Wednesday, August 31, 2011

More Shockers, Morsels and Just Plain Dumb things...

It’s Wednesday. You’re welcome. If not for me, I’m sure you wouldn’t have known this alarming fact. Alert the media.


In Care Bear Land – things are still somewhat solemn. Low-key. I’m farting gumdrops but instead of fuschia they are light pink. Not teal…but mint green. And they are teeny tiny. But dammit – they’re still coming out.

I have some more Shockers, Morsels and Just Plain Dumb things to impart upon you again.

Jesus Frick – stop rolling your eyes. You know you love this crazy ass shit. Don’t make me throw a tantrum.

Here we go:

Just Plain Dumb – remember when I told you the shocker that chickens indeed lay eggs? It was after my parents bought 5 chickens and then shit their pants when eggs started coming out of their ears and they had to start giving away eggs to complete strangers…like they had no idea chickens would indeed – lay eggs.


Remember how my Dad built these chickens what I call chicken paradise? I mean there’s a viewing window. A custom roost. A custom feeder. A door to the outside built on a pulley system. A laying station for each chicken. Sick I tell you. Sick.

Well yesterday Banana wanted to go in and get eggs. Actually she lied. When I got her down there she did that thing kids do where they won’t stand up. I had to hold her by her armpits because she refused to put her feet down out of fear of chicken poop. (See? Smart kid – she hates poop like her mother.)


Anyway – we open the door to the chicken paradise and inside? The Virgin freaking Mary. No lie. Inside in the corner is a 4ft statue of Mother Mary. Stark white. Staring at me. Apparently protecting the f*cking chickens. Blessing the eggs.


Mom looked at me like it was completely normal to have Mary in with the chickens and said, “What? I had nowhere else to put her.” Yah, automatically you thought of the chicken paradise.


By the way, the chickens have been named. Delores, Marie, Marcella, Eunice and Doris.


Please do not ask me how you tell five chickens who look the same apart. Please.

Shocker – I came home from work yesterday and Rambo exclaimed he had found me a dress he’d love to see me in – in fact I could even wear it to Chicago. Any of you ever seen the Venus catalog? Google it. It’s like Victoria Secrets models on crack with bigger boops. On the cover is a woman in a fake leather dress with a slit down the front almost to her navel with pretty much only her nipples covered.

I said, “Wow. That is nice. I think I’ll order that and wear that to Chicago when I’m with 50 other hot women.” Imagine the look of terror on Rambo’s face when he realized I’d be in the dress and he wouldn’t be with me. Idiot.

He has broken eyes by the way. I tried on a dress last night that could fit my 10 year old it was so small and he looked at me with a dead on straight ass face and said, “That looks great. Fits perfect.”


I would have yelled at him but I couldn’t take a breath or talk because it was so tight. Later on I did tell him that though the dress was made to be tight – it wasn’t made to show your ribs and turn your face blue.

Morsel (of info) – my biggest pet peeve lately is when people wear stark white socks with black ballet shoes/flats. I saw a woman in a sporting goods store buying up brand name items like they were the last things she’d ever see – like she knew what was “in” and had some “style” or “fashion sense” and then she turned the corner and I swear on the holy Bible the woman had on the cutest outfit from the knees up and then – EEEEEEEEEKKKKK – white socks pulled up over her ankles and black ballet slippers. What the fuh?


I cannot deal.

If any of you wear this getup in Chicago…I will tackle you and rip your socks off. Hand to Bible – I will. It’s only because I love you.

Morsel – I would like to say I have almost sealed the nomination for Mother of the Year with my newest feat. It involves music. Now – I know you’ll all be shocked BUT – I’ve been known to have a little bit of a “goody two shoes” reputation. I was the good Catholic girl who met Rambo at 15 and married him and had babies and did everything my parents wanted and blah blah blah. That’s why people people are shocked when they see me flying down the highway in leather on a Harley and covering myself in tattoos – AND – attending things like Ozzfest.

Yupper – I’ve seen the mosh pits and girls painting their naked boopies and all that stuff. I’m the girl everyone thinks loves good ‘ol American country music – and I do – BUT I’m all about head banging scream out my lungs swearing rock after a hard day’s work. And I was doing just that one day on my way home from work – with my girls in the back seat – and this particular song had some not so great words in it and I’d like to report that my girls sang every word but they skipped on purpose every swear word.

See? See? I didn’t even tell them to do it. They just knew not to swear. See? They are angels. And I’m a perfect mother just like I’ve been telling you. (who listens to heavy metal music – gasp!)

Shocker – I never knew but my mother is an entemologist. And no – I’m not even sure if I’m using the right word there. I’m trying to say she’s the person who knows what species certain bugs and spiders are. Remember how I told you Rambo was in too big of a hurry to kill a black widow spider I found outside and I was certain we were all going to get poisoned and die from it? Well Watermelon told my mother about said spider.


Without ever seeing the spider, my mother promptly declares it was NOT a black widow spider because it was a tomato spider.

Huh. First of all – is there such a thing or do we just make up things like that? Like what if it was a cucumber spider? Or a laptop spider? Or a couch spider?

I mean it was on my deck where there are NO tomatoes.


Thank you very much Mom. Watermelon is now deathly afraid tomatoes now instead of widows. Jesus.

Just Plain Dumb – I had lasik surgery so I wouldn’t have to wear glasses. This plan has not worked so well. This weekend I bought a pair of brown and green plaid FAKE glasses cuz they are super cute in a nerdy kind of way and they match my hair. (no my hair isn’t green plaid) And I bought a pair of FAKE pink glasses with a little bling on them cuz they are fun I couldn’t imagine not having them.


I also purchased my 16 billionth pair of sunglasses since getting lasik.


So this whole – getting eye surgery so I’ll never wear any glasses of any kind ever again thing – isn’t working so much the way I planned it.


When my eyes were broken I wore one pair – every day all day. None of this switcheroo, fun, matchy, blingy, fashion, sunglasses, diva shit. I mean really.


Where the hell was the disclaimer on the surgery paperwork telling me I’d spend half my life savings in fake glasses and sunglasses when it was all over?


Shitballs.

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

My BOOBS survey!

Each year, a fabulous group of women get together to share laughter and love in Chicago in September. 98% of the women who attend this event have a lap band - hence their name of BOOBsBand of Outrageous Babes. While I don’t have a lap band, I have a best friend who has one so I was granted access to this great group of women and they allow me to participate in their yearly event.

To help everyone get to know each other better before the event, they’ve put out a survey for all of us to answer and these are my answers!

Enjoy!

1. How did you pick your blog name?

I was reading a book my Martha Beck where she talks about inner demons and getting rid of them. She says in order to expel our inner lizards, we have to give them a name and a personality…so I named mine Drazil. Drazil is the word lizard backwards. Also, when I initially started blogging, I followed many lap band blogs and everyone named their lap band. I didn’t have a lap band – I had 15 extra pounds on me – so I named that Sheniqua. And so was born – It’s Just Me, Drazil & Sheniqua.

2. When did you start blogging? I started blogged in January of 2010 .

3. Theme of blog (weight loss, family, circus clowns, sci-fi, erotica, fly fishing, doll collecting, star wars, etc)

Um – have you seen my side bar lately? My blog is mostly about Explosive Man blowing up my life, Skittles, gumdrops, Care Bears and Mountain Dew. Rambo’s prison world, my two daughters, Drazil’s asshole reputation, and Sheniqua’s staying power. And my bestie Jenny.

I don’t talk about NUSSING else except Chinese naked massages. And poop. And tours to sex shops. And whootenanny shaving. Sometimes I even talk about inner demons and working out and eating right – shocker I know.

4. Did you go to BOOBs 2010? You bet your skinny asses I did. I even remember all of it.

5. When were you banded?

Every time I hear this question I think of putting tiny rubber bands around calves balls when I lived on a farm. For realz. They do that. Eat your heart out PETA.

I wasn’t banded. I wish I was banded. Because in Chicago I eat all the food off everyone else’s plates cuz you all eat like little birdies. Dammit.

