"What we've got here is a failure to communicate."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1fuDDqU6n4o
So when do you officially become a mother fucking cock-sucking bitch in a divorce? Is it when you say, I’m done and I don't feel the same way anymore? Is it when you tell the other person you want to start living separate lives, or is it when you actually START living separate lives and start dating or fucking someone else? Maybe it happens when you leave the house to rendezvous with…you won’t tell, because you’re a mother fucking cock-sucking bitch. For me, I realized it officially when I told the "loving and good man" that I am divorcing (which of course is MY fault and I wanted it) to get the fuck out of the house we dreamed about (not really, it’s a fuckin tri-level, HATE tri-levels), searched for (I’m the one who really searched for it and did ALL the leg work), bought (yes, he makes more money than me), worked and sweat to make it beautiful (I took down the three goddamn layers of border with paint in between each fucking layer, cleaned, primed the walls with a chemical that probably killed many of my brain cells that would be in high demand later in my divorced-ass life, painted both the walls and the mother fucking ceiling, and fixed…fixed…fixed). I am officially a mother fucking cock-sucking bitch.

I have been told by this "loving and good man" that I am a “bully.” A fucking 110lb bully! I bullied him, because I told him that one of us needs to move out. I told him that I would be willing to do it, if he didn't want to. Really, no matter what I do, I’m a MFC-SB (mother fucking cock-sucking bitch). So, it takes me back to my official question…when do you officially become a MFC-SB? The answer is…the fucking moment you know deep inside that this marriage you agreed to (and wanted with all your heart) is not going in a “healthy” direction, that you have changed and can feel yourself not there. Now… that’s not the MFC-SB moment. No, that is just being human and reacting to your surroundings. It comes when you have those feelings and you don’t, again, YOU DON’T say anything. Whether it’s denial, fear, cowardess, or naivety, you DON'T SAY A WORD. You make the choice to not communicate and THAT, THAT FAILURE TO COMMUNICATE, is when you are officially a MFC-SB. You might not realize it until a bit later, or much later when you are asking the "loving and good man" to get the fuck out of the home you have built together and assumed would grow older in (not too old…it’s a tri-level).

So, I became a mother fucking cock-sucking bitch many years ago and I didn’t even know it. I’m sorry to the "loving and good man." I’m sorry I’m a MFC-SB. I never meant to become one and I am trying not to stay one. I just want to be happy, so I can help healthy, smart, loving boys become beautiful, caring, intelligent, strong men…and yes, I just want to be happy too. The mother fucking cock-sucking bitch that I am.


Song Suggestion for the day: Led Zeppelin's "Communication Breakdown" from Led Zeppelin.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gYulN4Xqytc&feature=related

~G

There Is a Gift in Every Shit

Tonight as I cleaned up my sons’ play room…FUCKING A...I was listening to my iPod. Music is the one constant in my life that has always been there and never failed to soothe me during a difficult time. It just fucking calms me. As I made manageable piles of toys in my boys’ play room so in the morning they can clean up their toys…because I fucking refuse to put their sorry ass shit away that they literally dump and throw around, I was listening to one of the most beautiful songs I have ever heard in my life. The strength, calm, and peace I felt (which is quite the goddamn feat considering what the mother fucking playroom looked like) was indescribable. I admit though, one major problem is that this artist was introduced to me by Mr. Gift. Do you have any idea how much that can fuck with someone’s moment of peace?

The song is by Ray LaMontagne and is called “Be Here Now.” Truly, a beautiful gift this man has. Really, it is one of the gifts Mr. Gift brought into my world that I still embrace and love. The song is all about focusing on your inner strength, looking for love and peace within yourself and concentrating on the right now.

So, here I am trying very hard to focus on today. Due to the fact that I am in the middle of a divorce, am still living with the “loving and good man” I am divorcing, I am surrounded by all the pictures and objects of a life we built together that is no longer, and have just broken up with the only other man I have ever loved. I don’t quite understand how focusing on the present moment is the best for my psyche.

