someone might get hurt. it won’t be me.

For those of you that have been asking if this week is going better than last I’m going to share a little story with you.

Last  night I ended the night crying myself to sleep for being such a royal bitch to my kids all night.  Yes, they deserved it, but usually I’m better than that.  Usually.  This morning started with me telling myself no matter how much it feels like my innards are at war with one another, no matter how badly my hormones are trying to kill me from the inside-out, I will not succumb to the beast that takes over this time of the month.

{Yes, this will be one of those posts.  Sort of.}

Round about ten o’clock my little man’s behavior had reached limits that nullified his stay of execution,  and I just sent him to his room for the rest of the day.  It was basically to save his life.  I gave in three times after that and let him have “one more chance”  because I was feeling a bit guilty about what a psycho I was being.  {I will not share the details.  I have reason to believe CPS may be watching me now. (that’s a joke.)}  At this very moment he’s sitting at the table eating candy.  I am an unstable situation right now.  (And I am usually a reasonably consistent person.)

This is an actual text message I sent to my husband this afternoon:  “I’m not sure your son is going to live to see you come home.  You know that lady that drove her car into the lake with all her kids in it?  I can kind of understand that.”  {I still haven’t heard back from him.  Obviously he’s not worried.}

You guys, I am a train wreck.  If I  don’t get some decent hormone treatment soon no one in this house is going to live to see the light of day on the nights my husband is away.  My behavior and mental situation gives the term “stabby” a whole new meaning.  One that closely resembles the literal one.  Okay, maybe it just is the literal one.  I don’t even know.

So, no, I guess this week isn’t any better.  It’s probably not any worse either… but you sure as shit couldn’t prove that to me right now.  I’m one slippery step away from the loony bin.   The terror level in my house should be at a code black right now.

Aren’t you glad you asked?  No?  Me either.

Drunk Texture

This past weekend the Hubbs and I went out with a few other couples for a mini couple’s retreat of sorts. No kids, no worries, and plenty of spirits to keep the mood light. We have some seriously great friends. Whenever we all get together there is bound to be shenanigans and charades of all sorts. 🙂

So Saturday night started with dinner at our local sports bar and lots of chit chat. Before I knew it, I had consumed FOUR large cocktails. I was a hot mess. Usually, when I go out with the girls I may get a little tipsy, but I never get belligerent. {I don’t even like talking about this because it just makes me sound like a crazy loser, but you need to know this about me.} Whenever I go out and the Hubbs is there, I always drink too much. He doesn’t drink, so I know I will be in safe hands all night and he’ll be making sure I don’t do anything too stupid. Although, once he did let me get up on a raised dance floor at a bar and stand in front of the large fans and dance like a 1987 Whitesnake video queen. No, there aren’t pictures. Yes, I kind of wish there was. Anyway, that aside… he doesn’t let me do anything too stupid.

I kept my composure for the most part this weekend. I didn’t do any dancing in front of fans or on tables or anywhere for that matter. I mostly just laid with my head on a napkin dispenser mumbling incoherently and then wandered around aimlessly wanting to go to “shake my ass.” Another little tid-bit… I tend to think I’m a really good dancer when I’ve had a few too many. I amNOT. There is no where with any decent dance music in this town that isn’t accompanied by scary people with gangster complexes and guns. We live in a 30,000 person town. ‘Nuf Said.

Then… we got home. I slinked into the bathroom to hide while Hubbs gathered up the sitter and took her home. I must have gotten bored, because Sunday morning I found quite the entertaining collection of text messages to my sister. {She’s actually my sister-in-law, by marriage, but she’s just my sister. Because I say.} Please let the record show, this sister is the only person (except the Hubbs- which I will not talk about here) I ever text while drunk. Ever. {Thank the Jesus.}

I won’t bore you with all the detailed craziness, but here are a few of the choice ones. {Notes in these nifty little brackets will be my sober comments on what the hell I think of myself now.} Oh, and I’ll correct the spelling because clearly I was texting with gloves on. Or with a pirate hook.

“Good morning my little puddin pop. I loooove you… You’re my favorite drunk texture.” {Don’t you love how sappy some people get when intoxicated?}

“Yes we home. Jimmie take babysitter home. Keli sit on toilet… in case puke comes. puke. bad.”

{A few incoherent texts later and this little gem…}

“Do you think Mr. Bojangles was real?” {WTF??? Where did this come from? I don’t even think about Mr. Bojangles on an occasional basis! I am scared of myself right now.}

“Tomorrow will be bad. Bad. bad. bar… okay, me sleepy now. sleep now. lovey loves.”