6. How much have you lost? I lost about 65 lbs since I started my weight loss journey.

7. What are you most looking forward to at BOOBs?

A hotel room with a toilet I don’t have to clean. No schedules, appointments, worries or cares. Laughter, love and familiar faces. Another weekend of memories I’ll never forget.

8. What/who do you hope to find/see/accomplish at BOOBs 2011?

Is it wrong to put that I hope to find a 42 inch c*ck here? Okay wait. I have a real answer.

I’m going to my first drag queen show. And wherever we’re eating has meat on sticks or swords or something and that’s a first for me too. I hope to see every damn person on the BOOBs list too – fo sho.

9. Children? Pets? I have 2 hoodlums little girls and 2 kitties and a bazillion dust bunnies.

10. Who is your roomie?

I don’t have roomies. I have cuddle bunnies. They are Jenny, my bestie and Carmen, my sister from another mister. We’re all gonna share one bed even though there are two in the room. The other bed is where my shoes will sleep.

11. What day do you arrive? I arrive on Thursday.

12. What airport/flight/time?

This chick doesn’t fly – except in my own head. Jenny and I are driving in – with a truckload of AMAZING swag for the attendees!!! WHOOP WHOOP!

13. What events are you signed up for? The drag show. I’m slated to perform at 11pm.

14. Hobbies?

I’m a mother with three jobs and two kids. What the hell is a hobby? I suppose it’s blogging. pretending to care what other people think, avoiding my mother-in-laws phone calls, Harley-riding, farting gumdrops, bathing in Skittles, snorting Mountain Dew and seeing how many Twix I can eat in one day before I get sick.

15. Career?

I’m pretty sure bathing in Skittles is a career isn’t it? In real life, I work one full time job and two part time jobs and in all three I do Accounting. Balancing to the penny is damn near orgasmic if you ask me.

16. Single? Married? In a relationship? Married and in a relationship. With the same person.

17. Your birthday month? October. Feel free to bring any pre-birthday gifts to Chicago. I shall accept.

18. What do you want other BOOBs to know about you?

Shitballs. Um – that even though I have a can’t seem to type the whole word f*ck in my blog – in real life I can drop it like a truck driver and even put it in between words like for example: unf*ckingbelievable. You like?

Other than that – you should know that I’m way more scared and nervous than you could ever be. And that I love you – before I even meet you. Oh and I’ll probably do the ugly cry when I meet you AND when I say goodbye to you. I promise not to drip snot on you…if I can help it. Just in case – bring some tissue. Mmkkaayy?

I am Satan's sister.

Before I start this lovely blog entry, I’m just going to warn you that lately I’m feeling very, very contemplative and alone. That isn’t to say I'm feeling bad – but I’m questioning life, my spot here, what I’ve done and haven’t done, who I am, what really matters and how hard it is to fart gumdrops most days.


Blame it on a book I’m reading. I won’t tell you which one because it’s a from a huge political figurehead. It’s actually NOT about politics though. It’s about his life and his drive and his views on life and never giving up and taking risks and facing fears.

Reading books like that inspire most. For me – they hurt. They remind me of what I haven’t done yet. And what I may never do.

Moving on.

I would also like to say that I have a heart of stone. I’m pretty sure I’m Satan’s sister. Years of listening to Explosive Man blow up the toilet outside my office and contemplating his death has made me cold.

Want proof?

Here you go.

Banana starts school Thursday. Kindergarten.

Doesn’t bother me in the slightest. I mean it actually annoys me if anything because now I have to get two kids ready and there are two backpacks and two supplies and two teachers and blah blah blah.

Other parents are in the hallways crying and on Facebook wretching over the loss of their babies and I feel nothing.

Feel free to throw cow patties at me. I deserve it. I honestly suck as a mother sometimes.

It just doesn’t make me sad. To see her grow up and not be scared and be excited and move on and learn makes me happy. I don’t feel anything else and when I tell people that – they look at me like I have 4 tits and 3 heads.

I’ll be the one who gets her excited the night before and picks out her outfit. And I’ll be the one who comes home from work and can’t wait to hear about her day. But I won’t even be around the morning she leaves. I won’t get her dressed or take her in. Rambo will be and I’m happy to let him do his part.

He’ll get her dressed, pack both their bags, take their “first day” pictures, walk them into their classrooms and hug them goodbye. I don’t know how to be sad about that when my own father never even really knew what grade I was in or who my teacher was.

So it’s either that my heart is a shriveled up raisin or I’m in complete denial and on Thursday when she starts school, I will have a nervous breakdown, shit my pants, start sucking my thumb and scream obscenities. I guess that’s not really different from a lot of other days though.

Jenny? Will you promise not to leave me in the psych ward for longer than 24 hours if that happens please?

Lastly, let’s discuss Irene and the damages and water and flooding and fear.

Well, what I really mean – is – let’s not discuss it. Because I cannot.

I am a wussyhead.

I just can’t do it. I swear to God I’m evil. Or I have some sort of post traumatic stress disorder and I can’t handle flooding. After the loss of my childhood home and the destruction and stress that followed the flooding, I can’t “see” flooding for someone else. I can’t because I know the hurt they are going to feel.

The absolute devastation. Anger. Helplessness. All of it.

I don’t want to be reminded of it. I can’t help them. I can only pray (and I do – constantly) – but I can’t watch it. So I haven’t seen one tv update or read one news article on Irene or the damage. I see a blog with the word Irene in it and I can barely read it. When I hear an update on the radio – I want to run away. My body cringes at the words.

My heart (yes, that itty bitty thing in my chest) clinches up. It’s hard to breathe. I go back in time and I can almost feel the pain physically and I refuse to go back there.

And then the guilt for being so selfish takes over. I am fine – we survived…and all these people are going through that same living hell NOW and I’m still stuck in my own pain.

Um yes, remember me? They call me heartless. I told you I had proof.

So like I said – lately I’m stuck inside myself. I’m quiet and contemplative and working through some questions that I don’t really want to answer even though my teensy heart just keeps asking them.

It might be small – but damn if it’s not persistent.

Friday, August 26, 2011

BYOC - Bring Your Own Crazy!

Hello there – tis I – Chunky McChunkerton in my pissy pants and bitchy blouse – bringing you BYOC. Because it’s Friday. And it’s what I do. Word.


BYOC – Bring Your Own Crazy – 5 little questions you can copy and paste to your own blog in an effort to get to know your fellow bloggers better and to give your blogging brain a break.

Enjoy!

1. What is your blog theme and how did you pick your blog name?

Well this is an interesting question, isn’t it? My blog theme was originally weight loss, health and exercise. Funny how I only talk about that now about 5% of the time. Now the theme is write about whatever the hell I want and hope to God someone will read it.

My blog name? Originally Sheniqua was never part of it. It was just me and Drazil. And the little peckerhead was pissed when I made him share the spotlight with Sheniqua (until he saw her hot ass).

I was reading the book about inner demons when I began my blog – hence Drazil.

I was also reading a ton of lap band blogs because my best friend has a lap band and they were all naming their lap bands…..I didn’t have a lap band but I sure as hell had some fat I could name – so I did. Hence Sheniqua.

2. Repeat question: I’m going to name a person not knowing anything about this person in your life or even if they exist and you need to try to describe them in five words/phrases.

Female neighbor two homes/doors down to the left

A wonderful Grandma
Amazing cook
Outlived two husbands
Plays the piano in church every Sunday
Drives a Cadillac

3. Which do you hate more? Spiders or snakes. Elliptical or treadmill. Hannah Montana or Lindsay Lohan.

I honestly sat and pondered the spider and snake question. I sooo equally despise them. Like heart race blood pressure rise kind of hate…BUT I suppose snakes are just a little higher on the scale of disgust so I’m going with snakes.

Elliptical – hands down. I swear to God that Satan designed that with his team that consisted of Casey Anthony and Osama bin Laden. I would rather drink gasoline and then eat a match than do the elliptical.

I’m sorry to hate anything Disney but I’m just not a Hannah/Miley fan. Don’t hate until your kids want to watch her 24 hours a day and they’d like every shirt, lunchbox, piece of jewelry, shoe, school supply, and item in their room to have her face on it. Besides, Lindsay never did anything to me…ha!

