Thursday, August 30, 2012

Identities wrapped up in labels...

Old people are so cute, aren’t they? They just ask what they want to know and make no apologies for it. For instance, last night I went to a birthday party and I was sitting next to a bunch of old ladies when one turned to me and said, “I don’t know you. Who are you?”


And since it’s Podunk, I had the standard reply. Oh, you know me. I used to be a Smith. My mother was a Jones. She married my Dad whose parents were Smythes. Totally different from the Smith’s. The Smith’s are from Podunk 1 across the river and the Smythes hail from Podunk 2 over the hill. No, my parents are not third cousins….though 2 of my third cousins did marry each other on my mom’s side. Now do you know me?

Yes, of course, she says.

And then I get the question that I get every time someone in town realizes who I am.

How do your parents like their new house? What was it like to lose everything in an instant to a flood?

I answer and say they are doing great and have moved on and thank them for their concern. It’s a small town and people genuinely care and wonder and in general people are humans so they are just curious. It’s a story. It’s big news. It’s gossip. It’s a big deal in a small town and I don’t mind one bit that they ask. It’s comforting knowing everyone knows what happened. After all, the town came out in a big way when the flood came. They are a good portion of the reason why my mom and dad are okay today.

So anyway – afterwards it got me thinking about labels. About how our names sometimes completely get lost to a label. I don’t think that old woman has any idea what my name is. To her I’m “the girl with the parents who lost their home in a flood”.

That’s totally okay by me. I mean that is a huge part of my identity and my past and even my future. It’s just interesting.

Take for instance, my neighbor who just had a baby. She quit her job before the baby was born and figured out her and husband’s finances enough to know they could get by if she became a stay at home mom. It’s what she wanted.

Until the baby came and her husband went back to work and she said she hates feeling like she has to ask permission to use their money since she’s not earning it anymore. She is not content staying home all day with the baby. It’s not enough. She cannot just be mom to baby P or wife to husband R. She said she needs more words attached to her identity. I told her to do what she needs to do. To each his own. She knows what’s best for her family….and so she’s setting out to find more “labels”.

Sometimes I get completely wrapped up in labels and identities. Do you ever do that? So much that sometimes I forget about the few labels that matter most. The mom, wife, sister, daughter labels that mean more than all the others.

But it’s just human nature and easy to forget who we are at our core and just be the labels and identities we’ve attached to ourselves – or that people have attached to us.

I mean being “the girl whose parents lost everything in a flood” doesn’t bother me. It’s a rare natural disaster and of course people want to talk about it. But there are other labels people attach to us that we hate. Like I’m guessing my little brother hates being labeled “the black sheep of the family”. I know my other brother hates being “the brother that hasn’t gotten married or had kids yet”.

I get to be “the mayor’s wife” – whether that carries a good or bad connotation. I’m the “woman that takes care of some community stuff”.

Or “the one that gets hives”. The “girl with all the landscaping” in town. The “woman married to that prison guard who rides the Harley.” The “woman whose husband is covered in tattoos.” The “daughter who never goes to church anymore.” The “girl who lives in Podunk.” The “blogger who thinks she’s a lizard.” The “girl who married her high school sweetheart.” The “girl who used to run 5 miles a night until she got lazy and chubby.” She is “Watermelon and Banana’s mom.”

There was a time when I was “the girl with the ginormous bahoobies”….so I chopped them off. Ha! Well, that’s not totally why but it’s probably part of the reason I had a breast reduction.

Labels can be powerful. They can be pretty broad or very specific. They’re all interesting. Some people fight all their lives to gain or keep a certain label and some people will fight all their life to get rid of a label. We self-impose some and some are just given to us by others.

It’s just interesting to me. How about you? Do you have labels for yourself or for others? Do you see the people under the labels or just the labels? Do you like your labels or are you trying to get rid of them? Do you want more or less?

Today my label is “girl who can’t wait for it to be Friday so the weekend can start!!” I’ve got football games, cookouts, museum trips and 3 whole days of sleeping in with “the man who is married to Draz” and I cannot wait!!!!

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Heifers and hives.

Soooo – you know that I have a couple part-time jobs and that those jobs are for the community Rambo and I live in, right? And because they are community jobs that inevitably means they involve the public, right?


Well, there’s no need to freak out my anxiety-sharing friends…it’s all good because Rambo is employed by 1of the same communities as me and by another community he serves as well. That means that we attend basically every meeting together and we manage the same accounts and people in general. So it’s completely non-hive-inducing and completely bearable because Rambo is always right next to me.

Well, until it’s not. Until I have to call an impromptu meeting for shitloads of people where I have to speak and then hours before that meeting RAMBO GETS FORCED INTO A SECOND SHIFT OF WORK AT THE PRISON.  Translation:  he cannot make the meeting.

Ass hives. That’s all I’ve got to say and all I’ve got…well…on my ass. And entire body if you really wanna know.

I found out about noon – the very same day - that for the big two-village board meeting – I’d be on my own. Drive there alone. Walk in alone. Sit down alone. Present alone. Hyperventilate and poop my pants in fear alone.

Beforehand, I took a gamble and I begged the plant manager to hold my hand through the meeting but he was all like, “Um, my wife wouldn’t appreciate that.” That also might have been followed by “What the hell do you mean that your husband, the Mayor, won’t be here tonight?”

Did I stutter? He ain’t coming dillhole. You need to hold my hand or I swear to you, I will never write you another paycheck as long as you live.

Ugh. I made it through just fine. I definitely had hives. I always get really hot too and my ears felt like they were on fire and at any minute I expected my hair to burst into flames. And I sweat buckets.

But I did it. I did my presentation in 45 minutes flat. Even got a few compliments from some other Mayors. Then got invited to the local bar for a drink with the guys. Just me and a bunch of men having a drink. Without Rambo.

Um yah – no. Let me call a girlfriend first and beg her to come and I’m so there.

My friend came and I laughed and talked and tried really hard not to itch the hives on my ass and ruin my fa├žade. My mom watched my girls while I was gone and before I left she said, “I’m really proud of you for going that alone.”…because she knows how hard it was for me.

I couldn’t say much back because at that point my throat had swollen shut and I was having convulsions now that I was home and had realized what I had just been through. A little instant PTSD was what I had for supper.

And do you know what happened this morning?

My plant manager called me to ask how I thought the meeting went. Then he had the ever-loving balls to say, “I think you were a little nervous last night when you talked. I could hear it in your voice.”

I literally said, “You mother heifer. I told you I was nervous and you’re the crackhead weinerass who wouldn’t hold my hand through it. OMG – I hate you.”

And because he is a man with a penis and no brains – in between his laughter – I heard him say, “I can’t be a heifer cuz I’m a boy.”

Seriously? I mean really? That’s all you got?

Chickenshit afraid of your wife boy is what you are. Wait until Rambo hears how well you filled in for him when he was gone.

If we were professional enough to have an employee file (and not call each other names like heifer) for you – this incident would be written up and put in there.

Does anyone really wonder why I snort Skittles and M&Ms and have a constant Mountain Dew IV drip in my arm?

I thought not.

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Where's the damn manual?

Parenting doesn’t come with a manual. You’ve heard that before, right?

Well, I’m pissed about that. Seriously – I bought a simple pair of tweezers the other day and a 4 page manual came with them. Why not one for children?


Oh fine, I know why. I’m just saying that most days, parenting decisions are a crapshoot. And the only thing better than a manual?

