I'm it!

Ashley tagged me for a five favorite things meme. I so appreciate her doing this, as I need to have an attitude of gratitude.

1) My flowers.

I have four hanging baskets on my front porch and despite the wretched heat, they are thriving.

I have no idea what they are! I just buy flowers because they are pretty. And I suck.

Here's one. I took it down so you could get the full effect. Aren't those flowers gorgeous? So bright.



I have two like this, as you can probably see. I have no idea what they are, but I think they are pretty.


Here's the fourth. I like purple, a lot. Can you tell?


2) Weight Watchers. I know, I know. I have to have the motivation to do the program or it doesn't work. But, it works. It's crazy. But it works.

Have I lost 20 lbs in one week? No. But I'm losing at a safe rate and I do not feel deprived. So that's something.

3) Therapy.

Good GOD. It's really the hardest thing I've ever done in my life, but it's worth it. I feel raw and exposed and horrible, but it's worth it. Either I feel raw and horrible and awful for a while or I feel that way forever. Not a hard choice.

4) Fiber One Bars.

Enough said.

5) The internet.

Cause it's full of my friends.



If you wanna play, let me know! I'd love to see what you are loving these days.

Just get here if you can. Or not.

I love my sitemeter and the unique view of the world that it affords me.

Following are some of the more interesting searches that have led others to my blog recently. Enjoy!

“my son complains of an itchy butt”
“itchy butt, can’t sleep”

Have I written about itchy butts? I really don’t recall. I say so much crap I can’t be expected to remember all of it. Maybe I said my son said it sucks when you have an itchy butt? Because he says that all the time in real life.


“barry gibb’s overweight daughter”

I’m not her!


“nose bidet, Walgreens”

Um. What?


“Jason, kill anyone who says curse words”

Seek. Professional. Help. For the Love of God and Baby Jesus.


“I am fat and my husband no longer loves me”

I’m so sorry.
Divorce his stupid butt and go out with somebody else.


“bathroom sayings for sanitary napkins”

Um. What?


“i gave myself a nose job with crazy glue”

I totally want to meet you. I think we might be soul mates.


“Displayed on Butts 2 love”

Um. Okay, yeah. Whatever turns you on.


“What to do if your flip flops make a squeaky noise”

Duh! You DANCE!

It won't make the Billboard Top 100.

My husband and I were watching television yesterday and a tampon commercial came on.

What is it with tampon commercials anyway? I genuinely do not understand why the people who make tampons, pads, and the individuals who own Wal-Mart feel the need to advertise. I mean, if you are a girl you have to use tampons or pads. It's like advertising air.

And Wal-Mart? Judging by the Wal-Mart here? Everyone is already there anyway. Why bother?

Anyway.

The tampon commerical (and I can't remember the brand) stated that it was the "NEW CARDBOARD!" version.

I was a bit puzzled by this and watched in fascination.

After the commercial was over, I looked at Jason and asked, "Who would want a cardboard tampon?"

And he replied, "Not my baby! My baby wants a...SMOOOOOOOTH APPLICATOR! Smooth applicator!"

(Sung to the tune of: Smooth Operator. By Sade.)




My life is Freaking Brilliant.

Happy Memorial Day, Dad.

Oddly enough, my dad served in Vietnam.

Really, I suppose it's not odd. He's that age, of those men and he was drafted out of a poor coal-mining town to see all of his friends die. I believe the average age of a solider in Vietnam was 19, and my dad was 19.

Oddly, only, that he never, ever, ever talks about it. About what went on there.

Obviously, I never knew him before he went there. I wasn't even thought of until about four years after he came back. I believe though, that it changed him.

I imagine that's war does. It changes you.

My dad is one of the most amazing people I've ever met in my life.

I'm certain he did not want to go to Vietnam. He did not voluntarily join the military. He had a really young wife and a baby on the way. He was drafted to go and he went. He did his best and he instilled in me, and all of his children, a sense of pride in our country and honor for serving it.

It amazes my little children that their Pappaw was in a war. They just can't believe it. All they know of war is what they see on television now. Once my son was reading his atlas (shut up, he's a geek like his mother) and he found Vietnam on the map and he got very upset and asked me if he would have to go there someday to fight. I told him, no, the Vietnam war was over years and years ago. He looked at me solemnly and said, "The war will never end Mom. It will never be over."

I wonder, sometimes, if that's the way my dad feels inside.



He is my hero. He is a hero to all of us.

Not because of what he did in Vietnam. But because of who is he, now. Today. The battle is different now. Now, he fights cancer. He does so with humor and grace and dignity.

When my first husband left me and I was dying inside, he drove his van eight hours, deposited me, my two babies, and as much of our stuff as he could fit inside of it and took us away from there.

When I decided to go back to school, he drove out of his way by twenty minutes to pick up my little children at daycare, so I could go to class.

When I moved to Tennessee, he was heartbroken. But he also understood. He also wants us, our family, to be successful. He also understood our success could not come if we remained stagnant.

When I graduated from college he was there. Even though he was miserably sick from chemotherapy, he was there. He had to climb stairs and it hurt him, because not only does he have cancer he has two slipped discs in his back and a torn meniscus in his knee.

He was there and cheering as loud as anyone.

All of these things, and a billion more, make him my hero.

If you agree with the war, or if you don't, it's Memorial Day. Hug a veteran. Hug a serviceman or woman.

These are our people. And that's what it's about.

The people.

Book Meme: Stolen from Badgergirl

My sweetiegirl Badgergirl over at Pardon the Egg Salad left this meme for us to enjoy while she's out bebopping along in California. If I didn't love her so much, I would be SO JEALOUS.

Also? I miss her and hope she's having the BEST TIME EVER.

