October 26, 2012
I’ve been tired and run down with a cold the last few days, so I decided yesterday to DO ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. I never ever do that. I must say it was quite nice and I feel more energized today. I'm also a little bit scared that I might want to do that alot more. I was thinking about the Holidays getting near, and was tempted to start shopping online. I think that might be my new method of shopping this year, because I will buy less. I get impulsive otherwise. This led me to thinking about things I like, and this rug I really want...so instead of shopping online, I decided to save my money and make a list of a few clever things I think you need.
Pure Komachi knives. Every.single.person. who has ever used these knives at my house wants them. I have the 6 inch chef knife, which is lavender colored, the blue fish knife, and the red tomato knife. I love them all. Best thing about them: they’re ten dollars, baby. They are lightweight and super easy to sharpen. These knives taught me how to chop like a professional. If you watch me chop, you will think I’m some kind of sous chef. My brother gave me these knives years ago. I still get a tingly feeling when I take them out of the drawer. A few times a year I sharpen them on a sharpening steel, and I think everyone has one of those in their utensil drawer somewhere, right? It came with the knives you received as a wedding gift in 1995. I’m not a professional knife sharpener, and I’m not aware of any tricky angles, but this isn’t rocket science like some people want you to believe. I make a few passes on the tool thing-y and they are like new. Don’t put them in the dishwasher.
A sonicare truthbrush. Because are you still just manually brushing your teeth? If you are, they are not as clean as they can be and I might be able to tell by your breath. You’re in a panic now, aren’t you? I know this is expensive, but it’s one of those things that pays for itself over time. Before I had this toothbrush, I would go to the dentist for cleanings and the hygienists would scrape and poke and hurt and scare me. I actually go to the dentist less now because of this toothbrush, and when I go, there is no scraping and poking. They say, “You use a sonicare don’t you? I can tell.” One less trip to the dentist and you’ve paid for it. Can’t live without this.
My sofa. I love my sofa. I coveted this Pottery Barn sofa for years. It was $3500. I would lovingly stroke it in the store, and even drool on it, then the ladies would say, “Ma’am, may we help you?” and I would be jolted back to reality. Of course I could never get the sofa. Doomed to cheap, ugly sofas, because of my house full of
boys superhero sofa jumpers. Then one day, I discovered
sofacraft.org. They sold the exact same
Pottery Barn sofa, for about $675. MADE
THE SAME WAY. WITH THE SAME FABRIC. This is no lie, people. I selected fabric and had it shipped for
under $300. I got extra durable, dense
cushions on purpose. I wanted it to be
uncomfortable to everyone so they would just stay the hell off of it. I’ll never forget when it was delivered. It was all wrapped up and the guys set it down
in my foyer and two of the boys ran to jump on it, and they bounced off. Ecstatic, I jumped up and down and squealed,
“It repels children!” Oh, what a happy
This rug. Ok. Seriously. I don’t have this rug.
But I want it. Oh, how I want it. But I can't have this with my snot bag children. So I got this one instead.
It’s in their play room. It’s indoor/outdoor polypropylene fiber. So, if little darling spills his apple juice just a little bit and then steps on 4 goldfish in the same wet spot, which normally makes sort of a slop pig paste, then I’ma just take it outside and blast the shit with the hose, ya hurd? It’s plastic. But I swear it still feels soft to the touch and looks nice with a thick rug pad under it. I wouldn’t put it in my living room, but it’s perfect for their playroom. This could go under a casual dining room table too. Designers are using them alot in kitchens now as well. Although I don't think they're using $87 rugs like my zebra find. They're more like a few hundred. Still inexpensive for a rug, though. This market has come a long way since we were kids and indoor/outdoor carpet was that green golf course looking crap. I think manufacturers are starting to realize there is a market for this type of rug to be used indoors...you know, the kind you can hose off because kids are pigs who ruin our shit. Next, I might write a list called, "Shit my kids ruined."
October 23, 2012
I’m in a bit of a panic over this year’s birthday, which arrives tomorrow. The agonizing number? 44. 44 facking years old. What da fuq? 45 is rounded to 50, that’s what. This is my last birthday being closer to 40 than 50, in my warped, anti-aging, don’t wanna get old, please-God-I’m-so-not-finished-being-young mind. I’m feeling kind of panicky.