Well, it’s when your very own parent calls you out of the blue to say, “I know it’s hard, but you’re doing the right thing with your daughter.”

You see, Watermelon had 3 friends over this weekend. They hung out and swam and then they all wanted to go get ice cream at the local gas station.

Now – yes – we live in Podunk. And yes, it’s a small, safe town.

But it's not safe enough for me to let my 12 year old ride up to the gas station, across two county roads and one highway. I mean – I wanted to let her go. I wanted her to have that fun with her friends.

What I wanted more was for the parents of the other 3 girls to not allow them to go either. That’s what I really wanted.

Watermelon knew I’d say no. She told them she couldn’t go. She was a little sad but a part of her gets it too. She heard me just the other day worried about the neighbor girl who I’d seen alone, down the county road, with her earbuds in…miles from home – after our other neighbor said he’s almost hit her with his car coming over the hill.

So her friends went and Watermelon stayed home and that was that.

Until about 4 hours later when my mom called. She said, “I couldn’t see all their faces but there were 3 of Watermelon’s friends all the way down by the school on their bikes when I drove by a bit ago. One of them was texting, with her head completely down, on the main road, driving wobbly because she was texting. How scary.”

(I doubt their mothers knew that’s where they were. The school is NOT by the gas station.)

I said, “Yah. They were here earlier. Watermelon was supposed to go with them…but we didn’t let her. She’s a little sad about it and I feel bad because I’m making her miss out on that.”

My mom said, “It’s dangerous. They’re so young and so beautiful and those are major roads. I know it’s hard but you’re doing the right thing.”

Hmmm. Wow.

I doubt very much if my mom’s mom ever said anything like to her. It might be one of the first times mine has said it to me. It was a relief to hear those words…almost like she handed me a manual or a passing grade on a test.

I always swore I’d know the kind of parent I’d be as far as letting my kids go do fun things. My parents were very paranoid and didn’t trust anyone and therefore, there were very few things I was allowed to do or go to. Because I was a girl – it was even worse.

And now I constantly feel that pull between letting go and holding on to the fear of what ifs and keeping them close. The decisions suck. I wish no one had to think about what could happen to your child when you’re not around. I wish it was cut and dried and I wish that I always knew she’d come back safe. I wish I could let go of some of the paranoia my parents unconsciously put in me…though it serves a purpose now.

I mean, let’s be real. I wish there was a damn manual…because I never, ever imagined I’d be the person in anyone else’s life who denied them ice cream with their friends.

Next time, I’m making Rambo say no to her. For me, saying no to ice cream is just against my internal moral code, you know?

Monday, August 27, 2012

4am.

I think I have a weekend hangover or something like that. I feel pretty good BUT I’d give anything to rewind a day or two and repeat them and their perfection.


If you’ve been reading me for any amount of time, then you know that Rambo works 4 jobs and therefore he goes 5 full weeks without having a single day off. It takes 35 days of straight work before he hits a Saturday and Sunday off. But at that point, he gets 2 in a row. YAY! It sounds kind of yucky but we're just kinda used to it now. 

Anyway, on his weekend off, the heavens open up and angels sing. We act like a real family who has real weekends off. We do really exciting things like sleep in and eat breakfast together. We go to movies and go on bike rides. We veg out and stay up late. We do all the things most normal families do every weekend – and it’s pure bliss.

Sunday, Rambo and I went and saw The Expendables….oh mee geee…those old guys are still freaking hot if you ask me. We also took a Harley ride to get frozen yogurt. Went to the neighbor’s house to hold their baby and talk some bull. Spent time with our girls a lot and just did a whole lotta nothing.

To burst my bubble and bring me back to reality, this morning Rambo got up at 4am as usual. I rolled over to go back to sleep after he kissed me as usual. NOT as usual – my daughter came running in our room crying because she’d had a nightmare about her little sister being hurt. I rubbed her back and told her to go back to bed.

In the meantime, Rambo had seen her TV on in her room after he showered at 4am and went into her room to check on her and being a man – he then got drawn in by the TV so he stood there and watched it for a minute. At this time, my daughter is going back to her room after her nightmare. She has no idea her Dad is standing in her room. Only a shadow in the glow of the TV light in his prison getup at 4am!

Did I mention it’s 4am?  Like roosters aren't even awake yet.

And then I hear a blood-curdling scream. Because she then sees her Dad. But doesn’t know it’s her Dad.

Jesus f*ck – I shot up in bed and I think I yelled, “WHAAAATTTT?” I can’t remember. I just remember hearing Rambo yell, “It’s just me. It’s Daddy. Calm down.” And then more crying.

And then the other little girl is suddenly awake. Neither can go back to sleep so it’s still 4am – well probably 4:10 by now – and they decide to stay up and snuggle and chat and watch TV together until I get up for work.

At first I thought my daughter was screaming because she realized it was Monday and the weekend was over – because I mean really – that would have been appropriate but that wasn’t it.

Welcome to Monday. At 4am.

By 7am, I was at work – reading an email regarding our impromptu board meeting that was called for TOMORROW. I kept reading only to see a mounting to do list for me to prepare by TOMORROW. Ah yes. I love Mondays.

Have no fear though – it’s a 4 day weekend coming up due to the holiday so everything will be alright because Rambo has his second weekend off!! Holy Christ – it’s almost too good to be true.

I see swimming and barbecuing and Harley rides and loads of family stuff in our future. And probably another hangover.

Hopefully minus the blood curdling scream at 4am though!

And yes - I have now broken the record for how many times a person can write 4am in one blog post.  Congratulations to me.

So how was your weekend?

Friday, August 24, 2012

Friday’s Recall of Regrets and Repeats…

Today I’m RECALLing and looking back over the last 7 days, trying to remember certain moments that I REGRET and perhaps would do differently if I could; and I’m also recalling certain moments that I want to REPEAT because they were perfect. It’s a fun way to summarize my past week, become aware of what I want to change this upcoming week and most of all…have a journal of my daily life events and feelings written down for future reference.  Feel free to join in if you so desire.
REPEAT moments:

• I had a couple random texts with some bloggers this week about the return of Sons of Anarchy and even about glitter rain. Random, unexpected, happy, “I’m thinking of you texts” make my day.

• I bought a new navy polka dot shirt from The Gap and I wore it with my navy flare pants and nude heels. At least 5 people complimented me on the shirt/outfit. Clearly – people love polka dots – and I loved the comments!

• I moved my makeup and hair “station” into my master bedroom this week and it is like Christmas every morning figuring out this new get ready in the morning routine. I got new organizational drawers and containers and cups and nothing makes me happier than organizing and color coding.

• I had a great, impromptu, uplifting and laughingly long conversation with my mom when I originally thought I’d be home alone doing nothing much of nothing. It renewed my spirit and I hope as a mom – that, some day, I can be that person for my girls.

• I went into my 6 year old’s bedroom and laid down beside her with the intention of watching about 5 minutes of her movie with her before bed. I ended up falling asleep with my arms wrapped around her until Rambo came in and woke me up. Pure unplanned paradise.

• Last night I got into my 11 year old’s bed to watch a show with her and spend some time with her – under the covers while the house was dark and quiet and everyone else was asleep. We never even said very many words but it was perfection. For both of us.

• Rambo brought me 24 Panera Bread cinnamon crunch bagels as a surprise. Enough said. Let’s repeat this weekly, mkay Rambo?

