i’m not trying to sell you anything I SWEAR.

Much of the time, when a mom gets her kids into full-time school, she returns to work.  This mom? As soon as my kids are in school, I stop working and lay around the house talking to my friends on the internet.  I’ve been waiting eight years for some leisure time.  I’m soaking it all in while I can bitches.

Okay, I’m totally lying.

A while ago I put a question out to my FB peeps about what kind of job I should do that falls into these categories: is legal, makes me a few hundred bucks a month, and can work around our one car situation until I make enough cash to buy a second car.  Apparently, I’m screwed.  I don’t even remember what all the ideas were.  I just know that a lot of people said “Ohmygod don’t do one of those direct sales things.  No one wants to buy any more kitchen crap or make-up or godforbid candles.”  And well of course that’s really just all I need to hear to say, “Hey guys.  I think I really want to sell crap.  I mean, you know how much I love to host those buy-crap parties, so imagine how good I’ll be at selling the crap.”

I know.  I’m a total loser.

Here’s the thing.  About a year ago I did in fact host a buy-crap party for some bags.  I pimped that shit so hard you wouldn’t believe it.  Because I wanted to get a ton of free stuff!  I love those bags like I love my children.  Plus, they don’t talk.  I can carry my shit around all over the place looking super cute and organized and like I really care about life.  It all matches and coordinates and it is freaking durable (I mean I’ve had it for a YEAR.)  And I love that stuff hard.  I have a habit when it comes to those bags and I just can’t quit it.

So, I have decided to sell it.  I have some good ideas on how to do it.  Plus, I think I’ll use those parties as a chance to work on my stand-up.  That should go over well, right?  Please don’t make fun of me and judge me.  And please don’t pretend to be on your cell phone when you see me coming to make sure I don’t ask you if you want to host a party.  I already hit up my family and they all shot me down, so I know you’re not interested.  I know no one wants to host those damn parties.  I know no one wants to attend them either.  The only reason I ever go is because I know there will be free food and free booze.  Mostly free booze (because you spend more money when you’re tip-say.)

But I have to do something.  We have pennies in the checking account until payday and I just used my last tampon.  On day two.  And no one is jumping up and down wanting to pay me to bitch about my hubs and kids online.  {I know, I can’t believe it either.}  So, clearly I need to get a job.  And not even McDonald’s is hiring unless you have a Bachelor’s in burger economics.  And mine is only in Theology.  From a school that is not even a real school.  So I need to figure this shit out.


can i tell you a secret?

So I really want to tell you a juicy little secret, but I’m going to need your absolute assurance that you’re going to keep this just between us.  Because, if this gets out, and Jimmie finds out I told you, there’s a good chance my home will not be a happy one tonight.  So can you just keep this on the DL for me?  Mmkay, thanksomuch.

My husband, is the worst fucking driver in the universe.  Now granted, I’m on my period and the fact that the man breathes my oxygen just pisses me off beyond words right now, but I have this opinion pretty much 97% of the time anyway.  He is an idiot driver.  I’d like to list his infractions alphabetically, but there’s just no time for that.  So I’m thinking a bulleted list will suffice.

  • He does not signal.  93.76% of the time, he does not use his turn signals for turning, merging, passing, overtaking or otherwise moving from one area to the other where a turn signal would not only be appreciated but is also, in fact, the law.
  • He follows too closely.  If you are driving in front of us, he is most likely going to be all up in your ass.  He also does not pay that great of attention so there’s a good chance he will at some point have to throw on the brakes in a violent manner to avoid actually being inside of your actual ass.  So that’s a really good time for everyone.
  • His job requires him to #1 drive pretty much all day long, and #2, my personal favorite, simultaneously be on the phone all. day. long.  He rarely uses the fucking expensive hands free headset thingy ma bob that he is required to use, once again, by law.  So at any given time on pretty much any given day, he is driving through Seattle area traffic, on his phone, USING HIS HANDS and generally holding a cup of coffee or something else while turning, weaving through traffic and of course, following too closely.
  • He has been known to text/facebook/tweet/play words with friends while driving.  I don’t feel this needs and further explanation.  Except to say maybe that I think I hate him.
  • When he is turning onto a cross-street, he turns really short so that if there is maybe a car sitting there waiting for their turn or, god forbid, drives up to the stop sign simultaneously, there’s a good chance he’s going to plow into the car’s front.  Does that make sense?  Let me see if I can draw you a picture.