However, I am trusting Ray LaMontagne’s beautiful words, my friend, Workout Barbie, and the calming, sweet, and (sorry to say) slightly-odd spiritual man on Oprah…and am trying hard to concentrate on right now. So, let’s see, my soon-to-be ex-husband is down stairs in his “bedroom,” the family room and has just finished helping me fold the towels (something he rarely did when we were not “divorcing”). I have now moved to my “cell,” the master bedroom, surrounded by more reminders of a life together lost, you know…as I’ve said time and time again, a “wake” in which you can never bury your dead loved one. So you can see how difficult it is to just focus on right now. It is so easy to gravitate towards the shit. I mean we all do it. Someone farts, they tell you they farted, but we all take that one breath in; even though we know it’s going to smell. We naturally smell the shit, take in the funk, and acknowledge the gross. Therefore, I believe that in order for this spiritual crap to actually work…we have to focus on the GOOD that comes out of the shit…we all know that good DOES comes out (no pun intended) of shit. It’s healthy to have shit in your life. We need to have it, but we should never hold on to it, or we will become backed up with poison and get sick. So when I encourage my 3 year old “Apple Dumpling” to keep trying to poop (because he is eternally backed up) even though it hurts, I tell him to focus on how good he will feel when he lets go of it and how healthy it is for his body. I have him focus his thoughts on the good he will find in the shit (but we say “caca”).

When I look at my “shit,” the “wake,” etc. and think about the song, my friend, and the strange, sweet “Oprah Man,” I am able to find healthy blessings. I find good in my shit. I am blessed in so many ways. I cannot change the past (what I already ingested). I cannot control the future (what I plan on eating…you never know what someone is going to bring into the office the next day). All I can do is be right here now with my shit and take in my life as it is…a “wake,” surrounded by loving and beautiful friends who hold me up when I walk towards the coffin and start to fall in a panic. I am surrounded by all my family; cousins and aunts that make me feel as close to home with my mom (who passed away 4 years ago) as I can get. This “wake” that I am at is full of music, all kinds, that somehow describe the feelings I am feeling at any given moment and help me for a split second feel like I can do this. There are children there, laughing innocently, crying over the most fucking ridiculous shit (like whether the black plastic toy is called pliers or tweezers, which eventually turns violent with some blood shed) and reminding us that life goes on (and making us wonder if it’s neither, and maybe it’s really a wrench?). Every now and then I get to leave the “wake” and visit the naïve outside world that thinks divorce is just a word and not a horrible feeling of loss. And although I have to come back to the “wake,” I have moments when I actually feel blessed to have had this relationship at all. I look at my “dead loved one” (the marriage) and am reminded of not only the sadness of the loss, but the beautiful memories that I have been lucky to have, as well as the difficulties I am lucky to have learned from. Some experiences I might try to ingest again. Some, I will pass on (like a bad batch of chili). I am here now, thankful.

So, this “potty mouth mom” who loves the word “fuck” and is living in a goddamn wake is trying so hard to be here now, to be present and to focus on all the good that is coming out of her shit. It is exhausting. Just so exhausting. I only hope that I wake up with this feeling in the morning and am able to carry it with me throughout the day.


Song Suggestion for the day: Ray LaMontagne’s "Be Here Now" from Till the Sun Turns Black. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QVhWBiXG_iQ to listen to one of the most beautiful songs ever written.

Don't let your mind get weary and confused
Your will be still, don't try
Don't let your heart get heavy child
Inside you there's a strength that lies

Don't let your soul get lonely child
It's only time, it will go by
Don't look for love in faces, places
It's in you, that's where you'll find kindness

Be here now, here now
Be here now, here now

Don't lose your faith in me
And I will try not to lose faith in you
Don't put your trust in walls
'Cause walls will only crush you when they fall

Be here now, here now
Be here now, here now

~G

Workout Barbie with Wings

My friend’s divorce was finalized yesterday. We’ll call her Workout Barbie (WB), and I say that with nothing but love, affection, and a bit of jealous disgust (her legs are vomitously gorgeous and long, while mine look like a hobbit with a bad case of varicose veins). This beautiful friend of mine, who is not only beautiful on the outside, but stunning on the inside, has been a blessing during this very difficult time in my life.