I don’t want to hear that I ‘still look young.’ That I ‘still act young.’ Or even be grateful that I ‘still feel young.’ Nope. To hell with that. I want to be young. I’m rather sorry I didn’t embrace the beauty of it all more, when I was young. Why didn’t I live in a bikini and date ultra hot guys and just own the world? Oh, right. I did! I sort of forget the awesomeness of my youth because that was like 20 years ago. My brain doesn’t even go back that far, now. Sometimes I meet women and when I find out how old they are it freaks me out. Because I was assuming they were way older than I am. Nope…in their button up, flowered tops and their Capri pants, and their short, curling ironed hair, they are my age.
My kids laugh when I suggest to them I am old. They have this new thing, where they act ghetto and say, “Girrrrl, you cray cray!” and tell me I drink too much coffee. Recently I refused to carry little darling up 18 stairs while I was also carrying my purse and some groceries. My excuse, even though I carry him half the time…”I’m too old!” His response, while sobbing on the bottom step, “Mommy cray cray!”
Lately when I’m driving I can’t stop looking at my hands, because they look old on my steering wheel. Like, whose freaking hands are these? Apparently all these potions and lotions and burn-y, sting-y things I slather all over my face must be working, because I should have been slathering them on my hands all along too. I look in the mirror in the morning and I just laugh. Suddenly I have puffy things under my eyes. When did I start getting that? I keep saying to the muthas, “My hands, do they look old?” But they just curse me out. They yell, “Oh fuck you, who cares about your hands, look at my neck, my eyes, my lips.” This is what we do. We stand in front of mirrors and push our skin up with our fingers, just a tiny bit, and say, “This, you see this, this is all I need. Just a little pulling up here of this skin. What do you think that costs?” Then someone ruins it and screams, “Oh you can’t do that, they have to pull your whole facking face off and re-tack it into your skull with staples.” Oh bullshit, another mutha yells, you can get the life lift, or whatever the heck it’s called. We know damn good and well none of us is getting cut any time soon. We are too busy trying to solve the problems with potions and lotions and concoctions that burn the shit out of you. Not to mention the odd needle. These muthas really don’t look their age. I met a gay guy not too long ago who humored me for a few minutes talking about the muthas in our area. He leaned in close and said, “This is a haven for beautiful women. You girls rock it, what is the secret?!” “We’re moms,” I said. We do 400 things at once all day. It keeps you young. That, and we still dress hawt.
I’m trying to be grateful for what is good now. I have fabulous, beautiful kids. Friends who love me. I am so much wiser. I don’t worry or stress quite so much. I have LIVED. Survived a hell of a lot. It’s been a wild ride. A lot of fun. Some hurt and heartache and mistakes mixed in. I wouldn’t change anything. Well, of course, the one thing. I would change that. I wouldn’t let him die. And then who knows, I might be living with a deranged drug addict right now. Or probably in the process of divorcing him. There is the chance I would be angry and frustrated and wanting right now, instead of feeling mostly peaceful and happy and resilient. I wasn’t feeling very resilient in the end. I was quitting….leaving. Or rather, telling him to leave. I had no idea he would leave in the most dickhead of ways.
I received an email from the sister of a new suicide widow this week. “He broke her!” she hissed. Indeed, he did. Dave broke me too. The scars will always be visible. But they don’t have to remain so ugly. I’m reminded of the Japanese art of Kintsugi. When the Japanese mend broken objects, they aggrandize the damage by filling the cracks with gold. They believe that when something has suffered damage and has a history, it becomes more beautiful.
October 16, 2012
Against my better judgment, and after being clearly warned not to do this, I went to the RIP Amanda Todd page for a dose of reality. For a moment, I stepped into the minds and hearts of some of the most disgusting, vile, wretched creatures to ever walk on this planet. Teens.
The page was obviously started by well intentioned friends, or maybe even her family. Some of the comments are the most disturbing words I think I’ve ever read. Some of the threads have 5000 plus comments on them. It will only take you a second to find out what I’m talking about. I’m not going to post any of it here, because I want you all to be curious and go there for yourselves and then feel the immense panic for this generation and our world as I do now…that way we can all storm the exits at the same time! These kids are obviously being raised on auto pilot, by deaf and mute parents. Horrible punks, not to mention none of them can spell.
I’m sad to even think about the home life of some of these kids. I clicked on some of their profiles. Their personal pages are enough to make you throw up. This is an entirely new breed of children being raised now. Facebook, chat rooms, violent video games and sexting. I’m considering throwing my computer out the window right now and moving to the Little House on the Prairie.
Here is a child that is dead, yet she is still being taunted by her peers. I only pray her own family is too distraught to even be looking at Facebook right now.
