Friday, June 29, 2012

Friday's Letters Link Up!!!

I’m linking up for Friday’s Letters!


Dear Mr. Sandusky: Guilty as charged. Amen. Rambo (or others like him) will soon be the only humans you ever see again. This is as it should be. Also? About your pension. It should be divvied up between your victims. You won’t need it where you’re going anyway.

Dear left wing liberals who wanted Obamacare to stand: I doubt you’ll be so happy when you get a bill in the mail for your “free” insurance. None of us can possibly comprehend what this all means yet except it’s one more thing the government now controls. Yes – great – because the government has done so well controlling so many other things. And another tax will totally fix everything.

Dear Mr. Holder: you’re fried. Give up the docs. People who have nothing to hide, hide nothing…..so whatcha hiding, Mr. Attorney General?

Dear sad old man: please don’t call me and ask me how to pay your water bill because your wife used to pay it but she died and you don’t know how. It breaks my heart. THIS is why I don’t pick up the phone.

Dear young idiot on the crotch rocket: You give bikers a bad name. I want to shank you and break your bike. With a hammer.

Dear makers of patio furniture sets: Why the Christ can’t you come pre-assembled? Some people in this world work shitloads of jobs and don’t have time to breathe much less assemble patio furniture they bought to RELAX in.

Dear best friend Jenny: We’ve been best friends long enough now to have real actual adult memories we can recall. How fun is that? Things like Hardees and back up cameras and Chicago and Ulta and Lola the GPS, you know? You make my heart glow like one of those glowbugs I had whose butt lit up when I squeezed it when I was little. You’re the adult best friend version of a glowbug.

Signed,

Drazzie

Thursday, June 28, 2012

Would you find the cure for cancer?

Weight loss and dieting are mind-f*cks. By that I mean – my thoughts on it sway constantly and the mere fact that I have constant weight thoughts in itself – pisses me off.

If I’m blessed enough to live to be 80 – I already know I’m going to be pissed off that I spent so much time and effort worrying about my weight.

Now yes – if I worry about my weight in the context of high blood pressure, migraines or bad cholesterol…then fine – those worries are valid and necessary.

When it’s about how I look in clothes, how I compare to the women I’m with, how I feel bad about that one certain fat roll, how I agonize over how much to eat, and how much I beat myself up for my lack of will power – well then – that’s the stuff I’ll regret.

Last night I went on a bike ride with our Harley club. On the back of a bike for miles there is a lot of time for reflection and thinking about what really matters. I thought about the woman in front of me on the bike with her husband. She’s a heavier woman – yet to me – she seems happy and content and proud to ride with her husband. And why the hell shouldn’t she be? A beautiful night. Her husband.
Everything right with the world.

But I can tell you without a doubt – that as we drove by people on the street – she got looks and I know there were thoughts like “she’s too big to be on a tiny bike” or “I wonder how her husband can control that bike with her on it” or whatever. I felt the stares she got from other women. Judging.

It’s what we do. And then we think “oh my gosh, I’m even bigger than she is” or “oh my gosh, thank goodness I haven’t reached that weight yet.”

And then I want to scream – WHO THE F*CK CARES? I mean seriously. Sometimes dieting and weight piss me off so much. For instance, I have a party to go to this weekend with people I barely know or ever see and I will preach until I’m blue in the face that I could give a crap less what any of those people do in their lives or think of me – because we aren’t even friends. But yet??
I give a damn about how I’ll look at the party in front of them.

How ridiculous is that? I don’t even speak to these people on a daily basis. They are not a regular part of my life. They are not family. Yet I care HOW I LOOK for them.

WHAT???

I thought to myself that every one of us should be more like the woman I rode with last night.

Get on the bike.
Go out with friends.
Laugh, smile, eat at a restaurant.
Be happy.
Live daily life.

Regardless of your weight.

That’s what she was doing. And she seemed happy. I found myself praying on the back of that bike last night that after she went home – she stayed happy. I hope beyond hope that at night alone – she doesn’t hate her body and how she looks. I hope she’s as happy as she seems. I hope she knows I admire her and consider her a friend – and that has nothing to do with how she looks. I hope she never gives a damn about what I or anyone else thinks of her. I hope she knows it doesn’t even matter.

It’s just always an internal struggle.

How bad do I want this last 20 pounds to go? Does it seriously even matter? When I go to bed at night – the only other person on this Earth who I give a damn about what they think of me is Rambo.

Is agonizing and worrying about how I look worth it? What would I do with my time if that wasn’t constantly occupying 100% of my thoughts? Who could I have helped? What could I have dreamed of instead?

I guess even now I can admit that I already regret the time wasted in my life worrying about weight and dieting or exercising. Was it worth it? Did it help? Where would I be today had I just simply been at peace with my physical body?

Would my mental body be in a completely different place?

I don’t know. I just know that on the back of that bike last night I looked around at the other women with me….and the realization was striking.

We were all different ages. All with different kinds of men. We were all different shapes and sizes. All in different careers. All with different families – some united, some torn apart. All with different money situations. All at different places in our lives.

But all those differences made us the same. Last night we were a group of people united by bikes and beautiful weather….and nobody gave a damn how much I weighed.

I could have weighed 100 pounds more or 30 pounds less and the night would have gone exactly the same. Think about that. Heavier or thinner – nothing in the night would have been different.

No one gave a damn. As I looked around at the women – I thought that I would never know if they had been heavier or thinner at one time. I didn’t know if any of them were actively dieting. I didn’t know if any of them hated their bodies. I didn’t know if they felt self-conscious or at peace with themselves. I didn’t know if they labored over what they were wearing tonight.

And they in turn – didn’t know the same of me.

Which drives home the point that I spend way too much time giving a shit. It just doesn’t matter. Health-wise it matters – but beyond that – it’s bullshit.

30 seconds after I leave the party that I’m going to this weekend – most people won’t even remember what I wore. A few hours into drinks and most people won’t even remember I was there. Like last night – I was with a man who’d been to Vietnam, flew choppers, indicted child molestors, worked for the FBI and CIA, and has 3 black belts in martial arts. Do you think if I asked him what he weighed back in those days that he would even know? Do you think anyone remembers anything but what he did for this country? I think not.

And for me last night or at this upcoming party, what matters is that I go and have fun and catch up with people I haven’t seen in a year. What matters is that Rambo and I get to spend time together with our girls. What matters is being grateful we have a car to get us there and jobs that give us time off to attend. What matters is loving the sunshine and good company.

My weight doesn’t matter in the end.

It sure seems like it does when I’m getting ready and things don’t fit like I want them to or I don’t feel great when I look in the mirror – but those feelings need to be fleeting. I need to give them less power over my moods and my experiences. Feeling not at peace with my physical body needs to be a blip in my evening…because that feeling doesn’t deserve more time or power than that.

It is not what matters.

Memories and moments matter. And if and when I get to be 80…that’s all I’m going to have left.

Memories and moments. And probably a few of my favorite fat rolls….that I need to learn to notice less and love more.

How do you feel about your feelings about your physical body? Do they have too much power? Do you regret the time you’ve spent agonizing over your weight and dieting? Or do you think it should be more relevant than you allow it to be?

How do you find a balance between loving and loathing your body? What would you do with yourself and your time if those thoughts about weight, body image and dieting weren’t ever present in your mind?

Would you find the cure for cancer?

Or would you simply live and enjoy life more?

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

WTF Wednesday!


Join me for WTF Wednesday!
If you do your own WTF Wednesday post, be sure to come back here and add your link at the end of this post so we can all be sure to read it.

Let’s begin, shall we?

- Do any of you have a retractable awning on your home off your deck? WhyTF do they cost over a grand? It’s basically just a large windup window shade. Seriously – I don’t get it. I’m about ready to get a big blue tarp and duct tape it to the house and two trees, draw stripes on it with a gigantic Sharpie and call it a homemade awning. There are too many choices and they are too expensive. Annoying.

- How many of you believe that when you call someone that you should use a greeting such as “Hello” or “Hi there”? Just raise your hand if you agree. Okay good. That’s what I thought. My mother never got this lesson in school. WTF! She called the other night and I kid you not – I picked up the phone and I said, “Hello” like normal people do and this is what she said:


"Eggs? I have 2 dozen of them and I can bring them over if you need them or do you know someone else who needs them? Cuz I have eggs."


My reply was, “Hi. It’s nice to hear from you. How are you? Yes. I need eggs.”