Now, WB has divorced one of the most unintelligent men that I have ever known (he spells “night” “nite”), as well as one of the meanest (he calls her a “whore” and a “cunt” in front of their children). Ironically, she called me after all was signed and done, crying, not for joy, but in sadness. So interesting, even when you divorce a horrible person, it still is a loss, a death, and plain old fucking “sad.” You marry this person expecting to build a life with them, grow old with them, have geriatric sex with them and at the least have someone there to wipe your ass when you’re too frail to do so, feed you when you’re too weak, and remind you of what fucking year it is. The dream is now dead and you have to come to the realization that all you believed in your ignorant, naive youth was nothing but bullshit (or dead fish floating in a glass bowl).

Now, my friend, who wears full make up when she works out and looks gorgeous while she lifts ridiculously large amounts of weight (fucking bitch), in her sadness and through her tears said something so beautiful, something that I have been feeling, but NEVER told anyone. She said, “I feel like I could fly.” Even in these scary moments and in life altering situations, these glimpses of clarity lift you up, make your worries lighter, and you become hopeful. Okay, so the image of a workout Barbie doll flying overhead did pop in my mind…AND I did suggest that she should fly over that mean, pathetic man and take a shit on him. However, regardless of my nasty suggestion and strange visualization, I realized that this must be a feeling many women feel when they make this type of decision. There is this fear, being a woman, a mother, alone, that you might not be able to pull it off. You might fail and not only ruin your life, but the innocent lives of your children who have no say in your decision. I admit that I have terrible images of living in a one room apartment (not that you can’t be happy in one room) with my two delinquent boys who swear all the time (ok, so the likelihood of this actually happening is VERY high if I don’t stop swearing myself). In addition to my offspring coming home early from school for swearing at the principal to their jobless drunken mother, I have an abusive boyfriend who has stolen all my money and beats me. This is the fear we feel deep within our guts. No matter how unrealistic (my boys don’t even say “stupid” because they believe it’s a swear word and the likelihood of a man having ANY access to my hard earned “college graduated with a masters degree” money is like saying that I will never say “fuck” again), we’re still so scared, so very scared. Then we stop, suddenly feel lighter, and we KNOW we can do this. We are strong, independent, and as Joss Stone states in her song Right to Be Wrong, “we’re feeling wings, though we’ve never flown.”

So, to WB, with legs that men have actually attempted to take a BITE out of in a bar (I was there. It really happened! Fucking losers.), I’m so proud to know you, you strong, beautiful, smart woman. I’m so happy you have found those beautiful wings (with fucking muscles…bitch). Happy Birthday…yes, it was her birthday yesterday as well. How symbolic. Wonder if she got spanked?

Song Suggestion for the day: Joss Stone's "Right to Be Wrong" from Mind, Body & Soul.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=inWLd_9TlqY to listen to the song.

~G

Melatonin, Shit and a Couple of Dead Fish

I just took 3 melatonin with a glass of wine, I’m waiting for my soon to be ex-husband to come home with groceries, my 3 year old is SOUND asleep calling out and talking to me as if it was 11 AM, and there are two dead fish in a glass mixing bowl in the kitchen. Melatonin, for those of you who are lucky enough to not have trouble falling asleep because you are living in a wake where no matter how hard you try you can’t bury your dead loved one, is naturally created in the brain to help regulate your sleep. When you take these little, white, chalky pills, you are supposedly helping your body to fall asleep a little faster. It actually works, until about 3 AM when you wake up and wonder why the fuck you are awake when you are always so exhausted!

By looking at the date you can tell that it has been a very long time since the last blog. Divorce, mothering, dating, and work can be a bitch! My C has moved on and started her own “private” blog, giving up on me. I don’t have the daily devotion or the monthly or the bimonthly devotion it takes to put up some real bloggin numbers. I do, however, have the material, the drama, the semantics, and the feistiness to throw a pretty good one out from time to time. I do have to admit that when I say throw, I am picturing a gorilla throwing his feces at an enemy in aggression. That pretty much sums up my life right now. (For those of you who are wondering…I am SO going to win this fight!)