Listen folks. I am not up for mother of the year award or anything. My kids are little so I readily admit right now that I have not raised teens. But where is the common damn sense? Because God, I feel frightened right now that so many of you are failing. Miserably. Please try harder to get it right. Do better. Parent. Really parent. Set boundaries. Enforce them. Get them off the fucking computers. Hide the xbox and video games for a while. Know what the hell they are doing. Gheez. I was a horrible teen and my parents made mistakes but I was disciplined. Some of these kids don’t appear to even have a conscience. How does that happen? That’s a recipe for evil and hatred and these kids will be breeding soon, hell, some are already. Forget the zombie apocalypse…we have a bigger issue on our hands.
I sound like a really old person right now. I remember my grandpa saying funny stuff, like, ‘You know, that fella, he takes that pot!” referring to a dude who was a pot smoker. But seriously, this is the first generation of kids being raised in this environment. They’re lab rats. I remember when we were growing up parents insinuated that MTV was bad. They were scared of it because it was new and different. And that was a millenia ago when it was actually about music. Atari and Space Invaders probably didn’t teach us to be very violent or insensitive. We didn’t call it bullying, it was simply ‘being cruel.’ People will always be cruel. But mocking dead kids and forming fan clubs like “Amanda Todd got what she deserved” makes me want to Kung Fu your punk asses on behalf of your parents. Then I’m going to go Kung Fu your parents, because this shit is crazy. I’m sort of hoping some of you parents of teens will share your thoughts on this, too.Now go kick a teenager’s ass. (Just kidding, of course.) Maybe you could just smash their electronics and speak to them kindly, and actually listen to their answers instead.
October 13, 2012
I’m about to do something I don’t do very often. Post drunk. I suck at typing when I’m drunk, that’s why I never do it. It takes me twice as long. I have been quiet. When I’m quiet, I’m thinking about never blogging again. I don’t know why. It’s this thing I do. It’s because I don’t really operate on auto pilot, ever. I’m constantly analyzing, twirling things around, and examining everything from every angle. I’m just that kind of girl.
I’m so disturbed and saddened that this family from Colorado is going to bury the dismembered body of their 10 year old. I have a 10 year old. I love him so much it makes me mildly insane. Thinking of this horrible act makes me unable to breathe. It hurts me, physically. It takes the core of my body, my spirit, and pulls it right out of my body and squeezes it and tortures it until I feel sick. What the fucking fuck, you guys? It’s too bad. It’s someone’s baby. I can’t deal with this kind of animal. May he be caught soon. God bless that baby’s parents. If you are a parent, please say a prayer right now. For all of our babies to remain safe. In Colorado, far away, someone is living our worst nightmare. Send them the energy to get through it, because you can’t muster this kind of energy alone. You don’t need a village. You need the whole world. It’s that bad. I feel sick.
In my own world, which seems stupid and meaningless amongst the horrid events of above, I’m still thinking of getting the darlings a dog for Christmas. I started searching online at some nearby pet rescue places. Let me just say something, and then you all can declare war, I don’t really care. You know why there is an abundance of dogs in shelters? Because these weirdo dog people won’t give the dogs away. If you have kids under 6, or under 8 or even under 10 (my God people, just say only adults can have dogs and be done with it!) then they won’t give you a dog. If you don’t have a fence, no dog. If this is your first dog, no dog. Let me tell you something, weirdo dog people. I’m raising three humans by myself. I am fucking awesome at it. I haven’t had a dog in about 20 years. Does that mean I don’t know how to raise a dog? NO! Growing up, we always had a dog. It’s a DOG. D.O.G. Quit putting sad puppies on commercials if you are not going to let highly functioning, smart, normal people have them. NO COMMON SENSE. These people assume the dogs are better off euthanized than in my loving home. Huh? That’s right. You’re stupid.
I read an article this week that said more people now die of suicide than car wrecks. Why? Pills. Drug abuse. This surprises me zero, based on the number of emails I receive each week from newly widowed women with small kids. It’s starting to feel like an epidemic to me. Because of the blog I am now a magnet to these women. I kind of wish I would have found my blog in those early days too. Maybe that’s why I started publishing the madness. People, you need to get off all these pills. It’s killing you. Pain pills=heroin. It’s the same thing. Same drug. We all grew up hearing “how addictive heroin is”. Never take it, they told us. Because you could become hooked by using it just one time. But doctors hand out these fucking pills in pez dispensers and you people line up in droves with your hands out. And you’re ruining your lives, and your families. And you don’t even feel better. You don’t get relief. In fact, you feel worse. So you take more pills. New pills. Stronger pills. Combinations of pills. It’s all fucked up. If you wouldn’t dare stick a heroin needle in your arm, then you shouldn’t dare be taking opioid pain pills for any length of time.