- Speaking of eggs. Okay – my mother and father live together in their house. One of them doesn’t eat eggs. So by the laws of math that leaves only one person that does eat eggs that lives in that house. Yet – they, being my exceptionally smart parents, bought FIVE chickens. See a problem here? Chickens are shitting out eggs like Casey Anthony spits out lies and there’s noone to eat them. You think? Jesus armpits. I live in the crotch of insanity. WTF doesn’t even begin to cover it.

- I tell my kids they are not allowed to use the word hate so I’m just going to tell you all that I strongly dislike banks, appraisors, appraisals, interest rates, discussing PMI, terms, loan to value numbers, and generally anything to do with the housing market in its current state of disarray. Refinancing would be WAY easier if I wasn’t well versed in this crap from working at a bank because then I could just be ignorant and sign papers willy nilly. I’d like to poke tiny little needles into who I believe is responsible for the mess we are in….but I try to refrain from politics here. Instead I will just yell WTF!!!!!!!!!!!!


- Now listen – I’m no spring chicken (holy shit – this post is all about chickens, isn’t it?) BUT I’m not an old witch yet either. I have been married for nearly 20 years but my wedding wasn’t that long ago. Fine – maybe it was. Still. I find it hard to believe that I am that out of touch with how weddings and showers go these days. I got a wedding invitation to my cousin’s wedding. I shit you not – it actually said on the inside, “Blank and Blank would like furniture store gift certificates.” The end.

WTF is going on? Now you tell me what I’m going to buy you for a gift? It said the person who wraps the gift certificate with the most creativity will win a prize. This means that basically – if you get them something other than a gift certificate – you’re going to look like an asshole. How will gift opening go? Now everyone is going to KNOW how cheap I am. I can’t even regift for shit’s sake. How is this fair to the gift giver? Am I supposed to feel relieved? Cuz I just feel offended. Or something.

- Wanna know something good about living in Podunk? If you put up a swimming pool that holds over 4000 gallons of water and you don’t want to waste 24 hours using one tiny hose to fill it up – you call your neighbor who is in the fire department and you slip him a $20 and he gets the big ‘ol fire truck and fills your pool in negative 8 seconds for you. WTF can I say? Podunk does have its advantages.

That's all I got for today.  Now go do your WTF Wednesday and come back here and link up!!!

Monday, June 25, 2012

Werepires and "He never let go."

Before I even get started, let me please say that this post isn’t going to make any sense. How that differs from most of my other posts? Well, it doesn’t except that this time you’ve been pre-warned.


First I want to tell you all to beware of werepires. Yup. Werepires.

Nope. I haven’t officially lost my mind.

This weekend Watermelon came home from a friend’s house and said a friend told her that if the blue veins in your wrist are in the shape of a V – you’re a vampire. If they are in the shape of a W – you are a werewolf.

Obviously – the entire family had to have their blue veins translated by Watermelon. One by one – she declared each of us either a vampire or werewolf by looking at our veins in our wrist like some mad scientist. Rambo declared himself to have “I don’t give a shit” veins.

I went back to watching TV until I heard Banana scream at the top of her lungs, “Mama – I’m a werepire! I’m a werepire!!”

That’d be a WEREwolf with a shot of vamPIRE. Holy hell.

I don’t know why I even laugh anymore. Earlier that morning she asked me for some hanitizer.

That would be HANd sANITIZER. Hanitizer.

Okay, moving on to something slightly more heartfelt and serious.

I was thinking over the weekend about how sad I sometimes get when it comes to me and my dad and what he wasn’t capable of giving me. At my very core, however, I do know he gave what he could. And he loved me.

Sometimes I remember the little ways he showed me that would knock me to my knees in surprise…and gratitude. Sometimes I’d do better to remember those things instead of all the ways he failed. This weekend I remembered one of those little ways and I need to write it for memory’s sake so my girls will read it some day.

We were a strict Catholic family as I grew up. We NEVER in all my days missed church on Sundays. I was a kid which meant I hated going. Until things changed at church for me one summer.

Our priest we’d had for a while was being transferred to another parish. We would be getting a new priest soon. Everyone moaned and groaned – mostly because that’s what people think they are supposed to do when someone forces change on you.

The new priest came. Everything about our parish stayed the same. Everything about how the masses ran stayed the same. Except for one teensy little detail. The one little detail that changed it all for me.

I’m sure some of you are familiar with the prayer called the “Our Father”. Well, our new priest told us that that prayer was thee prayer. The one we should honor more than any other. The one that could move mountains and unite enemies. He felt that since this prayer was so uniting and beautiful that in any of the parishes that he ran – he had always asked the congregation to hold hands during the reciting of this prayer.

Holding hands – with your family and with strangers and with acquaintances from town – was shocking. I mean – we were actually supposed to touch each other in church? That wasn’t very “conservative Catholic”. It was new age touchy-feely bullshit. It was change. It freaked us the hell out.

He said it was voluntary and optional but he urged us to try it. Hold hands with the person next to you for less than one minute during a sacred prayer.

Fine. I mean if you’re going to challenge us, then we’ll do it. In fact, about 90% of the people in church did it. It felt weird and funny and there were nervous giggles and apprehensive outstretched hands and uncomfortable grasps. And relief when it was time to let go.

Except each Sunday it got easier. You started to see people reaching out seconds before Father even told us to do so. Pretty soon Father never had to prompt anyone to hold hands – people just reached out.

I remember being slightly fascinated by it all. I’d watch people’s faces when it was time to hold hands. I’d often wonder if the last time a certain couple had held hands had been at church last weekend. I’d look at my brothers who wanted nothing to do with hand holding and laughed at their awkwardness.

As time went on – it was clear this was something our church loved. Today you’ll see a person at the end of a pew ahead literally turn sideways to reach back to hold the hand of the person at the end of a pew behind them. It’s remarkable.

For me – it was downright incredible. The hand holding had been going on for a while before I happened to sit next to my father during church. I was nervous the whole time. I had never held my Dad’s hand. How the hell was this going to go?

I knew his hand. Knew how huge they were. Knew the rings he wore. Knew the callouses he had from working so hard for me and my siblings.

What would it feel like to hold one of them?

I soon found out. I set my tiny hand in his huge hand and I held on tight….knowing this was only going to last for a minute. It’s all I would have so I told myself to savor the moment.

When the prayer is done – everyone in the church automatically knows to let go of the peron’s hand you are holding. Soon after you let go is one more short prayer and a few minutes and it’s time to give the sign of peace by shaking everyone’s hands….so you’ll be needing your hands again in a minute….so we all let go after the Our Father prayer.

Except my dad never let go.

Did you hear me? He never let go of my hand.

I tried to softly move my hand from his when the time came and the prayer ended but he slightly tightened his grip and I was so caught off guard that I anxiously and confusedly dared to look my Dad in the eye to question his move. I was certain he’d just missed the cue that the prayer was over and that he should let go. But he just gave me a half smile – and a wink – and he held on.

He never let go of my hand.

For a few more minutes in time, my Dad was holding my hand because he wanted to. Not even because it was required or a priest gave him permission to.

We were in public. Anyone could see that my father still had my hand in his.

I nearly lost it. I could barely keep the tears from slipping out onto his huge hand holding mine. I remember just staring at our hands. Unbelieving that this man purposely wasn’t letting go of me.

It was a moment of intense pride for me. Overwhelming love. Overflowing gratitude. Awe. Shock. And a million other feelings I can’t put a name on.

The moment was brief but not as brief as it could have been – because he held on.

A few minutes later when it was time to shake hands…then he let go – and I felt a sense of loss almost. I went through the motions of the rest of that service. It was such a monumental thing and no one around me even knew it. He gave me something in those few minutes that I’d needed for years.

And so yah – you can bet I was going to test his theory. I sat my happy ass next to him every Sunday thereafter and I waited anxiously for the Our Father prayer when he’d reach out and grab my hand.

Again – he didn’t let go. For a few minutes longer than anyone else – my Dad’s hand was clasped around mine. And he didn’t care who saw it or how it looked. And I would stand there – still and unmoving – to be careful not to do anything that would make him break his hold. Sometimes I’d even hold my breath the whole time without even knowing it.