“Mommy needs water. Bring Mommy water.”…”Oops, that was for Jimmie.”

“Snap into a Slim Jim. hahahahaha.”

I have no words here people. None. I consider myself to be a generally classy person for the most part. I’m not stuffy by any means and have been known to be a good-time girl (both in the whoreish way and not. But mostly not. And not whoreish in YEARS.) But I don’t even know who that person was. I will now, and forever, swear off the following drinks:

Red Bull and Vodka!
Grape Vodka with Cranberry Juice.
Black Opals!!!
Sex on the Beach.

If you should see me with one of these beverages, you should just remind me of this humiliating post, which I am putting on display for all the world to see so you can remind me never to pull this Lindsay Lohan bullshit again.

Also, this is my audition letter for Celebrity Rehab. {Which I have already been denied for since I am not, in any way, a celebrity- except in my own mind.}

 

it’s like i have a condition

I can’t even tell you what a serious CF this week has been.  I’m not even sure where to start.

Monday, was pretty much just your run of the mill Monday (aside from being VD which means nothing to the impropers.)  It was full of craptasticness.  Mondays are Jazzercise days. (You guys are gonna get so sick of hearing about Jazz.)  So, I busted ass to get the last kiddo out the door and ran for the car.  On the way out Hubbs let me know the car was on FUMES and to stop  to grab some gas on the way TO Jazz.  SHITBALLS.  I was already running late.  Grrrr.

When I drove by the only gas station between here and Jazz I was in the wrong lane, realized I had even less money than I thought (like $1.72 in the ash tray,) no debit card, no nothing.  I couldn’t even show the guy my boobs because they were poured into my sports bra and we all now how hard it is to retrieve your boobs from your sports bra.  Plus, they are not just impressive enough to earn a gallon of gas anymore.  I had to just chance it.  My Jazz pal offered to get me some gas after Jazz.  Can I have a Jazz Hand Clap for her awesomeness?  So, after class we headed for the gas station and I ran out of gas about 100 feet away from the studio.  It was just a nightmare of idiotic situations, but she saved the day and I made it back home.  In time to deal with the kids’ bedtime.  Yahoo.

Tuesday was another sub-par day.  The kids are just little jerks lately.  They’re always fighting with one another.   My daycare babies are teething.  The older two are potty training.  The oldest three are having squabbles every five minutes and need a constant referee.   I was stressing all day because I hadn’t gotten that little email from the IRS telling me my return had been accepted so I had myself convinced I was being audited.  I decided I just needed to go sweat out some of my stress.  So, once again the best pal ever came to my rescue and picked me up for Jazz class.  After class we were walking out the door and somehow, I  sprained my wrist.  Who the hell sprains their wrist opening a damn door?  Oh! I know! ME!  Amazeballs.

Then yesterday (Wednesday) I was getting some supplies out of my stocked to the brim craft supply pantry and a basket of teensy tinsy little tid-bits fell from the top shelf and then somehow knocked every other basket off of every other shelf on its way down.   Basically, my craft supplies are still in a heap in the bottom of the supply pantry in my kitchen.  I may just throw it all away and start over.  I literally can’t even open the door without shedding a tear.

These three things? They are just a few of smaller things that have happened this week.  I could go on for hours.   But I won’t.    I know you’re already annoyed.   So am I.

I know this means nothing to you.  I know you have shit happen all the time and I’m not a special case.  But, seriously? I just don’t know if I can take much more this week.  I’m on the verge of freaking the fuck out.  I spilled the sugar bowl all over the counter today and I just sunk to the ground and started crying in the corner.   Three of the kids spilled their cereal at breakfast and I just let the dog hop up on top of the table and eat it off.

I changed five back-to-back poopy diapers in a 10 minute time period this morning.  I only have four kids in diapers.  That’s right… by the time I finished number four, number one had shit so far up his back it was in his hair.  Then? A half hour later when I realized I should not still be smelling poop, I realized I had it not only all up my arm- from sprained wrist to elbow, but it was also all over the back of my leg.  God only knows where I tracked it.  I still smell shit.

There’s only one explanation.  God hates me because I don’t always capitalize his… I mean  His… name when I write.
Great.   One more grammatical error I have to try to correct.

Shit.

so this must be… what? first base?

One week ago, I woke up and challenged myself to go a weensie bit outside my safe little box and find some new friends.  But maybe I should start a little earlier than that…

I have been writing since Junior High.  It all began with angsty poems and (what would now be called) emo letters to no one to get me through the emotional roller coaster of coming of age.  Later in life, it became my cathartic way of coping with being a new wife and with motherhood and the whole “not knowing where the hell I fit in my world” development.   Again, coming of age, I suppose.