• This hasn’t happened yet but Rambo is taking me to get frozen yogurt tonight and probably a trip to the mall and really…how can you not want to repeat something like that over and over and over again?

• I cleaned out my daughter’s clothes that she is too big for now and made 2 huge baskets of stuff for the local thrift store! I also cleaned out my pajama dresser and have 6 grocery bags full of stuff to give to my mom now. Love getting rid of stuff like that! It’s like a clothing detox (so I can buy more)!

• I lost another pound on WW this week! YAY. Repeat, pretty please?

REGRET moments:

- Shocker – but I wish I would have worked out more. I managed a run around town and a pedal bike ride with the family. Other than that – nada. Oh and speaking of that bike ride – I regret that my butt bones still hurt from the bike seat. My God – what is the deal with pedal bike seats???

- I regret not getting more items for sale on my blog and Ebay. I have some purses, shoes and sports outfits and kid’s clothes I need to get selling because they are just in my way at the moment and I’m tired of looking at this on my to do list.

- Sunday I put a bag of frozen chicken breasts in the fridge to thaw so I could cook them on Monday. That never happened. They still aren’t cooked. I regret that because I have to throw them away today. What a waste of money! Ugh.

- I regret surviving on cinnamon bagels and M&Ms this week. Wait. That’s a lie. No, I don’t.

- I regret not staying in constant touch with my brother like I used to but we emailed a lot this week so that’s a start again.

- I regret not putting more effort into becoming a freelance writer. Again, I’m sick of it being on my to do list. I’ve done more lately than I ever have before but I haven’t started a “job” yet even though it’s finally available.

- I regret that I haven’t finished my landscaping stuff out by the pool yet since I suddenly decided we’re going to make an outdoor grill/fridge/patio/sink area this spring. Oopsie.

- I regret not swimming last night when I could have when summer is almost over. I won’t have many more chances.

- I regret buying my 12 year old daughter size 12 WOMENs boy short underwear instead of being a smart mom and buying size 10/12 GIRLs boy shorts. Crap on a stick. (I’m pretty sure I made this mistake last year too. Oy.)

Okay – that’s all I got. That’s a pretty good summary of my week! How about you? Can you recall any regrets or repeats you’d like to share with us? It’s kinda fun to think back about what was great and what sucked donkey balls.

Have a great weekend, Skittles!

I wish you more REPEATS than REGRETS!

Thursday, August 23, 2012

Ten Things Thursday - Drazzie style!

It’s LauraBelle’s day in my world so that means it’s time for TTT. Ten Things Thursday coming atcha!


1. Last night I got home and walked up the steps to enter my house and Rambo was standing there with a big shit-eating grin on his face and told me to close my eyes and took my hands and led me into the kitchen. I bet you’re thinking he got me a bazillion white Kit Kats cuz I still haven’t remembered to tell him I’m over them…but you’d be wrong.
There on my counter sat all the cinnamon crunch bagels that Panera bread had left. He said he told them to “give me all you got” and they bagged them up and there were 24 of the suckers. They are divine. One day later? Only 12 remain. No. I didn’t eat 12 myself – my girls love them too. And yes. It is very pathetic that Rambo buys me my favorite foods when he’s out on trips. This is why I never wonder why I carry Sheniqua around on my hips. I could tell Rambo to quit bringing me surprises but really – that’s just crazy talk.

2. I surprised Rambo back this week. We used to go to college football games all the time in the pre-kids days. It was sooo much fun. We’d get a hotel and shop and hang out and then go to the game and drive the 2 hour drive home whenever. Our college team usually goes to the Rose Bowl so tickets for their games are usually sold out FAST. It’s been years since we’ve gone. But that’s about to change. I got a bug up my butt and took a chance and called and I kid you not – there were 4 tickets left. I bought 2. Rambo is about to do cartwheels he’s so freaking excited. It turns out to be the weekend of my bday so he’s planning the whole dang weekend out in his head. I cannot wait!

3. Rambo is going in for his next tattoo “fitting” and he’s scheduling a touch-up for me at the same time. Wanna know what he’s getting? An old-style pin-up girl with my face and hair. In one hand she’ll be holding a platter of cupcakes and in the other hand behind her back she’ll be holding a straight razor or handcuffs….devil and angel type thing. He’s crazy. I’m going to try really hard not to get another tat while I’m there…I only need touchups…but I “want” more.

4. Next week I have to hold a board meeting for twice the normal amount of people as usual. And I have to speak at it. Like in front of the people who attend. Holy Frankenstein’s ass I hate that. I shall wear a turtleneck (even though it’s 90 degrees) so no one can see my hives.

5. Um, let’s skip to #6. This is getting too long.

6. Have you ever played double trouble crosswords? They are crosswords sort of. Once you find the answer to the question to put in the boxes – you have to then figure out how many of the letters of the answer go in which box to help make the next answer right. It’s a little challenging and I just ordered two books of only double troubles. Almost every night I do about 5 of them. I’m addicted. And nuts.

7. There is only one week of summer vacation left for my kids. I hate school time. It makes me want to cry. Especially when the school supply list now requires us to buy spoons, paper plates and flash drives. Remember when all parents had to buy was crayons and Elmer’s glue that little Johnny could eat?

8. I’m going to see The Expendables 2 this Sunday. I would go even if there wasn’t a single word spoken during the whole thing. Just to stare at the bulging muscles on the real Rambo (Sly Stallone) and the other men in the movie. They’re all getting old but I don’t give a damn. They are still yummo on a stick.

9. Again, skipping to #10. This is like a damn novel. Cripes.

10. Oh, look – you’re almost done reading this nonsense. I can’t wait until tomorrow. Not only does Rambo have his first weekend off in a while but tomorrow night, just he and I are going on a Harley ride to the city just to get frozen yogurt so I can pile it high with M&Ms and butterscotch. Because I was almost thrown out for making orgasmic moaning noises while I ate there last time, I will probably eat outside this time. It’s just safer. And more appropriate in general.

That’s it for me. Anyone feel like doing a BYOC if I post one tomorrow? It’s been a while but I might just pull one out of my ass for old time’s sake!

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Wacky Wednesday!

Happy Humpalump Day Skittles!

I can’t seem to form normal paragraphs today so Ima gonna do bullets.

• Wanna know what the kids in Podunk do when they are bored? Well, they go sledding. Down hills. In August. On grass. Yup. My kids and the neighbors spent half the day sledding down a huge hill in the neighbor’s backyard – on grass. And they flew. It could be because we have hardly any grass due to the drought but it just looked crazy. I never even asked whose idea that was.

• I know I’ve said this before BUT whoever invented the bigger packages of M&Ms that say “Sharing Size” in the corner was clearly not a woman. Who shares chocolate? Especially when there is clearly not enough to share even though the package dictates that you should. Share my ass. No way.

• Rambo has a doctor appointment today regarding something with his wrist/elbow that has been hurting him. He saw a regular MD who then said he should see a specialist. Wanna know what kind of specialist he is seeing today? For his ARM? A neurologist. Ah yes – someone finally figured out Rambo has a head problem. LOL

• Speaking of Rambo….I sincerely hope I am never faced with the challenge of replacing him in my life. On the radio this morning, I heard that the biggest turnoff for men towards women is ________. Can you guess what it is? I was thinking bad breath. No teeth. Camel toe. 16 kids from prior relationships maybe? Nope. None of the above. It is TATTOOS. Shitballs. I’m screwed. If that’s men’s biggest turnoff in women – and Rambo wasn’t in my life for some reason – I’d be single forever after. Just me and my tattoos. I’ll have to get some cats I suppose.

