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I originally wanted to entitle it, "Just shoot me...no wait..don't...it might add to your rap sheet"
This after an afternoon of refereeing via cellphone my two teens having a knock-down-drag-out while I went to the store. For an hour .
Seriously. What is up with that? Does the nearly six foot boy know that the not-quite-five-foot girl is no match for him? Does it occur to him that throwing her around the house and then barracading her in a bedroom are...like... illegal ? I grow so weary of these phone calls when all I wanna do is have some fun. Or buy some razor refills and toilet paper. Which is nothing like fun, actually. Especially devoid of fun with the Mother of All Head Colds and body aches (courtesy of our friend, FM!) and a pile of work waiting for me at home.
So what did I do? My thirteen year old is sobbing in my bedroom whilst my 16 year old son is defending his actions when I return home. Do I let them eat the Mickey D's I brought home? yep. How about the candy bars I bought for them (before I knew about the fight)? Yep, I let 'em have those too.
After taking a moment to contain my frustration, I did what any other mother would do. I looked up the Oregon statues for assault, printed them each out a copy, and told them I expected an oral report on what they mean and how they may have violated them in the last six months.
Sometimes it helps having grown up with both parents as cops.
Meanwhile, I feel like a well-worn hockey puck after a national championship. And it's freaking HOT here. The kind of hot that our puny window AC unit can't touch. And it's only going to get worse.
And, as I write this post, I watched my husband walk in my bedroom, walk over to the fan, turn it on full blast and point it toward his desk, away from me , where it had been blowing previously.
Put a fork in me, I'm SO done.
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Damn Fibromyalgia.
Have I mentioned how much I despise this nemesis of mine?
Oh, YES internets, it IS a nemesis of gargantuan proportion. I am the super hero, it is my kryptonite. I am the flame, it is the water that douses my fire. I am the ant, it is the jumper cable attached to my car battery (see previous entry).
You see, I had to say goodbye to Lexie yesterday.
It's not that Lexie is a difficult dog. It's that she's a massive dog. And I am (was) her primary caretaker. I can't walk her, play with her, or have her sit on my lap (as she was so prone to doing) without excrutiating pain. When we brought her home, I didn't suffer from symptoms from this blasted condition. Now it's the pain in the ass (and everywhere else) that won't quit. So, with my heavy heart shredded in teeny tiny bits, I handed her over to a new family who fell in love with her immediately. Apparently she slept like a log last night and misses me like a good butt rash. Though she did like to chew undies.
Her play partner (and much smaller roommate) couldn't be left without someone to talk to...play with...pretend to mate with. Oh, how oft we would look outside to see him becoming amorous with her back leg. Because that's all he could reach, being a Pomeranian. But boy, did he go to town on that back leg! If back legs could have litters...well, you get the idea...
In an act of heartlessness that almost numbs the pain of giving up my Lexie, I brought home a substitute. Everyone, please welcome Sasha.
Although I'd wager that I have more wrinkles than she, at least she is supposed to have them. She should get only slightly larger than Jinx. Oh, and clearly my husband hasn't bonded with her:
And so, whimpering puppy at my feet (don't ask me how I'm going to find the strength and endurance to train a new puppy), I surveyed the backyard, which is newly tilled. We intend to plant grass this year, and also a garden. A vegetable garden. Some day we'll have to do a poll on how everyone pronounces the word "vegetable". But not today.
Around 8:30 this evening, I suddenly was inspired. Inspired to see fresh bell peppers and spaghetti squash grow. Inspired to watch my daughter plant her own goards. Goards, you say? Don't ask. Apparently she plans to make bird houses. We'll talk about her animal obsession another day. My inspiration soon led to perspiration, and no doubt tomorrow will lead to medication, after digging rows and making hills. But alas, my garden is planted. It's a tiny little thing, off in the corner of my yard, but it might as well be an acre for as proud as I am of it. In the words of Redneck Mommy, "They may be puny little hills, buddy, but they're MINE".
Although I seriously doubt she was talking about canteloupe. That is an entirely different kind of melon.