On with the meme:


1. Grab the nearest book.

2. Open the book to page 123.

3. Find the fifth sentence.

4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.

5. Don’t search around and look for the “coolest” book you can find. Do what’s actually next to you.


I'm a huge nerd and the book I picked is called Ciao America! by Beppe Severgnini.

I have no idea why I own this book.

Page 123, sentence 5 is:

For example, the name of a used-car showroom, NU2U reads "New to You" or the phrase You Can rendered in a cartoon by a drawing of a tin can with the letter U written on the front.

Seriously, I have no idea why I own this book.

If you want to play along, grab a book and either post your line here in the comments, or post it on your page and leave me a link!

Red light.

My city has put in a bunch of cameras to catch people who run red lights. I was 100% certain that this effort would in no way effect my family, as we do not run red lights.

Until my brilliant husband? The one that I actually, you know, love? He got a red light ticket in the mail.

He made a right on red. Which is not illegal, of course. But you have to, you know, STOP.

We watched the video online.

He did not stop. Let me assure you. He did not even slow down.

I really could have shot him. In the face.

But I did not. Score one for therapy!

Anyhoo. I've never, ever almost been hit by someone who ran a red-light, but nearly every single day of my life I'm almost hit by someone who runs through a stop sign. Apparently stop signs are just mere suggestions and they don't really mean to actually use your brakes or anything. I'm not sure.

What I'm also not sure of is why everyone is in such a big hurry. Like yesterday morning? I was driving to work and going around 70 miles an hour and everyone was passing me as though I was sitting still. And you know where they were going? Work.

I mean, WORK. Why do you have to get there so fast? It's WORK. Do you enjoy your work just WAY more than I do?

And you know what else is sad? The first thing they'll do when they get there is get a cup of coffee and shoot the crap with a co-worker.

Now why is that so important that you have to practically mow down a mom in an SUV? Is it really freaking good coffee?

I don't know. I don't like coffee at all.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

My life both sucks and blows right now. Therefore, I am not even going to make an attempt to be witty or fun or smart or cute or anything.

Instead, I have decided to bombard you with photographs of the people I love.

Enjoy.


One day I had two babies. It was pretty weird.


Even when they were really young, they were major Vols fans. They're cool like that.


Girl Child always rocked the headbands. Boy child finds them merely amusing.


It is stupidly ridiculous how adorable these people are. STUPIDLY RIDICULOUS.


Even when she's not thrilled, she's still pretty darn adorable.


One day I couldn't have another baby. So I got a puppy instead.


These are the things that I could not live without. This would be enough.

Mixed emotions.

Do you ever have moments in your life in which you are so proud you almost want to hurl and at the same time you are so sad you almost want to hurl?

That was me, this morning.

My son received the "Most Improved Student" award this morning. My little son, who worked so hard and struggled so hard. My little boy who's glasses glinted in the gym lights when he looked over at me and grinned when they called his name.

I cried. Yes, I cried. Fortunately I'm done with that Uristat crap, because I really didn't want yellow-tinted contact lenses. But anyway.

I cried. Because I was so proud. And because I was so sad.

I cannot believe that there are people in this world who had the opportunity to be part of this amazing child's life, and my other amazing child's life, and voluntarily decided not to be.

I wonder if they ever wake up in the morning and feel this longing for these precious little people. I wonder if they ever think, "God, I really messed this up."

I wonder if they even care.

I wonder why I care.

I just don't understand how anyone could know there was a child in the world, a child with their DNA, a child with maybe not their DNA but the love of someone who has their DNA, who doesn't even want to try to get to know that child.

I know I should just feel sorry for how stupid those people are. But today, I felt sorry for my son. Because he should have had more than his momma cheering him on today.

He deserves that.

Jocelyn's Third Leg*

Three things I am currently reading:

1) Review of Master Profiles for Sanitary/Industrial Waste
2) Management of Sanitary/Industrial Waste
3) Fundamentals of Girl Scouting/ Home Study Course


Three things I am currently singing:

1) Baby’s got her Blue Jeans on (for the Love of GOD WHY?!?!?!)
2) Mr. Roboto
3) I like big butts and I cannot lie


Three things I have said, out loud where people can hear me, in the last five minutes:

1) “Flopsy, Flopsy!”
2) “I have a stick or a leaf, which would you prefer?” (What you call a tampon and a pad if your male project manager walks in)
3) “I’m a slave to the wang.”


Three things I have thought this morning, but not said out loud:

1) If I don't poop soon, it's likely I will explode.
2) I have retained every drop of water I have ingested since 1978.
3) I wish it was legal to run over people.


Three things other people in my office have said this morning:

1) "I need to plan my suicide."
2) One co-worker to another, "Well, I saved the project. AGAIN."
The other co-worker's response, "QUIT DOING THAT!"
3) "These pants show off my whale tail!"




*If you are not reading Joceyln, please explain to me why not. She's way funnier than I am.

Warning label I probably did not need.

On my box of Uristat (the stuff for my hoo-ha, in case you were wondering):

Phenazopyridine may cause a harmless, orange-red coloring of the urine and other body fluids. Staining of contact lens and clothing that comes in contact with body fluids may occur.

Does this really need to be said? Do THAT many people pee this orangeish red horror and then think, "Oh, let me just stick my finger into my eye and adjust that real quick before I wash my hands! I handle my cootch all the time and nothing bad has ever happened."

Holy Britney in a Barber Shop. Are we really all that crazy?

Not for the faint of heart.

Ode to my Vagina:

Oh my hoo-ha,
Why must you torture me so?
Why must the pain you inflict,
Just grow and grow and grow?

Oh no. Oh no.
Not only Aunt Flo.
Oh no. Oh no.
Not only Aunt Flo.