• I had lasik eye surgery so I wouldn’t have to wear glasses and today I’m wearing fake glasses. What the what? I can’t help it. They are olive green, blue and brown plaid patterned and they are super cute. And fake. And not necessary to see. Cuz I got surgery to not wear glasses. Geez.

• The local military branch here is shipping out to Afghanistan this week. It seems so odd for men and women to be going there when all you hear about it is how the war is over and everyone is coming home. So sad. So heroic.

• Also – as you saw above – I think I found my new candy addiction. It’s M&Ms. And only in the LARGE sharing packs. Goodbye white KitKats…hello pretty little round bites of happiness. Just looking at the colors makes me smile. I think M&Ms are Skittles first cousins…which is probably another reason why I love them so much.

Buh-bye loverlies!

Monday, August 20, 2012

Cutest little thang for my bestie!!

I got the CUTEST little thing in the mail the other day from a place called Simply-Bags!  It's a personalized lunch bag in zebra and pink!!!  I had it made for my bestie and now I'm totally jealous because it's seriously the perfect size and perfect color and I'm almost tempted to use it even though my name isn't Jennifer but I do love my bestie sooooo I'm going to send it to her ASAP. (holy run-on sentence)

Bob at Simply-Bags sent this to me at no charge but my opinion is mine alone.  Absolutely no opinion requirements came with the bag.  But seriously - check out the link.  I think I might have to buy one for myself (and my girls).  I've never seen so many lunch bag options in my life!  Let me know if you end up buying one so I can hear your thoughts on the style you get.

Oh and here's some pictures of the one they sent me for Jenny!  Isn't it cute-patootie??



Thanks so much Simply-Bags....it's ALWAYS fun to get cute stuff like this in the mail!

Friday, August 17, 2012

The shit never ends. Literally.

Do you guys remember this post? The one where the little neighbor girl came over to my house and forgot to flush? The same one who uses a half a roll of toilet paper and therefore clogs my toilet?


Wellllll….it seems the poop karma Gods have now attached themselves to my 12 year old. It’s so not funny. But it sorta is. Honestly…at 12….I would have passed out or shanked out my own eyes to not see the horror that my daughter saw yesterday.

So ok – Watermelon was babysitting the neighbor kids. There are three of them and she had a friend helping her.

I get a phone call about mid-afternoon and my kid is screaming, “Oh my God Mom – I almost threw up! I swear. I almost did.”

Shitballs was my first thought. Little did I know that was the entire problem.

She said that the toilet clogged. Then overflowed. Toilet water was all over the bathroom floor.

Now I don’t know about you – but I’m pretty sure I’ve never taught either of my kids how to use a plunger or unplug a toilet. Obviously – I should have. It just never seemed necessary.

I mean, I’m pretty confident that whole tutorial would be 60 times worse than having the “boys need a watering hose to water the woman’s flower to grow a seed” talk. No part of me wants to discuss toilets or clogs with my daughter. Like ever.

Anyway – they found a plunger. They tried to unclog it. God only knows what they did with that plunger having had no instructions on how to use it. It didn’t work – just more water everywhere. (shocker, I know)

And now there are floating turds.

JESUS, JOSEPH AND MARY – it hurts to type the words “floating turds”. God help me to finish this story. I feel like my kid is going to need therapy now.

So they run downstairs to the business where the aunt of the kids works. She isn’t there.
They run across the driveway to where my aunt lives. She isn’t there.
They run across to the other neighbor’s house and knock on the door and the girl and her husband are home. (lucky them, huh?)

Can you imagine? I mean really. Put yourself in this situation. Two FRANTIC little girls knock on your door and breathlessly beg and plead you to come into the neighbor’s house to unclog an overflowing toilet with floating turds and a floor covered in toilet water.

Who in their right mind would agree to such a thing?  I bet the warning bells were going off in her head like firetrucks!  Don't go - don't do it - it's a trap - they are luring you to your death!!!

If I was that girl – I would have slammed the door in their face. And then thrown up. Maybe even called the cops. I simply cannot fathom such a thing.

But the girl has a conscience so she agreed to help my daughter and her friend.

She came over and according to the girls – she had to use TWO plungers – but she fixed the issue.

At this point in the story, I’m saying a silent prayer in my head pleading and begging God to never, ever have anyone show up on my doorstep and ask me to come unclog someone else’s toilet. Can you imagine?

And then there’s more. My kid keeps saying over and over, “Mom – me and my friend only went pee all day. I swear. We only peed. We have no idea who did it.”

I tried to make it better by saying, “Well, they probably just used too much toilet paper again so that’s what clogged it.”

To which she replied, “NO Mom – you don’t understand. There were FLOATING TURDS!!” like she's angry that I refuse the acknowledge the floating turds in this tragedy.

So I then yell in an inappropriately loud, Satan-like tone:

WOULD YOU PLEASE STOP SAYING FLOATING TURDS? I get it. I do. I just don’t want to discuss anything with you that uses the word floating and turds in the same sentence. CHRIST IN HEAVEN.

She walks away and says, “Oh well, I got paid $20.”

My head screaming commences again, “THAT’S NOT ENOUGH FOR THE HORROR YOU EXPERIENCED TODAY.”

I wasn’t going to tell her about plungers until she was at least 15 (or 90) and now she’s learned on her own. She's growing up so dang fast.

I yelled after her as she skipped away, “Now that you know how to plunge and unclog a toilet without puking….what say we teach you how to clean them so I can add it to your list of weekly chores? Yes?

Okay then.”

Oh and PS – I couldn’t bring myself to do this last night BUT tonight I will either go to the neighbor girl’s house or text her or Facebook her and say,

“Um hi. Thank you for saving my daughter’s life…I mean um…for unclogging the neighbor’s toilet and overlooking the floating turds. I have no idea how you did that without going into convulsions. You’re my hero and their hero. You saved the neighborhood. I bow down before you. And um….are you going to need to pay for YOUR therapy sessions now?”

*sigh* Yah. I’m pretty sure I’m going to text her. I just can’t look another wife and mother in the face and say floating turds and thank you in the same sentence with a straight face.

Eeesh.

I told you the shit never ends.  And I meant it.

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Wanted: Big, beefy bodyguards. STAT.

Most of you know that I live in Podunk. Most of you also know that I’m not kidding when I say Podunk is in Nowhere, USA. In fact, the town I live in isn’t even incorporated. We have no zip code. We are grouped in with the town that borders us that IS incorporated and at least has a post office. Together, the population of the two Podunks is 1000. Apart, my unincorporated Podunk is population 300. We be huge. Yup.


Now that you know the sheer massive amount of people we’re dealing with….don’t you think it’s time that I got some security detail as the First Lady of Podunk? Like big, beefy, Sylvester Stallone type bodyguards who follow me around all day giving me massages and spoon feeding me ice cream?

I’m telling you. We’re damn near famous. The Mayor Rambo and I.

Like this weekend, we stopped at the gas station in town. Rambo held the door open for an older lady and she said, “Good morning, Mayor” as she went on her way. She totally wanted his autograph but we were fresh out of Sharpie pens.

Another time a little, old man stopped me to tell me that Rambo does an exceptional job and the man was so excited that he got to nominate Rambo for the position of Mayor.