4. Completely selfish question…I need a dress for Chicago…keep in mind I live in Podunk so the options of physically going into a vast array of stores is VERY limited. (thank God for the internet) When you need something fancy/a dress – what is your go to store and why?

Can you believe I can’t even really answer this? This could be why I’m asking it. I don’t need fancy dresses often and even weddings around here are very casual. Therefore – I have no “go to” store for fancy dresses…..shitballs right? Help a sister out here girls!

5. Repeat question: How was your week in blog land and in real life?

Blog world has been slllloooooooowwwwwer than the economy. I think everyone is SUPER busy with school starting and such. I can’t even complain because my reading and commenting has been slacking big time and I’m sososo sorry about that.

Real life is a clusterf*ck of crazy lately too. I hate school starting. I’m not ready. I’m getting ready to embark on the “must get on treadmill and stop snorting Mt. Dew” journey soon and I’m excited about that. YAY me right?

Tootles Skittles.



Thursday, August 25, 2011

The dealio. The scoopio. Right nowio.


• This exercise hiatus is going to have to end. A quick fix to insomnia is exhausting my body into oblivion on a treadmill. I know this. I crave this. I must quit pretending I lost my running shoes. I know exactly where I hid them.

• No lie – it has been days since I drank water. Pure, straight up, on the rocks water. When did this happen? How did this happen? Can you even imagine how dehydrated my organs are? I bet some of them look like shriveled up potatoes.

• Today I did not eat a Twix for breakfast. WAIT! Stop! Do not clap or applaud or do a cartwheel…until you hear why I did not eat a Twix. It’s because I ran out of them. AND because last night Rambo came home with a bag behind his back – made me hold out my hand and close my eyes – and promptly filled my hand with cinnamon bagels from Panera Bread. Jesus frick. A man I love in leather drove out of his way to bring me cinnamon bagels…excuse me…I’m going to need a minute to go service myself. And you people wonder why I’m fat?

• I live in Podunk. East of Care Bear Land. I drive on country roads with 90 degree corners. There isn’t a lot of traffic. There are only 80 year old Grandpas whose licenses should have been revoked 18 years ago who follow the signs that say you should only go 25mph because they don’t know the roads. Hence – I have road rage – country hick style.

Now not having a lot of experience with real road rage – I’m wondering – do you fellow road ragers talk to the other driver as if they can hear you? This morning I was in my car – following Mr. 80 year old Geezer and I found myself saying – out loud:

“Seriously? We’re going to go 45? I have to get to work. I’m not retired and almost dead like you. Get out of my way. I’m so passing you. If you can’t drive on the roads at a normal speed you shouldn’t be on them.

I mean really – who is the insane road rager here? He’s not in his car talking to no one like I am. He’s just driving. Following the speed limit signs.

Also – on the way into work when I finally got onto the highway I passed two huge tour buses with again – 90 year olds – on it. (Can I just say that once I hit 70 there’s no way in hell I’m getting up every day before noon. Why don’t old people sleep in?)

The buses were filled to capacity. Those suckers creep me the hell out. Because of their height. I feel like they can see into my car – and into my soul. I want to cover myself when they are beside me. Do you guys ever feel like that? When you’re down below in your car and a big bus or semi is above you? I’ve been in the semis and I’m here to tell you – looking down – we can see it ALL so I know and it creeps me OUT. Yes – all this before 7am folks.

• Instead of going to Harley bike night with Rambo last night – I shopped online for four hours. Yes, that is what I said. Four. Expect a picture post soon. Clearly – I have a problem. Just doing my part to help this economy you know.

• Lastly – I have read MANY blogs where you girls have come across spiders in your houses or snakes when you are out on a run and your first thought is to snap a picture of it to share the monstrosity with us – your fellow bloggers. I want to report to you that I found a black widow spider outside on our deck – like seriously posing for a picture – and I did NOT take one. No – I spared you the gore of such a thing. You can thank me by sending me money if you want.

I didn’t even think to find the camera. Don’t say I never do anything for you. And yes – before Rambo left for bike night – I yelled out the door, “You’re going to leave us here with the spider and he’s going to poison and kill us all just so you can go to bike night!?”

Never mind the looks of horror on my kid’s faces that we were going to be poisoned and killed by a spider. Oopsie.

Speaking of snakes – did any of you watch the last episode of Hoarders where the guy actually hoarded SNAKES? What the holy hell? That man didn’t need help – he needed to be shot. I cannot deal. I simply cannot.

Luckily, snakes are outlawed in Care Bear Land. They don’t allow anyone over the age of 70 to drive either. And lizards are shot on sight.

Bet you want to move in there with me now, don’t you?

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Twix and Chicken Fries and some other stuff too.

Since I can’t seem to learn how to fart bullets – I’m going to type in bullets.


• Want to know what I’ve eaten for breakfast for the last three days? Would you also like to know whose fault it is? I shall tell you. Twix. Yup – the crunchy, caramel-y, ooey-gooey candy bar chock full of calories – for breakfast. And it’s Rambo’s fault. He thinks he’s some kind of super husband or something – wherein – almost daily he does something or brings me something home as a surprise. God love him right? Sure. Except when it’s a mother-f*cking candy bar – or 6 of them.

• Also – I thought I should let you know that my pee is neon and glow in the dark yellow. Because of the copius amounts of Mountain Dew I drink to wash down my Twix.

• I have adopted the government’s controversical “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy when it comes to Rambo and his prisoner armed escorts. It works quite well. He escorted some dangerous criminal somewhere yesterday with someone in some vehicle. I have no other info…because I didn’t ask – and I asked him not to tell me. Ignorance is some serious bliss people.

• Also – yesterday after the Twix and Mountain Dew – for lunch I ate a burger the size of Sheniqa’s ass. Followed by homemade fried chips. And just in case you’d like to throw something at me and hate the ground I walk on and the air I breathe – I’m still down 8 pounds. Fear not – tomorrow – I shall be up 10 pounds.

• I am taking applications for people who would like to do my hair each morning. It is lame and boring and takes too much time and makes me want to stomp on small bunnies and throw frogs at mirrors until they make a nasty “splat” sound like some born to be serial killer would do. Honestly – curling every single piece is almost worse than sticking pins in my own eyes. I mean – if in the end I turned out looking like some kind of supermodel – well then – I’d quit bitching…but that is not the case.

• Last night being the gourmet chef Betty Crocker kind of mother that I am – I chose to deep fry some chicken fries for my girls. Have you guys seen these things? They are fries with chicken in the middle. F*cking brilliant.

Anywhoozle – my oldest seriously throws a fit – she doesn’t want chicken. She would like us to order out pizza. I figure two can play this dramatic game so I say, “Would you like us to order pizza or make the mortgage payment? Would you like us to order pizza or get you school clothes?”

Little exaggeration there but still. EVERY night the girl wants to order out. She cries. She yells. She says she hates living here. Noone wants her. On and on we go.

I feel like a knife is stuck in my chest because I remember feeling that way as a child and I remember swearing I’d never make my kids feel the same way.

I tell Rambo I got this but not before he makes it very clear to her she is never to raise her voice to me – ever.

And then? I get an email from her. The subject line says, “I want to move out.”

The body says: I am not wanted here. You don’t have time for me. You don’t buy me snacks. You don’t hug me immediately. You go on your computer. You yell. I want to move in with my sitters. What do you think?

Well Holy Mother of Peter, John and Bart. I’ll tell you what I think.

My first thought is I’m a failure. I’m not breaking any cycles. I want to move out with you.

My second thought is OMG – this is because you have to eat chicken fries!!!!!!!!!!! Instead of take out pizza?????????

Did I raise you? Are you mine? Did my loins produce you?

You bet your ass I’m on the computer – I work three jobs and so does your Dad – to pay for the TV and computer and new room you just got. And your new school clothes and those 5 sports you’re in. Oh and remember fair night? And mini-vacations we take? And weekends at Jenny’s? And? And? And?

Please go live there. Because they buy you snacks.