Why do you make me cry?
Wince in pain and sigh,
With the pain of a UTI?
Oh why?

Oh why?

Open Letters: Angry, PMS Woman Edition

Dear Period:

I say this with all the sincerity that I can muster.

What the hell?

Seriously. What the hell?

Do you think I enjoy having a period approximately every eleven minutes? Because I don't. Do you think I like having to wander around my office asking all the people with vagina's if they have a tampon they could please spare, not because I didn't bring any but because I had to use the entire stash I had at work, in my car, AND in my purse? Because I'll let you in on a little secret: I DON'T FREAKING LIKE IT.

Please. Just go away. It's not fair. I don't get to have babies and you still come and torture me like this? What the crap?

If you have to come visit, only do it once a month. I will regard you with angry insensitivity at that time.

Sincerely,
That Chick





Dear Woman in the Shoe Show on Saturday,

I totally saw you switch the price tags on those shoes.

Yes. I did.

And you know what else? I was disgusted by your behavior. Not only was I disgusted that I saw you switch the price tags? I am also disgusted that you then yelled at two teenage girls who probably work for minimum wage and tried to lie to them and force them to give you those skank-ho shoes for $9.99 instead of $14.99. I am revolted that you displayed that behavior in front of your child, who was probably not even three years old.

Also? I'm all about saving money but maybe if you didn't have those fake nails halfway to Cleveland and that fake-ass Prada bag? Perhaps that $5 wouldn't have made such a difference to you.

Additionally? I am revolted that you were screaming at those little teenage girls who were just trying to earn money to go to college. Or the prom. Or whatever.

I try really hard not to judge other mothers, but what did you just teach that child? That stealing is okay? Because that's not cool. Just. Not. Cool.

And? The best part? I called the manager of the store this morning and told her I saw you switch the tags. So threaten legal action to two sixteen year olds all you want. Moron.

See ya!
That Chick




Dear husband,

I am glad you are home. I'm sorry your flight sucked. I'm glad you had fun at Epcot and the baseball game and running amok playing on the beach.

The only downside I can see to having you home? Is that I really want to eat potato chips. (See the above note to my period for more information) And every time I eat potato chips? You want to eat them too. And you? Eat all the potato chips.

Stop eating all the potato chips, lest I crotch punch you.

Love you a million!
Your loving wife





Dear random people:

Please. Read for clarity.

Also? If I don't know you and you take the time to send me an email telling me what a craptastic parent I am because you didn't read for clarity? Then you suck.

Thank you,
That Chick





To everyone else, particularly the three women who emailed me to tell me that you could totally see my name and address on my driver's license picture that I posted and have since taken down:

You guys rock!

Have a better day than I'm having!

Love,
That Chick

Heaven only knows.

This weekend I devoured the Jodi Picoult novel Nineteen Minutes. Have you read this book? If you have not, I would recommend you go out and get it. Now. Like, right now. Go ahead...I'll wait.





Are you back? Okay, cool.

I won't spoil this book for you, but the basic premise behind it is that there is a kid who is bullied until he snaps and reacts in a shockingly violent manner.

Jodi Picoult has a way of writing that draws you into her characters, even ones you don't want to be drawn into. I didn't really want to feel sympathy for the violent character, Peter, but I did. I wanted desperately to hug him and make everything okay, although clearly, that would not have changed the outcome, as that is what his mother tried to do and it didn't work for her.

Other parts of the book, made me furious, as I assume was the intent.

The book made me think about bullies. A lot.

I always told myself I was never bullied and that I really didn't understand the bullying that other kids have described in their schools. But the truth is, everyone is bullied, at some point in their lives. For some of us, it's just less subtle.

I wouldn't have considered myself popular in high school. I got along well with almost everyone but I certainly wasn't one of the "cool" kids. I also wasn't a social pariah. And honestly? I can't think of even one kid who was. Even the kids who were considered the outcasts seemed to have groups of outcast friends. Maybe that was just my perception, but that is what it was.

I know this will come as a huge surprise to everyone who reads this blog, but actually, I'm pretty dramatic.

I know, right? Shocking.

The thing is, I've always been this way. I've always been dramatic in pretty much everything I do. For some reason, probably because I AM dramatic, drama seems to follow me. Or as my beloved likes you to say, "You attract the crazy."

Indeed.

But even with the drama and the tendency to feel things so deeply and so differently (seemingly), I never really let high school get to me. Somehow, I was blessed with the ability to understand that high school was just a mere detour on the road of life and that those people don't matter. I don't really keep in close touch with anyone I went to high school with. Even then, even when I was 13-17 (I started school at age 4, so I was a young high schooler), I always had the knowledge that "there is more to life than this".

And? There has been.

Was it because I was blessed with some supreme knowledge that other kids aren't privy to? I doubt it. I do think my mom being diagnosed with breast cancer my senior year affected my view on life, as a whole, but I don't think that was all of it.

Anyway, I don't know. Also? It doesn't matter.

The point is, there a whole, whole lot of kids these days that don't understand that what happens in high school doesn't matter. And sometimes those kids move through fluidly and go on to college or a career or whatever and that's that. And other times, those kids come in with guns and shoot up the school.

The character of Peter, in the book, was a sweet, loving, sensitive little boy who was transformed into a sullen, hateful, rage-filled killer because of the people around him.

My son, Boy Child, is a sweet, sensitive, loving little boy. He, at age five, accepted God into his heart, completely of his own accord. He, at age six, packed up 98% of his toys and asked me to give them to kids who didn't have toys. He, at age seven, who began volunteering his time to help kids who won't get Christmas presents. All his friends are the underdogs; little boys with learning disabilities and orphans.

And he is a underdog too.