  • My final complaint, for now, is that no matter what driving fuckery Mario is up to, if I happen to mention that… oh I don’t know… maybe we should HIT THE BRAKES before we run over that pedestrian, or whathaveyou, he gets so pissy and in a huff that I would dare question his superb driving skillz that it’s just ridiculous.  His new MO is to just pull over and tell me to drive.  Which is exactly what I wanted to fucking do in the first place.
{I’d now like to apologize for the exorbitant number of f-bombs.  I have some emotions right now.  Is exorbitant the right word here?  Whatever.}

i want to title this “I ROCK, BITCHEZ!” but i don’t think that’s very appropriate.

I have the hardest time starting a post, especially after I’ve been MIA for a couple of weeks. Should I just dive right in there and tell my story or should I start out like I’m writing a long lost friend a letter or maybe I should catch you up on recent events or SHIT I DON’T KNOW.

And you probably don’t care.

So… {she looks around awkwardly wondering which of her most awesome pick-up lines she should use} …you come here often?

Whatever. So, we did the move. Yep. I now reside as the supreme bitch in my very own 1374 sq ft house in the middle of a hill that if the light shines just right at approximately 4:19 pm one MIGHT be able to see the glory of the Port of Tacoma. I know. Awesome.

Jimmie (the hubs) and the spawn and I packed up my sister’s Toyota Yaris one Friday around noontime and headed across the mountains to retrieve one U-Haul in which to pack all our earthly belongings. You guys, my husband is 6’2″ and… not a small individual. Seeing him pull up to the house in that Yaris (read: smart car with a back seat) was the most enjoyable sight I’ve had in quite some time. He called me on the way home with genuine fear in his voice because he felt like he was in a go-cart on the freeway and his life was in danger. We are not small (car) people. Unfortunately, our budget for this move was on a small car’s gas mileage. So we drove that puppy. And it was Hi-larious. Text messages to the sister highlighting the trip:

“Jimmie looks Supafly driving around in the Yaris!”

“Made it safely. We was passin’ bitchez like mad. The Yaris hauls balls.”

I feel I should take a moment to explain that last text. We watched a few minutes of “The Other Guysa few days before the move. You know the part where Allen finds out Sheila’s pregnant and says, “Gator’s bitchez best be wearin’ jimmy’s!?” That part must have awoken my inner gangsta pimp or something, because I swear I have been having an internal monologue of gangsta pimp conversations for WEEKS now. It’s starting to drive me insane. I also just sent my sister a text reminding her to bring the sewing machine to our parents for Jordan’s birthday dinner.


It’s like I have Tourrett’s. Again. I can’t stop myself. I honestly catch myself folding laundry and inside my mind, where I’m thinking about a conversation I’m going to have with Jim about… dinner, whatever… and suddenly I realize I’m talking in pimpverse. And I’m disturbed. I think this means I’m fluent. Because yes, now that I think about it, I do also dream in this language. And well, maybe it is time to see a professional. Probably.

Oh my God, I’m so off track here I think I have to save the story of Jimmie and I loading the U-Haul all by ourselves in less than an hour and a half for another day. Well, never mind. I guess I just told you. And basically what that means is, I ROCK BITCHEZ! (Because I’m freakishly strong!)

the passing of the torch

The hubs was flipping channels earlier and landed on Top Gun.  I was finishing up dinner and the kids were just wandering around.

