lady liberty died today

I live in a small town smack in the middle of Washington {the state}.  When people think of Washington they think of Seattle and rain and Starbucks and Eddie Vedder {yep, he’s still yummy.  don’t care what you think.}  My town is the opposite of all that.  Like  magnets doing that weird polar trick they can do.  Seattle would push my town right off the refrigerator because it’s just that opposite.

When we lived in Seattle, we had to micro-manage our trash and wash it up all nice and tidy and then properly divide it into 3 categories and 14 sub-categories so as to keep the trash cops off our ass.  Then we moved to this little gem of a town and we could just throw our glass in with our newspaper and then sprinkle it all with a  little bit of #4 plastic coated with spaghetti sauce and no one cared a bit.

It was freaking garbage freedom!

Today was garbage pick-up day.  Long before the loud collection trucks came ’round I heard a strange ruckus out in the street.  {Lest you forget, Gladys Kravitz inhabits my body from time to time so I had to check it out.}  I peer out the window and what should I see but two Hispanic gentlemen tossing a shit-load of various sized teflon tumblers all throughout the streets.   What the hell?

Then I see it.  The bright blue top glaring at me from it’s cozy new home on my curb.  What the shit?!?!

Ladies and gentlemen, garbage freedom died today.

My former – larger than life, fit a Christmas tree, bicycle and three weeks worth of trash in one receptacle – garbage can has been reduced to a “yard waste” canister.  Taking its place is a “recycling bin” about half its size, plus a garbage container that the can under my kitchen sink could take on.  This poses a few problems.

I.  Where in the holy shit am I supposed to store this family of receptacles?  Maybe I can sell one of our cars to make room in the driveway.

B.  How much money am I going to have to spend on indoor receptacles to keep this shit sorted?  Well, at least I”ll have the car money to invest.

#3.  Most Importantly:  Who, around this joint, has time to wash the fucking garbage?!?!

I moved to this rural, “smells like cow shit 70% of the time, no PF Chang’s” town so that I could lump all my garbage into one big, fat dumpster and sleep peacefully at night.  {How am I supposed to do my part to save the Earth without one of those nifty blue recycle bins to organize my garbage with?  What are you gonna do about that Leo DiCaprio?}

Dammit!  Dammit all  straight to hell.

And what?  What IF I don’t wanna do it?   What if I  just put my Styrofoam peanuts and pizza boxes and plastic bottles and junk mail all in the yard waste bin?  Huh?  What’s gonna happen then?

Bring it on, Al Gore.  Bring it freaking ON!

Profanity 101

In my spare time, when I’m not blogging, browsing the internet for sales or creepy-stalking my other favorite bloggers, I have a job. It’s running a daycare out of my home.YES, that IS a real job.

I know, don’t tell the parents what a loser I am in real life. The only great thing about this is that I get to make money without having to pay someone else to watch my brats. Well, that and the fact that I get to wear sweats and flip flops to my job.

There are a few downfalls to this gig. The one that bugs me most is the constant microscope my kids are under and not just by parents but by the other kids.  Now, I don’t pretend to believe my kids are super great kids. They can be bratty and disobedient just like the next kid.  But they are overall decent kids.  They might have a few small hang-ups according to the average overachieving mom: burping at the table is an art they are trying to master; they say “fart” rather than other more acceptable terminology for passing gas; and they are confident and independent children that don’t like to take shit from other kids.

Apparently, according to the 8 year-old phenom that was at my house today, my daughter also has a “serious potty mouth.”  HUH?!  The kid that yells at me for saying Dammit has a potty mouth?  Thank God!  Maybe she’ll get off my back now!  Unfortunately, I had to  keep up appearances and feign concern.

“Please, dear child, tell me what she said that was so offensive to your darling ears?”

“The ‘C’ Word.”

Hmmm???  Is there a C word?  I mean, there’s that C word, which not even her mother would dream of uttering in the light of day(but at night around a campfire it’s perfectly acceptable!) … What the heck???  Moments pass… the tune from Jeopardy begins to play in my head.  And then it hits me!  “CRAP?!  Are you talking about crap???”


And before I could even think about something reasonable and Good-Mommy-ish to reply I just blurted out “Oh honey, that’s not a swear word in this house.  Sorry.”

What the hell kind of daycare provider am I if I’m giving other people’s kids permission to say crap?

