a trucker had driven over my head.

A few hours of hemming and hawing, because, naturally, this couldn't occur on a weekDAY, I sucked it up, and went to an urgent care facility.

Now, I would imagine, in all those medical school courses that these people take, there has to be one, where it is mentioned, that walking into an exam room, taking a step BACK, and exclaiming "What the hell happened to your FACE??", is generally not considered a particularly wonderful bedside manner.

After informing me that I have "Orbital Cellulitis", which is not to be confused with cellulite, she repeated, 3-4 times, "This is very serious", completely freaking the shit out of me. I was told to go immediately to the ER if it got any worse, or I developed even a low grade fever, so they could ADMIT me, and administer IV antibiotics. This can apparently spread to your actual eye, or even the membranes of your brain.

Wonderful.

Luckily, the horse-sized antibiotics they have me on, improved it, rather quickly, and I'm told, it should continue to clear up.

However...

I look like a damn circus freak. I mean, really. I've been unable to wear make-up for 2 days. Big fucking whoop, I know, but I feel naked, LOL. I haven't NOT worn make-up outside of the house, for probably 15 years or more. I'm a huge fan of black eyeliner, which, incidentally, I now have to toss, and buy a new one. Of course the one I've been using is only 2 weeks old, which is always the case where you find yourself with a bizarre infection that is usually only seen in children under 5.

I feel like a booger-eater, LOL...


What really bothers me at this point, since apparently I'm out of the woods for yuckies eating my brain, is that I look weird. I mean, I always look a little strange, but COME ON...


We're supposed to be leaving for the beach in 3 days, and meet my in-laws there. The WHOLE damn family. Here's hoping that it's cleared up by then.

Cause I'm VAIN.