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A little tidbit for your holiday:
Ways in which my son felt effective in dealing with the ants on our driveway:
1. Douse them with gasoline and light them on fire
2. Squash their heads off and watch them run around until they die
3. Take my lighter and burn them one at a time
4. Spit on them until they drown (until, that is, he learned it can take days for them drown)
...and my own personal favorite...
5.Attach jumper cables to my car battery and zap them one at a time
Thank, you, thank you, I appreciate your support.
Now taking donations for future therapy costs, and early royalty checks for my tell-all book when he becomes a household name.
Please tell me that all boys are like this. At 16, I thought we were safe that he hadn't started torturing animals yet.
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Anyone who reads blogs knows how it goes. We start with one blog. They link to twelve more jeweled bits of journaling. We add them to our blogroll, and each blog we add has links to at least fifty wonderfully entertaining entries. We start sending links to our friends about granola , lube , Mormon hairstylists , depression, and nipple piercings. We learn along the way that there are celebrities in the blogging world, and we are right to be in awe of them. They're funny , beautiful, lust-worthy and in some cases, all of the above.
Then, one day, it happens.
One of them tags you for a meme.
You pull out your scrapbook, sanctify the day forever and call all your friends. And you never wash your computer again.
(Oh, and then you spank yourself-because that's totally possible-for not reading blogs in three weeks because you were knee deep in other people's discarded crap. And bow-chicka. Lots of bow-chicka-bow.)
So here it is, friends, Seven Things You Don't Already Know About Me!
1. I have a picking problem. (and this counts for three!)
a. I pick my nose. Relax. I'm very consciencious about where I place what I retrieve. How can YOU stand it when a hard piece of snot pokes you inside your nose? Then starts flapping in the breeze? Swallow your pride and take CARE of it, man!
b. When I see a zit, I have to bite my lip not to pop it. Even if it's on a total stranger.
c. I pick my cuticles and the skin around my fingers until they bleed when under severe stress. I think it's a disorder of some kind.
2. I agree with Simon Cowell most of the time.
3. I think it would be a good thing for my son to go into the Marines when he hits 18 in 2 years.
4. I was 34 before I got my first pedicure, but 14 when I did my first set of acrylic nails. I don't wear those anymore. The fingernails, not the toenails.
5. I believe wholeheartedly that my husband deserves weekly (if not more often!) services, ifyaknowwhadImean. And I am mostly content to go to sleep immediately after, taking nothing for myself. Because he so often repays me in kind. Bow-chicka to the max!
6. And as if your TMI meter wasn't already in the red...
...I always look before I flush. I have to. Who knows what you might find? Corn? Lettuce? Worms? A disembodied hand?
Yeah, I'm also a little crazy.
Thank you, Oh, the Joys, for tagging me! In turn, when you all are no longer queasy and can return to read the rest of my entry, I shall tag people who probably don't read my blog anymore after my long absence:
Secondhand Tryptophan
Brandy's Blog
Bahrageous
Redneck Mommy
and
Dawn! yes, YOU! Get yer butt over to your blog and write out seven things (ish) people don't know about you!
I shall get back to my brownies, wine and horrible tobacco habit.
In Hilly's words,
Stinky Nicotine Kisses!
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A man's role in life (at least, historically speaking) is to provide for his family. He trots off to work, deals with all the stresses and demands, then returns home with money in hand to purchase life's necessities.
Simplistic. Idealistic.
Sadly, our society's contorted view has changed the roles of our men (and women) as breadwinners, and the demands and stresses have increased to the point where more men are seeking treatment for depression and anxiety than ever before.
I understand why.
As a wife, I find it so very frustrating to hear the man I love with every fiber of my being talk about his fruitless quest to better his workplace. I'm disheartened to hear how his employers are continually upping his stress level and dangling his job in front of him like a carrot keeping the mule moving forward. I'm angry that those above him can sing his praises one moment, then place the downfall of the entire franchise squarely on his shoulders the next. I'm exasperated to watch him give everything he has to a company, leaving him nothing to give his wife and children, then be treated like he is not doing enough and could be replaced on a whim.