And the reason they don’t yell? I guarantee you is only because you don’t live there. Give them a week or two and they’ll start yelling. They also aren’t on the computer all the time because they don’t have to work 3 jobs because they don’t have to support you. They just need enough money to buy you snacks.

Shitballs.

Someone stab me in the heart – I think it would have hurt less.

You can all tell me I’m doing the best I can – but the ache that email produced – will never ever go away. Even if it’s from a 10 year old who is mad about pizza. Even if I spent the rest of the night cuddled on the couch with her watching her favorite show.

Even if 10 minutes later she was happily eating an egg I made just for her …I won’t forget what she felt in that moment. And the fact that I caused those feelings.

One little email – from a 10 year old – and I find myself questioning everything I am, my choices, where I’m going and what I’m becoming.

It feels like that whole one step forward – two steps back kind of thing.

Oh and FYI – I did email her back and I did point out the events and items she conveniently forgets and I did say many times she is loved and wanted. I suppose I should be thankful she said anything to me – I never even spoke to mine.

• Lastly – I’m tired. Exhausted really. Dealing with a bit of insomnia. The fact is I’ve never slept well from the moment I married Rambo. He was over the road in a semi so I was alone or on third shift at the prison so I was alone with two baby girls….which meant I was always on alert and never sleeping. And I’m a worrier. My mind races. I can’t stop making lists and thinking and am even plagued by nightmares. And lately – I haven’t been sleeping which makes everything seem 50x worse than it is.

I guess it’s a poopy woopy day here. (For those of you about to tell me it could be that I’m shoving too many Twix and too much Mt. Dew into my body and that can’t be helping – um – please just shut up mmkkaayy?)

Ima go see if I can find Sunshine Care Bear and see if he’ll squeeze the shit out of me with a good ol fashioned bear hug…that oughta help right?

I mean if you get hugged by a Care Bear and you’re still grumpy – then you might as well just give up.

Tootles Skittles.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Love is a crapshoot.


Or? I’m a demanding bitch.

Allow me to explain.

A week ago, my great Uncle died. He lived a good life for 82 years. He was married for over 60 of them. He had 10 kids and too many grandkids too count. He was well respected in our community.

At his funeral – the line for visitation extended all the way outside the church onto the sidewalk and the wait was for more than an hour.

He
Lived
A
Good
Life.

And I’m not here to bash a man that has passed away. I’m actually here to comment on the woman he left behind.

I didn’t know him well. I knew her. She is an angel here on Earth.

When our Priest spoke at her husband’s funeral he spoke of their love and their marriage that lasted over 60 years – because that’s something to be proud of. Something rare in today’s world.

Rare? Maybe. Good? Depends on who you ask I suppose.

I just think real, true love is a crapshoot...and it takes work - from TWO people.

Their marriage was good but he was kind of a gruff old man. He didn’t let her drive. If she wanted to go somewhere – that meant she only went if he felt like driving her there. He guarded THEIR money like nobody’s business so she didn’t have a lot and learned not to even ask.

Like for instance:

Every single day HE met his friends at the local gas station for coffee. To bullshit. For hours every morning. HE insisted she go too because – duh – it was fun. Why wouldn’t she want to go? It was their routine – it was what they did.

The day after he died her daughters asked her if she’d like one of them to take her up to the gas station for coffee every day like she was used to and her reply shocked them all.

She said:  Absolutely not. I hate going there. I can’t hear anything that is being said. I sit there for hours and nod and pretend I’m listening. I never want to go there again.

Jesus, Mary and Bart. They about fell down.  Not a single person knew she hated it.  Can you believe that?

First of all – they all knew she was having trouble hearing but he was too tight with their money to buy his own wife a damn hearing aid.

Second – she learned in their marriage not to even bother asking for one.

Third – for years – Y.E.A.R.S. – she sat in a gas station for hours – nodding her head and pretending to care and listen – hating every moment of it – never telling him any different.

Just typing that out makes ME resent him. Makes ME angry. Makes ME want to burn my bra and scream for women’s lib or something like that.

If that is what a rare 60 years of marriage and hour long lines at your funeral brings you – I don’t want it.

I don’t.

If that’s what my significant other can say about our daily routine once I’m gone – I have failed.

I’ll be damned if I could sit for even one week pretending I was listening and happy, while not hearing a damn thing knowing the whole that we had the money so I could hear if HE would let me. Knowing he didn’t care enough to spend our money to make me happy. Knowing he never asked how I felt or what I wanted to do.

And now it’s too late. He’s dead. His money he didn’t take with him. She resents him. Part of her is happy he’s gone because she never has to sit in that gas station ever again – and pretend. She can go wherever the hell she wants when she wants.

The sad part is she’s old now too – and her health is fading – and it’s too late to enjoy her newfound freedom. I just keep feeling sad for her. Her life became his. What he wanted, when he wanted and he didn’t even notice.

To me – THAT is not love. To everyone in town – it was a 60 year solid marriage that everyone else hoped to have one day.

Everyone but me because I know some of the inner details of it.

And yes, I know – no marriage is perfect and I’m sounding judgemental. I suppose I’m defending my own marriage demands. And Rambo’s.

We both grew up watching imperfect marriages and as hard as that was – it taught us both what we never, ever wanted. More often than not – we demand to be heard. We demand to be treated with respect. We demand discussions. We demand everything that in our opinion is what makes our marriage what we want.

And we have the balls to say that if the demands aren’t met – we’re willing to walk because as kids we both promised ourselves we’d never settle like our parents did.

It’s never something we talk about daily. It’s just always been understood since the beginning. I refuse to settle. So does he. I believe he deserves the best and I want to be that for him. He believes the same. Those feelings come out in our actions every single day and that’s how we always dreamed it would be.

So when I hear about my great Aunt – a woman with the gentlest soul ever – and I think about how unhappy she has been while she pretended to be fine…and I think about the regrets she has now and I think about what she may have said or done had he just once asked how she felt….it breaks my heart.

She deserved more than that from him. I wish she could have loved herself enough to demand it from him.

Literal years people. Years.

Think about that.

Five words. She couldn’t bring herself to say. For her own happiness.

I want a hearing aid.

Makes me wonder…how many of us aren’t saying words we need to say?

And how much will you regret not saying them one day….when it’s too late….and no one is listening anymore?

Say them now.

Please.

Monday, August 22, 2011

Le weekend...where Draz begins to feel threatened.

This is what happened in my head and in my life this weekend.

I know - don't hate.  Everyone wants to be me. 
Yes, I'm sure they do - me with my multiple personalities and all.

                        



We raised a shit-ton of money and a little boy who suffers from muscular dystrophy was our hero for the day. A fellow biker took what used to be a side-car for a Harley and made it into a side-car for a wheelchair so this little boy could ride all day with us.



We got the little boy his own leather Harley vest and the first thing he said was,
"I'm wearing this to school on Monday!"

I swear he never stopped smiling ALL day.  I was happy to be a part of this.
Here he is on his custom made side car.

Oh and my favorite bike of the day was this one....because it was owned and driven by a woman.

Do I even need to mention that Rambo wanted to enter us in the "weenie bite" contest yesterday? 
That's where they hang up a hot dog dipped in mustard and the guy drives his bike under it with a woman on the bike and she has to reach up and try to bite it with her mouth - she cannot use her hands. 
He cannot stop his bike or put his feet down.

I told Rambo that this event was crossing the HUGE line past my threshold for excitement in one day and there was no way in hell I was biting anyone's weenie. 

And I don't like mustard.  So there.

It wasn't all horrifyingly hive-inducing.
I mean almost 100 men - in leather - on Harleys - for a child in need. 
Very manly men.
Did I mention in leather?

And we began at a Harley store.
So I bought a new hat.
And a sweatshirt.
And a button up blue Harley shirt to match Rambo's eyes.

So nah...not all of it was painful.

I'm fairly certain Sheniqua is on her way out the door too....
...but I'm not even going to ask if anyone wants her.

Friday, August 19, 2011

Another prison rant.....

I need to rant about the prison. And I need to feel like someone heard me so I can let go of the anger I’m carrying lately.


Rambo is working on Cell Block A this week.

I HATE CELL BLOCK A.