Approximately 30 seconds into the movie, Elle was mesmerized.  It was the TV version so I wasn’t too concerned, but I was keeping an eye out for all the good inappropriate parts just in case (lest you think I’m a really bad mother.)  After dinner we were watching and the Volleyball Scene came on.  I flippantly commented “this is my favorite part.”  Since I’m such a volleyball fan I thought she’d just dismiss it, but she chimed right in.

“I love how you can see all their muscles and their six packs, Mom.”

God I love bonding with my girl.


(I won’t even start about how much I hate Tom Cruise now.  I just pretend that was some other guy.)

housewife survival guide. for the newlywed.


I have a friend who recently decided to give up the greatest freedom ever in exchange for something called nuptial bliss.  I’m talking single-hood people, not living in America.  My friend and her hubby are all cute and lovey and living in the middle of god-forsaken-nowhere-Montana or some place so they can live off the land and just enjoy being alone together or some delusional romantical jest.  Whatever.

Yesterday on her facebook she posts that they are finally getting television services hooked up to their cabin and how exciting it will be to watch something other than Anderson Cooper’s face through a blanket of grayish snow.  And I was so excited for her because last night was the Season Premier of Parenthood and she should probably get caught up on that show to make the drama of married life seem boring to her.  And because I freaking love it.  Yay for fall TV.

Then this morning I wake up to find her posting about now that they have cable and internet, (and oh my God how has she lived this long without the INTERWEBZ?!?!?!)  she isn’t sure if she should watch TV or play online or *GASP* do housework?  And I am immediately “Oh my god woman! Hasn’t anyone taught you the rules of housewifery yet?  Holy Shit let me break it down for you!”  And so here are the rules you guys.  Please make sure to share this with any single women you know.  I fear I may be too late here and she has already spent the first month of marriage doing crazy domestic dilly-dallying which he now expects and OHMYGODTHERE’SNOTURNINGBACK.  How was I not there for my friend before this mess started!?  HEED MY WISDOM!

Basic Rules of Wifery:

1.  Start slow.  This is the most basic rule there is, ladies.  You must pace yourself when you start this out or, let’s face it, your marriage is doomed.

When cooking, burn at least half of the meals you prepare per week.  You may be God’s gift to fine dining, but you need to give that man a wake-up call that this is not his mama’s house and there’s some rough roads ahead.  An occasional meal of PBJ’s also isn’t a bad idea.  This may feel a little beneath you for a few weeks, but  you just have to hold strong.  He needs to look back on these days in a few months and realize you have worked tirelessly hard to improve your skills for him.

Leave crap laying around the house for a while.  Don’t keep things spotless.  Leave a box of tampons out on the bathroom counter.  Leave his socks on the floor for a couple of days.  This puts simple boundaries in place.  You are marking your territory while simultaneously telling him you are not the effing maid and there will be equal work put in around this joint.

Put off doing laundry as long as possible.  (You may have to sneak a small load of your things in while he’s gone to make sure you can outlast him.)  This will ensure that once you do start doing laundry on the regular, but leave it in baskets rather than putting it away, he will not bitch and quite possibly will help put his own crap away.  This is housewife GOLD here folks.

You get the idea by starting slow.  Give yourself a few months to work up to your true self.  By the time he suffers through this time, he will think you’ve worked so hard to become a Grade A housewife, he’ll buy you diamond earrings for your three month anniversary.  It’s truly a win/win.

2.  Don’t spend your whole day doing crap around the house.  Listen, keeping your palace up to a quality living quarters does not take eight hours a day.  You are more than able to spend the first five hours lounging in your jammies and watching the Real Housewives of Everywhere every single day.  It takes three hours, at most, to shower and make yourself pretty (if you’re in to that sort of thing,) wipe off countertops and throw dishes in the dishwasher.  You can then chop up some veggies and throw them in a pan and by the time he gets home things will be smelling like dinner.  Take a few more minutes to throw some hot dogs on there too and it’s a meal.  This is not rocket science.