But seriously, CRAP?!  I mean, I know it’s not the height of intelligence or something Ms. Manners would advise folks to allow their children to spout off,  but seriously?  In the day of bj’s in the middle school bathroom are we really going to sweat it if a seven year old says Crap in the sanctity of her own home?

I mean, Dammit! I’m really going to have to watch my p’s and q’s around here.  It’s a good thing none of them read my brilliant blog.

Now that I look back on it, I wish I’d said something more creative in response.  Pretentious people really just piss me off.

they that camp together…

“So hey there, have you been missing me?  Yah, I know.  I’ve just been suuuper busy.   Uh-huh.  I’ve just had stuff.  Super Important Stuff.

That’s code for, I’ve been such a loser and can’t get my shit together so I’ve just been hiding out on my couch eating a lot of cheetos and that squirt cheese from the can.  It’s been super awesome.  Seriously, I don’t know what my deal is.  I have never had writer’s block in my life, but lately I just plain suck ass at trying to put a sentence together.  But enough about me.   I really need to tell you about CAMPING.

So the Hubbs and I haven’t been camping together in  ummm… forever.  We certainly haven’t been camping with JORDAN.  Dude, that kid would take a dirt shower then roll around in the dirt to dry off and then try to clothe himself in a dirt wardrobe.  He was made for the dirt.  Camping… totally his gig.  He had a blast.  And Elle, she just hid out in the camper and did girl stuff and then roasted marshmallows and went back into the camper.  Whatevs.  She was hanging with her gal pals.  Both kiddos LOVED the tubing on the lake and all the usual boating activities.  They had a blast.   That’s totally not important.

The real fun came when the kiddos fell into a sun and marshmallow-coma induced sleep and the grown ups finally got to play.  There is just nothing like the crisp mountain air and smell of a campfire to make grown ass people lose their freaking mind. This is why I love my friends.  And am highly entertained by their friends.

Our first night in the great outdoors, we so pissed off the skinny bitch librarian “next door” that at half past quiet time she marched her happy ass over to our site and proceeded to inform one of our bunk-mates {ummm yah, I have no idea what that means.  It’s Swedish for “we camp together”} that it was indeed past quiet time and our fire was too bright.  She was being forced to move her tent to escape the bright light of the fire.  ERRR… WHA?  Quiet Time = No Fire Time???  I so did not read that on Smokey the Bear’s hat.  And really, it’s a camp fire.  Not the Burning Man.  Close your eyes.

{What is up with me that I am constantly pissing off my neighbors?!?  At least this bat-shit crazy woman got up and moved the next morning.}

Night Two:  The whole evening can be summed up by watching the following video.  I realize this is crappy videography or whatever but it’s shot with an iPhone, in the middle of the darkest of nights, being spot-lighted by a drunk with a flashlight.  The hero of our story is sporting a head lamp (AKA head lice),  purchased at our local sporting good store (AKA Tri-State) {when you see the video you’ll understand why you might care about this.  or not.}  We spent the entire dark time of our weekend having our retinas burnt out by the LED-ness  of this damn light.  It was only befitting that a song be sang in its honor.  Ladies and Gentlemen… meet Bobby Light.

Night Three.  There are so many things to be said about Night Three,  our last night in the woods.  Day/Night Three provided a Camping Trip Survival Guide that I will carry with me on all future expeditions.  Please hear me when I say this… no matter how much you offer to pay me, I will never reveal the source of my knowledge.  What happens in the woods, stays in the woods… sort of.

  1. It’s not a good idea to tell your Hubbs it’s his turn to be the campground drunk {and therefore idiot} at 10:00 am.  This will set your whole day off to a really, really interesting start.  Most Hubbs won’t make it to see dinner time.  Those that do,  will wish they hadn’t.
  2. There’s really no point whatsoever in packing real food of any kind for those who are legal to drink  (except for the makings of Reece’s Peanut Butter Cup  S’Mores).  We drink our meals here, bitches.  ‘Nuf Said.
  3. Assholes who show up to your campsite bringing beer to “apologize in advance” for their forthcoming behavior might be nice deep down inside.   Assholes who only bring beer for the men and ignore the women are just as we thought… assholes.  When they notice that your men passed out hours ago and show up to your campfire for some friendly chit-chat, consider flicking hot coals onto their pedicured feet and running into the woods.  It’ll be more pleasant than anything the next 30 minutes might have to offer.
  4. It’s never appropriate to bring up one’s step-dad’s saggy balls around a campfire.  If you accidentally do, it will provide unending entertainment for the rest of your “bunk-mates” as they talk about skinny bitches and saggy balls all weekend.
  5. It should be seriously considered that one brings along some “pocket cash” for emergencies.  Emergency cash, in this instance, is reserved ONLY for those times when  one’s Hubbs is on the verge of being taken to the clink for “disturbing the peace” {Peace, what peace?  I haven’t seen a moment of peace since we’ve been here!}  and certain Green Jeans (AKA Park Rangers, AKA the Po-Po) need to be bribed to save the night.  Said emergency fund MUST be kept in the pockets of the females only, so we can determine if we really want to bribe your asses out of the clink or not.  God knows we are far too well-behaved to be disturbing anyone’s peace!