I've had enough.
Do they know anything about this man? Do they have any idea what he has done to put money in their pockets to buy Harley bikes and private jet rides? Do they see him spin his wheels and hole up in his office until nearly 8 p.m. every night (even though he started working at 8 a.m. that morning) to make sure they have their pointless reports and numbers (the same ones they will use tomorrow to nail him to a proverbial cross)? Do they know what an amazing, intelligent and gifted man they are blessed to have working for them? What amazing work ethics? Do they KNOW?
Well they should. And they should be held accountable for what they're doing both to him and those he works with under the guise of bettering the company. They should know that they're canibalizing their own people by working them into the ground, and then demanding more. They should know that when they implement ten more procedures on top of the hundreds already in place, that they increase the work load and the time it takes to do the job. They should know that not only does my husband not get paid enough to be put under these conditions, but nobody should be willing to work this way for any amount of money.
But then, it's all about money, isn't it?
You know the most amazing thing? My man, who deserves far more credit than he gets and exceedingly more in a wife than I can offer, will get back up, dust himself off, and dig down deeper to try to find more to give. Because along with all the wonderful skills and qualities he has to do the job, he is fiercely loyal, and won't consider looking elsewhere unless he can see no way to give them what they want.
Every company should have such a man. And I thank God daily that I do. I only hope that they can see how invaluable he is to them before it's too late.
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Dear KFC-I'm confused.
For as long as I can remember, KFC stood for KENTUCKY fried chicken. So what brilliant ad-person came up with "Sweet Home ALABAMA" as your signature song? Whoever they are, give them a raise. And a map of the US.
Dear Chearleading mom:
Please invest in a new bra. Your girls are headed south. Fast.
Dear Microsoft:
I gave you the benefit of the doubt. Now there is no doubt. I'm really not liking your Vista. Yes, I'm sure. Yep, completely sure. Yes, I really want to throw my computer into a wall.
Dear Fibromyalgia:
You suck. Royally.
Dear Metabolism:
Please pick up the pace. I promise it will help reduce your workload.
Dear Whoever Took My Camera:
First of all, thank you, because now I have an excuse to buy a new one. Second of all, please enjoy my naked pictures. I hope you go blind.
Dear Husband of Mine:
I think ten years deserves a shiny new piece of jewelry. I'm thinking diamonds.
And My Dearest Readers:
You're the best! Your patience and loyalty are priceless!
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I don't know what to say. Which is rare for me.
I've been spending all my time split between trying to recover from the infamous yard sale and my work-from-home endeavor, leaving little time for anything, including housework or my own mental health. Which are unrelated, as far as I can tell.
I'm in desperate need of real sleep, which seems to elude me until 20 minutes before the kids get home and ruin my peace.
I haven't read a blog in weeks.
I haven't written a blog since...well, the last one.
I haven't showered-in you-don't-want-to-know how long.
On the plus side, the weather is beautiful, and, although I'm exhausted, I'm happy. Blessed, even.
The intended post of last Sunday would have been fabulous. I had taken various pictures of myself demonstrating the different faces I had seen poking out of vehicles as they surveyed my yard sale to see if they should stop or not. It was great, but when my camera went missing, so did the photos. And I'm too lazy to recreate them with my cellphone.
So I expect my next post will most probably be "Open Letters-Driving Edition", because the drivers in my area are seriously in need of a beating. Verbal, of course. I'm a peaceful girl.
I miss you all, and hope to be reading and posting in your blogs this weekend.
Til then,
Cheers!
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I'll give you a moment to get over being upset with me for disappearing for a few days. Yeah, it wasn't very nice. Yes, I'm fine. I can sum it up in two words: YARD SALE. Yes, I'm still up to my eyeballs in other people's cast-offs, trying to squeeze pennies out of unsuspecting consumers to pay for my daughter's exhorbitant cheerleading
In the midst of all this, I find it time, once again, to beg and plead you fine folks to help me pick another new tag line! Only this time, we need to focus our efforts.