3.  {This is a mistake I made out of the chutes.  I fear there’s no turning back.  I also think he may have passed it on to the offspring.  Hear my warning!}  Do not find stuff for him.  If he’s missing some paper work and you know right where it is, just point him in the general direction casually.  Don’t, for any reason, go finding crap.  He will then lose his ever-living brain cells and thenceforward go about expecting you to find everything.  I swear to God in a few weeks he will cease lifting single sheets of paper to look under the stack for his own damn car keys.  You cannot let this happen.  Do not let on that your uterus is truly a navigational system for lost items.  This is a secret we must keep to ourselves or we will spend eternity searching for lost socks and someone’s quarterly report.  It’s just not an existence we want to suffer through!

4.  This is the most  important rule.  Do not start doing a certain chore if it is not something you want to be saddled with for the next fifty years.  Imagine for a moment your hubby has spent the first two years tirelessly mowing, edging and weeding your lawn.  Then one day, he has had a particularly long week at the office and you want to help him out and cut the grass for him.  This is a huge mistake!  Fight the urge to rescue your man and make his life easier.  Whatever you do, don’t give in.  As wives, once we give in and do an extra chore once, they automatically assume we’re just going to take over that job for the rest of forever.  That old “give an inch and they’ll take a mile” thing?  That’s 100% TRUE.

5.  This seems like a contradiction of rule number four, but it is actually just a tricky variation on the subject.  Occasionally, you may want to do something around the house that you know he’d like you to take on, but you’re just not willing to shoulder.  Let’s just use the previous example of lawn mowing.  When you cut the grass, do it in a way that has the neighbors wondering what crack-head lawn boy has been butchering your spring green.  Mess up the lines, go in three different direction and maybe take out a shrub or two.  When the hubs has a chance to check out your handiwork, act completely proud of your efforts as well as exhausted.  This will provide a) a chance for him to see that you really do think you’ve done a good job and are completely incapable of EVER doing this again and b)  a reason for him to tell you not to do it again. “Oh honey, that must be a little too strenuous for you, I better keep up on this chore.  WIN/WIN!

I know this may seem a bit underhanded to you newlyweds.  How could one ever be so devious and dishonest in marriage?  Well honey, honesty is the last thing you need in a marriage, trust me!

this isn’t as boring as you might think it’s going to be. probably.

Remember how I’ve been blabbering on and on about how I’m going to start blogging seriously and mostly all the time and that I want lots of people to read my blog and make me feel super special about what a funny lady I am and how good I am at just uhhh… bitching?  (That was soooo a run-on sentence.  Every English major in America wants to kill me right now.)  Well, I decided to take a baby step in that direction.

Last week a local blogger I like to read Mama Kat (from Mama’s Losin’ It) was hosting a little blogger workshop.  It was a small gathering at an unconventional place and I figured it wouldn’t totally freak me out to go and meet some people and maybe learn some tricks of the trade.  I decided to put on my big girl panties and be brave and meet people and be me.  I know this will come as a surprise to you since I am usually so mouthy and confident and fabulous, but occasionally I have a wee bit of anxiety about being in a room full of strangers.  Not the kind that requires Xanax but the kind that is usually best suited to Gray Goose.  Alas, this was a morning gig so Gray Goose was probably not an option.

I put on a bra and some clothes that are generally outdoor acceptable and set out on my grand journey.  I timed my arrival in the “three minutes till go time” time frame so there wouldn’t be a need for TOO much small talk.  I peak at about 2 1/2 minutes.  You feel me, right?  I knew the gig was sponsored by Molen Orthodontics and that we’d be in their building.  I also knew one of our little goodies for attending the workshop was a free whitening kit.  Cool.  What I didn’t think about was how this would, you know, affect me and my condition.

If you’ve read me for more than a week you probably know I have a wicked fear of all things dentistry.  So when I drove into the parking lot of Molen Ortho and realized this little shin-dig was probably going to be smack in their main office and not at some giant medical facility with a super removed conference room (which I dreamed up in my fantasy world,) I had a moment.  And then I remembered I had my big girl panties on and told myself to get over it.  So I did.  (OH MY GOD I’m really rambling here, aren’t I?!)