He gets picked on because he needs braces (I've spoken to the dentist three times and he says, oh, we need to wait, because his little face still needs to grow), he wears glasses, and he struggles in reading. He plays soccer, but he's not the best player on the team. He takes karate, but he's not a stand-out. He kicks my butt in video games and volunteers to help his sister's Girl Scout troop sell cookies. He can run really fast and really far. He can dance like John Travolta.

He tells jokes that make me laugh until I cry.

He tells stories of kids picking on him that make me cry when he's not looking.

This boy is my son.

I have no idea of what I can do to make him not turn out like one of those boys who snap and walk into a school and start shooting.

I tell him when it happens, "Those kids don't matter. Those kids don't count." I encourage the talents he does have, like his amazing ability to create art, his math skills, his science skills. I tell him every single day of his life that I love him. I try not to step in to much, but I'm always there to step in, if he needs me.

How do I know if it's enough?
How do I know if it's to much?


He asked me before if anyone had ever picked on me and I told him, of course, OF COURSE, that everyone gets picked on sometimes. At that moment, in all honesty, I couldn't remember one incident of being picked on.

Later? I thought of a boy in middle school who would curse me every single day as he ran down the halls of the school. I still don't know why. I thought of the boyfriend I had when I was fifteen. He was twenty and he was verbally and physically abusive to me. Once? He punched me in the face because I was singing and he didn't want to hear it anymore. I thought of those girls who pretended to be my friends because they thought my brother was cute, and talked smack about me behind my back. I thought of my ex-husband screaming in my face, "You're ugly, fat, and crazy and no one will ever want you!" I thought of a co-worker of mine who hadn't done his job and got caught and used it to slam me and call me unprofessional. I thought of the (very) few internet bullies that I've encountered who have sent me ugly emails and said hurtful things to me, when all I'm trying to do is figure out who the hell I am and what the hell I'm doing.

We've all been bullied. All of us. Some of us just don't have to look at it every single day of our lives.

I don't know the answer. I think of the parents of those kids who have shot and killed people and while I know so many people are filled with hate and rage towards them, I'm not. I wonder if they wake up every morning and for the first five, sleepy moments they think that it was all a bad dream and maybe that this didn't happen and everything is still okay. I wonder if the next five minutes, and every minute after that, is filled with the stark realization that someone they loved, they gave birth to, they raised, is now a cold-blooded murderer. I don't know how they get through the day. The guilt and shame they feel coupled with the opinion of the public has altered their lives too. They have to pick up the pieces.

Everyone suffers.

I don't want my child to suffer. I want zero tolerance for bullying to actually be true. I want all parents to teach their kids that picking on another kid isn't okay.

I never want to be like those mothers.

Good deeds.

Early this morning, I loaded my children and five huge trash bags stuffed full of used clothing into my Santa Fe and bebopped down the road to the area rescue mission's resale store.

I unloaded the bags and spoke to the woman who was working, who seemed quite pleased as she wrote out our receipt. I felt quite proud of myself as the clothes I had given her were nice. Not Gucci or anything, but nice. The children's clothes (the majority of the donation) were in excellent condition. The children simply went through a growth spurt and we had to make room in their closets. The clothing of mine was also nice, just things I had grown tired of.

Back in our vehicle, I said to the children, "Now we can go buy you some new shoes. Then we'll go get plants for our porch."

Boy Child said, thoughtfully, "Mom? Why did we take those bags to that place?"

I said, somewhat smugly I'm afraid, "That's a rescue mission store. That lady will take our things and put them out for sale."

Boy Child seemed a bit confused. "Our old things, mom?"

"Yes," I replied, changing lanes.

"Mom, why would someone want our old things?"

"Well," I said, "usually people who shop there are less fortunate. They'll be able to get something nice for not much money."

Silence.

"Mom? Why don't we just buy them something new? They don't want our old things. They want new things, right?"

My brain screamed at me, "But my things are NICE! I'm doing them a FAVOR!"

And my heart screamed back at me, "When you were a child, would you have wanted your mom to go to the rescue mission to buy you shorts? Or a dress? Remember when you were the only kid in school who didn't have parachute pants? Remember your mom made all your clothes and you were different and how badly you wanted to belong?"

I felt sudden shame. Shame for being okay financially. Shame for thinking that my little pathetic used clothes would make someone happy.

I know that not everyone who shops at thrift stores is poor. I know there are a lot of funky, cool things to be found there and a lot of people, of all income levels, love to shop there. And I know that the money raised in that store does help the rescue mission at which I volunteer and that makes me very, very happy.

But this little store? I've seen women clutching the hands of little children duck their heads before they run across the parking lot into it. I've seen people who can't speak English and get paid under the table going in there. I've seen families who have holes in their pants looking at the items on the racks. I've seen desperation and shame as a young women looks through her purse, hoping to God she can find just one more dollar so that both kids can have socks with no holes in them.

I am no better than any of those people. I'm just a hell of a lot luckier.

Because I could have easily, easily been a person who had to shop there.





Is it any wonder that I regard my life with unmitigated awe?

200th post and it's about crap! Woo!

My girl here posted all the crap that was in her purse and challenged her readers to do the same. Actually, I think she stole it from someone else, but she's so cute, you can't get mad at her!

Anyhoo.

First, my purse:
I love my purse! It's so freaking cute!


Naturally, the first thing that I can show you from my purse is this:


Ha! Just lying. I'm not Paris Hilton, my dog won't fit in my bag! She's a big old 66 pound heifer and I love the crap out of her.

Anyway. On with the real stuff.


This is a little photo album I keep in my purse. I don't have room for photos in my wallet, which you will soon see.







Yeah. It's a tampon. I went there.

Seriously, if you had a period approximately every eleven minutes? You would carry tampons too.