There you have it,  folks.  Camping might be good fun, but it is definitely NOT good, clean fun.

The Mommyhood Blogs

{A sneak peak for you, my personal friends, at what the future holds for me.   A collection of the stories, rants and senseless bitching I wrote as a new mother.  And a look back on those entries, to gain perspective at how far we’ve come- mixed in with some new stories, ranting and senseless bitching of all sorts.  Behold, The Mommyhood Blogs®}

On August 8, 2006, when my children were still tiny and my life still resembled an orderly one, even if I didn’t consider it so at the time, I began a blog.  It was the days of Myspace, Glitter-Graphics and foofy little blog backgrounds.  It was a cathartic obsession and along with my on-line friends it eventually got me through one of the toughest times of my adult life.  I owe it some homage.  If I had a good bottle of liquor I’d pour a little out in its honor.  (I totally don’t get that.  Why waste good liquor? I am so not livin’ the thug life.) Someday I hope this trip down memory lane will become my memoirs and my kids will sit and laugh and cry with their crazy-ass mother as they read the stories of themselves and the love I have for them.

Entry Number One.

Here’s the thing:

I am old. okay- not really, but I feel old.  My day is this- get up, shower, take care of kids, take care of hubby, take care of house, take care, take care, take care!  Go to bed and collapse.  Wait a minute- I’m not old – I am BORING!  I have forgotten who I was before kids, hubby and “taking care of”.

So- I decide to be young.  I start myself a myspace page.  And do you know what?  It’s all about my KIDS!  God help me!  I decided it’s because I like them more than I like myself- they are cuter, they are sweeter and they are really more interesting.  So- I have to work on that.  We’ll see how it goes.  Here’s to finding myself (again)….

That was my very first blog.  My original intent was to have this little corner of my life where I could write and it not be about my kids.  Just reading it, I realize even though I’d been practicing at being a mom for three and a half years, I certainly didn’t know what the hell I was doing yet.    I guess even after those years I was still too new at being “Mommy” (or still too wacko from the postpartum depression with Jordan) to realize that being a mom isn’t a name or a title or something you do, but it’s in every part of who you are.  There’s no separating part of your life away to be untouched by your children, not if you’ve truly given yourself to being a mother.

Even if I write something now that has nothing to do with Elle or Jordan, which is rare, they are a part of it because they have consumed me.  I think differently than I did before motherhood; and most beneficial to me, being a mom has helped me to become comfortable in my own skin.

That’s not to say I am completely at ease with who I am.   I have so many insecurities and have made so many mistakes in my life, I’m not sure I’ll ever be at peace with me.   I  also don’t have thousands of dollars or a free hour a week to devote to therapy to help get me there.  I just have Jim, some great friends, a supportive family, and my kids.  Combined, this little support group offers me someone to ground me, people who love me regardless, laughter in the midst of the crap, and a future to love and fight for.  If that isn’t therapy at it’s finest then I guess I’m in trouble.

In starting this project, the reliving of my first blogs and reflecting on what I’ve learned since then,  I  have discovered so many more moms than I was ever aware of that write about their adventures in mommyhood.  I’m sure there are almost as many motivations in writing as there are writers, but there is absolutely one common thread (aside from loving our kids- if at the very least when they’re sleeping).  We all wonder if what we’re doing is even remotely “right”.