You will be happy to know that since my last blog, I am still a “strong independent woman” on her way to finalizing her divorce from… “a loving and good man.” I have broken up with Mr. Gift. Apparently the feces I was describing earlier were wrapped within that same gift package. What a beautiful package on the outside though (no pun intended), but filled with shit. So sad. I still believe he was a gift, a lesson, wrapped up in a pretty bow…mixed with shit. Isn’t that what most relationships are? I say “most” because I still believe that with good communication (which is essential), attraction, and definitely love, strong relationships can work.

As for my divorce, that is not a subject I will be willing to share, assuming I ever do this again. That is not just my personal shit, it’s someone else’s who happens to be a good person and I will respect that. I will say, however, I am proud of us as parents and people. We have remained respectful, loving, understanding and patient for the most part. I have nothing but respect, love, and trust for this man I have known since I was 17 years old. I am now done with that subject.

Back to shit (eventually to return to the dead fish floating in a bowl upstairs), I spoke with my very elderly father the other day and he shared some information with me about another family member. The news was so hurtful and nasty, that I began to cry and felt as if I was going to vomit. I ran straight for the toilet…yes, now the shit part….and began to dry heave. Such a frustrating action, dry heaving, so unproductive, don’t you think? After a few attempts at spewing the nastiness of what I heard into the only place it belonged, I fell to the floor and bawled. We’re talking real bawling, spitting, drooling, moaning, snotting, gasping, groaning, all in the fetal position wrapped around THE TOILET. Here is the “shit” part. During all that emotional release, crying, despair, and frustration I began to think… "the toilet is clean? Good thing I just cleaned it.” The crying, praying to God to guide me, and the complete surrendering to my emotions did not stop me. Once a mother…always a mother I guess.

Speaking about mothers…that leads me to my next topic. What mother fucker thought up the idea of giving out “swimming death” as a reward for throwing a ball into a bucket? My 6 year old came home from “carnival day” at camp today with two gold fish in a plastic baggie. THAT is the first clue that this is not meant to end well. What animal really can survive hours within a plastic bag in the middle of the summer? As for my sweet Apple Dumpling, he had two fish instead of one, because he asked if his younger brother could have one too. So sweet (he of course stated that the larger one was his and had already named them both). I should add that names for both fish were finally decided and agreed upon. They were officially, and creatively I might add, named after C’s two daughters. She was not happy about this considering the life expectancy of gold fish living in a baggie is not good.

We brought the beautiful and delicate creatures home, with my sons both declaring their love for the animals. They could not move away from the bowl. I instructed them on the many ways to avoid killing the creatures…such as, over feeding, shaking, water temperature, etc. I then left the room for just a second (isn’t that all it takes to kill one of God’s creatures) and came back to giggling, wet boys, and water flooding the counter. After asking the boys what had happened and making sure that I laid a serious guilt trip on them about the importance of telling the truth (maybe they should have a talk with Mr. Gift), they gave it up…confessed (like a hot spot light had been shined on their faces) to poking and touching the little fish. Needless to say, the fish had stopped moving, the sweet, beautiful boys I had nurtured in my womb, bore out of my body, and fed from my bosom, had officially killed one of “God’s creatures.” His brother, the larger fish, sat at the bottom of the bowl, eating, and eating, and eating. Apparently, he ate himself to death.

Pathetic and cruel, this idea of sending home animals that have little to no chance of survival with children. Again, who the fuck thought of this? It must have been a man…related to Mr. Gift. “Here’s your taste of love, peace and calm. Trust it. Believe in it." Then…BAM…DEATH…SADNESS…LOSS…ANGER. Oh, and I almost forgot…AND SHIT…down the toilet the fish went…with the shit.