I always have some kind of bar in my purse, because I'm often driving between buildings during lunch time and I get really hungry if I don't eat something. I haven't tried the SoyJoy bars, because I've heard they taste kind of assy. But I'll probably end up trying it soon and I'll let you know for sure.



Here's my teeny little deodorant. I have to climb a really big hill to get to work and sometimes I'm carrying a lot of crap when I'm doing it, so I always want to make sure I can freshen up, if need be.








Yeah right! Like I'm going to show you my checking account numbers. SUCKERS!

That actually is my $1. That's all the green money I carry.




Here's my second wallet. I only use it for the fourteen million coupons I currently carry about. In case I need them!






My pens. I love pens. Lots and lots and lots of pens! Red pens are an engineers best friend, so I'm always popular with the engineers.




Here's my coin purse. (BAHAHAHAHA! I said "COIN PURSE!") It's shiny and red and carries my coins. (SNORT)

And finally!


My precious little iPod shuffle...




and my little red cell phone of joy! (It actually rang while I was taking the picture, which is why the screen in blue and the picture looks a little blurry...it was vibrating!)

Wanna show me what you got?


*Edited: A big THANK YOU to Rookiemom who let me know that maybe some of my personal info was not so personal when the pictures were enlarged. THANKS WOMAN YOU TOTALLY ROCK!!!

Being a single mom isn't so hard!*

Jason is away on a business trip this week (it's in Florida! LUCKY!) and thus, the children and I have been...well, having lots of fun and not being responsible whatsoever.

In thinking about his being away, I have determined that the following are the best reasons to have a husband go on a business trip:

1) I can go pee in the middle of the night and not shut the bathroom door.
2) No one is snoring and I've slept better than I have in years.
3) We can eat Mexican food.
4) We can eat in front of the television.
5) Watching South Park.
6) There are no knees or elbows in my various orifices while I am trying to sleep.
7) No one is calling four billion times a day. (His employees call for stupid crap constantly when he's here)
8) I can take approximately eleven hundred photographs of myself like this:

Without having to hear, "What are you DOING in there?"
9) I get to call up all my chums and say things like, "And I'd like to knock the taste out of her mouth!" without anyone rolling their eyes at my, um, colorful use of the English language.
10) I can get dressed in the morning with the lights on, instead of creeping around in the dark trying not to wake someone who doesn't have to be at work until 9 freaking a.m. (LUCKY!)


Disadvantages of him not being here include:
1) There was a really big hairy spider on the wall in the bathroom yesterday and I had to squish it myself. I don't really mind doing that, but if he were here, I could ask him to squish it and then he would have felt very proud of himself.
2) The dishwasher is not working properly. I have no confidence that he could fix it, but I would have someone to complain to.
3) I would probably be motivated to cook an actual dinner instead of picking up something.
4) We've been anticipating the season finales of Scrubs and The Office all year and I had to watch them by myself. If you didn't see them, The Office ROCKED. I was grinning like a fool at the end. And Scrubs, well, I wish they would have given us more to go on! But, whatever.
5) Boy Child had a lot of math homework this week. Really, I suck at math, but I pretend to be confident while the children are around. Jason is good at math.
6) I have a lot of really heavy stuff that needs to be put in the car. I could have used a hand with that.
7) It's kind of hard to fall asleep now, without someone's knee in my buttcrack. Since I'm used to it, and all.
8) The children miss him.
9) The puppy misses him.
10) I miss him.




*Total lie. It's the hardest job ever.

Secrets I can't keep.

My good friend BadgerGirl over at Pardon the Egg Salad tagged me for this meme. She rocks!

Here are the rules: Each player starts with eight random facts/habits about themselves. Write a post about your own random things. Post these rules. At the end of your blog, tag 8 people and post their names. Don't forget to leave them a comment and tell them they're tagged.

1. I wonder all the time if I should hang it up at my job. I really want to be good at what I do. I really want to be as smart as the people I work with. But the vast majority of the time, I feel like a total fraud. I think I am smart in ways that they perhaps aren’t. Like, I’m pretty smart about people. Sometimes. But I’m not smart about things like nuclear reactors. Ever. I know it’s not my good looks that are getting me anywhere here so I’m left to wonder why they actually let me continue to work here.

2. My husband doesn’t really think I’m as funny as I think I am. This disturbs me greatly.

I don’t think he thinks I’m unfunny or anything. It’s just, sometimes I say something that is really freakin’ hilarious and he just looks at me and smiles. It’s wasn’t smile funny! It was laugh out loud clutch your stomach funny! I don’t mean to be a hair-splitter, but really. I say to him all the time, “You just don’t even deserve my hilarity!” to which he responds, “But I SMILED!”

Sigh.

3. I really want to love coffee but I don’t. I like the way it smells but I can’t stand the way it tastes. Thus, I am the only person in America who has never been to Starbucks.

4. While I appear to be extremely organized, organization is something I have to completely fight with myself about every single day. My true nature is to be a completely unorganized lazy slob. When I had my twins and you know, no husband around to help or anything, I quickly determined that being an unorganized lazy slob would not fly with my new lifestyle.

Around that time, I moved to North Carolina and I took a low-level, low-paying job (because it’s the only job I was qualified for, at the time, and certainly the only job I could get, because believe me, I tried). I decided that I would look up to the people above me and see what they did and I would try to copy it, and that, my friends is when my obsession for all things Franklin Covey was born. I purchased a green, classic size day planner. With a zipper! And every morning, to this day, the first fifteen minutes of my day are planned out in my day planner.

Except the one I have now? It’s a really pretty burgundy leather. With a snap!

And now? Most people I work with don’t have a planner. My boss calls my planner, “Your little calendar book” as in, “Mark this down in your little calendar book, Chickie.”