Block A is the intake unit and the worst unit. As you progress and behave as a prisoner, you move up in units (A through F) and rewards – so yes – if you’re in A – um – you suck. You haven’t earned a damn thing and you just suck.

Basically you make every guard’s life hell and you’re an asshole and you’re proud of it.

Rambo is a Support Sargent which means he moves from unit to unit filling in where needed. This week he is needed on A.

Great. I’d rather clean up Satan’s poop.

First of all – he’s working with a woman guard. Sooo – you all know what that means. It means the A prisoners shout incessant and gruesome obscenities at her and about her and every female body part she has and what they want to do with her and on and on – for 8 straight hours. Just imagine that. It gets old. It gets aggravating. It’s hard to deal with.

I get that. I do. A huge part of me feels sorry for her.

The other part of me says – Lady – you signed up for this job. What did you think the state’s worst prisoners would say to you?

And Rambo? He hates when they talk like that to her or any woman so he takes her walking shift down the ranges for her and he allows her to stay in the cage out of their eyesight.

Great for her. Not great for Rambo.

Should I pissed or proud of him?

So all day they shout obscenities at him. About me. What they’ll do to me. His mother. His kids.

One guy wouldn’t come out of his cell to go to his OWN trial so they had to suit up on him in riot gear. Then the guy proceeded to throw up all over himself. I cannot deal.

Constant screaming. Constant beliggerent remarks. Constant accusations. Yelling. All day intercom requests for this and that. He’s being flipped off all day long. Told to f*ck off all day.

Rambo isn’t the kind of guy who just stays silent and takes this. He plays his hand.

Right or wrong. It’s what he does. It’s what most of them do. There’s only so much a person can take in a job like that from wretched people who have raped 2 year olds you know? But yes – again – I too, know he signed up for this job. He knew that daily he, myself, and his kids would be threatened by prisoners. It doesn’t make it any easier though.

So he usually doses some of it back.

For instance…when one guy called Rambo a mother f*cker yesterday – Rambo stopped dead in his tracks and stopped at the cell and said, “You’re right. After my shift, I’m going to stop by your mother’s house and f*ck her.”

Immature? Yup. But you can’t let the prisoners have the upper hand. You can’t let them think you’ll back down. He might be a hated guard – but he’s also respected there.

He was walking by the next guy’s cell to check on him and walked past and the prisoner yelled, “Hey – Rambo just called me a n*gger!”

Again – Rambo could have kept on walking. He didn’t.

He stopped. Went back and said, “Are you deaf and blind? There are cameras everywhere that can prove I never said a word to you. I’m not racist and I don’t use that word. Back the f*ck down and behave.”

Ugh.

All day long. He’s wired and frustrated and wound tight.

All I can think is that if he wasn’t so kind he could have avoided it all and been in a cage all day. I hope that woman appreciates her break from the obscenities Rambo gave her this week.

Meanwhile…I just worry.

I said to Rambo, “Some day one of those prisoners is going to make good on those promises and you’ll be sorry.”

That’s my fear. Some of them get out. They know our name. They know where we live.

And he always says, “Honey, guys like that don’t ever get out of the system. Ever.”

Here’s hoping he’s right.


I realize some of you might completely disagree with how Rambo handles prisoners or how I feel about this stuff…and I know human rights are a touchy subject…but please – try not to judge until you’ve lived it. It’s really unexplainable. And thanks for listening.











BYOC - Bring Your Own Crazy!

It’s Friday so that means here in Draz Land it’s time for BYOC – Bring Your Own Crazy!


We answer just a few questions to get to know each other better and to give our blog brains a break!

Copy to your own blog if you wish and ENJOY!

1. How much makeup do you wear daily, how long does it take you and are you loyal to certain brands?


I wear foundation, eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara and bronzer and lip gloss. Takes about 5 minutes. I couldn’t care less about brands. I buy different all the time – whatever catches my eye I guess.

2. Repeat question: I’m going to pick a person not knowing your relationship with them (or even if there is one) and you try to describe this person in 5 words/short sentences.

Your oldest paternal aunt

Pretty
Wealthy
Compassionate
Good mother
My favorite

3. Tell me about your first real kiss and how old you were.

I’ve asked this a long time ago in BYOC, but there’s a lot of newbies doing BYOC so it’s a fun one to do again!

Well, not so fun for me actually…the experience was not great cuz I’m a chicken butt. I was in 6th grade. My boyfriend was huge as in linebacker huge. He was 6ft something and could pick me up like nothing. One of his hands covered my whole ass. And I was 12 for God’s sake. And he was towering over me and older and I knew we were gonna kiss and I liked him a lot but I was 100% sure I wasn’t going to like kissing him – and I was right. I cried later. Seriously – how dumb am I?

4. If I gave you $1000.00 and told you that you had to give it to a charity – which charity would you choose and why?

I’m sure that I’d either pick a charity for cancer or Alzheimers. I was fortunate and unfortunate enough to literally care for and medicate both of my Grandmothers until the moment they died – one while I was with her. Both experiences changed who I am. Neither were things I’d wish on Satan himself.

5. Repeat question: Summarize your week in blog land and in real life.

Blog land is my refuge. Writing is my passion and it makes me feel better about whatever I’m feeling and thinking. I ran the spectrum this week – from funny to crabby to contemplative.

Real life is interesting. You guys wouldn’t even believe how social this anal retentive want to live in a closet girl has become. Festivals, soccer, fairs, etc….it’s downright impressive if I do say so myself.

That being said I’ve still had my share of issues with my extended family that Jenny has had to listen to. I’m sad school is starting because I love that my kids don’t have schedules.

And can I just say the prison is pissing me the hell off? I’ll do a separate post on this cuz I have a feeling I’m going to go off about it.

Tootles my Skittle bugs!

Thursday, August 18, 2011

What are you going to do when the fat is gone?


I’ve been reading a bunch of blogs lately and each of them talk about no longer being able to eat their emotions and I keep wondering….what did we all think would happen when the fat was gone? Why didn’t anyone prepare us better for what would happen when all we were left with was our skinny little asses and broken hearts?

I think anyone who enters a weight loss journey thinks in the end – at goal – that we’ll live in Care Bear Land and life will be paradise. It’s what we dream of. Skipping from cloud to cloud – in our brand new skinny jeans.

The thing is though – that even when the fat is gone – life remains.

Shit happens. People die. Bills pile up. Jobs are lost. In-laws piss you off. Kids get sick and even puke. Explosive Man still blows up. It storms and your roof leaks. You want to kill your boss. You still hate your ex. A size 2 still doesn’t fit past your knee. Toilets still have to be cleaned.

The world just keeps turning.

The only thing that changes is that when the fat is gone – if you look in the mirror and there are still tears streaming down your face - you are forced to admit that fat is no longer the reason.

You are unhappy – in spite of the fat. Without the fat.

My God – no one planned on that happening, did they? No one told anyone that the whole mother-effing life you lead could be turned upside down because you shed a layer of skin.

But it can be. 

Before you lost the fat? Well, you could cry. Be in a bad mood. Huff and puff. Stay at home with your bottle of excuses. Not participate. Be grouchy. Be pissed and bitter. Hate how you looked. Be mad at the world. Live in oversized clothes. Never care about your appearance. Never smile. Go to bed early. And get up late.

All because fat gave you the right to those feelings. Not a single person questioned your attitude. They’d do the same if they were in your shoes right?

Fat gave you a reason – to be unhappy. And by God – you used it.

Now? You’re losing fat. Maybe even done losing and now maintaining.

So when you cry now – stomp your feet – want to kick small bunnies – scream at every human being and have road rage before you ever even set foot in a car – you can no longer say:

It’s because I can’t move because I’m too big.
It’s because I didn’t sleep because I’m too big to sleep well so I’m exhausted.
It’s because I hate the way I look.
It’s because my blood pressure is too high.
It’s because of all the meds I take.
It's because I can't breathe.
It’s because I can’t work out because of my size.
It’s because nothing fits me.
It’s because I’m discriminated against because of my fat.
It’s because people point at me when I’m in public.
It’s because I’m embarrassed of how I look.