I can say with 100% assurance that I have most definitely not done everything right.  I doubt if I’ve even done half of it right.  I do; however, know for certain that my kids have thrived even in my wrongness.  They’ve learned that “mommy is so not perfect, but at least she says she’s sorry”- and means it.  “Mommy loses her temper”, and her mind more often than not, “but she always loves us”.  And “mommy might have days that she can’t manage to get herself off the couch from sheer exhaustion, but the rest of the time she works hard at caring for us”.  In seven years of mommyhood, I’d say those are some decent truths to have passed on to my babes about how I operate.

meet my little people

We might as well get this out of the way now, as I’m sure you’ll be hearing lots about my kids if you read me regularly.  This may not be one of my more hilarious blogs, and I’ll have to try to keep the inappropriateness to a minimum (I mean my kids are present), but I’m sure you’ll enjoy getting to know my little people.

Allow me to start off by saying, I adore my babes.  At the end of the day, when they’re sleeping peacefully in their beds, and I go in to give them one last kiss of the day all is well in the world.

The rest of the time, they are…

yep- that's at a bowling alley

and a restaurant

and this:

and sometimes even this

My little man, Jordan, has a knack for getting in trouble.  I mean, serious trouble.  Turn some neighbor’s camper into your personal fort without anyone knowing kind of trouble.   He also has a love of peeing outdoors… wherever really.  It may be on the sidewalk between our house and the mailbox.  Or off the front porch to  see how far he can shoot into the front lawn.  My personal favorite is on the air conditioner unit along the side of the house.  (Don’t tell his dad.)  And thankfully NOT on the dog since I walked in just in time to put a stop to that.

The little diva, aka “sis” aka Elle,  is becoming a young woman faster than I care to think about.  She has the sassiest mouth of any seven year old that ever lived and has recently decided she’s getting boobs and needs a bra.  Ummm… NO.  She is more like her mom than should be legal in any state and I have already started to fear for her husband and children.

I’m sure at some point in the near future there will be stories about the crap they get into.  Trust me, there’s a never ending supply of crap.

Thanks for letting me ooh and aahhh over them.  And stay away creepy internet pervs.  We have a guard dog.

I don’t care what they say, four inches is a lot.

Last night, I woke up at three o’clock, in the a.m., to some asshole’s dog barking like a freaking machine gun outside my window.  So me, being the super Matlock that I am, goes traipsing downstairs to see what all the fuss was about.  About halfway down I realize, “look genius.  you’re about to get your ass killed Texas Chainsaw Massacre style.  go get your hubbs to handle this shit.”  (I know, I  swear like a sailor at oh three hundred.)

Suddenly, it dawns on me, “I think that is my freakingdog!”

“Hubbs.  Wake UP.  I think that’s Eva outside waking up the whole freaking neighborhood!”

After a lot of mumbling and moving SLOWER THAN FUCK while that dog barks like a maniac! he finally rolls himself out of bed and moseys downstairs to see what the matter is.

Meanwhile, in my brilliance, I hang out the bedroom window to see if I can see her (she is midnight black so it’s a little difficult at oh three hundred with no moon.) and there she is.

And Barking.  No matter how many times I whisper-yell “SHUT UP, EVA!  THE BITCH LADY IS GOING TO CALL THE COPS ON YOU AGAIN!” she just won’t shut up.

Finally, Hubbs gets her inside and settled down and stumbles back to bed.  He’s asleep before I can even ask him if there were lawn gnomes running wild our what?? So then I lay there for an hour pondering all sorts of craziness.  Like, remember that one time, at band camp… I mean church camp…. there were those guys that had a jalapeno eating contest.  Can you imagine the fallout from something like that?  Ouch.

Then this morning I go downstairs and complete my morning ritual of opening all of the curtains and what do I find but our glass slider open about 4 inches.  FOUR INCHES??? Four inches is no accident, people.  Four inches is a LOT.  (Well, in this particular case, 4 inches is a lot.)

Four inches is “Hey, I was just going to come into your house and try to steal your stuff- and then realize you have no stuff, and get pissed off and kill you in your sleep- but then Kujo started barking and acting like she was going to gnaw my leg off since you have forgotten to feed her the past three days so I  ran off down the street and she barked at my ass until I was long gone. That’s what four inches is, folks.

My bad-ass black lab/boarder collie mutt will eat your leg any day.  My drugged up on NyQuil loser of a husband might not always hear you coming, but Kujo will.


I freaking hate the 4th of July.  I don’t know if it’s because I saw a kid get a bottle rocket through the eye as a wee one or if it’s that my bionic hearing makes the damn things sound like they’re going through my eye.  Whatever the reason, I become a shit-ball of a person on our country’s grand birthday.