Also? I think that’s hilarious because I’m her employee and I constantly say things to her like, “Boss, did you forget to call the Red Cross again? Because these operators can’t train themselves on CPR!” and she says some curse word and then picks up the phone and then gets distracted by something shiny on Gymboree.com and STILL forgets to call.

It’s actually really funny.

Anyway, my point is that I’m not naturally organized. Clearly my thoughts are not naturally organized either, as I am prone to tangents such as the one I just went off into.

5. I used to have an eating disorder. For many years I was bulimic. The first time I made myself throw up, I was nine years old.

My daughter is nine years old and it scares the complete crap out of me that she will have a negative self-image like I did.


6. I often feel like no one on this planet understands how I feel, especially about the topics of my ex-husband leaving me while I was pregnant and my inability to get pregnant now. I feel like I have this huge hole in my heart and it will never, ever go away. I don’t think about it all the time, and I try not to dwell on it but it just aches. Sometimes, it really, really aches. I’ve tried talking to a few people about it, even a therapist, and the general response was, “Well, you should be grateful for the children you have.”

Well, DUH.

I mean, I am. Obviously, I think they are the absolute shiznit, which is why I want to have another one of them. If I thought they sucked butt I surely wouldn’t be interested in signing up for that again.

I am profoundly grateful for those short individuals who live with me. Ridiculously so.

I just wish I could talk to someone who would say, “I totally understand how it feels to be left behind and scared and alone. I know what you are feeling and I know how painful it is and I’m so sorry. I know how it feels to think you’re going to be able to fix it and never be able to fix it. I wish I could help you fix it.”

Not that I would wish that pain on anyone. But still.

7. In the place I used to live, I was discriminated against because I was white.

I know that sounds insane, and some people get upset when I talk about this, but I was.

8. I have only intimidated one person in my entire life and I actually kind of liked it.

I’m probably the least intimidating person on this planet. I like pretty much everyone or can at least find some redeeming quality in them and I have the tendency to do things like shout, “SPIRIT FINGERS!! WOO!” at the end of really good meetings.

But this one time? Jason had a friend who invited us to go to his church with him and we went and it was the darndest thing. It was held in a big warehouse and everyone was wearing shorts and they had a live band and the band was really, really loud and the lesson plan was, “I’m too sexy!” and they played that song, you know, by Right Said Fred?

It was crazy good fun.

But Jason and I didn’t really know it was going to be like that, so we were dressed in what we consider “church clothes”. Chinos and a polo for Jason and a skirt and blouse for me. You know, just normal stuff.

So the friend’s wife? She was wearing shorts that were not flattering and her hair, while very nice, wasn’t nearly as pretty as mine and she looked at me and sort of ducked her head and acted like I was the freaking Queen of England.

It. Was. Awesome.

AWESOME!

I’m such a tool for thinking that way, I’m certain, but I loved it! I never had any desire to intimidate anyone, but that one time? I felt pretty cool.


Tagging:

I’m not doing it.

Sorry, I’m not tagging anyone. Every time I do someone ends up with hurt feelings and that is the last thing I want. So, I’ll just say anyone who reads this and wants to do the meme, please have at it. And leave me a comment to let me know so I can read yours, okay?

Emails I wish I would get.

I get a lot of emails. Most of them are quite nice.

Some of them are like nails on a chalkboard because apparently if you have a blog? People feel like they can ask you some really rude insane crap.

If I could write my own script for my life? I would receive the following emails:

Dear That Chick:

I am the President of a world famous book publisher. While viewing the internet recently I came across your blog. You made me laugh until Diet Pepsi came out of my nose. I would like to offer you a big old fat book deal. Of course, you will be expecting an advance. How does $100,000 sound?

I hope to hear from you soon!
Sincerely,
Really Important Publishing Individual





Dear Chick, my faithful employee:

You know, I was thinking. The other day when you indicated to me, "Those people just didn't turn out!" and I kind of blew you off callously? Well, I was wrong. The co-worker which you were referring to, in fact, did not turn out.

I applaud you on your ability to judge people based on their character. I want you to know that the Didn't turn out man's employment has been terminated, effective immediately.

Sorry about that!

-Your project manager





Dear That Chick,

We, the producers of NBC'S "The Biggest Loser" would totally like to offer you a spot on our show. Because we want you to get really, really skinny in only about three months.

Also? We'll pay for all your plastic surgery once you are done and set you up with a really sweet gig so you can be a motivational speaker. Your life is suddenly going to totally rock.

Love,
NBC


Dear That Chick,

Since you have a huge-ass major crush on me, I totally think you should be my secretary on Law and Order. This gig is pretty sweeeeeeet!

Love,
Senator Fred Dalton Thompson





Dear Lovely Chick,

My brother Robin and I are so pleased that you continue to love us, even though, per your son, I sing like a girl. We would like to come and live with you and sing you to sleep every night.

Oh sod it. We'll just all live together in a big castle in England. Sound good, love?

Write back soon!

Love,
Barry Gibb





Dear Chick,

I know you've been waiting for years for this:

"Whatchoo talking about Willis?"


You're welcome.

Love,
Gary Coleman


PS: Do you know of any job openings that don't involve reality t.v. shows?




Wouldn't that be cool?

Friends you haven't met yet.

In about a month I’m going to meet the woman who is probably my best friend on the planet.

That’s weird, right? Or is it? I don’t know. It seems like maybe it would be weird to be so close to someone you’ve never met. But I am.

Also? I’m nervous.

Because, I know you guys totally aren’t going to believe this, but I’m a complete spazz.

Shocking, right? I know.

But I am.