These days, I don’t go to church with my Dad but once or twice a year. If I do now, my little girls are usually with me too. And yes – I’ve seen him hold their hands longer than is necessary. I’ve seen them be puzzled by it the first time and then savor it the next time. Even they know that those minutes are special and rare and mean a lot even though no words ever accompany the moment and hundreds of other people are in the same room.

I’ve never spoken to them about it. Somehow they just know what the moment means.

He’s a man who does what he can when he can to show you that his love is immense. It may never be the love of fairy tales or blatant and outright…but that’s okay.

It’s still there. Ever present. Even if he can never bring himself to say the words that are in his heart out loud and to my face.

The words are there.

In his hands. In the moment he “chooses” NOT to let go when everyone else has.

I have felt his love in that moment.

I only hope to God he felt it back. In my hand. Or in my stillness. Or in the tears in my eyes.

My love was there too. Every time.

Once a week in my hands.

Constantly in my heart.

Friday, June 22, 2012

Friday's Letters Link Up!!!

I’m linking up and doing Friday’s Letters….join in and be sure to link up!



Photobucket

Dear not really daughter-in-law of a friend of mine: Yes I know you. Beyond that…we cannot be friends. Your “boyfriend” who wants to have ANOTHER baby with you but refuses to marry you because then you won’t get state aid is also a druggie and a major dickwad to you. Me no likey. Therefore, when you invite me to your daughter’s bday party and specifically note that you would like money for gifts – I want to shank you. The end.

Dear parents of a 12 year old that just moved here: I realize that after NEVER having even seen my face or Rambo’s face or knowing my name – that you are okay with and allow your daughter to stay at my house for hours on end and even want her to stay overnight with us. However, if you think I’m letting my little girl stay with you never knowing a single thing about you – you’re as dumb as the Kardashians.
Never. Gonna. Happen.

Dear appraiser man: If you don’t appraise my house as if the economy hasn’t tanked and the housing market is just fine – then I’m going to have to shank you too. If you tell me that all the equity is gone in my house when just years ago equity was flooding out of its every window, we’re going to personally go see the President and speak with him about he lied about his version of hope and change. Or I could show you my left boob to change your mind. My left boob is really nice.

Dear anyone who will listen: If Rambo comes home like a drunk stuporing idiot after a day of golf with the guys – please help me not to cut his toes off and sew them to his chest. Help me not to scream my head off and act like a lunatic. Forgive me for pulling the, “You cannot get drunk in public now that you are the Mayor, you know?” card just to stop him from getting drunk. That was kind of a last resort. And mean.

Dear word “short term disability”: Thank you for providing immature laughing fits for me. I got an email from the HR department telling me about someone who will be using their STD beginning in August. STD. Ha. Not a great acronym, is it? Yes, I’m five.

Dear makers of mushrooms that you put in landscaping: Stop making mushrooms that you put in landscaping. Between these mushrooms and a certain Coach purse addiction that I am currently suffering from – I’m going to be more broke than Willie Nelson soon. Seriously people – I have a thing about mushrooms. I have a whole mushroom garden. I know EXACTLY why I love them and it’s stupid and I don’t care to admit why here. Remember I was even going to tattoo a mushroom on myself? They are a source of great pain and joy for me. And no – this has nothing to do with “special” drug-like mushrooms. Here’s a picture of the latest mushrooms I’ve bought.



Dear person with size 6 shorts in your closet: Crap – that’d be me. Yes – I’m talking to myself. Oh the laughter you bring me at 6am when I’m searching for something to wear. I picked you up and looked at your tag and it said 6. I nearly fell down laughing at you. Six? I mean really? What the hell are you still doing in my closet? Pretending some day I’ll wear you again?

Out loud – naked in my closet – at 6am – after seeing your size 6 tag – I said: HA! ARE YOU F*CKING KIDDING ME? – and threw your ass back on the shelf and went to the kitchen to grab my white Kit Kat for breakfast. I am thee epitome of health. Must work on this.

That’s enough Friday’s letters for now. How about you? You got any Friday’s letters to share?
Be sure to link up if you do!

Thursday, June 21, 2012

Forgiveness....from others & from yourself.

Forgiveness.


My God – have you ever really thought about how heavy a word that is? How many emotions it can evoke? How many times that literally lifting a truck over your head would seem more possible than actually practicing or giving forgiveness? How often do we say, “I forgive you” but we really don’t? Have you thought about how sometimes when people don’t receive it or it is withheld from them – that they never recover?

That’s a lot of power in one little word.

Do you know anyone who truly teaches how to forgive? Do you have trouble giving it or receiving it? Has someone withheld it from you? Would you be a different person if you could give it or receive it?

I don’t know.

What I know is that I would consider myself a person who loves too hard and too much and is overly sensitive and hates conflict. That being said – I feel like I forgive easily – only to stop the conflict that I can’t stand to be in.

I’ve often heard that forgiving someone doesn’t mean you are saying that what they did was right – but that you choose to let go of the anger you carry about what they did. For me – I don’t quite understand that.

I used to think there was nothing that was unforgivable…until I got older. When life started happening, I realized there are some things you can never take back or let go of.

Like the day my 22 year old Uncle shot himself – thereby shooting a part of me too because I was only 15 and didn’t understand the painful ache he left in my heart. Almost 25 years later and while I’m less angry – I’ll admit I still am. I’d be a whole different person had he not taken his life. I can’t explain how much it rocked my world in a bad way.

And even closing in on being 40 years old…I cannot forgive him. That may make me no better than his actions – but I just can’t.

I can’t seem to forgive Alzheimer’s, the disease – as a physical thing that stole my Grandma’s soul in front of my eyes. I can’t forgive cancer for killing my other Grandma. I can’t forgive cancer for giving me the memory of someone I loved take their last breath.

I just can’t forgive – even though I know damn well that these people and things I can’t forgive – made me who I am today.

And how about that person? How about self-forgiveness? I almost cringe at the word. What is it in us that makes us self-loathe? What is it in us that justifies that as okay? We abhor bullies. We swear we won’t tolerate it in others yet we give ourselves free reign to bring ourselves to our knees in self-inflicted tears.

The biggest open wounds and old scars on my heart….

….were put there by me. And the cycle perpetuates itself because I can’t seem to self-forgive myself regarding those wounds and scars. I can’t let go of the feeling that those wounds and scars were well deserved. Rightfully put there. By the self-bully in me.

I need to work on this. Kelly’s post today got me to thinking about this. I have trouble forgiving people for leaving me and things like cancer for inflicting pain on me but the real problem is that I can’t forgive myself…for big things and little things. For everything.

For requiring perfection of myself
And then for not reaching those perfection standards
For not being the person I think I should be
For not being able to forgive people and things that have hurt me.
For carrying around pain from my childhood
For not being the perfect mom and wife
For not working out enough or eating healthy enough
For not believing in myself
For feeling like I don’t deserve love or happiness

And a million other things…that I can’t be nicer to myself about or forgive myself for. It’s important. I mean have you ever looked in the mirror and looked into your own eyes and said out loud – “I forgive you” – and truly meant it. I’m not sure how that would feel.

Like a clean slate? Refreshing? Relieving? Fake? Too good to be true?

Amazing? Like everything I’ve always wanted?

I suppose it would and I think I might try it – but not until when I say those words – I can believe them. When I tell myself I’m forgiven – I want to know it’s true.


For the first time in my life, forgiveness is being withheld from me by someone I love. And it’s a constant dark cloud hanging over me. The person knows that I’m sorry….but at the same time the person has said they will not let me even merely ASK for forgiveness – much less grant it to me. What makes it worse is that what happened isn’t that unforgivable. It’s not life shattering. But not forgiving certain things also gives that person power.

And sometimes we can’t let go of the power that holding unforgiveness gives us. Like my Uncle. If I don’t forgive him – then I hold the power still – over what we had and what we will never have again. I say when the hurt is over and when it’s not. I say when I get to stop being angry. I have the power to make him pay in some way for what he did to me. It’s all I have left of him – the unforgiving. Not forgiving him IS our relationship and a part of me is probably worried that once I forgive him – then I have to let go. Anger and not forgiving him are the only tie I have left to him at this point.

All I really know is that forgiveness is hard. Self-forgiveness though? Seems to be even harder. I’ve actually never even given it a try. Never believed I was worthy of anyone’s forgiveness – much less my own.

I was wrong. There are a lot of things I’ve messed up. Lots of things I’ve never let myself let go of. Lots of things I still carry the blame for. And I want to tell myself that what I’ve done or not done is okay. That I forgive myself…that I’m only human.