Song Suggestion for the day: Black Eyed Peas' "Smells Like Funk" from Elephunk.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A2LONht7srM to listen to the song...terrible slide show.

~G

They Burn Coming Out

Been wanting to “blog." Have had a friend nagging me to “blog” (thank you C). Have a lot to say that’s very “blog-a-licious.” However, I haven’t gotten around to it. Why you ask? As I am sure all you sad mother fuckers are thinking as you are sitting at your computers during the day, wishing your preschoolers would actually for 1 fucking second shut the fuck up (very few of you would admit it out loud, but you’re thinking it). OR…it’s night time and you’re enjoying a quiet moment with your wine, or Corona with 2 limes, and praying to the mothering gods above that those humans you bore out of vagina would fall asleep (which fucking burned…not falling asleep, pushing a human out of your vagina. And it not just hurt…it burned…why the hell don’t they describe it like that? It burns when they come out and NO ONE has the nerve to tell you. Why? I tell! I tell! And when my precious apple dumpling is 17 years old and asks me why I am saying "NO," to… anything, I will tell him as well, “Because I am your mother and you not only hurt me coming out, but you BURNED me, Baby. That’s why it’s no.”) Hmmm, tangent, I’m going off on one. As I was saying, the question at hand, at least for C, is why? I’ve tried to explain it. Although I think I might just be using the usual excuses. You know…SOOOOO busy with the kids, and the house, oh…and the laundry. Or maybe it’s the excuse, I’ve been so run down, tired, I have my period…a little hormonal? I just might be lazy. You know, cleaning, paying bills, getting a divorce, taking care of my son who has been diagnosed with…”something that affects his learning.” The usual excuses we ALL use for putting things off. I have tried the ridiculous excuse of financial insecurity, the need to sell my home, and the fear of becoming homeless and poor to explain to C why I haven’t written…or should I say blogged. I mean how silly of me to be concerned about bearing my soul, my personal experiences with my divorce, and my difficulties dealing with my very difficult, yet very beautiful "gift-of- a-son," while I am in the middle of a divorce? Silly, worrier!

So, here I am…blogging for all of you to read and enjoy. I have to admit that my life right now, although very scary at times, is exciting and I am surprisingly “content.” Don’t get me wrong, there is about 1-2 times a week that I have an actual panic attack, feel a "burning" throughout my body, and frequently (although it is decreasing in quantity) I will stop and say to myself….”WHAT THE FUCK?!?! WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!?! You’re doing WHAT?!?! Divorce…a divorce? From a good man, a good father? What the FUCK are you thinking?” Then I actually come back to reality and remember…I want to live a real life, an honest life, a life of integrity, and I want to do exactly what my mother always said, “take care of yourself. NEVER rely on a man or anyone else to take care of you!”

Now, I am sounding so strong, the epitome of feminism. You must all be VERY impressed with me. I mean that last line was poetic and inspiring. But don’t let me fool you, I am literally waiting by the phone for my…yes…”boyfriend” to call. Now, let me make this very clear, he is by NO MEANS the reason for my divorce. Through all this ridiculous, fucking, sad, horrible, draining, bullshit, I have been given a gift. I don’t know why this beautiful person has come to me. Might be that I have FUCKING EARNED IT, but he has and I am grateful. The only problem is, as I have told him, it is fucking with my “feminism” and my “I don’t need anyone” mentality that I have been nurturing for many, many years. So, here I am eagerly waiting to hear his voice and wanting to end this blog so I can hopefully have a beautiful conversation with a sexy, loving man that makes me feel like a woman. I only pray that I don't get "burned." That might hurt so much more than the delivery.

He has called…I shall run…but not too fast…I still have some respect for my independence. Will continue…yes to my supportive friend C, I will continue again soon.