Honestly, it’s exhausting dealing with the fans. I’m going to need an agent soon.

On the flipside, there is always the “is this proper behavior for the mayor” stuff we have to deal with. Like at the bike ride Saturday when Rambo and I played “get the plunger in the hole” with about 100 other bikers.

Yes. Yours truly waddled about 20 feet with a plunger in between my legs while Rambo stood at the other end waiting for me to put said plunger in between the hole of the roll of toilet paper he was holding between his legs. (No - unfortunately - I'm not kidding.)

When we were done, a fellow leathered up dude with no teeth said, “I’m not sure Mayors should be participating in things like this.”

Crap. Destroy all the evidence. Delete all those pictures of me on my knees trying to stick a plunger in between Rambo’s legs.

Talk about blackmail material.  In the future, we must be more careful.

There’s the ever-present looks of disapproval from the Mayor himself that are directed at me. I forget what I did but whatever I did was followed by, “You’d think as the First Lady you’d act a bit classier than that.” Then he runs away laughing like he’s the funniest thing since Comedy Central. Christ.

I ain’t no proper First Lady.

I mean – do proper First Ladies get propositioned daily like this: “Hey baby, wanna sleep with the Mayor tonight? I can make it happen. My people can contact your people and set it up.”

Ego much, dickweed?

Oh and last week? My snooty, holier than thou, hater of Rambo aunt was at my mom’s house. My mom was showing my aunt something very cool Rambo had given to my mom that was from the Village Hall. My aunt asked my mom where she got this cool thing. My mother just kept saying. “I’m in good with the Mayor. The Mayor gave it to me. Yah, the Mayor got that for me.”

Of course, my aunt said, “Who is the Mayor?” She’s not from here so she wouldn’t know.

My mother replied with a smirk, “Rambo is the new Mayor.”

You know – my son-in-law you hate? The one you think will amount to nothing? Yah. That one.

Yup, that settles it. We’re going to need a publicity and marketing strategy. Mainly to let everyone who told me Rambo was a piece of crap know - that somehow he turned out to be the Mayor. Oh, the joy of seeing their faces when they hear this stunning news. Just precious.

Lastly, our town’s annual festival was this weekend, so of course, there was a parade. All the surrounding communities enter floats and fire trucks and such. After the parade, someone stopped Rambo to ask him why he wasn’t in the parade with the other Mayor of the incorporated town. Why didn’t they have a Mayor float?

Dammit – because we are still assembling our publicity team – duh! This shit takes time. And then there’s the whole trying to fit Rambo’s extremely enlarged head through the front door too, you know? Geesh, people. Back off.

We are only humans.

Famous humans, yes. But still.

** Um…for those of you who think I’m serious about feeling and being famous and needing agents and having big heads…um well…you probably also think Obama is still gonna save us. I’m not serious and well, Obama? I won’t even go there.

I’m being sarcastic. All of the above actually did happen but our responses did not. Rambo is humbled and laughs at all the Mayor jokes he gets because he doesn’t fit the part and he knows it. Tattooed, biker prison guards who never spent a day in college aren’t exactly the conventional Mayor “types”….according to most people anyway.

Meh. It’s fine. I’ll sleep with him anyway.

It can’t be that bad. Besides, I’ve already slept with Satan if you recall.

Friday, August 10, 2012

I think I slept with Satan (twice)....

….because sometimes my child acts just like the spawn of Satan would. Surely this small child could not possibly have been fathered by my sweet, gentle, loving Rambo.


Well, maybe she could have been. No matter how sweet and loving Rambo is – he isn't perfect and he has a penis and I just think that anyone with a penis cannot handle children throwing fits. And there’s the fact that Rambo doesn’t really put up with bullshit. He’s got a pretty short fuse when it comes to disrespect or acting out because he has standards for his kids regarding their behavior. So do I but I have a vagina…so I can put up with more and am just more patient in general.

Last night, Banana, my 7 year old, learned how to ride a bike. Watermelon, the 12 year old taught her in just a few hours. (Cue the obligatory “Awws” and the sentiments of “how precious”)

Yes, it was exciting. Rambo, Watermelon and I went outside to watch this feat. Problem was – (well only really a problem to people with penises) - was that Banana wasn’t riding her bike. She was riding a red and blue Spiderman little neighbor boy’s bike.

She had traded his bike for hers. He took her pink and purple white-tired Barbie bike and she took his red and blue and black-tired Spiderman bike. (Clearly, she did not get my bling obsession or my addiction to all things pink.)

Um, yah – no. The minute that little boy realizes all his other boy friends don’t have pink bikes with white tires – he’s going to want his Spiderman bike back. Duh. Not to mention I’m thinking his mom didn’t approve of this trade either.

So we begin the whole, “Your bike is prettier. It matches your sister’s bike. Oh what beautiful white tires it has. Wow, I wish I had that bike.” prodding.

It didn’t work. Besides inheriting Rambo’s temper and non-patience, she also got his bullheadedness.

She crossed her arms over her chest and said, “No way. My bike is bigger. I can’t ride it like I can ride his.” (Duh, you little imp – that’s because he’s FOUR.)

So we did the “the bikes are the same size” thing and we even put them next to each other to prove it to her. (Complete backfire. His is clearly about an inch smaller. Shit.)

She clearly took note of the inch difference from his to hers. Now we’re just stupid parents. What do we know anyway?

So she tried to get back on Spiderman and Rambo said, “No honey – please start practicing on your bike. That is the neighbor boy’s bike.”

I see the tears starting. And the screaming commences.

“I can’t ride my bike. It’s too big. No one understands me. Daddy is mean.”

And then the stomping off begins. The door slamming follows that.

As Rambo is left to pick up both bikes and put them away, he says to me, “I’m not putting up with that kind of behavior.”

Which is my cue to go in and fix this before we all blow up and explode.

I go inside and I tighten my lips and my hands involuntarily are in fists at my side. I’m angry that what was supposed to be the coolest thing ever is now a complete meltdown.

She’s on her bed and I walk in and say, “Get your pajamas on. It’s bed time.”

“Well – I didn’t get to eat or cuddle with anyone.” (all while crying and screaming and turning 18 shades of bright red and brighter red)

I say, “Why would anyone want to even talk to you when you act like this? That is a little boy’s bike and you can’t have it. You’re a big girl and you need to ride your own big girl bike. There’s no reason for you to act like this. Now get on your pajamas.”

She screams at the top of her lungs. “Noooooooooo.”

I hear Rambo on his way in. I know there is no way in hell he will allow any child of ours to talk to his wife that way. We both grew up with siblings who treated our mothers like dirt and we swore our kids would never, ever be allowed to do such a thing.

Through clenched teeth, I say….”I really don’t think you want Dad to come in here, do you?” (yes – the old – don’t make me get your father trick. I was desperate. Sue me.)

She screams NO again.

The child has balls I tell you. I guess she’s not scared of him (which is good and bad). But damn – she looks like Satan’s kid. Her face is all red and puffy and I swear I see horns sprouting. Who is this demon? Did she come from my loins?

She finally starts getting on her PJs. I leave her room because at this point, I’m starting to lose my cool. This parenting shit sucks ass. I mean, honest to God – it sucks ass sometimes. I want to get in my car and pretend I forgot my name and drive off into the sunset. I want to run.

Rambo is at the top of the steps now – on his way down the hallway to her room – and I’m coming out.