I’m pretty sure if I want forgiveness from others….it has to start from within.

But it sure doesn’t sound like fun.

How about you? How do you feel about this topic?

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

WTF Wednesday!

It’s time for WTF Wednesday. You get to list random items that make you want to scream WTF and we all nod and agree with you to make you feel better!




WTF is wrong with my best friend? True story – hand to God. She posted a CLOSE UP picture of a wolf spider with babies on its back. The spider is huh-uge. Like bigger than my ass huge. I refuse to talk to her today. I told her the only way I’ll forgive her is if she sends me 6 dozen white Kit Kats.

WhyTF hasn’t someone made a bright pink M&M yet? Yes – I realize they make custom colored M&Ms that you can buy special but I mean – just imagine – you rip open a bag of the chocolate drops of paradise and OMG – there’s a fuschia M&M in there. Wouldn’t you run around screaming like you’d just struck gold? I would.

My 6 year old came crying to me the other night and I asked her what was wrong. She had just put itch cream on a mosquito bite and she was acting like someone had cut her leg off. She was in that much pain. She said to me, “Mom, the medicine hasn’t devolved yet.” WTF?? I looked at her like she had 4 heads and she said, “Geez Mom, the teacher told us that owwies will hurt until the medicine devolves. Duh.” Um yes. Duh.

I may or may not have spent more money than I’ve ever spent on a purse before solely based on the INSIDE of the purse. It’s a Coach Legacy purse. It’s white. It is To. Die. For. The inside is the famous Coach striped lining. I searched for weeks for it and had Jenny investigate its worth and authenticity. I’ve now had it over a week and haven’t even taken the packing paper out of it. WTF is wrong with me? (seriously – don’t answer that)

It’s no secret that Rambo and I work on multiple community boards. He’s the President for 2 boards and I clerk for 2 boards. It takes time, effort and commitment and you make the choice to do it. While we are in no way perfect – it just pisses us both off that some people say they’ll serve and they can’t even make once a month meetings. WTF is that about? If you don’t want to do it – don’t. If you do – show the f*ck up. Mmkkaayy?

My back is out – like massively. I put it out when I pulled our Harley down on Rambo and I and we had to push it back upright with our legs pinned under it. I’m so pissed I did that because my anxiety ridden self HATES the chiropractor but the normal person that I am is screaming in back pain and yelling WhyTF don’t you just go get your back fixed you idiot!? I’m a hot mess.


Martha Stewart (co-worker across the hall) – with her matching underwear and napkins – won the weight loss competition at work. I want to shank her – hard – in her perfectly manicured small toe that also matches her underwear. WhoTF does she think she is anyway?

That’s it for my WTF Wednesday. Whew…I feel better. How about you?

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

Sinks and skulls.

I figured since I never shut up about constantly doing landscaping...
...that I'd finally get around to showing you some pictures.

There's a surprise at the end if you don't fall asleep before you get to the bottom.  LOL


And lastly....these are a few pics of me right before going on a ride...with my new skull wrap.  I can't believe I'm actually posting these but there you go...a little glimpse of the biker side of me.

Saturday, June 16, 2012

BOOTS & HEELS FOR SALE!

I just posted some cute heels and boots for sale over at Drazzie's closet!  Check 'em out!

Here's a sneak peek!



Friday, June 15, 2012

Friday's Letters Link Up!!!

Photobucket

I don’t feel like doing BYOC today so I’m linking up with Raven who is linking up with Adventures of Newlyweds to do “Friday’s Letters”.
Grab the button and link up too! It is fun and a change from BYOC!


Dear Policeman – in this economy you shouldn’t be allowed to write tickets to anyone. No one can afford it (especially when Mama has shoes to buy). You can suck my left tit. Well really you can’t. But you know what I mean.

Dear daughter and mom in the store having a pissing match in public – you’re ruining my shopping experience. Stop it. Go home and fight. Don’t make me separate you.

Dear ex-boyfriend – it’s weird having you at my house – even if it’s to discuss business. It weirds me out to see you and Rambo talking even though you are good friends and classmates. I know how you feel about me – and that makes it even weirder.

Dear Martha Stewart and Explosive Man – thank you for both taking the same day off of work at once. It’s like paradise city when you do that. The only thing that would make being at work better is if I was having sex on my desk with Rambo – with the door open. Twice.

Dear EL James – author of 50 Shades – I love your books. They are an easy read. However – they are VERY similar to porn in that once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all and it gets old. Reading porn takes significantly more effort than watching porn and I’m not sure it’s worth the effort.

Dear maker of 360 degree mirrors in dressing rooms – no one will buy a damn thing if you insist on putting these in dressing rooms. It allows me to see every inch of fat and cellulite from 15 different angles and makes me want to run from the room – not try on more things and buy them. I hate you. You must be the same sadistic mother heifer who invented nylons and 8 inch heels.

Dear random cashier at Panera Bread who asked to see my tattoo and called it beautiful – I love you. If it wasn’t sexual harassment, I would have probably kissed you. Also – thank you for any part you played in making your orgasmic cinnamon crunch bagels. The world owes you big time. Did I mention I love you?

Dear best friend – about my Dad? You’re right. I’ll make you proud. And thank you.


Have a good weekend Skittles! Don’t forget to link up!

Thursday, June 14, 2012

Ten Things Thursday - Drazzie style!

It’s Thursday.


I’m going to participate in Laura Belle’s Ten Things Thursday.

So let’s roll.

1. Have you ever seen Ed Hardy jeans? They have artwork all over them so they are very unique and snazzy. Usually skulls or dragons or tigers on the back pockets and then down the legs. Well – since yours truly has the ass the size of OJ Simpson’s ego…I refuse to buy a pair since they are also way overpriced. (their sizes are whacked out. I bought an XL pair of black Ed Hardy sweatpants once and they fit my 60 pound 12 year old. That’s how small the XL size is.) Anywhoozle, Miss Martha Stewart (that’d be me) is going to make her own pair. That’s right. I’m going to draw on and bling out a pair of jeans I have. It’ll either be disastrous or way cool. I’ll keep you posted.

2. Rambo got a speeding ticket and an overweight ticket and 2 warnings in the semi this week. He was going 75 in a 65 which is funny considering the truck tops out and can’t go faster than 72. And he was only 350 lbs overweight. Seriously – that can be the weight of his diesel fuel. Mother heifer douchelicking servants of the law are not my friends.

3. My new sale blog is up and running. It’s called Drazzie’s Closet and I’m in love with the design that Jenny made for it. Please check it out (click on banner badge at top of this page)!

4. Have you ever watched that show “Big Fat Gypsy Wedding” on TLC? It’s all about traveling gypsies and their lifestyles. The women’s ONLY job is to clean the house – every day all day. I was watching it with my 12 year old last night and she looked at me and said, “Mom – we should get a gypsy to live here.” F*cking brilliant. A live in gypsy cleaner. Perfect.

5. On Tuesday I ate 3 white Kit Kats. I’m not gonna lie. I would have eaten a 4th one had there been any left. I’m talking full size candy bars. No. I do not wonder why Sheniqua hangs out on my hips and ass. It’s pretty damn obvious.

6. All the women at work have now read 50 Shades of Grey. Which is fun. And slightly inappropriate and awkward to discuss – at the office. As Explosive Man walks by. For those of you who haven’t read it yet – here’s a summary. It’s Pretty Woman meets Beauty and the Beast with a side of triple XXX porn.

7. I haven’t spoken to my sister in literal weeks. She lives one mile from me. I haven’t seen one of my brothers in over 6 months. Haven’t talked to or seen the other one in well over a year. They are less than 3 hours from me. It makes me sad. Even sadder yet that I’m the only that it makes sad. Some day some of us will be gone and we’ll have nothing left but regrets. We’re all supposed to get together in August. Which makes me nervous. People I literally grew up with every day and now as an adult – I don’t even know them or how to spend time with them. We’re just never gonna be the Brady Bunch and I’m just never going to stop wanting us to be.

8. Rambo won a gun at some raffle the other day. He was supremely proud of himself for winning a free gun. To this I say – men are stupid. Dude – you paid $200 for the f*cking raffle tickets AND after you won it you bought and had a $400 scope mounted on the mother-f*cking FREE gun. Are the only people who can clearly see that you PAID for this gun those with vaginas?