And the list goes on.

You can’t say those things anymore. Instead – if someone asked you what was wrong – now that you’ve lost weight – when everything should be paradise – you might actually have to face your inner demons and say:

I’m not happy with my career.
I’m angry about my childhood.
I’m not in love with my partner anymore.
I am not being my authentic self.
I haven’t let go of some of the things in my past.
I’m carrying guilt, shame and hurt.
I cannot forgive someone for something they did years ago.

And the list goes on.

You can bet your new skinny ass it’s easier when someone asks what’s wrong to just be able to say, “I’m fat – that’s what’s wrong.”

The person might give you a lecture on eating and working out – but you never have to dig deeper. You never have to admit that even if the fat were stripped away – you’d still be unhappy. You never have to even go there. Fat does it for you.

Some would even say they were happier when they were heavier. Of course they were. Because back then the only problem they ever admitted they had – was fat. Everything else was perfect. If you had granted them one wish pre-fat – they wouldn’t have changed a single thing in their perfect life – just the fat.

The truth is – fat never did any of us any favors. Most of us thought it was a blanket and a shield and the fact is – it was a straight jacket. Fat made you a kept woman.

Kept angry. Bitter. Sad. Pissed.

It quite possibly kept you settled. Unforgiven. Ashamed.

It kept you everything but your true self.

I’ve always found it so interesting when people say they can’t shove down their emotions with food anymore. I feel like I never did that.

What I did was binge so I could cry and hate myself – for binging. God forbid I didn’t binge and hated myself for the real reason behind the tears.

Or I ate crap for weeks and gained 20 lbs so I could cry and hate myself – for being fat, eating crap, and letting myself go. God forbid I let myself feel some pain and make some changes and face my fears instead of using fat to mask the real reasons behind my pain.

If I binged or was fat – that was enough. THAT was why my heart was aching and my world was cruel. And anyone I told that to would nod their head because that was valid.

My real feelings? The real hurt? Apparently I never thought that was valid enough to warrant taking care of. I was fat. Everything else came in second place after that.

Fix the fat – then maybe I’ll fix the “other stuff”. But if I never allow myself to fix the fat – I never will have to fix the “other stuff”, now will I?

People would almost “expect” me to be a sad, hateful person. I could see it in their eyes, they’d say, “Of course, you’re miserable. Look at you. Who wouldn’t be?”

And their pity was mine. My fat had a voice. A feeling. It was something I could put a label on because I was too scared to label anything else. It was absolutely everything that was wrong in my life…except it wasn’t.

I say this now because I’m realizing I didn’t come this far to slide backwards or get “un”healthy or gain any weight back….simply because I lack the courage and fortitude it takes to keep going forward – and to face things that may break my heart in the road that lies ahead.

As I strip away more and more layers of fat – I uncover shitloads of broken dreams and cracked hearts and old fears and more hurt than I ever understood was under there.

And it scares the living shit out of me.

You better believe that gaining 60 lbs back and telling myself the only thing wrong with me every day is that “I’m fat” would be easier and less painful than continuing on this journey and seeing where it takes me.

I can’t choose that woman anymore. I don’t want to be her now that I see me – today.

She was never authentic or true to what was in her soul. She was too caught up in fat.

I am strong enough now to conquer the demons I’ve taught myself to shove down for years.

I don’t owe fat anything. None of us do.

I’m 100% certain that nothing I face going forward can be as scary and heartbreaking as anything I’ve faced in the past – because I’m stronger now than I was then.

I’ve got a lot less fat weighing me down….and I’m going to keep it that way.

Are you?

Ss, Ms and JPDs.

Another installment of Ss, Ms, and JPDs for your enjoyment or not.

Ss =  Shockers

Ms = Morsels (of info you could do without)

JPDs = Just Plain Dumb (things you'd be fine if you never knew about)

Let's start, shall we?

Shocker:   Today TWO - count them - TWO - of the pens that I have stolen recently stopped working.  Out of ink.  I mean really - how often do pens really run out of ink?  Like never.  Just a fluke or kharma?? 

You decide

My clepto days may be numbered if this is how the kharma Gods want to f*ck with me. 

Morsel:  The other night I got home and right after work we went to soccer.  Then we got home and we took showers.  We tucked the girls into bed. I took a bath.  Rambo came in to do laundry.  I was eating a cookie - yes - while in the bath.  A thought occurred to me while I was eating this cookie in my bath.  I asked Rambo about this thought. 

I asked, "Hey, did you feed the girls supper?" 

He says, "Nope - did you?"

Shit.  No.  I saw one of them with a cookie earlier.

Holy blistering banana butts.  Parents of the year right here. 

Our kids may starve to death but we're gonna win that trophy I tell you.

Who the hell forgets to feed their kids?

Just Plain Dumb:  My 5 year old Banana says a multitude of words backwards or mixed up or something.  If I was a good parent, I might be concerned she was dyslexic or something but see the above story and you'll know I'm not a good parent - so I just think it's cute.

Three of the words are:

coathouse - AKA - housecoat
Yew Nork - AKA - New York
macercial - AKA - commercial

And actualy that's it.  Just those three.  Cute yes?

Morsel:  I am contemplating running again.  For the first time in my life I'm contemplating running because I miss it - I miss sweating and I miss the way it makes me feel. 

Remember when I decided earlier this year that I wasn't going to train for a marathon?  That I believed in signs and that no matter how hard and long I looked for my training book - I could not find it?

I found it.  Just like losing it was a sign...I believe so is finding it.

I want to run - just to run...not to lose weight.........but to run.  Because I am a runner.

Shocker:  You all know I am a list making color coding multiple planner owner kind of OCD girl.  I own more pens than Bic.  Literal boxes of pens folks - some I even bought instead of stole.  Staples is my favorite store.  School supply shopping is nearly as good as an orgasm to me. Sometimes I go in the aisle and just sniff folders. 

Much to my dismay - as an adult - when buying for multiple children - I have figured out school supply shopping is not as fun.  Especially when these days school supply lists have things such as spoons and anti-bacterial wipes on them.

What the fuh?  My mother never even knew what an anti-bacterial wipe was much less shoved them in my back pack to take to school and I lived.  Jesus frick. 

Shocker:  Tonight I went to the local fair.  I didn't want to.  Carnival workers (carnies) and social anxiety disorder just don't mix.  But my girls were so excited they nearly peed their pants at the thought of our family going to the fair.  So I went. 

And in the end - Rambo talked me into using our last ride tickets to ride a ride with both our girls.

Green and purple dinosaurs.  Whose heads turn.  While you spin in a circle.  AND go up and down.

It's enough to make you want to vomit.  As you smile and pretend you're having the time of your life.

Sometimes I even surprise myself. 

As a kid - I never went to a fair.  Never once did either of my parents go on a ride with me.

Again - cycle broken.  Done and done.

Shocker:  And this one is a doozy.  Carnies do not have teeth.  Nor do they wear bras.  And to attain a job as a carnie one must have at least 3 hickies in obvious places.  Oh and big saggy boobs.  That's a must.  Also - having only one eye that works almost always instantly guarantees you a job. 

Have you ever wondered why carnival workers can't afford such luxuries as deodorant or toothbrushes considering the amount of money just one family drops in one night between fair rides and carnival food?

I feel like carnivals are like the government.  Where the hell does all the money go?

Yes - I'm aware I'm going to Hell.  I already have my seat picked out.


That's it for me....you got any Ss, Ms or JPDs to share?  I'd love to hear 'em!


Wednesday, August 17, 2011

A little glimpse of high school courtesy of Joey.

Most of you know that I've been with Rambo since I was 15. 

He was 17 and he was your typical football playing jock. 
Typical "Don't look at my girlfriend or I'll mess you up" kind of guy. 
 I used to hate it and love it all at the same time.



I remember one time Rambo had a party and some idiot guy came that I hated.  I mean I was a bitch to this guy and I can still admit that to this day. Why on Earth this guy would come to MY boyfriend's party knowing we didn't get along was beyond me - but he did.

He came - Rambo met him at his car - the guy uttered a few words about me (or tried to) and the next thing I know is that the guy's head is being smashed into Rambo's car numerous times.  Ugh.