My writing has always been for me.  It’s my therapy- because I’m cheap.  Over time people began to relate to my writing.  At one point, before it was a paid gig to be a mommy blogger (or at least before I was aware of it) I had what would now be a pretty lucrative following.  Then, my world fell apart around me.  It started when my Hubb’s big bucks job fell apart and just kept spiraling from there.  I sunk into a depression that only the sinking of the Titanic could compare to, and not even writing or the kudos from my loyal followers could pull me up.

I shut down.

I stopped writing for a very long time.  I battled so many demons I can’t even tell you.  Then those demons started affecting me physically.   We literally thought  I was dying on more than one occasion.  I was physically wasted, mentally/emotionally not okay and working a full-time job for the first time in, well, pretty much my whole life.  It all  just really sucked.  And I withdrew into myself because that’s what I do.  And life, once again, fell squarely on my hubby’s shoulders.  And he? Handled it with strength and a graciousness I don’t even begin to deserve.

Slowly, I began to get my shit together- in my life in general, and the part of me that loves to write and loves the comradery of writing a blog began to come back to life.

It’s been kind of weird for me to write for about 14 people.  Before when I was writing I had about 1500 regular followers (at least that’s what the site meters told me… I dunno.  People never comment on these damn things.) 😉  So, I got used to writing for “no one”.  Then, it started to kind of bug me.

So last week I said, “Woman.  You need to put yourself out there.  Do something and see if you can drum up some business.  At least then you’ll have someone to talk to about how crazy you are.”  And now?  I’m totally stuck.  It freaks me out to be writing for someone again (No offense to those of you who were here before, but you’re my friends.  You’re stuck with me anyway!)   I’ve started and deleted approximately 17 posts the past 6 days.  I really wanted to have you here, and now I feel I have nothing to offer.  It’s like having house guests and no towels.  Or food.

All that to say, I hope you’ll bear with me.  I’m getting my sea legs again.  I’ll try not to barf on you in the process.

{Oh, and please oh please sweet baby jesus, don’t take this as a plea from me for you to tell me how great I am or to hang in there.  This is just me getting the gremlins out of my head so  we can move forward.  I’m really hoping we can get to second base by this time next week.}

an open letter to the most awesome people in the universe… because you love me.

I’m trying like hell not to start this post with

“OhMyGodYouGuys, I can’t believe I have fans!”  But I can’t.   So I did. 😉

I am so happy to get to know those of you who stick around once you find out you didn’t win the t-shirt.  I hope you’ll come and chat with me often.  I’m stuck in this house all day sucking snot out of stuffy noses, changing diapers and wiping poop off little butts.  For other people’s kids.  (Don’t get me wrong, I totally love it… uhhh… I think) but sometimes I just need to say SHIT without 14 little eyes looking up at me like I’m the devil.

You guys totally already went to the bottom to see who won.  Didn’t you?  Well if not, hurry up and go do it.  I know that’s all you’re thinking about.  But then come back and read this.   Because I’m needy.

Dude, can you believe it? Aren’t you totally happy for those girls?!?!  No?  You want to find their address and steal their stuff?  Well, lucky for you, I created a little store on zazzle.com and you can buy your very own very soon!  I did a little research and they really do have good quality stuff on their site!  I’ll let you know once the store opens so you can check it out.

Anywho, I really hope I get to you.   I hope you’ll comment on here often- even if it’s just to tell me how much it annoys you that I have no respect for the rules of grammar.  Aside from being a narcissistic attention whore, it actually kind of helps the writing process when readers chime in.  Imagine if you will, standing in front of 134 people and giving a little speech.  They just sit the whole time staring at you with blank faces and then at the end their mouths just fall open and a bit of drool oozes out of their mouths while they continue their catatonic state.  That’s how it feels when I see my blog had 354 views today and not one person even says, “Dude, you’re fucking crazy!  Go get a life!”  After a while the *crickets chirping* starts to quiet the creative juices.  Plus, I’m needy.

Okay, okay… I better tell the winners before I forget what I came here to do. Here’s how I chose the winners:

There’s a site called random.org.  You tell it to choose a number between 1 and in this case, 106 (the number of fans I had last night at midnight.)  It then generates a number and I used that number to choose you. You see, my page remembers the order that you joined the site and I just counted up that number of people from my first follower to get to you.  Then I had my kid double check my work because I suck at all things MATH.

I want to preface this by saying  I am absolutely positive it’s going to seem like I rigged this!  I mean, I already said I was going to so why wouldn’t you believe me?  BUT I DIDN’T EVEN HAVE TO!  (And, honestly, I really wouldn’t have.  Swearsies.)