9. Rambo came home from the prison the other day and told me “another teacher had a nervous breakdown” today and a woman Officer and her father Supervisor got walked out of the prison for fraternization. I asked what it means when someone has a nervous breakdown. Like what does that look like? He said, “She went all nuts and started yelling and screaming and swearing.” I didn’t say it out loud but I thought to myself – well then – I have about 16 nervous breakdowns a day. Regarding the female Officer and Supervisor. She had a little “thing” with a few inmates and her father the Supervisor tried to cover it up. Major no no. Even worse when the female’s HUSBAND works at the prison as well. Jesus.

10. Today I’d like to throw shanks at everyone who walks by my office. Is that wrong? Sounds kind of like a nervous breakdown to me. I better go home for the day, don’t you think?

Now go do TTT on your blog. It’s the only good thing about being awake so early in the morning, I swear.

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

COACH (LAURA) PURSE FOR SALE!

Interior is deep chocolate brown!

Price is $80.00! Bought brand new - used once - AUTHENTIC!



FREE shipping!

Translation: Way cheaper than any of them on Ebay right now! LOL

Top zipper is gold.

Email me @ drazil700@yahoo.com if you're interested!

I used someone else's WAY better pics than mine so you could see what the purse looks like better!

COACH GALLERY STITCHED PATENT LEATHER EAST WEST TOTE FOR SALE!

I have to say that I love this purse. I bought it new...and used it for one weekend and LOVED the size and the color and how classy it was. Then the next day a new bag I ordered arrived so I never used this one again.....so it's time to sell it so someone can use it more than me.

Price is $85 or best offer....plus FREE shipping!


It's basically in BRAND NEW condition.

Email me @ drazil700@yahoo.com if you're interested.

There is one interior zip pocket and two slip pockets inside.

There are pockets on each end which is seriously one of the reasons
why I bought this purse because I'm a sucker for outside pockets for some reason.

Thanks for looking!

Titties and tightwads continued....

Let’s begin with titties and tightwads today…mostly because I still haven’t gotten my pictures ready for the tattoo post yet.


I don’t have titty and tightwad pictures. But oh do I have stories about them.

Regarding titties (God, I hate that word)…yours truly assisted in and saw her first nipple piercing evah!

Give me a T. Give me an I. Give me a T…oh forget it. It’s not that exciting.

It’s actually creepy as hell to watch a fellow woman stick sharp things through her nipples. Guess why she did it?

Because her stupid husband with a penis wanted her to.

She was pretty and cute and wasn’t even a biker. Not a single tattoo on her body. She already looked out of place at this biker party and when we told her we’d pierce her nipples, she said what any normal woman would have.

“Right here? In front of all these people?”

The piercer lady said, “Honey, look around you. You’re surrounded by bikers. If you can’t whip your tits out in front of everyone, you probably don’t belong here.”

I followed that sentiment up with, “Give me a second honey. I’ll get a tablecloth to hold up so no one can see your boobs get mangled.”

She was very grateful. So 4 of us women held tarps and tablecloths up and her booblets were prepped. The asshole husband was nice enough to hold her hand.

I asked if she wanted pictures to document the event and she said sure.

So yours truly not only witnessed the destruction of two perfectly nice nipples – but I documented it. I was all up in her boob space making sure I didn’t miss anything.

I seriously thought to myself, “I wonder if this is how porn camera men feel. I feel dirty.”

The whole damn thing was just ODD. And let me tell you – piercing your nipples hurts like a mother heifer. She almost passed out. She bled because she had been drinking. Her boobs are going to swell for up to 6 weeks.

I told her husband that it serves him right that he can’t touch them for 6 weeks. I also told him if he really loved her, he’d have his penis pierced also.

I don’t think he liked me very much.

After that – about 3am – was the titty contest. At first, I wasn’t going to go watch. Mostly because out of everyone at the entire biker party – there wasn’t one set of boobs I cared to ever see. Many women had worn so little clothing that I feel like I had already seen their boobs.

But it was a night of firsts so I dragged Rambo out to the contest. We were slightly far away but we could see enough. There were 4 women. All of which had entered the tattoo area earlier. 3 of which made my eyes itch when I saw them because I’m not sure they knew what real clothes or showers were.

I wanted to pay them NOT to be in the titty contest. One of the women had a full blown HUGE alien head tattooed right in the middle of her chest above her boobs. It’s the kind of tattoo that would frighten small children and bunnies. And there it is – right on her chest. Won’t that be pretty some day as she walks down the aisle?

Anyway – there was one woman of the 4 who had a great body and knew what she was doing. She had mmmmooooovvveesss. And she decided she really wanted to win so she got completely naked like that was just a normal every day thing for her. (I’m guessing maybe it was normal for her…she had moves like a professional stripper) At one point – she did the splits on stage.

All I could think was “How dumb is she to do the splits naked on a stage where bikers and headbangers have been all night? Can you say sanitary?” I mean I was worried for my own cooter all night and mine never left the comfort of my shorts.

So naked not afraid of scabies girl won the pot. $400.

The other girls just lost the last shred of dignity they had before they got on stage.

Wow. Just wow.

Moving on to tightwads. Seriously – I know the economy is bad but I’ve never seen so much haggling over tattoo and piercing prices in my life.

We were swamped. 20 straight hours of piercings and tats….meaning we didn’t give a damn if we turned people away. We had enough business without doing any haggling.

One very inebriated fellow said to me:

How much to pierce my tongue?

$40.

That’s too much.

We take credit cards.

I don’t have that much on my credit card. Can you do it for $5?

I wanted to scream, “Do you understand profit and loss you douchelicker?”


At $5 – we wouldn’t even cover the tools and materials it takes to pierce your disgusting tongue. If you don’t have $40 to spare, how the hell did you pay $15 to get in this place and how did you buy those cigarettes in your hand? I don’t like you. Go sit in the corner or I will shank your tongue for free. Multiple times.

That guy came back 5 more times to ask if we’d do it for $5. Seriously.

Another bunch of girls got quoted $70 for a pretty good size Chinese symbol tat in FULL color.

If you know anything about tattoos – they are not only priced on size – but also on how much color is used.

This crotch kept saying, “Well, my friend said he’d do it for $40. They are just lines.”

GO GET IT DONE BY YOUR FRIEND THEN YOU WHORE. Do you understand these people have to make a profit and make a living doing this? They have to pay for needles and ink and licenses and supplies!

I almost shanked her in her fake boob to see if I could pop it.

It was like that for quite a few of them. Always wanting it done for less as they stood there with their gallon jugs of beer and cigarettes.

But there were just as many who were too drunk to even notice if you charged them $1000 an hour. Some men would hand me their card before I even told them a price.

One guy’s card declined him for a $60 tattoo. Again – how did you pay to get in here?

I’ve never met so many mother heifers in all my life. I’ve never learned so much about drugs in my entire life either since it was sometimes my job to watch retail. AKA – glass weed pipes. So freaking weird. People deliberate for a long time over the perfect pipe like I deliberate over the perfect shoe. I suppose it’s the same…except shoes are legal…and better than any drug.

Okay – I’m done. This was way too long. Soon I’ll have the tat pictures and stories. I bet you just can’t wait huh?

PS - don't forget to check out my new SALE BLOG called Drazzie's Closet!  (Click on badge ribbon at the top of this page!)

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Drazzie's Closet is.....





NOW OPEN!!!

I'd love it if you checked out my sale blog! 
I'll be adding things all the time.

I will be selling my purses, jewelry, shoes, clothes and anything else I can find that I don't use anymore.

You can find Drazzie's Closet at  http://drazziescloset.blogspot.com/.

Let me know what you think and spread the word if you could.  I appreciate it very much!

PS...doesn't the design rock?  Thank you Jenny!

Monday, June 11, 2012

Tattoos, titties and tightwads.

Jesus. What a title, huh?

I’m actually not going to explain it completely yet. Those three words can, however, sum up my weekend at the 2nd annual Tattoo Convention I worked at.

For 20 hours straight.

It required me to be social. And open and vulnerable.

I had to look people in the eyes, draw things for them that would permanently be on their bodies, quote them prices, laugh with them, joke with them, and be the first to approach them.

All things I have a reeeaaalllyyy hard time with.

But I did it. I have craploads of pictures to show you.
Of things you only see on websites like The People of Walmart.

And quite a few firsts – two of which are only about boobs

I just don’t have the energy or wit to write about it today. Today is the “day after” depression, anxiety and downright crabby-as-hell-ness that happens to me after my emotions and nerves run on high for such a long period of time.

I am beyond exhausted. More mentally than physically.

Sooo much of me wants to curl up in a ball with 16 white Kit Kats and an IV drip…in Rambo’s arms all day. Not moving or talking or going. Just a ball of me in his lap.

It’s the only place that feels safe and like home right now. On the day after I fight multiple fears.

For 20 hours straight.

I wish it wasn’t this hard. I wish I didn’t care enough to feel bad if I let myself say “no” to participating in stuff like this.

But I do. I refuse to live in a box just because it’s “hard” to get out of the box.

I learned and saw stuff this weekend I have never seen before in all my life. That’s worth something. I’m making memories and life experiences and teaching myself I’m stronger than any fear.

I couldn’t do that if I justified staying inside the safe box.

Life is meant to be lived.

Even if the whole day only consists of tattoos, titties and tightwads.

The “day after” shitstorm is worth it. You’ll agree when you see the pictures and hear the stories.

I promise.

Hang tight….they’re coming….soon.

Friday, June 8, 2012

BYOC - Bring Your Own Crazy!

Friday, Friday, Friday – how I love thee Friday.

It’s time for BYOC – Bring Your Own Crazy! We answer 5 little questions to get to know each other better and to give our blogging brains a break! Copy to your own blog and enjoy!!


1. Do you know your credit score? Do you check it regularly? Does it matter to you?

We’re refinancing due to the low mortgage rates so this question popped into my head. I do know my score. I do check it regularly. It does matter to me. I have a banking and Accounting background so the general area of credit has always been familiar to me. I’ve seen what a low score can do even when that low score isn’t your fault. I’ve even heard that some employers are checking credit scores now.

2. What’s your go to “water-cooler-off-er” each summer? Small kiddie pool, “real” pool, sprinkler, public pool, hotel pool, or stay inside in the air and never don a bathing suit ever?

I think I’d have to say most of all of the above apply to me. First of all, I live in Podunk, population 16, so we do not have a public pool. Local towns only 20 minutes away have great ones though…and some are even free. We frequent those.

We also have one of those soft-sided blue pools that you take down after the summer is over. My girls are perfectly happy with a pool that is up to their chest deep while I crisp away in the sun next to them.

Lastly, we frequent my bestie Jenny’s gorgeous in ground pool. A lot. She’s nice like that.

3. Describe your phone cover…if you have one.

Mine is solid pink. They didn’t come in teal, dammit. It’s soft-ish. Of course I bedazzled the hell out of it like a 4 year old and put glitter skull stickers on the back and rhinestones on the front. It’s blinged out like I have the maturity of a 12 year old but whatever. It’s the little things in life that make me happy.

4. If you ever had a wedding, what were your colors or theme? If you aren’t married – but plan to be some day – what will your colors or theme be?

Today is Rambo and I’s wedding anniversary so this question seems appropriate for me.

I got married in the early 90s when things were slightly whacked out fashion-wise. My bridesmaid’s dresses were flowered – pinks, perriwinkles and blues. Nope. I’m not kidding. I said flowererd.

Wanna know something else crazy? They didn’t carry bouquets. No, no. I had to be “unique”…aka cheap and ridiculous. They carried cute straw hats with flowers around the brim. LAME.

So yah…my colors were a mixture. The theme was…dumb. There was no theme…other than Rambo and I are paying for 80% of this entire wedding by ourselves – for 500 people. Jesus.

Now just for shits and giggles – if I was to get married TODAY….well then helloooooo – my dresses would be Tiffany teal color. I’d wear a crème/ivory dress with a TEAL sash.

To. Die. For.

Or I could be like my aunt and dress my maids in a rainbow effect and have them carry lace umbrellas. No lie. 6 girls. One each in a pink, peach, yellow, mint green, light blue and lavendar dress. Pastel paradise in the flesh I tell you.

5. Repeat question: summarize your week.

My week was good but my God I felt like a chicken with my head cut off. This whole 7 jobs between Rambo and I thing can make my head spin. People are catching wind of Rambo’s election so we’ve been dealing with the after effects of that.

I’m getting ready to get my sale blog up and running so that has been exciting. I should say Jenny is ready – she did all the work.

I spontaneously went to a big event last night and didn’t break out in hives. More to come on that later.

I have to work at a tattoo convention all weekend. Let’s hope there aren’t any butt tats this year again. If my writing never appears on another human’s ass again – I’ll be just fine with that.

I could go on but that’s the jist. And you’ve got to be sick of reading.

Have a good weekend, Skittles!!!

Thursday, June 7, 2012

Spider gangs vs. witch doctors.

I can’t even believe I’m writing an entire post about this but it’s all Laura Belle’s fault. Today in her Ten Things Thursday she said something about spiders and it reminded me of something so disgusting – that naturally I have to share it.


Seriously – just yesterday or today I was reading the news and there was a headline about “Spider Swarms Killing People” or something ridiculously petrifying like that. I cannot for the life of me understand why on Earth I dared to click on the link.

Well actually I did it to make sure that these spider swarms weren’t in Podunk…cuz um…I’d be leaving town if they were.

They weren’t. They were in some crazy, far off place like Mo-zam-beek or something. Whew.

Moving on.

They put a f*cking picture of the spider at the top of the article. It’s like a small, newer, more modern version of the old tarantula. Thank you very much. For the nightmares I will now have tonight.

I just wanted to READ about them….not SEE them.

Anyway – so these spiders come in groups. I think the article might have even called them “herds”. I could go back to the story and check to be sure but then I’d have to see that spider picture again and I’m not doing that. Not even for accuracy sake.

That’s what is peculiar to the scientists. That the spiders travel in herds.

And?

That they ATTACK. They seem to “spring” onto people’s bodies and clamp on and bite.

And kill people. Or you get excruciating pain and aches all over your body if you don’t die. If that were me – I think I’d choose death anyway.

So as I keep reading I’m freaking out more and more. It’s like a low budget bad horror movie – in real life. No one can figure out what kind they are or where they came from. There may be an anti-venom but they haven’t administered it yet. I guess more swarms of people must die before they can find the heart to kill swarms of spiders.

So I keep reading, keep freaking out. People…multiple people have died from spider bites. This is 2012. This is insane. How long before one of them dumb ass people killing spiders walks his way to my neighborhood?

No one but me seems to be panicking or understanding the severity of the situation!? Where’s the National Guard or the CIA or PETA?

PETA can have all of those spiders it wants. Have at ‘em. Make ‘em your pets if you want.

And then – I get to the last sentence in the article.

Now I’d like to strangle the writer, kill him or her and then shank their baby toes.

The last line said something like this:

However, it is unsure whether or not the spider bites actually killed any people. The people who have been bitten and died all FIRST went to witch doctors for aid. The witch doctors cut open the bites with razors and then burned the people’s wounds. THAT may be what killed them. We cannot be sure.

YOU CANNOT BE SURE??? I mean I’m no doctor but I can be sure.

Hmmm….did a spider kill this person or did the razor cut burned to a crisp gaping wound play a bigger part in their death???

YOU THINK?

OMG – this whole time it wasn’t really the spiders? I was about ready to go live in my bomb shelter until the species was eradicated.

And the whole time I should have been scared of the witch doctors.

Why are there still witch doctors anyway? I’m so confused.

If you get a spider bite, since when do you run to a witch doctor down the street? And then let her rip you open with a razor and then burn you?  When would that ever seem like a good idea?

Honestly.

I don’t know who is more stupid.

The spiders for running around willy nilly in gangs.

The spider-bitten people running to witch doctors.

The witch doctors for being alive. And owning razors.

The journalist for completely making up a story that isn’t a story but will still haunt me all week.

Or me – for blogging about this shit and thinking anyone will read it.

My apologies for the 5 minutes you spent reading this that you will never get back.  Oopsie.

Ten Things Thursday - Drazzie style!

I’m joining in on Ten Things Thursday…not just because it’s Thursday but mostly because I love Laura Belle who started TTT. Here we go:


1. Wanna know what I’ve had for supper every night this week so far? Like the literal ONLY thing I’ve eaten each night? 3 scoops of praline pecan ice cream. On the couch. In my pajamas. While the rest of the world enjoys the 80 degree perfect summer weather doing fun outside stuff. I sit inside – eating ice cream for supper. It’s bliss in a bowl. I’m pretty sure there’s something wrong with me.