Middle darling is a genius, even though he’s only 5. We were riding home from school the other day and out of the blue, right after he told me what he ate for lunch and what they played at recess, he asked me where Daddy got his pills from. I told him they came from the doctor. I told him that not all doctors really cared about their patients. Some doctors just want to make a lot of money. They give you pills even though they know you are getting addicted and not getting better. They give them to you for a long time. They notice you are losing weight and looking like death. They don’t care about your family. They don’t even know if you have one or not. They are sick of drug seeking weirdos in their office all day so they just hand them out and it’s really gross and sad. "Yeah, well," he says, "that doctor should be in jail. " Why yes, genius, he should be. "Well, what are we going to do?" he asks, "so that he doesn’t kill anybody else’s daddy?"
From the mouths of babes.
I would like to change this doctor. But I know I can't. Because this world seems really wrong right now. I told the darlings that I have been thinking of writing a letter to the doctor, and including a picture of our family. Our family is so awesomely beautiful, and my words are so earth shattering real, that if this man can put his head on his pillow that night and be unchanged, then the world needs to explode right now and be over. I don’t even care. Because 10 year old girls are dismembered by maniacs and people commit suicide in front of their kids and it’s all messed up. I’m a peaceful, loving person. I want things to be better. But these horrible people win sometimes. We can’t let them. Madpeople, do good things today. Everyone. Because good needs to win. For the precious girl who is 10, for my precious boy who is 10, for my precious babies who watched their daddy gasp for air and die. They are only 5 and 3 years old. Help the world today. Go out of your way to help. You simply must. Make some good. Seek it. Spin it. Make it swirl around. It matters.
October 4, 2012
This afternoon I caught myself watching the Kardashians. For a girl who never watches tv, this is probably surprising to you. I could not believe that while Kourtney was having her baby, her whole family sat across from her on what looked like a bench. Like bleachers. Ok, obviously it wasn’t bleachers. Even her brother? Come on people, this is too much. A big wide open vagina with a baby coming out, in front of your brother? I’m sorry. This takes me beyond my level of comfort and I’m pretty out there. I birthed three babies. Not once did Dave view from that side. I didn’t want him too. Nor did he want to be there. I was too afraid to taint his relationship with my nether regions. Then again, we were together 14 years and I never shat in front of him one single time. Never. I do speak freely about shit, but I am not an open shitter. Nor am I an open birther.
I was very impressed that Kourtney reached down and pulled the baby right from her own va jay jay. It also made me almost throw up though. (Only because I am weird in a “I could never be a nurse” kind of way. I get queasy.) I might have liked to do that with my own babies, and am sorry I didn’t, but how weird must that have felt? It reminded me of watching Animal Planet and seeing a hermit crab nestle into its shell. You think it’s a crab but when you pull it out it has this weird fleshy body and you realize it fit into the shell just so. Blech. Please do not flood me with emails about how I should be an open shitter and condemning me for not having babies while male family members watched in the bleachers. I’m not judging. Actually, I don’t care. I’m just observing. That is all.
Today while in the super freak maid mode I had a bit of a mishap and burned my nipple. I was scurrying around the corner, coffee reheated for the second time in one hand, armful of toys in the other. I’m thinking I’m going to throw the armload of toys into the little kids’ room, then possibly have time to sip my coffee while I apply makeup. But when I pass through the kitchen I see a dirty shirt on the floor. So I try to kick the shirt into the laundry room when I pass by. It was quite the distance. I hesitated and instead of doing a normal ‘toe toss’ I decide I should ‘wind up’ for extra momentum and pull the shirt backwards then thrust forward and release into the laundry room. Why, darn it? It all happened so fast and I made a bad call. I spilled the hot coffee all over my stomach and boobs and also hurt my neck. It was piping hot because of course I had lost track of time during the reheat. Damn the reheat! Wouldn’t have been so bad if I weren’t already dressed. Selecting clothes two times in five minutes is terribly annoying. I was in a hurry, so I stripped right there and wiped the coffee up with my own clothes. No need to dirty another towel, right? I’m so conservative.
Now I have a hurt neck, because of a simple shirt kick, which makes two things wrong with me because I have a hurt knee from blogging. Yes, blogging. I can no longer sit cross legged, like Indian style. No I am not racist against Indians. Please do not email me to say it is called “criss cross applesauce.” I am 43 facking years old and we called it Indian style. I’m not changing it. It’s too late and I’m set in my ways. If I sit Indian style when I get up my knee feels sore. This has been going on for a month and it is really making things uncomfortable for me, the whole not being able to sit how I want thing. Very disturbing.