Song Suggestion for the day: India.Aire’s "There’s Hope" from Testimony, Vol. 1: Life & Relationship

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7NHjUEdiebE to listen to song and watch video!
~G

Random vent, of sorts

Ok, so this may be the wine speaking. But, please tell me I am not the only one out there that doesn't feel "content". It's so frustrating! I have a great family, great husband, wonderful house, fun life. I have no child constantly "milking" at my breast. The little "roll" around my middle is almost un-noticeable (especially with the duct-tape around it). They play together. Nicely, even. Hell, the oldest can even dress herself and brush her own teeth. I can go out with my husband at almost a whims notice (granted we can find a babysitter, which is a hot commodity these days). But, overall, things are good. Maybe it's that the girls are getting older and more self-sufficient. Maybe it's because my "baby" is going to preschool in the fall. I'm not sure what it is, but all of a sudden, I just feel like I "need more". I'm also at a point where I feel "that more" means it's time to start financially contributing to the family again. For awhile, I was thinking that meant that we should have another baby. But to be honest, I just don't know if I want to put myself through that again. Fine, call me selfish. I don't care. But until you experience the effects of pregnancy and post-partum depression, you have no right to form any sort of impression of my life.
Other than that little aspect of un-contentment (is that a word?) in my life, I'M SO HAPPY! That's a great feeling! Yes, there are things I'd like to change. But overall, I'm happy. Ahhh, I feel better already.
But I do think I want to go back to school. Won't hubby be happy to hear this? We only have $4000 left in school loans to pay off (unlike the quarter-of-a-mil that one of my best friends has, fresh out of law school). Poor guy.
-C

Oooo, Me likey the wine

Ah, yes. The joys of early bedtimes. Fortunately for me, and my drinking habit, the girls go down to bed at 7:00. This leaves me PLENTY of time to down as much wine as I'd like on any given night. I must say, blogging is much more fun when slightly intoxicated, although the amount of typos I keep creating are rediculous, and for me, very annoying. I don't really have anything in particular to talk about this evening, but I have had a few thoughts throughout the last few days. Here they are, in no particular order:
1. I hate winter (I'm not sure if I've mentioned this yet?). I feel like it's just not worth going anywhere during the day. My house is immaculate though (well, as immaculate as a house can be with two dogs, two cats, a husband and two daughters - if it weren't for that damn husband).
2. It's so nice to have friends that "just know". Like, you know when you are talking with someone on the phone and either you, or them, get tired of talking and you just know it's time to hang up? No other words necessary, just "ok, bye!". easy as that. You know you'll be talking to them later anyway.
3. I love my family. I could not be happier right now with the hubby and girls. We all have our issues and I'd venture to guess that we have more issues than many, but the contentment I feel being here in this present situation with all of them just makes me all tingly inside. **tear**
4. health insurance sucks.
5. my glass of wine is empty (and no, I am not being pessimistic. it is just, literally, empty).
6. I have a friend who's children hate my cooking. Now, I wouldn't really consider myself a "good cook" but I am, by no means, a bad one. I mean, come on! I grew up on corned beef hash, fish sticks and meatloaf that had been microwaved with tomato soup on the top. I think that the next time they come over I am going to cook "my mother's famous meatloaf" for them and then I'll have them begging for my spicy chicken. It's even funnier when the little one gags as he tries to "take a taste". Poor little guy. But we have to expand our horizons, right? Next week, it's Sushi!
7. Why is it that dogs know the exact day that you put your duvet cover (in lamens' terms: blanket that goes on bed) in the wash? They stay off of it alllll week, but the second it comes out of the drier, they are all over it like white on rice. CAN I PLEASE JUST SLEEP ON IT FIRST? Then you are more than welcome to get your nasty shedding fur and paw prints all over the damn thing. Just ONE night. Nothing major.
8. Over the last five years, my priorities have shifted significantly. This past Tuesday, I went grocery shopping. By myself. With no children. For two hours. It was the most glorious two hours I have spent by myself in a long time. I got a coffee, drank the whole thing without any of it spilling or getting cold and I actually got to focus on what I was buying, rather than just throwing random shit in my cart before meltdowns started, hoping it was on my list. Ah, the simple things in life.
9. I would like to put in a dog run this summer. Not that I don't like cleaning dog shit off of children's shoes everyday. I'm just thinking that it might be nice to have aforementioned poop contained to one area besides right underneath the swing and at the bottom of the slide (again, they just seem to know these things).
Well, random thoughts are done for the evening. Back to your regularly scheduled programming. I needs me another glass o' wine.