I was so humiliated and pissed. 
Jealousy was annoying back in high school but every guy I knew felt it when it came to "his" girl. 
 It must have come with having a penis.  And no brains.

As Rambo (and most men) get older, they tend to lose that whole jealousy thing......
and though I'll never tell him - sometimes I miss it.

It could be that other men no longer look at me (cuz I cut my boobs off) so he has nothing to be
jealous of anymore - but let's just skip over that little fact.

Tonight though - I got a little taste of high school. 
Courtesy of my blogging friend Joey - and her gorgeous little name.

My phone dinged. 
I had a text message.

The message was from "Joey".

Rambo was bringing my phone to me so I could read my new message.

I hear Rambo say, "Who is Joey?"

I think to myself.  Oh this is gonna be fun.  Let's play this game.

I say, "I don't know.  I'm not sure who Joey is."...as I smirk.

He says, "Hmm...do I need to start checking your messages?  Who is Joey?"

I say, "Come here babe.  Let me show you just who Joey is and how hot this person is."

I proceed to pull up Joey's blog

I'm so proud of myself as I giggle and say, "There's your Joey."


"Would you like to apologize to me now or later Mr. Testerone get your boxers in a tizzy?"

"Shit"...he says..."for all I know that's not the real Joey. 
You're lucky it's a chick though...cuz I'm not really into sharing."

He laughs and kisses me like he just won me in some duel and for a moment I feel 15 again.    

Hmmm...I guess some things never change. 

P.S. Joey - do not be afraid....Rambo will NOT be smashing your face into a car. 

Hand to Bible...I promise.

Your face is WAY too pretty for that.  ♥ you!


Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Don't take a fricking nap on it!

Today I have a story to match a cliché.


Ever heard that whole “shit or get off the pot” line?

Well – around here in Care Bear Land where we pretend people don’t poop (until Explosive Man blows up my world) – we try never to utter old cliches like the above.

Except for today because I have a story to match that exact cliché.

It’s short and not so sweet. And scary as hell.

So yes - I hate poop. And toilets. And bathrooms in general. Public bathrooms make me want to throw up more than the thought of Nancy Pelosi’s dimpled ass in a nightgown.

I almost never go to the private bathroom or any bathroom at work even though I work at least 9 hours a day. I just can’t do it. If you could hear what goes on in there and then see what’s left behind – you wouldn’t either.

We do, however, have one bathroom that is a women’s only bathroom that is quite clean but it has three toilets so it’s not private.

The other day at work I was tired. Like fall asleep at my desk tired. I had to pee. I could not wait until I got home so I chose the women’s bathroom down the hall. I didn’t have the guts – nor the gas mask – to enter the private stall that Explosive Man uses.

I go in. The light automatically goes on – cuz it is on a sensor by the door. It goes on when someone opens the door and it stays on for a set amount of time.

I sit. I pee.

Remember I am tired.

I realize it is comfy. It is quiet. Clean and even smells nice in here.

I’ll just close my eyes for a moment. It can’t hurt anything to nap – with my pants at my ankles – on a public toilet. (and you people think I never take risks)

Yah well, everything was going swimmingly – until the godforsaken f*cking light went off.

Holy Mother of God – it’s so black I can’t see my own hand anymore.

I was drifting off to sleep – and now I’m awake – in the dark with my pants at my ankles – on a public toilet. It’s my worst nightmare come true. I think I might start to weep and break out in boils…but I compose myself.

My first thought is that the light is motion sensored so if I just move – it’ll come back on.

Yes. Imagine yours truly on a toilet, waving my hands like a damn lunatic trying to make “motion” and yet trying not to fall into said toilet. In the dark. With my hoohah just hanging out.

It doesn’t work. The light only works with the door. Who is the f*cking “save the Earth – let’s be green – use less electricity” asshole who thought of that?

Where the hell is the toilet paper?

Where is my vagina?

Where are my underwear? Pants? Zipper? Why don’t my hands work in this sea of black?
(panic is setting in)


OMG – I’m locked in a stall!! I’m claustrophobic. Get me out! So help me God if I have to crawl out under the stall on a public bathroom floor in my work clothes – I will quit this job today and admit myself into a psych ward.

Where is the lock? How does it work? Pull – push – turn – slide??? It’s NOT working!!!!!! Do I scream help? Wait for the next person who has to pee?

And OMG can you imagine if someone walks into the bathroom and they see the place is pitch black before the light goes on and then they realize I was in here - in the dark?  How do I explain that one?  They are going to think I was pooping for like 20 minutes so the light went off........I cannot deal.

(Yes, I’m aware that panic makes things seem extra worse)

I got out of the stall after what seemed like hours. Only to wander around like a blind person trying to find the effing sink.

Jesus.

Where’s the mother f*cking door so the mother f*cking light will come back on?????

Found it.

Get me the hell out of here.

Now I can’t go in the private bathroom because Explosive Man lives in there.

And I can’t go in the women’s bathroom because I have post traumatic stress from this incident in there. And now I’m scared of poop AND the dark.

I’m thinking of just putting a bucket under my desk.

One thing is for sure. After this debacle, I wasn’t tired anymore.

Absolutely NUSSING can just be normal for me, can it?

I mean really – I guess it’s true.

Shit or get off the pot. Don’t try to take a fricking nap on it.





Monday, August 15, 2011

Christmas...in August. For realz.

You all know Jenny....my bestie.

She knows how to rock a ponytail. 
She knows how to make her little fingers use a laptop to design the hell out a blog.
(or to email me off some self-induced dramatic cliff)

Yet, as much as I hate to admit it...as much as it pains me to say it......Jenny does have one little flaw.

*Gasp*

It's almost as unbelievable as the day I wore NUSSING during a Chinese massage, isn't it?

That went something like this in case you don't recall.




Anywhoozle, back to Jenny's flaw.

It's just a teensy one. 

She hates the US Postal Service.  She can't help it.  She has a long history with them.

Now you may be wondering why this matters and why in the world am I blogging about it?

Well, it's actually a flaw I love.

Because when I visited Jenny two weeks ago, guess what one of the first things we got to do was?

OPEN CHRISTMAS PRESENTS - 
-  because Jenny hates the post office so much she hadn't gotten there since December
of last year to ship our gifts!!!!

So that meant that even though it was August & 90 degrees - we were unwrapping Cmas presents.

How damn fun is that?  My girls were in paradise!

Lemme show you some of what I got.

I mean - really - who is the rainbow Queen?  That'd be me. 
When I wear these bracelets and earrings I feel like I'm wearing Skittles on my wrists and ears!

And then she got me these.  I'd love to show you an actual one of them...but um...yes - they are gone.
I have no idea who ate them.



She got me this cute earring holder - which by the way Jenny - Watermelon has STOLEN!



Oh and Jenny got me a lizard too...to emulate my beloved Drazil.  Drazil hates it. 
But Drazil is an asshole so what did you expect?



There was more in the box which meant more screams and squeals from Watermelon and Banana
when they opened their gifts and we all contemplated putting on our parkas to get more in the
Christmas mood but it was just too damn hot for that. 

Thank you Jenny for all the gifts....we LOVE everything!

Oh and I almost forgot - remember that while we were at Jenny's,
my sister was painting a skyline on Watermelon's wall as a surprise?

Here's a pic of that.  And yes - the pink is ass bright - but a 10 year old wants what a 10 year old wants.





Oh and get this?  Stef from Dreams of Skinny High Heels (also known as Pervy Planner)
sent me a little treat too.  Apparently I talk about candy a lot on my blog huh?

She sent me these and a huge box of Skittles AND a shitload of free STOLEN pens.



We are both admitted cleptos when it comes to pens.  I can't steal enough of them. 
Thanks Stef!

That's all I got today!  Love to you all my rainbow Skittles!

I'm off to fart gumdrops (in heels - duh)!


Friday, August 12, 2011

BYOC - Bring Your Own Crazy!

There is NUSSING better than a Friday, is there?