Memorial Day is approaching, and I want my new tagline to reflect the theme of this holiday, possibly throughout the summer. Something not necessarily patriotic, but honoring of those in services (not just military).
So get those creative juices flowing! What is the new TAG LINE for TSM? Think heroes...think honor...just THINK !
This time, a PRIZE shall be mailed to the winner! Prize yet to be determined!
Good luck!
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The Mr. has been sporting the same sad rags passing for work clothes for far too long. The combination of his inability to avoid hard labor whilst wearing them and my poor laundering skills has left his wardrobe a bit lacking of the classy outfits his position requires. So off to the store I went!
I scored some decent slacks and dress shirts, and contemplated buying him a tie. Which would sit in his drawer, untouched. Or become a leash for the dog. Either way, no point spending the twelve bucks.
On the way home, I was driving down a fairly busy street in our town, when the three cars in front of me stopped suddenly. As I got closer, I could see what the hold up was. Two teenage boys were slowly walking across the street, completely oblivious to the fact that a car had to slam on their brakes to avoid squashing them like a grape. They had absolutely no interest in the drivers, and in fact, were smiling toward the cars, as if it was so terribly funny that they had almost caused a pile-up in front of my daughter's school.
This didn't upset me because I was in a hurry. I wasn't. It upset me because I am seeing far too many young people with no regard for common courtesy, respect for anyone (including themselves) and propriety. It's as if these children were growing up in a bubble, and had no idea that their actions had an effect on anyone else. Or worse, they know but don't care. We're seeing a generation of Apathy, and it's disturbing.
Whose fault is this? I could start quite the broo-ha-ha by spouting my opinions on children who need more corporal punishment and solid boundaries, and the powers that be who tie our hands behind our backs, then hold us accountable when our children are animals. Natural consequences my ass. These children are seeing NO consequences. They are quickly growing into the kids my husband employs at the big taco franchise who have a serious breakdown when they are asked to remove a necklace (a policy they knew was in place when they were hired). That's right, they walked out of their job because they couldn't wear their necklace.
That said, it's more than just a spanking these kids need. We have so many homes where parents are both working (out of necessity!) and the children are left to be raised by MTV and Cartoon Network. They live on Party Pizzas and Pepsi, and spend their time with their best friends, Nintendo and Playstation. The little-to-no human contact on a regular basis leaves their social skills lacking, and because nobody is there to correct them, they grow up thinking they have no boundaries and that their actions have no affect on anyone else.
I realize this is a bit much coming from a circumstance where two kids were jaywalking. I just find myself seeing so many disrespectful kids, and am growing uneasy watching these misfits become the adults that will make decisions about my life when I can no longer do so.
I can only pray that the parenting I have done alongside my husband will produce healthy, happy and well-adjusted adults who understand that while everything is permissible, not everything is beneficial.
One can only hope.
**By the way-ten points to the person who can correctly identify the movie reference in paragraph 3!**
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Envy. It's an ugly, UGLY emotion.
Aside from watching Victoria's Secret commercials (and trying to avert my eyes, but but being helpless to do so), nothing can make me feel more inadequate than walking into the home of one of my children's friends.
One might surmise by my previous tag line, "Terrifically, Superiorily Mediocre" that I had embraced my mediocrity. Not so much, it seems.
One step into those half-MILLION dollar homes and my self esteem plummets. It's currently in my shoes, where it's fuming about my need for a pedicure.
Our sprawling 1984 ranch style home (with original carpet, no less!) is simply no match for these vast estates. Rather than cat urine, dog and and the faintest hint of Neutra Air, the scents that greet you in these fine homes resemble fine wood, Glade plug-ins and clean laundry. Because we don't DO laundry here at the house of TSM. Or, rather, we DO laundry, which then ends up on the floor, trampled by animals and humans alike, until it must be re-washed to repeat the process. I cannot tell you how many times I have re-washed the same shirt without ever wearing it.