I wonder if this is a big deal?...

So the first born just careened head-first down a flight of stairs and then proceeded to ricochet her little 30 lb. body off the wall of the landing at the bottom of the stairs. She's a limber little sucker. Took it like a champ.
-C

I must be masochistic

Now, don't get me wrong. I love a finger in the eye just as much as the next guy. And I must admit, the sight of 80,000" of snow sparkling in the morning sunlight is a beautiful thing. It's actually turning out to be a fun activity of ice-skating to and from the garage every time we have to leave/enter the house. In fact, I'm starting to look forward to wasting half of each day bundling children in and out of boots, jackets, hats, mittens and scarves in order to do anything that involves *gasp* leaving the house. My youngest doesn't hit nearly as high a decibal as she used to every time I go near her with her winter coat and I'm kind of missing that little 'pop' my ears used to do when she'd hit a high C.

But today I just could NOT ignore the little voices in my head repeating over and over again, "Why on Earth do I chose to live in the Midwest?!" Today it hit 30 and it felt like a heat wave. Winter, here's to you babe!:

update of the century

Just for all of you who have been losing sleep over this information, the ladder I referred to in my last post is still sitting in the house. It is no longer by the back door, however, and has made it's way into our bedroom. (we had company the other day and it was MUCH easier to put it into the bedroom vs. walking it all. the. way. into the garage). Anyway, I think I'm going to tuck it into the bed, under his covers, tonight. I'm getting kind of fond of the little fella. He doesn't give me nearly as much shit as the one I'm married to.
-C

Ah yes. The Weekend

Saturday Morning: Will someone please, please tell me they are all the same? Do men really think that when they take their socks off in the family room and leave them there, that the socks grow little sock feet and walk themselves to the laundry basket? This also applies to coffee mugs, shirts and newspapers. I have yet to see any of these items grow little feet and walk themselves to where they belong. Yet, this week I think I shall train them to do such. Monday paper, be warned!

Saturday Afternoon:
(please read in a sing-songy voice)
“No, no sweetheart. Pweese do not put your little delicate angel finger into the frosting.” And when said delicate angel finger does it again, “sweet snookums? Didn’t you hear your mommala? I said no wittle finger-wingers in the frosting-wosting.” And yet when it happens a third time, “Oh sweetie must really want some cake. Mommy and Daddy are getting you a piece just as fast as we can. You are so silly!” At this point the mother actually looks at all the party guests and says, “She’s not sick, I promise.” Oh Lord.

I mean, really?! At a birthday party yesterday my oldest daughter witnessed this debacle of frosting-poking goodness and watched in amazement as her little playdate friend got to stick her little nasty toddler fingers all over a perfectly good cake that others HAD been intending on eating too. Call me old-fashioned. Call me germ-a-phobic. But the moment I saw my daughter’s dainty little finger reach slowly for the frosting, eyeing me with the utmost caution, I looked at her and sternly said “IF you touch that frosting, THEN you will not have a piece of cake.” At which point she reeled her hand in just as quickly as she could without giving herself whiplash and said, “Ok, Mom. I won’t touch it.” Maybe I’ve got it all wrong. Maybe I am damaging my daughter’s self-esteem by setting these ridiculous, un-obtainable standards of living. Who knows? Only time will tell.