I hold up my hand and say, “Stop. I got this.”

I repeat….with my hand now on his chest as he stops his forward progression.

I.

GOT.

THIS.

Again, calmer. “I got this.”

He never said a single word. I know he wanted to. But I also know that he knew he was too angry to say anything that would have helped. I told him she learns tempers and anger from us. From when we lose control of things like our voice volume. That if he goes in there and yells, then he’s acting exactly just like she is – except he’s the adult.

Again, not a word. I saw my words literally register in his mind. He walked away and went and did laundry. He never raised his voice at her once. It’s seriously impressive. I know this because I completely raised my voice. I nearly lost it myself. I have no idea how he didn’t. When he backed off it was a sign of trust in MY parenting abilities. It was a sign of support that he had my back. It was way more than just silence and walking away. It was my husband, really trying, to become a better father every single day.

Later on, she came out of her room. She stood in front of us with big, puffy sad eyes and said, “Daddy, I’m sorry.”

I said, “What are you sorry for?”

She said, “For yelling and throwing a fit.”

Then she fell into his arms.

I looked at him and said, “And Daddy?”

But he couldn’t do it. His lips couldn’t form the words. So I said them for him. I said, “Daddy is sorry too. Just like you shouldn’t yell and get so angry so fast, he knows he shouldn’t either. You are both old enough to have a conversation with each other. And we’re the parents so you need to listen to us. Right, Daddy?”

He nodded and hugged her again.  She fell asleep in his arms about 1/2 an hour later.

And though this feels like forever, this whole damn thing took about 10 minutes tops. Then over and done.

I’m totally fine with admitting that we suck as parents sometimes. I have no idea how things went so bad so fast. I know how they got better. I know I’m proud of Rambo for not going into her room and yelling like most fathers I know would have (mine and his would have) – when all he wanted to do was protect me and teach her this isn’t appropriate.

I’m happy he let me handle it. Working in a prison with the worst inmates in our state has warped him a little. He can’t tolerate disrespect at home when he gets it all day from grown men. He forgets that during discipline, quiet voices work better at home. It’s no excuse but it’s the truth.

And my kid can be a brat. She is stubborn as hell. She can be downright mean and nasty and has the bravado of an army. She has no fear of consequences. She pushes limits.

We push back.

It’s amazing how much anger little kids can bring out in us. I think working all day long – so you can give them what they need – and coming home to this behavior is just about enough to make any parent sick.

I think to myself – “We literally work 7 jobs for this little ungrateful human??? We hardly sleep most nights? We live and breathe for her happiness and THIS is what we get?”

It doesn’t seem fair. Or fun.

Some days parenting is just a big ol’ crock full of zebra shit.

And to all of you out there who want to say to me that I should pick my battles and let her ride the damn Spiderman bike….well, you missed the point. She asked a 4 year old to trade bikes with her and he doesn’t even know what that means. She refused to listen to us and got nasty right away. Etc.

I never said we handled this right. I’m just saying that people who never shut up about how parenting is the greatest thing ever (it is) and how it’s not hard because of the love you give and receive and how they’d have 10 kids if they had the time and money….are liars.

Parenting is not CareBear Land. It just ain’t. While my kids no longer physically exhaust me from lack of sleep anymore like when they were infants…they are killing me mentally. Robbing me of any brain power I have left. (Yah, I know there may have not been a lot of brain power there to begin with.  Shut it.)

If the 7 year old isn’t turning into Satan before my eyes well then there’s this from the 12 year old last night about 5 minutes after the above meltdown.

“Mom – what would you say to me dating at this age? Would you consider letting me? Oh and I’ve been thinking I’d really like a laptop since you said no to an ipad. Whaddya think?”

My reply to her question?

“My dearest Watermelon, I think Satan is your father too.  Go ask him.  I'm fresh out of anger for tonight.”

Thursday, August 9, 2012

Ten Things Thursday - Drazzie style!

It’s 3T day. Ten Things Thursday from the little cupcake LauraBelle. Let’s just get right to it.


1. I spent an entire day with my extended family yesterday. Me, Rambo and the girls and my siblings and parents. I’m here blogging…which is to say that I survived the trip. Seriously – I don’t even want to talk about it. Everything was fine. It’s just that trips like this even further cement the fact that we never were, and never will be the Brady Bunch. I don’t even want to be but even a 5 minute glimpse of what that’s like would be kind of cool.

2. I bought an apple yesterday. You should be excited about that. Um, because it just happened to be covered in a layer of caramel, then a layer of pecans, then a layer of chocolate. It was named the “turtle caramel apple”. It should have been named an “apple layered in with orgasms”. I paid $9 for it. $9 for an apple. Straight from the Garden of Eden I swear.

3. I lost weight at my challenge weigh-in yesterday. Obviously – the weigh-in was PRE-apple of ecstasy.

4. I told a woman the other day that I was 15 years older than my sister who is in her 20s. She gasped in shock and then said she would never have guessed I was over 25 myself. Then I humped her leg. And got her another Vodka. I love her. Who cares if she was a little tipsy?

5. Is it wrong that when my girls ask me for 100th time when we are going to go school clothes shopping that I go into a tirade that goes something like this:

Are you going to pay for all these clothes you want? I know you want Nike Shox but first I have to tell you that I used to get my shoes at Kmart. I had to pick any pair under $10.95 or go without. It never mattered how much I cried or threw fits. I wasn’t getting any Nikes. Or new underwear. Or new socks. There was no way in hell I was getting ANOTHER pair of Nike shox just to wear for playing sports. I wasn’t allowed to use pencils. I had to prick my finger and write with my own blood. Wasn’t allowed to pack lunches either. I had to eat the table. I drank glue instead of milk.

Oh shit – wait. I think I went too far. And maybe lied a little. But my God in heaven – there cannot be a child on Earth that understands how much going back to school costs! AND how much more they are getting than I was allowed to get.

I’m jealous of my own kids. Fine. There. I said it. I buy them pretty folders instead of the 10 cent plain ones almost solely to make the little girl inside of me happy. I’m sick. Sick, I tell you.

6. I want to blog for a living. I’m actively recruiting followers who are willing to pay $100 per word. (stop rolling your eyes…a girl can dream or hallucinate if she wants to) No, I didn’t smoke meth today. Why do you ask?

7. Yesterday, in the middle of supper with my family, I suddenly looked at Rambo and said, “Oh, by the way – there is a house next door to Jenny (BFF) that is for sale. Can we move there? Like tomorrow?” And because Rambo was just about as thrilled about our day as I was, his not one hesitation immediate answer was, “Yup. No problem. I’ll start looking for jobs there when we get home.” Okay – then. It’s settled. Jenny – get ready for new neighbors. And no – you are not allowed to put up one of those 30 feet high fences to keep us out. Geez.

8. There are 4 people in my family. Me and Rambo are full grown adults who eat normal amounts of food. My girls are 12 & 7 and they eat…well…pretty much nothing unless it’s macaroni with just butter on it. I got home from work Tuesday night and I kid you not – Rambo had the following on the grill:

An entire bag of chicken breasts – at least 7
An entire package of brats – 12
A ½ package of cheese hot dogs – 5
2 lbs of beef made into burgers – 8
Plus beans, buns, chips, dip, corn and watermelon to go with the above.