Number 17 is Lauren Kasen.  HOLY CRAP!  YOU ROCK!!!

Number 64 is Jenn Kreitz.  AND I DIDN’T EVEN HAVE TO CHEAT! 😉
Girl, your friends sent you some serious vibes!

A special shout out to the diaper sewing divas who pimped me so hard I might have contracted herpes.  I love you ladies already!

Thanks to all of you, I have a new excitement about writing.  And my house is already falling apart because I haven’t done a stitch of housework since 4:27 yesterday afternoon.  No shit.  Better go get on that.

 

OH CRAP- I totally forgot to tell you winners: We’ll talk in a private chat about which shirt you want, size, etc.  There’ll be lots of options with zazzle!  Which reminds me of be-dazzle.

villagers have more important jobs than raising my kids…

Remember back when I shared my New Year’s Goals? Just like 15 billion other people in the world, I decided to get my flabby ass back into shape. So far, so good. I joined a little club called Jazzercise (I know, I am laughing about that too. And yes, it still exists) and I’ve actually been going.

One of the necessary evils of exercise if you’re a woman of my stature is the sports bra. Sweet lord I hate the sports bra. I mean, I’m glad for it’s benefits and all. When one is a triple D (yes, my boobs come in 3D. ha.) the average sports bra doesn’t quite do the trick. The contraption I have is pretty much 20 layers of spandex and Lycra woven together into a stretchy vise of unprecedented contracting ability.

On the average day, it takes me five minutes to get the damn thing on. I’m not freaking joking. There’s pulling and tugging and tucking and adjusting and just an overall wrestling match between all my appendages. Then there’s the sweat factor. If it takes long enough for me to work up a sweat, it’s all over. I have to just lay on the bed and cool off so I can start over. Lycra + Sweat = No freaking way. I’m so tired by the time I get the thing on I don’t even need to go to Jazzercise. But, I do. Because I already went to all that trouble dammit!

The past couple of weeks, I’m proud to say, I have developed a little system and it’s getting easier. Until yesterday. Yesterday I was running a bit behind but I really just wanted to shower before I left for my class. (I know, why bother??) So, I corralled the kids around a movie and ran to the shower. Approximately four minutes later and ten minutes before my last daycare pick-up I was drying off and dressing for class. Approximately four minutes and thirty seconds later, I realized that showering and then immediately trying to put on the jaws of death in a steamy 3×3 room was the stupidest idea in the history of forever.

The kids (who were watching their movie in my attached bedroom) began knocking on the bathroom door. “Heeeeyyyy, whatcha dooooin in dere?” “What’s all dat bangin arrrouuuuund?” “Are you grrrruuuunting?” “Are you going pooooop?” Holy shitballs of fire, people. 😉 What on earth am I supposed to do here? A parent, a DAD no less, is going to be here in 7 minutes and I am stuck in my bathroom with yoga pants and a sports bra with a brood of curious children camped outside trying to look under the door.

I was sweating bullets in my steamy/sticky bathroom, water dripping out of my hair and causing my already tangled contraption to cement in a tight roll around my neck. It was like every fiber of spandex was trying to choke the life out of me so it could flee and find a B cup to guard. Finally, I decided I need more space. I call out to my daughter to take the kids to her bedroom so I could maneuver in my larger, COOLER bedroom.

Once the coast was clear I hopped, danced and stumbled around my bedroom to get the thing over my head. At one point I stopped to take a breath and realized my arms were pinned above my head in the “sleeves” and I was turning around in backward circles like a deranged dog chasing his invisible tail. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to laugh hysterically or cry.

Then, by some miracle of miracles I got the thing settled around my middle and pulled it up… to discover I had it on backwards. I considered just wearing it, but it’s a racer back and all it succeeded in doing was pushing my boobs out either side and providing an interesting decoration in the middle. (I know, I’m sorry for that visual.)

So, I pull it down, around my hips, turn it around and then tug it back up over my hips and up around my damn boobs. Finally. Then I collapsed on my bed and cried tears of joy and exhaustion and conceded the fact that this damn bra is too small. BUT, I am NOT going to buy a new one because it cost somewhere upwards of a hundred bucks and I am positive that in a few more weeks I’ll be able to fit into it. Right? YES RIGHT. Don’t even bother trying to disagree with me on this! Clearly, until then, I need a freaking crew of village idiots to get me into this thing.

I didn’t even bother taking it off last night. I showered in it and wore it to bed wet. I’ve resolved I am going to be one with this thing until I can get it off without turning blue. Or until it cracks a rib.