Sunday Afternoon: I have to admit that I took a nap. A delicious, cozy, warm nap on this cold, dreary, rainy afternoon. It was fabulous. And what was even more fabulous is that my wonderful better half actually changed four (oh yes, FOUR) lightbulbs that were burned out in the kitchen, changed a dimmer switch that has been broken since we moved in AND cleaned the vacuum. Who is this man and what have you done with my husband?? I walked out from the bedroom to him sitting on the floor, screwdriver in hand (which is a scary sight by itself) and the vacuum in 1000 pieces all over the floor next to him. “Um, sweet love of my life? Man I chose to father my children? Please put down the screwdriver. What are you doing to my pride and joy? If you destroy that Dyson vacuum that we took a mortgage out on and I use to rid our home of 80 pounds of animal fur per week, whatever will I do with myself, and to you?” and he looked at me, that sweet innocent fixing-machine and replied “maintenance.” Ummm. Ok dear. Just let me know when you need me to put it all back together. And for some reason he didn’t think it was funny when I asked him if he was going to take the ladder back outside with him or wait for it to grow little ladder legs and walk itself out to the garage. Men. Whatever.
-C

Fuckin A!

Ok. So here it is. Fucking shit!!!! She fucking did it! We just joked about this today while we were playing on the computer…and the children were…where were they? Hmmm, doing something. Relax, I’m just kidding! The kids were fed, happy, safe, and playing nicely. Now, I wanted to name it “Moms Who Say FUCK,” but C thought it might not be appropriate. So just a warning, I will be saying fuck…a fucking lot. So, if this should make you uncomfortable, you might want to skip my “blogs”. I will be pulling out “Deadwood”-type numbers at times.

To celebrate the moment, I decided to open a bottle of Corona Light for the occasion, “My First Blog Entry.” However, when I went to get the lime to add to this refreshing beverage, I realized that there was no lime. A Corona without a lime? So, I went for the lemon instead. I was thinking,” Be positive. When you can’t find a lime, be happy with a lemon.” This is how I have decided to live my life…positively, even if I have to settle for lemons. Feeling positive and proud to not let my lime-less Corona get me down, I reached into the baggie of lemon wedges…and found…mold. Fucking white and green mold! Son-of-a-bitch. Guess that sums up how my life has been going these days. Life’s getting you down, you pick yourself up, thinking positively, feeling strong, feeling good…then BAM fucking mold. Now I guess you can tell by this point that I am the more…negative…more direct one. I was about to say “rough-around-the-edges” one, but I remembered that C has a tramp tag above her ass, so I guess I might not win that one.

Back to the lemon, you will be happy to know that I did NOT let it get me down. My MacGyver sense took over. I found freshly squeezed lemon juice in the fridge and FUCKIN-A. Corona Light with a hint of lemon, delicious.

Now here I am. I have already had half a beer, which for me is equivalent to about 3 to the average person. Feeling good, feeling calm. As for introducing ourselves, we are both moms. We both work part-time, which means not only do we have the work load of stay-at-home moms, but we also have the work load of part-time jobs. Hence, the need to swear, drink beer, and apparently spend time on the computer. Because, we have that extra down time to spend blogging.

Well, my cheeks are officially tingly and a bit numb, which means I’m “happy.” My beer is done and I’m going to bed. Thank you, C, for creating this for us. I’m so lucky that I met you and thank God for that tramp tag! If I didn’t see you all covered in tattoos, I probably would have thought that you were just another boring stay-at-home mom. Instead you ended up being one of my dearest friends. You’re my lemon, but not moldy!

Song Suggestion for the day: Led Zeppelin's "The Lemon Song" from Led Zeppelin II. Fan-fuckin-tastic
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RGFO128AmQg to listen to song. Mmmm.


~G

The first go at it!

So G will be mad that I got to it first, but tough shitskis for her. I don't really know how these things work. Like, do we have to introduce ourselves? I wonder who will come across as funnier via the internet, since in person, we crack ourselves up. This, possibly, may only hold true in our own personal surroundings and on a blog we may turn out to be the lamest people ever. But only time will tell. Although I can almost guarantee you will lose sleep at night wondering when I personally will post a blog next. Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and as soon as I can figure out how to allow comments, I'll go ahead and do that. We'd love some feedback.

-C

oh, and by the way, get used to comments about "living in a commune". One day, all us busy, overworked wives and mothers will get smart and start creating communes to live in. Because as much as some of you may not want to admit, we all want a housewife to clean up our tushies.

In honor of our first post: