why i can’t watch scary movies. ever.

I am like an eight year old child when it comes to watching anything remotely in the “thriller” or “horror” genre of movies.  “Suspense” is usually acceptable but only if most of the scenes take place in the daylight.  To put it simply, I’m an officer first class in the chicken army.  And my imagination? is exceptional.

When we were in “the cult” I actually underwent deliverance (read exorcism) for my fear issues.  (That was a horror movie in and of itself so I’m gonna skip the details for today.)  Basically the people who were in charge of my “ordeal” told me to NEVER watch another horror movie as long as I live.

Fast forward a few years to my favorite experience: the Texas Chainsaw Massacre viewing of 2004 (ish).  I tried to google the DVD release date, but I got too scared of all the images that came up on the goog so I’m just guessing.  I literally watched the whole movie with my face buried in Jimmie’s chest and peeked out every few minutes for a split second to see if Jessica Beal really was as hot as all the asshat men I was watching the movie with claimed she was. (She was.)  When the movie was finally over I fled to the bathroom and sat on the toilet sobbing for forever.  When Jimmie came to check on me I told him I thought he was a terrible husband for even bringing that movie into our home what with my condition and all.  He so sweetly tried not to laugh at me (yah, right.) and then followed me around for the next two days because I told him I’d divorce him if he left me alone for even one minute.  It was the worst movie experience of my life.

So yesterday, as part of my twelve step recovery process for the holiday hangover, Jimmie and I watched four and a half movies.  It all started after the kidlets went to bed and we turned on Red Riding Hood.  Mock me all you want, but I was afraid it would be too scary for me so I posted a question on facebook asking those who know me best if I could handle it.  They agreed I could so I proceeded.   I actually loved that movie.  There were a couple of scenes where I jumped a little or hid behind my pillow, but mostly it was just GOOD.  I am surprised at how much I liked that movie.  And even though it didn’t scare the bejezus out of me, it did leave me a little jumpy.

So when Jimmie told me he was running to the corner store really quick, I was mildly apprehensive.  I knew there was no werewolf waiting to pounce on me, but still.  I don’t like being home alone at 11 pm on a good night.  Suddenly, the wind was howling, rain was pelting all the windows and strange noises were coming from the front door.  The dog went nuts and when I picked up my cell to call Jimmie to see when in the hell he would be home my battery died.  Well, of course.  Obviously the fates waited for me to watch a horror movie so they could send a werewolf to kill me while my hubby ran to the store.  DUH.  Luckily he returned about three minutes later so I only had mild panic attacks.

Then we began movie number four.  A psycho thriller following a serial killer who looked like what I imagine an albino meth addict would look like.  It did me in.  I watched the last third of that movie behind a pillow.

The last half of a movie was to help me recover from the previous two so I could fall asleep without curling up in the fetal with my special blankie and thumb in my mouth.  I told Jimmie I needed to watch cartoons or a kid movie to bring my heart rate back to normal.  I feel asleep on the couch halfway through the movie so it must have worked.  It was one twisted movie though.  Have you seen Scott Pilgrim vs The World?  Holy crap it was made for a night of mushrooms and marijuana.  (I had neither.  For the record.)  Even though it was a whack job movie, I really need to finish it because no matter how bad a movie is, I have to see the end.  I have never started a movie and not finished it.  I just can’t.

I’m reasonably sure that after yesterday’s movie marathon, I’m well on the way to recovery from the holiday hangover.  Tomorrow I might even have it in me to take the tree down.



excuse me, does anyone know where i left my sanity?

This time of year my brain shuts down and I just sort of wander around aimlessly and ramble and put things in random places in the house and just waste space in general.  It always takes me a good week to recover from the holiday season.  I call it my holiday hangover.  You have it too, admit it.

Last night Jimmie told me something that didn’t quite sit right, but I couldn’t totally put my finger on it.  I blame my holiday hangover for making me a little slow on the uptake, because tonight I finally realized what it was.  Are you ready for this?

“We need to work with the kids on dealing with their own crap.  They lean on you for everything.  They don’t even try to find their own shoes.”


Excuse me, dear dad.  I think they get that awesome quality from you.  This is coming from the guy that asks me where to find something on the average of 14 times per day.  This is also the guy that can never find his car keys or his wallet for that matter.  And what does he do when this occurs?  “BABE?!  Have you seen my insert asinine and mundane item here that I use every stinking day?”  Then babe proceeds to go to the place where said item is supposed to be and lifts one item that is laying on top of it (if that) and gives it to the moron that can’t seem to do this simple task.

And so now I am supposed to “get on top” of the kids doing that so they don’t turn into their dad.  Again I say, BAHAHAHAHA.  I give up.

Happy Holiday Hangover, kids.  Hope you enjoyed the heck out of your family this season.  By the way, does anyone know when school starts back up?  I need a break.

please pardon me, i’m off my meds.

A little over a week ago (or maybe more, I have lost all track of time and physics) I stopped taking my magic potion of vitamins that 1) gives me some sort of energy and 2) keeps me sane and this just in: focused.  I have noticed my attention span waning to that of an, oh I don’t know, kindergarten boy child, the past few days.

Today, while playing Santa to the various teachers and support staff at the kids’ school, all my worst fears were confirmed.  I am indeed in the early onset stages of batshit crazy senility.  Or something.

I started worrying about myself this past summer after we moved.  Although, I suspect this has been going on for much longer.  I would finish conversations with people and realize, “Hmm.  I don’t know what the hell she said after the part where I asked her how her day was?”  Seriously.  Do you ever have those conversations with people and you leave it thinking HOLY CRAP I totally checked out there somewhere around the middle?  It’s not that the person talking to me  is boring (usually) or that I don’t care (mostly,) it’s just that I cannot focus.

I’m sure it all started with the walking into a room and turning around in circles and wondering what the hell I came in here for.  I used to blame that on “mommy brain.”   You know, mommy brain.  Those first few years after child birth.  Well, we’re now six years past all that so I don’t think I can blame it on that anymore.  I wasn’t an “old” woman to be giving birth, I was 26 and almost 29.  I think that’s relatively young.  There are women popping babies out well into their forties these days.  (Obviously you know these things.  I’m talking to myself here.)  Anyway, mommy brain has progressed.  It’s menopause brain.  That’s got to be it.

My hormones and levels of everything and now, holy shit, my thyroid is wonky (according to my own self-diagnosis for now.)  Everything is nutty.  I don’t sleep, I sleep too much.  I bleed, I don’t bleed, I bleed.  I’m hot. I’m cranky. I’m crazy. I forget my name. I forget your name. I forget what we’re even doing here. I forget you were talking to me and just walk out of the room.

That’s right.  I was telling you a story.  So while passing out holiday gifts with the children to their teachers, because they needed me to go with and did not want to do it alone, I was in the office talking to the women who run the show, you know, the administrative assistants.  (Once you’ve been an admin anything, you will forever and ever worship the ground all other admin whatevers walk on.  It’s in the creed.)  Miss Ellie (who I love because she loves that she and Elle have the same name) was in the middle of telling me about her family Christmas dinner she had a few days ago.  I know she was telling me about that.  I distinctly remember the start of that sentence.  And now, NOTHING.

The next thing I remember I was waving goodbye and ushering the kids out the door.  I looked around confused and fuzzy headed and just kept on walking.  Holy Shit did I black out?  Is it one of those seizures kids have where they’re talking to you and then stop and stare into space and then just pick back up where they left off?  Now, I know I’m a hypochondriac, I do.  Come one, I’m not stupid.  BUT, I am losing it.

I think people think I’m on drugs.  Who else in their right freaking mind would do this crap?  Hey, if CPS shows up at my door looking for the cracked out mom that can’t complete sentences, will you show them this and tell them I’m just crazy and stop taking mah B Complex and things have gone terribly downhill since?

Anyway, I finished running around looking like the mom that wants all the glory for her kid’s $15 Christmas gifts and returned to the car.  I shit you not, I looked up and wondered, “how the hell did I get to the car?”  For all I know, I could have been running around topless for 10 minutes on my way to the car and I wouldn’t be any wiser.  Maybe I’m one of those whack jobs that kills people and doesn’t even know it.  I need a handler.

I am also going to make up T-Shirts that look like this.

I think it’s a good idea to just warn the general public.  Also, I probably shouldn’t be driving.

the elf on the shelf is returning to the pole… indefinitely.

It’s t-minus six days.  You know till when.  Don’t play dumb with me.  Even if you’re agnostic/atheist/algorithm you know till when, dammit.

This year we got the kids one of those elf on the shelf doodads that everyone and their dog is getting into.   It has been a fun little pain in the ass.  It all started the night after Thanksgiving when Santa dropped him off at the house while we were getting into jammies for a Christmas movie (which happened to be the Elf on the Shelf movie because I am AMAZING at coordinating these things.)  The kids named him Happy Jake and despite my groggy, “stumble around the house after falling asleep on the couch to hide the idiot thing in a new spot so I can get to freaking bed” maneuvers every single night, he has been kind of fun.  If you don’t know about EotS then just google it because I’m too disgusted to explain it.  Fine, I will- he comes from Santa and returns to the Pole every night to report on the behavior of the munchkins who he spies on all day to give the fat guy some help in monitoring behavior.

First of all, (yes, I am digressing.) the fat guy has been able to monitor the naughty list just fine for the past umpteen hundred years without help from mini elves so I think this is crap.  But, it’s for the children.

Anyway, the elf returns from the Pole and causes some sort of mischief or hides in some cutesy place for the children to find the next morning.

Second of all, it’s enough that I have to wake up early on Christmas morning when the kids are peeing their pants in excitement about toys.  Now I have to hear it every morning for a whole month when my boy wakes up excited to see what shenaniganz Happy Jake got into overnight and where he will be hiding now.  This was just poor, POOR planning on my part.  Poor.

Where was I? Crap, if this were an Excel spreadsheet their would be circular references all up in here and my workbook would force-close with an error box reading “GET SOME RITALIN YOU CRAZY BITCH!”

Hmmm… I blame my lack of focus on lack of sleep…

So every night I’m coming up with new things.  Sometimes he gets the kids a little treat.  Sometimes he just hides up on a curtain rod and some nights he causes a bit of trouble before he passes out from too much hot chocolate (it’s like a good vodka tonic to the wee fellas.)

Last night was a “mischief” kind of night.  Jimmie saw an idea somewhere online about putting some flour out and making “snow” angels with it.  I had my doubts because I knew I’d have a little bit of a mess to clean up, but I was getting desperate for new ideas.  So, I did it.

This morning, as in all Monday mornings, I did not spring out of bed before my alarm.  I was sleeping hard.  So hard, apparently, that I did not stir when my darling eight year old diva came in and stole my iPhone (which is what is used to wake me in the mornings) so she could play zombie games.  She knows that if she does this she needs to come wake me up when the alarm goes off.

She did not,

So finally at 8:00 (an hour after I usually get up and 15 minutes before the kids have to leave for the bus) I wake up and stumble to a clock.  HOLY CRAP!  I hate waking up late.  It ruins my whole day.

So I call the kids upstairs to get dressed and Jordan (6) is covered in flour.  COVERED.  I instantly knew I should avoid going into the kitchen at all costs today.  I did not listen to myself.  I went downstairs to discover that not only had Happy Jake made snow angels (with my help) but he also made a mountain of snow to dive into and spread across the kitchen and living room and dining room and entry way and every freaking where (with the children’s help.)

This may sound cute to you but I assure you it was not cute to me.  My kids have been little assbags for a few weeks now and I know I have lost all control.  They seem to think this “avoiding the naughty list” concept is a joke and their goals in life are to prove the naughty list a farce because they know we already stood in Walmart for freaking ever on Thanksgiving night and are getting the best Christmas present ever no matter what so SUCK IT parents, we win.

You guys, I am so mad I can’t even remember what I even started out trying to tell you about.  All I know is, that elf is straight up evil and I told the kids I’m sending it back to Santa tonight with a note that says my kids are too naughty to have such an awesome tradition and please keep him till next Christmas when we can decide if they are nice enough to even have him them.

There were tears and wailing and gnashing of teeth and that was just me.  I don’t even want to tell you how the kids reacted.  I am mad because I had big plans for that elf.  It was going to be a fun week.  But now… I just don’t know what to do.  I think I have to follow through and send him to his cardboard home for the rest of the year.  If I don’t stick to my guns now they are going to be in juvie this time next year.

Sometimes when I tell you these stories they are laid out is such a beautiful expose of creative writing and I expect a pulitzer.  And sometimes there is a swirling green fog around my mind as I write and none of the sentences even are sentences and I can’t remember my name.  And I’m just sorry that today is the green fog kind of day.

In the words of my Christmas mentor, Clark W. Griswold III, “Hallelujah, Holy Shit.”

hey derek jeter, you’s a pi-yamp fo sho.

I just spent five minutes asking Jimmie how to spell pimp with a twang.  What I’m trying to accomplish here is the use of the word “pimp” with a gangsta lean.  You feel me, right?  Jimmie didn’t.  All he could do was shake his head and look at his feet.  What?  Like he doesn’t know I’m gangsta.  We’ve been in this phase for a while now.  You’d think he’d get used to it.  Notsomuch.

So last night, we happened upon Barbara Walter’s most fascinating people show in between DVR’d shows I actually want to watch.  It was the part with Yankee’s baseball star Derek Jeter which prompted Jimmie to tell me a little story he heard on the radio about DJ.  Apparently, he is a baseball star by day and a straight up P.I.M.P by night.  What he is ladies (and gents,) is a man-whore.  Sure, he has dimples that make a girl’s toes curl and a bank account the size of Yankee Stadium, but I prefer my men of the non-whore variety (unless it’s birthday stripper night, then… whatever.)

{Ohmygod if I continue to use the words pimp and whore on my blog I am going to have google searches out the wazoo landing on my doorstep.  And you guys, it is straight up creepy the things you people are googling.}

Anywho, apparently when “DJ Woop Woop” invites a lady friend home to show her how he swings his bat, he sends her home with quite the parting gift.  This gentleman, with a capitol Douche, likes to send his laydies home with his personal car and driver and a lovely gift.  Picture it with me if you will…

You awake in the home of DJ Happy Pants with breakfast croissants, fruit bouquets and fresh squeezed oj accompanied by a card that reads:

Dear _{handwritten name here}_____:
Thank you for a magical evening.  Please allow my driver to escort you home in my klassy  towncar used exclusively for this occasion.  I’ve left a lovely parting gift for you inside. {not inside you, inside the car. don’t panic.}

Jeter.  America’s Sluttiest Allstar.

You eat your complimentary breakfast and head down the elevator for your walk of shame through the lobby of his high-rise apartment building.  At the curb, a silver town car awaits with that driver from Pretty Woman ready to escort you home.  As you slide into the car, you spot the most lovely gift basket with flowers and chocolates and… oh no, wait.  The basket is full Yankee gear and baseball memorabilia.

Derek Jeter, America’s most prized ladies man, leaves his darlings with a gift basket containing a giant foam finger and a signed baseball.  Because nothing says “thanks for playing with my balls” like an autographed baseball.  Am I right?

No one claimed DJ Romance could hit a home run off the field.  Not even Minka Kelly.

Keep your douchey gifts, Derek Jeter.  You suck.

using my evil for good.

Ever have those days where you get half way through the morning and start bawling for no reason? Then you decide you’ve finally lost your last marble and start googling “nut houses” and packing your suitcase? That was this morning for me.

I posted something of the sort on FB and got this from a friend I only know on the internet but would totally consider sister-wifing.

This is probably the equivalent of a three hour conversation between most women, those who are skilled in the art of fluffly conversation and dabbing their tearful eyes with silk hankies. For those of us perfectly dysfunctionally awesome women which avoid hugs and tears, this is really what it takes to get through a rough day (especially if there’s vodka handy.)

Our conversation continued along the warm and fuzzies because this friend, who cared enough to check on my crazy ass, happens to be sitting in the hospital with her family as her hubby’s dad battles some seriously jacked up cancer. Today, is not a good day for him.

As any good friend would, I try to say some nice and encouraging things.
“It’s good you’re all there.” “He’s a fighter.” I don’t know- idiotic things you try to come up with when people are in pain and you don’t know what to freaking say. It all sounds like “WaaWa WaaWA. Wa Wa WA WAaa…” It’s pointless. So I tell her I’m sorry, I suck at this shit. Ima just shut up now.

And she sends me this:

(I hate that I wrote “fill” the need instead of “feel” the need and I’m too lazy to photoshop it away. I hate looking like I don’t know proper grammar. PSH. Right.)

I told her to write it. She said she couldn’t because she’s too busy watching someone die. Whatever. Priorities.

Sending all my good juju to a kick-ass man named Don and his family.

UPDATE: (Because I’m full of myself and totally fond of the updates lately.) Charity’s response to this was “You spelled my name wrong you illiterate bitch.” To which I replied, “I spelled it the way it would sound if my Arkansas Grammy would say it, you elitist bitch.” Because I like to think of everything the way my Grammy would say it.

oh looky here, the grinch lives in my house.

So tonight I sit down with Jimmie to discuss my ideas for the promised “Improper Family Christmas Card” which is too awesome to send to family.  Did you read about that on the post where I whore myself out for the needy and all but grovel for you guys to give money?  No? It’s like crickets over there so I assumed you didn’t- would it hurt someone to just say “I think you suck as a ho and who cares about Christmas anyway?”   Thank the baby Jesus people are donating anyway.  (and I swear that’s all I’ll say about it for today. I so know how to lay on the guilt; I should be Catholic.)

Anyway, I promised this awesome card to people that donate.  Problem is, we haven’t actually taken our pic yet so I really need to get on this shit.  Good thing I’m so full of good Christmas ideas even Clark Griswold can’t compete.  Actually, if we had unlimited resources and an attic, I would actually take a pic of Jimmie’s lower half hanging through the ceiling a la Gris and send that out as our photo card.  That would be AWESOME on a level I have yet to achieve.  What was I talking about?  Oh right…

So, I was telling Jimmie about all my ideas for the card and he just kept looking at me, sullen faced and like I’m a total idiot.

photo credit: christmasmovieslist.com

You would think I’d be used to this look by now, but come on!  I’m not that ridiculous.  It’s totally possible to craft a family of reindeer and perch the kids atop them jousting style in the front yard.  That’s a totally good idea.   When I ask him just what it  is that’s so horrible about my ideas, he said “The last thing I need is to be sent out all over the place looking ridiculous so people can laugh at me in this damn picture.  It’s humiliating.”  Well, shit.  It seems no matter what idea I come up with, he’s going to shoot it down.  It’s been ten years of Christmas holidays together and he’s still such a Grinch!

***This just in: If we make it to $500 by December 23rd, Jimmie The Grinch will shave Santa Clause into his chest hair and ride a reindeer wearing assless chaps for the photo.  Seriously you guys, this may end in divorce but we are totally going to do this!***

PS   I’m not sure he has enough chest hair to shave Santa into it, but we’ll give it our best shot.

PPS  His ass? In Assless Chaps? Totally not a good idea.