I walked in, made some small talk and was soon whisked away to the room where there were suspicious looking chairs and lights and tools that all looked very dentisty.  I did not lose my shit.  I stayed very mature and did. not. lose my shit.  YAY ME!  The cute little tech gave me a bib and put some gooky stuff on a tray and then… shoved it down my throat.  To make a mold of my bottom teeth.  It sat there for a while and then she pried it out of my mouth.  And then she did it again for the top row.  And I did not lose my shit.  My mouth was full of all sorts of things I don’t want to talk about.  I was having the biggest panic attack of my life inside and I held my shit together like the biggest shit holder togetherer you’ve ever freaking seen.

And then I went and sat through this workshop like the biggest grown-up you’ve ever seen.  And I felt good!  I learned some great info about the blog world.  And I also learned some very important info about orthodontics and I need you to hear me here.  This is very important.

Do not send your babes or go yourself to an orthodontist that uses head gear.  This should be self-evident here, people, but just don’t.  They are old school and will make your face look… not okay.  Okay?  (This may or may not be the abridged version of everything I know about orthodontics and it may or may not have come from Molen Orthodontics. I’m not a doctor and they didn’t tell me to say that so don’t even try to sue either one of us.  That’s just lame.)  If you have any questions you should just call Dr. Molen, because he’s nice and didn’t try to shove any tools down my throat.

emotional constipation. it’s a real issue, folks.

Today was the day.  I took my babe and left him in the cold cruel world all alone.  What a horrible feeling.

Well… okay.  Maybe I’m being a little over-dramatic here.  What I did, was take my last born child and drop him off with a super sweet little lady who will begin him on his educational adventure.  There, that sounds less “someone call CPS on this bitch” and more “awwww… that’s a sweet mommy.”

Yesterday Jordan and I were running some errands together and he looks at me and says, “Well, Mom.  This is it.  Tomorrow I’ll be at school and we won’t have any more Mommy dates.  You’ll just be doing this alone and I’ll be at school like Elle.”  {Well thanks for breaking my heart kid!}  He must have sensed my sadness because he followed it up with a “But don’t worry, I still have weekends off so we can have Mommy dates then.”  {Well thank god!}

So we dropped the munchkin off at school (complete with photos and the whole boo-hoo breakfast experience) and he didn’t even blink an eye.  He is so damn ready for school it’s weird.  Jimmie went along with me because this is a big deal.  But also because I think we were both expecting me to have a Sally Field in Steel Magnolias moment and weep on the school sidewalk or something.  I ugly cried a solid ten minutes when Elle started school before I could even pull the car out of the parking spot.  That was just the beginning.

Today? I didn’t shed a tear.  I was not going to blubber all over the place in front of everyone.  So every time I got a lump in my throat I thought of random things  (like army ants or cucumbers) to get my mind off of it until I could just make it to the car.  Then I got to the car and remembered I had to go back to the school office.  So I pulled my shit together and did what I had to do.  When we finally started the drive home Jim was like, “You’re freaking me out.  Why are you not freaking out right now?”  I didn’t know.  I don’t know.  Crap.  I waited too long and stuffed it down to much and it’s dead.  I don’t know!

Then we got home and it hit me.  It is freaking quiet around here.  I cried for about a second.  Then nothing.  Then Jim said we should get a patio set for the back patio so we could sit and have coffee together on the quiet mornings he’s home working, and I lost it.  For about three seconds.

I’m emotionally constipated, you guys!  I feel all of it brooding around inside but it just won’t come out.  I need a good cry so I can get over it, but I just can’t.  What the hell?  Maybe I am just a seasoned vet.  I don’t know.

This is the child that has never had a professional photo taken of him.  He’s the epitome of a second born child and I suck.  I can’t even cry that he’s off in the cruel world alone now!

Maybe it’s just that I know how great this is going to be for him.  Maybe that’s it. Shit. I. Don’t. Know!