We had enough food to feed Ethiopia. MY GOD. That’s a lot of food, huh? I should probably mention that Rambo had just finished bringing home a brand new huge ass beast of a stainless steel grill. It has a damn rotisserie in it. Um – I’ve never rotisserie’d anything in my life. Reedick. I think he was playing the “how much food can this new grill cook at a time” game. A lot, you idiot. A lot.

9. Yesterday my 6 old bought a dog ring. Let me explain it to you. It is a silver ring – you wear on your finger - that has the tiniest dog head on top of it where normally a gemstone would go. A teensy little chihauhua or terrier head. Fur and all. On a ring. On my kid’s hand. I’m going to take a picture of it and show it to you because it’s so damn cute and so damn stupid all at once. Best and worst $3 I ever spent.

10. Rambo and I had a contest with each other yesterday and we didn’t even know it. We were seeing which one of us could say, “Knock it off” or “Would you like to go sit in the car?” to our kids the most times before the trip was over. My kids aren’t even brats – I swear.

I just don’t know how people do weeklong or more vacations all the time – without poking each other’s eyes out and shanking everyone in the car. Honestly. I wonder if anyone in the Brady Bunch carried a concealed shank in their pretty ironed polo shirts. I bet Peter did. He was always a little shifty if you ask me. Or Marcia. Underneath that good girl exterior – Marcia was a badass, don’t you think?

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

I wanna be a fisherman...sort of.

Let me just say that I’ve never been a girl who likes to fish. I did it plenty of times as a kid but as an adult, I can openly admit that the whole putting a live worm on a hook thing just about makes me hurl. Which reminds me – as a kid - do you know that I used to hunt nightcrawlers?


Do any of you know how to do that? It’s like a sport when you live in Podunk and you’re sick of playing staring contests. You wait until dark and wait until there’s dew on the grass and you go out with your flashlights looking for huge nightcrawler worms that are out of their holes and you pounce on them and pull them out of their holes.

Then you feed them to fish at a later date.

I cannot even fathom doing such a thing now. What a terrible flashback.

Alright – anyway – holy shit – I do have a point. I’m pretty sure there’s a fishing term known as “catch and release”. If there’s not – well then I just made it up and now there is. Feel free to use it. I won’t even copyright it.

For me, I shall not catch and release. Or fish at all in fact. I shall “write and release” instead. I’m feeling slightly full of fears, angers, and anxieties today and I’m going to write them in order to try to release them. It better work because that was one helluva long explanation and I’m pretty sure half of you quit reading a while back.

Here we go:

• I am spending the entire day with my extended family tomorrow…along with Rambo and my girls. To say this is creating anxiety within me is like saying OJ Simpson is guilty. There’s no doubt about it. I’m fairly sure the migraine I got this morning is about this.

• I have my end of week 3 weigh-in tomorrow along with the other challengers. I’m not super nervous about this BUT I’m not completely confident either.

• I was on the treadmill for 60 minutes last night and if I had to guess, I’d say I ran for about 20 of those minutes here and there. I never put my speed over 3.4mph because I was afraid my legs might break if I did. I’m afraid I may never be a runner again…and I really want to be.

• I am anxious about summer being over and school starting. I love no bedtimes and no getting up times and not caring what my kids have on for clothing or sports events or drama. I just love summer. I hate it when it’s over.

• I am worried about a stupid, ignorant, fart-blasting, *&^%$# government report that I filed for my 3rd job that is incorrect! I do not want to do it over. I just don’t. I’d rather share a birthday cake with Satan. Ugh.

• I’m anxious about taking the day off tomorrow to spend the day with the extended family because I hate taking days off unless it’s a Friday. I like to stay ahead of my work and coming in to work with piles waiting makes me irritated.

• Rambo and I belong to a club that fundraises for the Muscular Dystrophy Association and our biggest event of the year is Saturday and I don’t have a sitter. I’m slightly worried about this because I may have to call the mother-in-law. God help me.

• I’m mad at myself for skipping the board meeting last night. I wasn’t prepared to go so I’ll have to go next month. I have to deal with people not paying their bills and I just don’t want to. Blah.

• I’m mad that chocolate has calories and I want to eat mounds of it and take a bath in because I’m stressed about tomorrow. Kill me now.

Whew – okay, that’s enough for this week.

How about you? Are you worried about anything? Feeling anxious about something? Irritated?

Well then, write it and release it…sort of like fisherman do.

Sort of.

Give me a break. If I didn’t call it something catchy like “Write and Release”, then this post would have to be titled something like, “Bitching by Draz. Pity Party for one.”

And c’mon. That’s just not fun at all.

Monday, August 6, 2012

I'm just ME....with a little less Drazil.

Before I tell you all about my extraordinary weekend, let me first tell you about a bathroom issue I found just a few minutes ago.


Because of Explosive Man and my general fear of public toilets, I usually hold my pee all day and throw resentment and jealousy marbles at all the people who walk by to use the toilet who aren’t afraid of it.

Today, however, since I am all into drinking more water and Explosive Man is gone – I entered the danger zone a bit ago.

Everything went fine except I sat down and looked at my underwear AND a big fat tag staring directly at me. Ugh. My damn underwear are on backwards. How did I not notice that? And now that I know, of course, they feel terrible. Even though I’ve worn them for hours and they felt fine – they no longer do because I now KNOW they are on wrong. But I cannot switch them around. I’d have to take my pants off and there’s no place to put them except on the floor of the bathroom.

I’d rather eat my young and wash them down with battery acid than put anything I own on that floor.

Cripes.

Okay – on to the weekend. Do you remember that this is the weekend I had to bartend for the first time in my entire life?

I did as I said and put on my jean shorts, cowboy boots, tank top and cowboy hat. I pretended I wasn’t scared. I even poured beers without too much foam.

Some guy asked me if I knew how to do beer shooters?
Another asked which of the two beers I was serving tasted better?
One gentleman commented that I looked like a pro at serving beer.

To which I answered the same thing to all of them.

“Dudes – I’ve never bartended nor drank an entire beer in my life so you should go see those other guys in there serving the vodka about any and all alcohol issues you may have.”

There were ice fights and a tip jar fight. My friend and I lost the tip jar fight but I think it’s because the other bartenders were showing their tits. To be fair, their boobs were bigger than ours. Which is kind of sad, considering they were all males.

There was even Rambo who ended up staying all night with me to help carry kegs and garbage and generally help out.

There was family I hadn’t seen in a really long time. A beautiful bride and groom and sunshine amuck…when the rain ended.

I never took a single Xanax. Didn’t even really give it a thought.

I didn’t get a migraine. Not even a teensy headache.

I didn’t even throw up or get hives.

I made it through and bartended my little heart out for 8 straight hours. 350 people talking right to me and looking me in the eyes. Who the hell would have thought, huh?

I took a few breaks…to go eat and grab a water for myself. Once to make sure I got one of the ice cream bars they were handing out. A few times to hug relatives.

But the one break I loved most was when Rambo came out of the crowd from nowhere and took me to the dance floor. They were playing our wedding song and he got a groomsman to fill in for me for that song.

And do you wanna know what I did the next day? I got my tired ass up and went to a bridal shower. More going and more people and more being social.

Are you wondering who the hell I am?

I’m just ME….with a bit less Drazil.

He was always a douche-canoe anyway, don’t you think?

Thursday, August 2, 2012

Ten Things Thursday - Drazzie style!

It’s 10 Things Thursday!! 10 “randompants” things that make absolutely no sense to anyone!