What if she hates me? What if she meets me and she’s all like, “Girlfriend, your voice is just NOT HAPPENING. I do not like how you call them wrecks instead of accidents! It’s not SPURIGHT. It’s SPRITE. It’s a BEVERAGE not the constitution! It’s shouldn’t take you so long to say it! I’m freaking out of here!”

Man. That would blow.

What if, even though I’ve told her like, every single thing possible about me and for some ungodly reason she STILL likes me and STILL wants to meet me, that when she meets me and she’s like, “Um. No.”

That would also blow.

So cross your fingers that she’ll totally love me. Okay?

Random Disney World Observation- #1

Girl Child, Boy Child, and I were sitting about the computer, while I showed them links to the hotel that we will be staying at when we go to Disney World.

Really? It's pretty freaking sweet. You can take a virtual tour and everything!

So, I showed the kids the virtual tour and boy child said, "Oh my freaking Moses! Disney World is AWESOME!!!"

And I said, "Um, son. This is just the hotel. This isn't even Disney World yet!"

His eyes grew huge. He shrieked, "Are you freaking kidding me!?!?"

When he sees the parking lot? I'll be lucky if he doesn't faint.

Dear Mother-in-law:

I know that probably the only thing on this earth that you wanted for Mother's Day was for your one and only son to call you.

And I know that he didn't call you.

We both know why, although you want to pretend that you don't.

But you know what?

I'm sorry.

I'm not sorry for anything I've said or done, because my only "crime" is loving your son. Yes, he loves me more than he loves you. It didn't mean he didn't love you. It just meant that he loved me and wanted to make his life with me. We could have all had a nice family, together, had you not pushed me and my children away. Had you not treated us like we were scum and not worthy of being in your family.

Because I knew, the first time you threatened me, that if you made him decide between us, he would pick me.

Because I would have never asked him to do that. Never.

And really? The funny thing is?

I'm a really nice person.

I would have made a kick-ass daughter-in-law.

I love your son. He is the completion of my family. He loves me. We laugh. A lot. We have a nice family and a nice home. We have good jobs. In fact, I have a great job, despite the crazy people, and make more money than I probably deserve and he has a really great job and while he works long hours, he's really moving up and doing quite well for us. I worked my butt off and graduated college and made good grades. I encourage your son every day of his life. Do you know that he wouldn't even have his job, were it not for me saying, "Babe, go for it. I believe in you!"?

I'm a freaking fantastic wife.

I volunteer. I work with little girls trying to teach them their self-worth. I give money to charity. I'm kind and decent. Jason and I are raising two young people to become productive, caring, good decent people. And they? Are awesome.

We are good people. We are a great family.

And you are not a part of it.

So, for Mother's Day, I asked my husband a favor. Something I'm certain he never thought would come from my mouth.

I asked him to call you.

I know you think that *I* am the reason that he has nothing to do with you. I know you blame me for him not talking to you for over two and 1/2 years. I know you think that had I never come around, his life would have been so much better...he would have married the girl that YOU wanted him to marry...they'd probably have children together, not just some other man's "baggage"...not some wife with messed up girlie bits who can't give you grandchildren.

But that's just not true. None of it is. Okay, the part about me being infertile? That's true. But the rest of it is rubbish.

He didn't want to call you. Even though I asked him to call you. He didn't want to.

And I'm sorry for that.

Not because you deserve a call from him, because you most certainly do not.

But because it was Mother's Day. And I'm certain it was hurting your heart.

Because if your son was my son? And he didn't call me? It would kill me.

Because your son? Is amazing.

You aren't even aware of very amazing he is. What a good, hard-working man he is. What a good father he is. What a good husband he is. What a good, decent, kind person he is.

And even though you hate me, I have to say to you:

Thank you.

Because clearly something you did at some point in this man's life, impacted him.

Thank you for giving birth to him.
Thank you for taking him to church.
Thank you for protecting him from his drug-addicted father.
Thank you for sending him to good schools.
Thank you for allowing him time with his loving grandmother.
Thank you for moving to North Carolina, so that he would be waiting for me when I got there.


I know you'll never understand. I know you want to continue to live in your own little world and pretend that the problem is really me, and not you. And that's okay.

I probably would do the same, if I lost what you have lost.



I hope you managed to have a nice day anyway. I really mean that.

Sincerely,

Your daughter-in-law














Pssst...for significantly less depressing crap, see my other blog!

Pinkie-Swear.

So it's Mother's Day.

And I am grateful.

For all three of them.



And I promise, that I will do my best to deserve the gifts I have been given.

To be protective.
To be honorable.
To be a woman, a mother, favored of God.

Because, really.


I am.

























Also? I promise we'll have the most fun, ever. EVER.
Because you only get such a few, short years to have them here with you.




Happy Mother's day everyone.

Alert the media! I've got mail!

Once again, Chick will dig into her in-box to bring you the finest questions the Internet has to offer. Enjoy!

You've mentioned your brother, but you never talk about him. Why?

Eh. I dunno.

We used to be close. When we were little children? We were the best of friends. We're only 18 months apart in age.

Then? I don't know.

Honestly.

At some point we just started making really, really, really vastly different decisions for our lives. And due to that, we just aren't as close as we used to be. I respect his right to make his own decisions, even if I don't agree with them. I expect him to respect that I choose to raise my children and live my life in a different way. It works out fine when we do see each other.

I love him and all, but we just aren't close.





Were you and Jason excited when you found out you were having twins?

Well, in 1997 when I found out I was having twins, I was two and 1/2 years away from even meeting Jason. He was probably dating the girl that his mom really wanted him to marry at that time. So, I really doubt he was excited about my pregnancy.

Also? I was excited, but really scared. My fear turned to abject terror when my husband at the time left me a few weeks later.





Why doesn't your ex-husband have a relationship with the twins?

Because he sucks butt?

I don't know! Dude! Ask him.