I’m pretty sure that’s sacrilegious since I am a bicentennial baby and all.

(That makes my current age 33.  Don’t give yourself a headache over the math.)

So what does an Independence Day Heretic do to make her life more interesting?  Marry a pyromaniac, fire-cracker head, lunatic that spawned from a herd of pyromaniac, fire-cracker heads- who treat America’s Birthday like Jesus and the Blessed Virgin’s birthday all rolled into one, of course.

When the Hubbs and I were first dating he adamantly informed me that the 4th of July took precedence over any other holiday. {GASP!  Surely not Christmas?!?!  Freaking Fireworks come before the Baby Jesus laying in a manger?!} What the shit?

Our first Independence Day together should have foretold of the joys to come.  I spent the whole night pacing around inside his parent’s kitchen trying not to pee my pants while his whole brood of family and friends yukked it up in the driveway sending a variety of explosive devices in every direction.  Occasionally I would feel the need to  prove my incendiary prowess and venture into the garage {ears stuffed full of cotton so as to muffle the explosions in my bionic eardrums} and gain my place in his crazy-ass family.  I was quickly outed as the Ebeneezer-Scrooge-meets-The Grinch of home-fireworks and furthermore voted outcast of the First Family of Independence.

Following Fourth of July’s have found me in some super special situations.  One fave had me in tears as  I nursed my baby girl’s burn wound that occurred when one of her uncles tried to throw a firecracker at her dad and didn’t notice her standing right next to him.  That was the year I learned NO ONE should wear a skirt {no matter how freaking patriotic it is} around these crazy people on the 4th.    I won’t recall all of our now nine Independence Days together, but I will tell you that Arsonphobics+Fireworks+Tequila=Trouble.  Period.

This superb 4th occurred away from the Hubb’s family, but he was determined to continue the Family Traditions.  An unfortunate set of circumstances which I don’t clearly remember and no one seems to agree on anyway + too much tequila for the crazy lady arsonphobic (that means fear of fire and that would be me) = me decking my husband in front of our children and friends and yelling things not even I could reason followed by three days of the silent treatment (from him, not me.)  Needless to say, I get a little apprehensive around this holiday.

This year I was sure to stay the hell away from Tequila.  See, I did my part!  I am growing up.

Unfortunately the Hubbs claimed he was sick and the holiday pretty much sucked ass for him.  Now that I look back on the day, I’m thinking he wasn’t truly sick, but so depressed that we had decided not to spend any money on fireworks this year that he just couldn’t function.

It was so torturous for me to watch him be so miserable that I decided next year I am going to do the following so he can have a pyromaniac’s wet dream of a fireworks extravaganza:

1.  Save 50 cents a day for the whole year so he can have $182.50 to spend at the lunatic stand on whatever powder keg of craziness he wants. (plus a pack of sparklers for me to sit around and write my name in lights while everyone else blows their arms off.)*

2.  Travel whatever distances we must to ensure that he is surrounded quite comfortably with as many of his brood of pyromaniac family as possible so that they may cohabitate happily with M80’s and Bottle Rockets and Mortars and Shells and Explosive devices of whatever notion they so choose.

3.  Wrap my daughter’s vagina in fireproof material and ban all skirts so she is sure not to have her Jesus flower blown away when her dad loses his freaking mind and throws firecrackers at all his brothers and surely hits her in the crossfire as my punishment for giving into their craziness.

4.  Purchase this CD that was the only source of mental aid when I googled “fear of fireworks therapy”.

The Fear of Fireworks Sounds CD for both Cats and Dogs

This CD has been recorded on the night of a bonfire party, with all the bangs, whizzes, pops and squeaks, some distant, some closer to. The idea is that you play the CD on a regular basis, starting at a very low intensity, increasing the volume over a period of time. You aim to never upset your pet. Over a number of weeks, your pet will become less responsive to these sounds. Play the CD in the evening when the fireworks are going off and it will also mask the sounds outside.

5.  Lastly, and possibly my most important Independence Resolution:  Continue to abstain from celebrational tequila at any gathering that could result in fireworks of any kind.


*Please note, I am well aware that $182.50 will get you a couple of those smoking snake things that whistle plus a cup of jack squat in this day and age, but whatever.  I am doing my part.