1. Yesterday, Wednesday August 1, 2012, I did not drink a drop of Mountain Dew. I’m not joking. Not one drop. I’m pretty sure the world is going to end today so don’t say I didn’t warn you. Something is definitely wrong. I didn’t even get a headache. What the holy hell?

2. I have the whole day off tomorrow to shop. Alone. I don’t need anything except one day to pretend my only job in life is to wander around aimlessly in stores. My one mission is to find a pair of sunglasses to wear when I bartend. The kind that people can’t see your eyes through…so no one will know who I’m looking or not looking at. So I remain in control. (stop rolling your eyes at me)<< With my sunglasses, I’ll be able to roll my eyes at dumbass drunk people all night and they’ll never know.

3. I have already been asked if I will serve shots from between my boobs. I’ve also already been told by Rambo that “he’d prefer I not do that.” I’d also like the general public to note that these boobs are no longer capable of serving anything up on them. These suckers are getting old. They look best when hidden. Period.

4. I miss Rambo. Bad. If he’s not working at the prison he is getting up at 3am to haul pigs in the semi which means by about 7pm he’s dead tired. It’s so hot that 3 pigs died on the way to the plant and he has to hand drag them out and it’s just plain exhausting getting them all in and out. It feels all kinds of wrong to whine and say to him, “Please stay awake so you can just sit here and hold me because I’m kind of falling apart and I need to suck all your strength juices out of you so I can go on” when the man has no days off and doesn’t get enough sleep. Selfish much?

5. The urge to own my own motorcycle keeps getting stronger in me. I want to feel empowered and in control and feel the wind on my face and know it’s another dream I conquered. Women on motorcycles just exude power and strength in my opinion.

6. I thought I’d feel better after calling CPS (read previous blog) but I don’t. I hung up the phone and I was covered in hives. Ever since I’ve felt sick to my stomach. I know with 100% certainty it was the right thing to do and I’d feel worse if I hadn’t called but calling didn’t magically turn everything into unicorns and Care Bears. Why can’t it be that simple?

7. Being a responsible parent and multi-career woman is sucking the physical life out of me right now. There are not enough hours in a day to physically complete everything I need to complete. Such as prepping for a board meeting in a few days where I have to present some major items to the board…of which I have done nothing yet. Mentally though I am happy – which is straight up odd knowing how stressed I am.

8. I am officially done with my white Kit Kat obsession. Rambo brought home 6 of them a few days ago and 3 remain. He was so giddy about finding them and surprising me that I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I’m over them. I have no idea what my new favorite is but the days of eating 3 or more full size Kit Kats in a day are done. Prior to Kit Kats it was Milky Ways. I’ll let you know when I figure out my new obsession. Rest assured that I will find it soon.

9. I’m not sure why I agreed to bartend this weekend. One day later and I’m already thinking of excuses like “my entire ass is suddenly covered with boils and my left eye just fell out its socket” so that I can get out of it. Seriously – I don’t know if I can do this. I’m assuming this is one of those events that Xanax was specifically made for. Yes?

10. Yesterday when I got home, Watermelon took it upon herself to give me a play by play of Rambo farting while I was at work. Not even lying – she told me where he was, what he was wearing and HOW it sounded. I screamed, “Did you just try to re-create how your father’s fart sounded?” She is laughing hysterically and saying, “yes mom – he was sitting on the steps so it was not your normal fart sound”. NORMAL fart sound? Holy oxymoron.


Nothing about a fart is normal and never ever do I need to hear about them just because I happened to miss out on them when they happened. Fart backstories should not exist.


She never heard a word I said because she was laughing too hard at that point. Rambo is in the background with his chest puffed out like Tarzan. I’m sure in his head it went something like this: “Me make fart hours ago. Daughter impressed. Wife grossed out. Me super cool and attractive. Me manly man with penis. I make fart again tomorrow.”

Let me also just say that this reminds me that the other day my best friend tried texting me about farting. I immediately stopped her and said “NO WAY are we going to text about farts. I simply cannot do it. Stop it right now or I’ll give you the silent treatment.”


She didn’t listen. The f*cking balls of some people, I tell you.


I made sure that I told Rambo that my best friend was texting me about farts.


He grabbed his phone and texted her something like this: “Unless I can hear you from here, you aren’t bringing the noise!”


What?? What is that? A fart challenge from 100 miles away?? Seriously.


This is my life. I’m the mayor’s wife. It’s a very prestigious role.  Downright glamorous.


You want it?

Wednesday, August 1, 2012

Cowboy boots were made for hiding shanks.

You guys are never gonna believe this BUT on Friday night – I shocked the hell out of myself and Rambo. More than once.


Friends of ours called. I answered. (shock #1) It was 8pm. They were having pizza and a few beers and wanted us to stop over. I said NO WAY – it’s bedtime for our kids and Rambo has to get up at 4am.

After I hung up, I told Rambo who had called and why and then words came out of my mouth that I’ve never spoken before.

I said, “We should call them back and go for a bit.” (shock #2)

I think Rambo pissed his pants just then. He said, “What? You want to go? Like now?”

Yup. Sure. Let’s do it. It’ll only be an hour or so.

At that point I even picked up the phone and called them back and told them we’d stop in. Yes – me – phone-phobia-phreak – called someone back on purpose. (shock #3)

It’s only about 5 minutes away but after I got in the car and out of the driveway I may or may have said all or none of the below.

Wait – I don’t really want to do this.
Did I really say we should go out?
What if there are lots of people there?
What if it’s a full blown party?
I don’t think I can do this.
Why didn’t you tell me I was crazy for doing this?
Why would you let me do this?
I’m going to throw up in your car.
I’m getting hives.
OMG – are those multiple cars?
Holy shit – there must be 10 people here.
I don’t think I can get out of the car.
Why on Earth would I agree to this?
This is just plain batshit crazy.
I want to shank myself.

And then I walked into the party. And had fun. And didn’t die. And left an hour later.

You bet your sweet asses that on the way home I turned to Rambo and said, “Holy shitbuckets! Do you realize I just went somewhere sort of willingly and totally spontaneously??? Like with no notice whatsoever?”

He just looked at me, grabbed my hand as he drove and said, “I know. I’m so proud of you baby.”

Yah, I’m proud of me too. Literally – even just a year ago – such a thing never would have happened. I am making progress, my friends.

And get this? This weekend yours truly is going to do something I have NEVER done and it’s MAJORLY social (aka hive inducing).

I have to bartend at a wedding with 350 people. I am completely and totally unafraid to admit that I’m going to wear short fringed cut off jean shorts with a white tank and brown cowboy boots in an effort to distract mostly everyone from looking at my face and thinking I’ll talk to them.

The only thing that hopefully runs through their heads when they cozy up to the bar is “my God – she wore that in public at her age. I better grab my drink and RUN instead of staying and chatting.”

Seriously – can you say panic attack city? But it’s for a friend in a bind and Rambo will be there at the reception for a few hours so I can sneak “RESCUE ME” glances at him for a while. Here’s hoping I don’t cry like a 2 year old when he leaves about 9pm…and I’m on my own.

He keeps saying, “Don’t worry baby, you’ll know everyone there!”

Um duh – therein lies half the problem!!! UGH

I’m going to hide a shank in my cowboy boots….just in case. Please pray for me and my hives. They’ll probably be so big I’ll need to start naming them and feeding them.

Christ.