2. Mountain Dew is a liquid gold orgasm in a can. Who needs cocaine to be addicted to with Mountain Dew around? Besides, it’s cheaper. And doesn’t show up on a random drug test.

3. Remember last year when Rambo and I worked at a biker/tattoo convention all night? Well, we got asked to help out again. It starts at noon and doesn’t end until the NEXT DAY. It’s going to require shitloads of Mt. Dew and Skittles to get me through it but I’m looking forward to it. Mostly just to spend all that time with Rambo and hot bikers in leather.

4. My mom is going to read the erotic book called 50 Shades of Grey and then she’ll want to discuss it. That could get awkward. I might pretend I never read it to avoid the whole impending discussion of things mothers and daughters should never discuss.

5. Rambo was officially sworn in as the permanent President/Mayor of our Village this week. As soon as the votes were tallied, an older gentleman who has served on the Board for over 20 years, gathered his papers, stood up and said, “Well if he’s President, then I resign.” And he walked out of the building. Wow. Just wow. What a terrible way to end your years of service. By throwing a tantrum because no one nominated you and you wanted to be the President. It was shocking to say the least.

6. My “sale” blog (Drazzie’s Closet) is almost ready to go…courtesy of my bestie’s amazing design skills (Just Foolin’ Blog Designs). I have a couple of Coach purses and lists upon lists of thing to sell from shoes to jewelry to clothes. Can’t wait to start clearing out some closets so I can fill them back up.

7. I have maintained my 8.5 lb weight loss with WW. That’d be impressive if it was more like 12 lbs or something cuz that’s what it should be by now. But it’s not a gain…so that’s a good thing.

8. My kids have been saying “poopin’ reuben” every time I tell them to do something they don’t want to do. I have no idea what it means and it makes absolutely no sense and uses the dreaded P word but it is now my newest, most-overused sentiment.

9. I love it when kids use a completely wrong word. Like Banana last night. She came in to tell Rambo and I that the neighbor boy was here. She said, “He is being mean. He hit me in the arm with a ball. He is being a snot. He is just acting completely overwhelming.”

What? He is acting overwhelming? No, I think YOU are the one who is overwhelmed, my love. I told her because the neighbor boy has a penis he will remain a snot so she should try to get used to it. Okay, no I didn’t. I wanted to though.

10. I just now realized that a few days ago marked my 4 year anniversary since my tummy tuck. Did you know that once you get liposuction somewhere that fat will never deposit there again? So unless I gain massive amounts of weight, my stomach will remain flat and all the extra weight I carry will deposit in other places that I didn’t have liposuctioned. Like my ass. And my face. And the rest of my entire body. But dammit my stomach will be flat. Cripes.

Your turn!  Go do TTT!!  It's fun!

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Buckets of cow balls and family baths.

Recently a dickhead man asked me if I’ve always been a high maintenance diva. After I shanked him, I thought to myself…hmmm…how did I get to be the queen of pretty nails and pretty purses and shitloads of shoes? I mean – I wasn’t raised by Martha Stewart that’s for sure.


My answer is that my upbringing did it. Not in the sense that I was surrounded by shoes, purses, fashion and bling as I grew up but in that I was surrounded by hands covered in blisters, cow and pig poop and castrated balls and the hardest work on Earth. I grew up on a farm. We were poor. And we were idiots.

This wasn’t just any farm either. This farm was run by us but owned by a wealthy businessman. Did you read that word correctly? A businessman. Someone good with money.

That doesn’t necessarily translate into him being a good farmer. He was the nicest guy on earth but a good farmer he was not. And he didn’t live on the farm he owned so we always had to wait for decisions and stuff…which is hard when a cow is calving or a field needs raking.

What I mean by that is that one day – I kid you not – the hay field needed to be raked again. To turn the rows of hay over the other way so they sun could dry them out more so we could bale it. I know what you’re thinking. Get the tractor, hook up the rake and go to town.

Yes, well…that’s how real farmers would do it. But after the first raking that had been done a few days ago – the rake broke. Mr. Owner Businessman didn’t want to spend the money on a new rake for a farm he didn’t even live on so he told us to rake it by hand with pitchforks.  He also didn't want to bother any neighbors so we weren't allowed to borrow a rake from anyone.

Oh hell to the yah. I just said “rake it by hand with pitchforks”. A f*cking field of hay people. Seriously – who even owns that many pitchforks? It hurts me to say this but we borrowed pitchforks from the neighbors – NEVER telling them what we needed them for – and we raked that mother-effing hay field with our hands using pitchforks. Yours truly wore a black ski mask and a Halloween Rainbow Brite costume so if any of the neighbors drove by they’d think an entire family hand-raking a hay field was an illusion and not real.

I don’t know why I cared what the neighbors thought. Our owner/farmer had a reputation of being the greatest guy in the world but they all knew he couldn’t farm worth a damn. Like the time he bred a HUGE bull with a TINY cow and when the cow got pregnant with a 100 lb calf it could not ever get out, he literally tied a rope to the one calf hoof that came out of the cow and tied the other end to a tractor and pulled.

Yes – both the cow and calf died. It was barbaric. And traumatizing.

Moving on to poop.  I think the reason I don’t like anything to do with poop is because when I was little, if I pooped my pants and my mom wasn’t home – my dad would sit me on the couch and prop me up with two pillows on each side of me and make me sit there until mom came home to change me. Sometimes Mom would come home and there me and my brother would be. Sitting on the couch side by side. Pillows on each side of us. Immobile. Smelling like shit. Literally. Oh what a joy that must have been to walk into.

“Hello Mom. We missed you. We’re covered in poop. And we can’t move.”

Good thing we were too little to actually talk or I would have screamed, “IF YOU EVER LEAVE ME WITH THIS PERSON CALLED DAD AGAIN – I WILL SHANK YOU WITH MY RATTLE!”

And that my friends is probably why I hate poop even though I’m sure I don’t remember those exact events. I’ve heard about them. They couldn’t have been pretty.

Oh the memories. Like the time my idiot brother went into an old barn he wasn’t supposed to and promptly fell through a hole in the floor. He hung there – his head sticking out above the hole and his arms straight out holding him up. I had to run and get Mom.

After I stood there and laughed and taunted him first. His little head turning red as he screamed, “Go get mom you asshole!” Turns out the hole was right above a mother sow who just had piglets. Apparently every minute counted. Oopsie.

That was the same day known as castration and branding day. Or “take away your manhood and destroy any sense of dignity day”. Or “the reason PETA exists day.”

I’m not exactly sure why my parents required that I help on this doomsday. Removing testicles from animals and burning them with fire just does’t appeal to young children. But on a farm the golden rule is usually, “Everyone helps.”

Christ.

I remember when castration day was over – the ground would be littered with discarded cow balls. I used to pretend I was in a war – dodging IED bombs (cow balls) because seriously – have you ever stepped on cow balls? It is NOT a cool feeling. Plus you can twist your ankle.

I refuse to talk about whose job it was to go around and pick up all the cow balls. I swear to God the cows would look at me with eyes of death like I was the one who took their balls. Some of them even cried. Hand to God. I felt like Satan…with a bucket of used cow balls.

And the branding was just as fun. I never quite understood branding when it was the 80s and 90s. Cowboys used to brand cows so that cow rustlers and thieves couldn’t steal them. I’m pretty sure cow rustling went out of style when whores stopped working in saloons and stood on New York street corners instead.

But we branded anyway. Nothing like the smell of fresh burned cow hair. Coupled with a ground littered in cow balls. And a little girl who has no idea what the F*CK is going on.

I’m also fairly certain the reason I like bathing in pretty Skittles is because when I was younger – for one week – we didn’t have running water. I’m. Not. Kidding.

It was like living in hell with a dirty vagina.

After a few days, when we all smelled so bad that we couldn’t be in the same room together, my dad had the bright idea to wash up in the crick.

Weehawww…swimming in the crick. Fun, fun. And we’ll wash our armpits and hoohahs while we’re at it and have a good time.

I realized we weren’t going to have such a great time when Mom got out the soap, cups, towels and clean clothes instead of swimsuits and swim toys.

I was at the age where anyone seeing me naked was a travesty and I’d rather die of snake bites. Least of all my family seeing me naked – or my BROTHERS!!