It's bad enough that I drive a '94 Plymouth Voyager. Even worse that the white paint is chipping to reveal the stunning grey body, like a really bad strip-tease. Oh, baby! Add to that the passenger door that is now so broken we load the kids through the driver's side, and the sliding door that won't close properly, and I've got a real hum-dinger. What's that? Oh yes...that black plastic on the window, held on with duct tape, is because the window fell out. Yes, fell out. Long story. It's in the van next to that couch someone gave us. I feel like a high roller driving that sweet machine, lemmejusttellya!
The furniture in K's friends' homes looks nothing like the free hand-me-down 70's furniture that you find in our house. It looks like someone actually bought it. At a store. Not a re-sale store, either! I KNOW! I didn't know people did that either! I mean, who can afford $700 for a couch? Not me, because that $700 would buy me a heckuva lot of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Or beads. Or groceries and dog food. Yeah. Nothing like sinking into a comfy, beautiful piece of furniture that doesn't smell like spilled milk OR dog to make you think about chaning a few things. Or selling the kids.
And the yards? So beautifully manicured, landscaped and professionally maintainted. Ours is maintained. If by maintained you mean allowed to grow three feet tall and hide various vehicles, a couch (or three) and kids. And Jimmy Hoffa. And don't even get me started on their Clematis and Wysteria. Even my plants have an inferiority complex.
So how does not having a six-figure income affect me? Am I less happy because I don't have all these creature comforts? Is my husband less happy because I don't clean the house? Like, at all? Are my children somehow less happy because we don't shop at Aeropostale (although I will say, resale shops are a great place to get brand name clothes for cheeeeep!). The answer is a resounding NO!
I would love a beautiful home. I would love a new car. A nice yard. Groomed dogs. To shop at fancy organic grocery stores. But there's something to be said for being content with what I do have. And there's a certain honor in, after realizing that cheerleading costs ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS, putting together a massive yard sale and making almost enough to cover half that first weekend. I hope that when they're grown, my kids will remember that we had enough. And what we didn't have, we were willing to work hard to get.
That will be the real success.
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Can you guess which one is me NOW?
Yeah...I'm pretty disgusted too.
I had fully intended this post to be another "honest" post of what I really look like and how completely unashamed I am. Surprisingly, I looked at a comparison of these two shots, all that optimism went straight out the window and wanted to crawl in a hole and die. Seriously.
When I started eating healthier in 2004, I looked, well, like I do now! I had made it SO far before this blasted illness took hold of me. That body (although not perfect) was the result of some very hard work on my part. 5:30 a.m. workouts 4 days per week, and sticking to my eating plan for a year made me look HOTTTT!
Right now I'm torn between gut-wrenching sorrow and inspiration to do something about it. But what could I really do? Working out isn't an option, I'd put myself out of commission for weeks. Eating right? Lots easier to say than do.
So my plan? I don't have one. But I think I'll decide to eat better starting immediately. And I think I'll do some situps before bed. That's how I started last time. Then I'll walk sometime during the day. And if I start feeling better (of course I will!) I will start doing light weight training. Work my way back to where I was 2 years ago. It was a great year. Worthy of a repeat, no?
How bout you guys? Any advice? Luck with specific plans or ideas?
It's time for a cool change.
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OPEN LETTERS- BUTT EDITION (thanks again to Lara for the idea and permission to use it at my whim!)
To the butt-head behind the counter at the lawnmower repair shop : I realize that I was dressed in my pajamas, holding a carbeurator bowl and covered in gas, but you SO did not have to treat me like you can't believe a "girl" would work on a mower engine, and I totally noticed when you excused yourself to go laugh in the back room. Jerk.
To the butt-riding driver on the way home from Salem : There's something wrong when I'm watching you behind the car in front of you and it takes me a few minutes to realize he's not towing you. Unless you have a proctology degree, you are way too close .
To the butt-breath guy that wanted a hug : Fancy a mint?
To the butt-scavenging non-homeless person on 2nd street : I saw you grab that cigarette butt from the gutter. Dude. Even *I* am not that addicted. Get help. Or start collecting cans.
To the butt-beautiful Jon Bon Jovi : DAY-UM! Like I needed another reason to watch American Idol?
To the butt-in-sky friend sticking her nose in everyone else's problems: Oh, wait...that's me.