October 3, 2012
The weather is beautiful here in Nola. I love the Fall. I love New Orleans people. The temperature dips below 80 degrees for a few hours and everyone rushes to the store for gumbo and soup ingredients. Last night I dined on smoked duck and andouille gumbo. Dat’s right! 65 degrees is a cold front here. Yes, we are the people who really believe we are in fact dying if we happen to find ourselves living where it gets really cold for extended periods of time. We are the people who curl up and almost really die in January and February, when it is raining and 40 degrees.
I was coming home from the store yesterday, about to lug all the darlings’ pumpkins upstairs, when one of my elderly neighbors came walking down the street. I love living in an old neighborhood, because old people live here. Old people rock. I haven’t spoken to this lady in a long time, and she commented on the beautiful weather and told me she was walking to see her cousin, who lives a few houses down. Her cousin is another old lady that I love. They’re both in their 80’s and I love to tell a story about them…one that happened shortly after Hurricane Katrina. She was living in a FEMA trailer, and Dave was repairing her flooded house. About six months after Katrina, there was actually a tornado that skipped through Lakeview. The weather gods wanted to make sure we were truly down for the count, so they blew a tornado through already broken and flooded homes, lifting them from their foundations and tossing some FEMA trailers around. The gods do this when the people act too resilient.
When the weather started to get bad, everyone was suggesting that the lady leave her trailer. She wouldn’t. I totally get this. You have to understand that we were living in what looked like a war zone, and we lived that way for a long time. The devastation all around us was so severe. You could drive for miles and miles and miles through neighborhood after neighborhood after neighborhood and not find a house that wasn’t completely destroyed. Can you even imagine that? Pictures never did it justice, because just capturing what was in the small frame of a camera was so minute. So trivial. Imagine your entire city, every store, every post office, every school, every bank, every doctor’s office, every office building, every house, everything…being destroyed. Completely under water. The mental toll it took on everyone was extreme. She was tired. She was over it. Screw it, she’d said, I’m not leaving. Her cousin retorted, “Well, if you’re going to stay, at least don’t take that xanax you take every night. You need to be alert!”
“Alert?!” she blurts out. “Are you freakin’ kiddin’ me? Honey, if this trailer goes to flippin’ down the street, I want to be knocked out! I don’t want to be alert!” she chuckles. The exchange still makes me giggle. Especially the way it rings in my head in her perfect yat voice.
Anyway, yesterday she paused to tell me that although she hasn’t seen me in a while, she’s been praying for me and the children, and for David. She especially wanted to give me a message that I should not be afraid to remarry and I should keep my heart open. She happened to say it right as she removed her sunglasses, peered deep down into my soul, and grabbed a hold of my spirit so intently that I felt the hair rise on my arms. As the words tumbled out, I cringed, and I cried. I knew she was going there, before she even began. I knew that’s what she was going to say. I almost laughed, because over the weekend I had relayed to one of the muthas how I’d spotted an incredibly hot swim team dad, from another school, who was single. When I saw him and felt an attraction, my emotions started to spin….could I? Would I? In my head over the next ten minutes, I dated him and then broke up with him. Start to finish. In ten minutes. Not a word was spoken…and it was over. Just like that. It’s about what I’m capable of, I think. I suck.
Anyway, she ended our lovely conversation by reminding me to pray to the angels for protection, especially the warrior angels. She told me about a book she’d read, about warrior angels. Then she gently held my hand and said the most beautiful old New Orleans lady yat prayer ever. It went something like this:
Lord we ask for your sacred blood to protect this family against murderers, robbers, muggers, car jackers, rapists, child molesters, scammers and all bad people. We pray for your protection against hurricanes, tornadoes, floods, fire, rising water, wind, hail and trees falling. We pray for protection in our vehicles against wrecks, accidents, flat tires, potholes, bad drivers and red light cameras. We ask you to bless us with love, peace, prosperity, wealth, happiness and good times. We pray for our health, keep us free from sickness, viruses, infections, colds, pneumonia, broken bones, fractures, falling down, vomiting and diarrhea and any other ailments.
No doubt she has perfected this prayer over the years. She said it super fast and it was hard not to laugh at some of the things.
When I picked up the darlings one of them couldn’t wait to show me a new piece of artwork. It was an angel. He’d written Dave’s name on it. I started to cry, and remembered the prayer. I hope she’s right about the angels.
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