Come on – go ahead. Imagine you and your brother had just hit puberty and you have to strip naked in front of your family without running away screaming, MY EYES MY EYES!

But it was required. Get naked. Run your white ass into the deepest part of the crick. Forget the freaking soap so you have to run back out and back in. Wash yourself. In brown crick water. Try to ignore that within your line of sight are a herd of cows up the crick from you in the same water.

Totally clean water. Yes. Totes.

Horrifying. Just downright horrifying. As bad as it gets. Until you realize someone just drove by on the road about 500 ft away…and they waved. As you took a bath in dirty cow water. With your naked brothers and parents. Because the naïve people wavers think you are having a grand old family day – swimming. With swimsuits on.

They have no idea you’re entire family is naked. And dying on the inside. And marking this as one of the most humiliating days of their life. Hands down.

I can’t even make this shit up. I remember the ride to the water was filled with laughter and joy. The ride home? Silence. No one talked. We were too mortified. But we smelled better.

And you guys wonder why I am the way I am? Why I like bling and pretty things and CLEAN things and nice smelling things and soft things and Skittles and unicorns.

Well this is why.

Take pity on me.

I’ve carried buckets of cow balls. 

More than once.

Monday, June 4, 2012

Possessions matter.

There’s that old “cliché” or general sentence that millions of people say all the time…the one about material possessions meaning nothing and that people are all that really matter in this life.


In the middle of a tragedy people say that a lot. Too much. Especially once the tragedy is over and every human is alive, well and accounted for. Once that is a known truth – then pretty much the first words out of anyone’s mouth that you meet will say, “Thank God no one was hurt.” Or “You’re so lucky no one died. Or “You can replace things but you can’t replace people.”

I wanted to shank them in the lips every time they said it.

I wanted to scream, “SHUT THE F*CK UP!!!” as I wallowed in the pain of what I lost, felt like I couldn’t get up off my knees and couldn’t stop hating God.

Because you see – after every human that I love was fine…the possessions meant everything. Maybe they shouldn’t – but the reality is that they do. The other reality is that you can’t replace everything. That’s a damn lie.

I know when people said that to me and our family after the flood took away my parent’s home in less than 5 minutes – that it came from love. It came from a good place. It came from a place of not knowing what else to say. It always came with hugs and tears falling down their cheeks.

But I still cringed every time I heard it.

Lately I’m being reminded of the loss of the physical things. Why now? After all, it’s been months since family randomly called me to say, “The house is no longer standing. It was torn down today.” It’s been exactly that long since I’ve wept or cried a single tear about that house and that day.

They tore down the house and all that remained were cement pads and a few other boards so people driving by knew at some point there was something there.

In the last few days though, men have been ripping up the last shreds of any human life there. The lot has to legally be returned to nature. In a few months – there will be no remnants of our family left.

I still can’t look at it when I drive by. I swear to you if I even catch a glimpse it’s like a dagger being shoved in my heart and I inhale my breath and the pain comes back until I let out my breath.

Every time that happens I wonder, “When will I able to look there and not feel pain?”

When will I ever not be angry at the possessions we can never get back? Possessions that others say don’t matter – because we all survived.

The spot in the garage where Rambo first kissed me. The room upstairs I ran to when anything in life hurt me.

Things like those meant everything but the worst one I think is my baby pictures and all the pictures of my siblings and I growing up. The ones that tell stories about our childhood.

The pictures of homemade birthday cakes and slumber parties. The rare pictures of my Dad holding me as a baby. The one with us and our pet dog named BJ. The proof that my kids look just like I did when I was little.

I miss the stories that those pictures would have made me remember. I miss that without them I won’t remember and won’t tell my kids.

The depth of sadness over never sharing an album with my kids or grandkids or even Rambo hurts at the core of who I am.

But everyone is alive. So people think it shouldn’t still hurt.

Everyone survived. It shouldn’t still be hard to look at that blank piece of earth where I spent summer days playing.

When I drive by lately and they are down there wiping away any remnant of what existed…part of me wants to run screaming at them, “STOP – get away. Get off MY property.”….right before I remember it’s not mine anymore. I suppose it never really was. I never really owned it….it owned me.

It came from nature and it’ll go back to nature. Animals will be its only inhabitants. And under the dirt and washed away in the flood rivers go those precious possessions that I can’t let go of.

Yes, it is true. Lives and people matter so much more than possessions. But I find that once lives and people are all okay – the only thing your mind focuses on are the possessions lost.

I’ve even figured out the reason behind the flood…that even a year ago I didn’t know. I get it. It makes sense. I’m no longer angry. But I’m still pretty bitter.

And sad. Ateensy part of me will always be sad.

That the rooms and pictures that told the story of my life are gone….and nothing can bring them back. While it’s true they remain in my head…pictures jolt the memory and in time, memories fade – while pictures do not.

It’s simply not fair.

I’ll always be grateful that possessions are the only things we lost that day. But I’m not too proud or ashamed to admit that damn….some of those possessions sure meant a hell of a lot to me.

Call me shallow if you must.

It's the truth.

Friday, June 1, 2012

BYOC - Bring Your Own Crazy!

It’s Bring Your Own Crazy time! Copy and paste the button above to your own BYOC and join us! We answer 5 questions to get to know each other better and to give our blogging brains a break.


1. Are you a daily purse switcher, an often purse buyer or a one purse kind of woman? What factors influence your purse buying?

Okay – for sure I am not a daily purse switcher. I find one I like and I carry it for a little while. I am an often purse buyer so I switch often to the new purse but never daily. I change my purse to match my outfit ONLY when I’m going out on a date or out with friends or for a special occasion and that purse is usually much smaller than my regular one. I have a tendency to carry purses the size of airplanes.

I’m still trying to find just the right Coach purse so I have a few more I’m going to sell soon. I normally don’t buy purses for their name. In fact, just this month was the first time I specifically bought a purse because it is Coach. Price and name don’t factor in a lot for me. Color, certain pockets, and size matter the most to me so whethere it’s 99 cents or $200….if it has all the right pockets, zipppers, and shiz like that….I’m in love.

2. What’s your favorite board game?

I’m an accountant sooooo for me it’ll always be Monopoly. I was always the banker or I refused to play. Stubborn much? Fake money or not – that shiz is fun to count and dole out and organize. Hmmm….maybe that’s part of being a control freak too. Nope. Let’s just stick with “it’s because I’m an accountant”. It sounds less crazy.

3. Are you a sore loser who throws fits or a gracious winner? Are you competitive?

Well shit. If I’m being honest I’d have to say I’m competitive. Winning was always important to me. If I don’t know that I can win it – I probably won’t play it or attempt it. (Man that sounds awful) This comes from my mom.

She needs to have the best and most unique and have and be more than anyone else. At the same time – not a lot of people know that about her or me. We don’t show it…meaning even if we lose, we lose well. Most never know how much importance we placed on the competition. So as an adult I’d have to say I equate with being the best or winning with meaning you have to love me – because there’s no reason not to. I’m totally aware that feeling this way is completely warped…but it’s what I know.

4. Tell us something you are afraid of that is a physical item…like spiders, deep water, heights, snakes, thunderstorms, first dates, childbirth, etc.

I think I could go on forever with a list of things I’m afraid of. Snakes rank right up there and are the cause of my nightmares quite often. P words – the words themselves, hearing the words and the actual item – scare the living beJesus out of me. They would include poop and puke.

I’m not a huge fan of deep water that isn’t in a pretty, clean pool. I’m afraid of floods. I’m not a fan of blood or needles but I can tolerate them. I’m also afraid of granny panties. And yes – childbirth sucks a fat baby’s ass too. I’d like to never do that again, thank you very much.

5. Repeat question: Summarize your week.


The week was short due to the holiday which is SUPER fun. I always miss Jenny after I’ve been with her for a few days so that feels icky. Our long driveway got completely re-blacktopped. I finished some more landscaping. My kids finish school today – thank God.

I get a tattoo tonight designed by Miss Jenny. I’m still searching for the perfect Coach purse. I finished 50 Shades of Grey in less than 8 hours. I think I’ll do a review on it.

I’m thinking of opening a “Drazzie’s Closet” blog and selling all the things I bought with tags still on them or things I’ve used once like my shoes, purses and clothes. I’m slacking on my 2 part time jobs for no reason. I should shank myself with a syringe filled with some motivation and ambition.

Have a good weekend Skittles!