To the best butt ever : Mr. TSM, I so hate it when you're away. Come home soon so I have something pretty to look at.
To everyone else , if you have a moment, I'm a finalist in the Looky, Daddy! contest, "Children's Song Book"! Please head over and vote for me!
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A Scent-uous Poem
“Hast thou been rolling in elephant feces?
Or maybe the droppings of some other species?
Surely you can’t think the lotions and sprays
Can make that foul stench you sport just go away!
I cannot endure the sour taste of your kiss
So until you quit, it’s my kisses you’ll miss!”
I don’t know what brought me to take up the habit
Maybe because we’re no longer like rabbits.
Possibly tasting that sweet puff of freedom
Feeds my rebellious side-that’s why I need ‘em.
Could be the stress of my Super-Mom goals
Or that, as a lady, I can’t dip the Skoal. (P’tOO)
Whatever it is, I’m approaching the moment
When I say “I’m done!” and I do not postpone it.
Then, in its stead, I will pick up a vice
That isn’t so stinky, but pretty and nice
Instead of a cloud of smoke over my head,
I’ll spend all my time with my husband in bed.
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She loves each and every one as if it were her only one. She is patient with them, loving them for their unique personalities and for the blessings she considers each of them to be. Often, when you enter her home, there is chaos. Children running up and down the stairs, playing outside with the animals or with each other, are a visible reflection of her soft spirit and gentle strength.
The precious bundle she is adopting now is the only child she didn't bear herself. He makes number eight (8!).
The ages range from 16 down to 5 months, with two sets of twins (13 and 11). There is a twinkle in her eye when she tells me the story of being pregnant, and dreaming about the joy the new life would bring to her family. Each pregnancy, she would scan the clover, looking for luck. During two of these pregnancies, she found four-leaf clovers. Both pregnancies turned out to be twins. When she sees four-leaf clovers now, she smiles. I feel privileged to share the secret of the meaning behind the smile.
I could write pages in vivid description of all the ways she has made my life more full, more loving, more joyous. She is a tireless servant, a devoted wife and the most loving of mothers. She is kind and soft-spoken, yet if her children are at stake, she can be fiercely protective. Her love for God is the kind that I hope to someday find within myself.
And the most amazing thing? That a woman like that would choose to call me "friend".
***
Sorry for my absence, but I've been in Yard-Sale limbo! We've raised HALF the funds for cheerleading, and will be having another sale next weekend. Don't give up on me!
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Someone please initiate a search party. I am officially lost.
Lost in a pile of antique glass bottles, old men's clothing and piggie banks from 1972 (coincidentally, the year I was born!). I have a box full of at least one hundred pair of earrings (from the 80s and made in Taiwan) and more books that I could
Yes, that's a WALKER in the corner. And a bird house. And a desk. And a urine collection bottle. I'm pricing that baby at ten smakaroos. It's a collector's item! Used? I don't know! That's what makes it fun!
No, I'm not starting my long-awaited flea market and Ebay business! I have enough crap filling up my house without inventing a constant flow to pad my pockets. No, internets, this is for the Cheerleading Fund. The Yard Sale to End All Yard Sales that will, hopefully, offset the ONE THOUSAND dollahs it's going to take to keep my daughter in pom-poms and pleated skirts. And no, you can't have a picture. Yet. She gets fitted Wednesday. Then, naysayer parents be damned, I'm posting a proud picture of my adorable 13 yr old in her cheerleading outfit. Because, clearly, I don't give a rip about her online safety. Don't get me started .
Since I was spared Jury Duty (for now), starting on Thursday all this
Today, some amazing women gave me, yes GAVE me, an entire van-load of stuff from estate sales to put in my yard sale. Little do they know, that will be most of the yard sale. Along with some stuff from our house that is no longer necessary. Please. Take it. ALL!!
Wish me luck! The Mr. and I have already had the first 'tense moment' regarding the great expense this endeavor will bring to our already stretched budget. And it wasn't pretty. Or fun.
But...the Mr. is both pretty AND fun! WAY !
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