Oh wait – yes there is. BYOC on a Friday! Or shoe shopping. With purses amuck. Or about a million other things BUT for right now I’ve got NUSSING but a little BYOC on a Friday – so take it or leave it!

BYOC – Bring Your Own Crazy – 5 questions you can copy and paste to your own blog if you so desire – in an effort to get to know your fellow bloggers better and to give your blog brain a break!

Enjoy!

1. I have to do some MAJOR cleaning tonight…which is prompting me to ask…what is the absolute worst thing you hate to clean or cleaning chore you hate the most? (vacuuming, dusting, laundry, toilets, floors, etc.)

If you’ve read my blog for any more than 5 seconds – you know the answer to this. It’s the toilet. Just sitting here knowing I have to go home and possibly clean two of them – makes me think of never going home and running off with some Italian cabana boy who wears NUSSING but fig leaves.

2. Brown or Black? Fly or Drive? Hot dog or Burger? Gold or Silver?

Both brown and black – I have no bias against either. Both are equally alive and well in my warddrobe.

Drive – even if it’s 18 hours in a car with motion sick kids to Louisiana. I, nor Rambo, have ever flown – ever. No reason why really – just never needed to.

Um really – me – choose between food? Yah right. Give me both – I’ll inhale a hot dog or burger equally. I do not discriminate.

Again – choose between bling? Who is the idiot who makes these questions up? I wear both. In fact I just counted the rings on my fingers and they number 15 and 9 are silver and 6 are gold so there you have it….I indeed mix it up and wear both every day. I cannot choose. You cannot make me.

3. Repeat question: I’m going to pick a person not knowing your relationship with them or even if a relationships exists – and you then try to describe that person in 5 short sentences/words.

Maternal Grandmother

Saintly and religious
Died of cancer
Giving
Active and healthy (pre-cancer of course)
Always present

4. Even if you don’t have kids, how do you feel about kids in multiple sports during their school years?  Were you in MULTIPLE sports all during school?  Forced or by choice?

I ask this because Watermelon is 10 and this year she will be playing soccer, volleyball, basketball, and softball. We are not making her play any of these – except basketball. I’ve asked her to at least try this sport to see if she likes it or she’ll never know and if she doesn’t she never has to play again.

Other than that – she’s in love with all of them and has talent in each sport and gets a lot of play time.

That being said – she is 10. Soccer 4 nights a week just ended and volleyball practice 4 nights a week plus 1 game a week will begin. It’s a lot. Her academics have never suffered thank goodness.

As parents – it can get exhausting but we also enjoy it as we are heavily involved. Yet, we have parent friends who only let their children play one sport and that’s because they don’t want to run them everywhere or spend the money.

I get that – but I can’t make that choice.  It's another thing I swore I'd never do as a parent.

And I realize that’s on me – and it’s from my childhood. I had athletic ability – so did my siblings. But we were poor and lived in the country and even if those two things had changed – my parents were too selfish to let us be in too many things. I was a cheerleader and in track and went to state in forensics – of which my parents never saw me do any of – not once. I found my own rides. I paid my own way.

I wanted to do so much more. The story was the same for my brothers.

If you talk to them now – they have deep regrets over what could have been and the team things they missed and the abilities they didn’t get to hone and the recognition in a small town they never received.

So today you see us all running and coaching and playing on teams of things we never got to as kids. My brothers run triathlons and do tough mudder races and just won their division in a 4 man v-ball competition.

Jesus – I’ll shut up now – this is not what I intended – but apparently I had a lot to say – I’m sorry. My main point was I just never want my kids looking back – and regretting….like I do.

5. Repeat question: Summarize your week in real life and in blog land.

Blog land has been fun. NUSSING much has been going on except my new fantastic blog design which rocks my world every time I look at it, Chinese naked massages, sex toy shop tours and more tidbits from me visiting Jenny. Good times I tell you.

Real life is good too – I enjoyed spontaneous family time without hives. I’m still not sweating. Rambo is still on vacation. We have a hometown festival all weekend. I’m still down 8 pounds. I miss Jenny. Like something fierce. I’m going through withdrawal after I got to see her last weekend.

Tootle my Skittles!

Thursday, August 11, 2011

Rambo and Banana and Mind Blowing Palm Trees

If you think I’m only writing a second post today to redeem myself after writing about sex toys…


Well – fine - you’re right.

Before I start though I’d like to ask…where the hell were all of you BEFORE I wrote that lovely sex toy post?

On the way to work it dawned on me the sheer amount of nasty actual perverts that will find my blog based on the amount of disgusting words I used in that post. Nasty words I had never heard before uttered to my virgin ears by Polly and Pervy. My ears still hurt.

Though I’m not sure if it’s from the new words or the Chinese lady massaging them.

I ask you – who massages ears? NUSSING makes sense anymore.

Well, NUSSING except this.

Two little tidbits to relate today.

Yesterday I left work early because Rambo is on vacation and was taking our girls and the neighbor kids to a local lake to swim. Two other parents and their kids were going too. Normally I never would have gone. I wouldn’t have used my massive amounts of time off – but I’m learning and growing – so I went.

Never even got hives. My stomach never even flipped once. I don’t recall being nervous even for a second.

Holy hell – but this social thing is getting easier – bit by bit.

Maybe it’s the tequila and Xanax. Hmm.

Anywhoozle…at one point I stepped back by myself to take it all in.

To memorize the moment if you will. To appreciate this space in time.

All the older kids were lining up. They were playing “who can race into the water from the beach the fastest”.

I could see Rambo sneaking up behind them. They didn’t know he planned to race with them.

He did and he won and they all laughed. As he swam back to shore, Banana, spotted her Dad in the water and ran over to him. She couldn’t possibly have smiled any bigger.

He reached out his arms to her.

I sucked in my breath.

He scooped her up. She giggled. He put her back down and squatted down to her level in the water and they talked.

Probably about world peace.

And then they separated – he back to the beach and her back to her friend.

A completely normal, commonplace occurrence.

To them.

But not to me.

Never, ever to me.

In the distance, I had a wipe a tear from my cheek before anyone saw it under my cheetah sunglasses.

Like I said, it was such a normal exchange between father and daughter. One I would have given anything for. One I’d give everything for if I could go back and get it.

He touched her. He’s not afraid of her, nor is she afraid of him.

He can’t get enough of her, nor she of him.

She trusts him – sometimes more than she trusts herself and always more than she trusts anyone else.

He’d die for her – in an instant.

You can’t look at him looking at her and not feel the intensity of his love for her.

It makes my heart swell – for her…and break – for me – all at the same time.

I suppose that’s selfish. To be happy for her – but hurt for the little girl that will always remain inside of me.

You could tell me to get over it. To stop living in the past and wanting something that can never be. But feeling sad over something I wanted that my own father could have given me – isn’t wrong – it’s just how I feel. And I don’t have to get over it – I just have to accept it.


I choose to accept it by finding the beauty in what I didn’t have – in what Rambo and Banana do have.

I swore that I would marry a man NOT like my father. I swore with everything in me if I ever had a little girl that never a day would go by when she would question if I or her father loved her. I swore she’d be kissed and hugged EVERY day.

I made good on all of those.

Cycle broken. Done and done.

**************************

Tidbit #2

Watermelon brought a friend to the lake yesterday.

She is diva-licious. More so even than my Watermelon.

We went to a beach remember? Like with dirt and sand and bugs and grass. This girl brought wads of nail polish. To do nails. On the beach. In the sand. On her zebra towel.

She’s my kind of kid.

Before the night was over – back at home – they did more nails. I told her she could paint a design on my big toe.

She asked what I wanted.

I said, “Surprise me.” – never really expecting her answer.

That 10 year old diva looked me square in the eyes with her hand on her hip and said:

“I’m going to blow your mind away, okay?”

Um, okay. I guess. Should I be scared? It’s just a damn toe.

Then she got out her mini chain saw.

I’m kidding. Jesus.

I would have busted a gut laughing but this girl was dead ass serious and she would have been insulted.

Case in point: I’ve got some “blow your mind” palm trees on my toes.

There you have it – a blow your mind paint job and a naked Chinese massage all within a week’s time.

I’m officially spent.

I can’t take anymore.