No wait, don't ask him. If he finds out you want to know there's the potential that he would FIND me.





I think it's very rude that you don't let your ex-husband see your children. Children need both parents you know!

No, really? What an odd policy!

Actually, according to the legal paperwork, my ex-husband has joint custody, despite the fact that he pays zero dollars and zero cents in child support and paid a total of less than $1600 the entire time he DID bother to pay, which was for less than one year. He is legally allowed to have them whenever he wants. I would even drive them six or seven hundred miles each way to see him. All he had to do was ask. Since he hasn't, you know, asked for them in over eight years, I'm fairly certain he doesn't want to see them.

Also? Those snap judgements you have going on? Keep that up. Really. It's soooooo becoming!





What kind of relationship do you have with your parents?

I would call it good. We get along and I worry about them and care about their well-being. My mom and I get along better since I moved five hundred miles away from her, I guess. But I do love her, a lot.

And my dad? He's alright for a white guy.





No! Just lying. My dad totally rocks. He's the best dad I could have ever, ever hoped for and my children could not have a better grandfather. I worry about him almost constantly since he was diagnosed with cancer last year.





You've mentioned your grandmother, but never your grandfather. Why?

I talk a lot about one grandmother, but I have three actually. My mother's mother (the one I talk about a lot), my father's mother (she doesn't really have anything to do with us) and my mother's mother's mother! I have a great grandmother! Doesn't that rock?

I don't have any grandfathers anymore, which saddens me a lot. My great-grandfather died in 1994 and it absolutely broke my heart. He was a mean, crotchety old thing, but he loved me the best. No really, he did. Then, when my twins were a couple of months old, my maternal grandfather died. That really blew also. Two years later, my paternal grandfather died. That was the first time I had ever seen my father cry and I don't think anything in my life has ever hurt me that badly.




What exactly is it that you do and where do you work?

Dude. Like I'm going to tell you THAT.

I mean, COME ON.

Some people who blog know, and that's cool. But I'm not going to freaking announce it. I really think with some of the things I talk about that people already know, without me saying. It's a really big, nationally known place.

It's like a don't ask, don't tell thing. Without the military.





I'm sorry about your secondary infertility. Thanks. Have you ever thought about adoption?

Sure! Two of my co-workers recently adopted from China and another co-worker fostered a child and is now adopting him, so it's something I think about quite a bit, actually.

Emotionally, I'm not sure I'm ready for that right now. And I know I'm not financially, because it takes a buttload and a boocoo of money to do that.

But in a few years, I'll probably revisit it. Because being a mom is really one of the only things on this planet I'm actually good at.




You are really hard on yourself.

True dat.

I know this isn't actually a question, but I kind of wanted to address it, because several of my bloggy friends have mentioned this.

I am hard on myself. I used to believe it was motivating. Like, when I was in college? It's hard enough to be in college and have two kids and a husband and a puppy and a full-time job. But I had to push it further. I had to get straight A's. I had to start a Girl Scout troop. I had to start this blog. I had to do everything. I felt compelled. I felt like there was no options, no choices. I had to do it.

Why? I dunno. To prove something? I guess? To myself. Because no one else gave a crap.

I think being left by my first husband affected me profoundly, and I just didn't deal with it. I failed at marriage, I failed at my first pregnancy, I failed at my second pregnancy (miscarriage), and now I've failed at...well, fertility in general. So I had to succeed at something. And first that something was school. Now it's work. It's this blog. It's, well, everything else in my life.





Man, this is to deep for Saturday morning. What the crap?

Moving on.




You talk about God a lot, but you use curse words and get really angry. Do you think you are a good example of a Christian?

Hell yeah I do! And I think God and Jesus think I kick butt and take names.

Because, seriously? Who said Christians are perfect? Or even have to try to be?

Nobody tell me if the Bible really, actually says that. Okay? I'd be mondo embarrassed.

I love God. I'm not ashamed to tell people that. Some people think I'm a flake because I think that way. That's cool. That's their right. But I still think this way. I'm still going to think this way and what they think won't stop me from thinking this way.

I'm not going to shove it down anyone's throat. But God and I are peeps.




Are you really writing a book?

I am. I don't know if it will ever be published or if anyone will ever read it, but I am. If it does get published, I'll be a total attention whore about it, so I promise you will know.




That's all for today! Thanks for writing!

If you have a question for me, feel free to write me at: thatchickoverthere@gmail.com

I can't promise I'll be quick about answering though.

Open Letters: Happy Mother's Day edition

Dear Co-workers and friends with small babies and toddlers,

I really love you guys and also I love your children.

However? I know this is hard for you to remember, but I’m a mother too.

No, my children are not small and cute and cuddly and adorable. They no longer do things like pee-pee in the potty to get applause and say things like, “mama” and “baba” when they see me or, you know, sheep. But they are still children. They are my children. And I am a mother.

I know it’s not easy to be friends with me when we have very little in common. I know my kids are past the stage of being interesting to you, and that’s okay. Really, it’s okay. I know that everyone is extremely fascinated with little babies and little toddlers and that’s okay too. Hell, *I’m* fascinated with your kids.

But I’m fascinated with my own kids.

Therefore, it really hurts my feelings when you talk about things like Mother’s Day and pretend I’m not even in the room. Yes, I’m excited for you because it’s your first Mother’s Day, or the first one that your kid will remember, or the first one in which your child bought you a present. Honestly, I am.

But it’s Mother’s Day for me too. And really? Everyday of my life is Mother’s Day. Because when you think you can’t have any babies at all, ever, and you get handed two in one fell swoop? Well. It’s pretty sweet.

Also? Inviting all the mother’s to a special lunch and leaving me out and then half-assedly mentioning it once you got back and telling me you “forgot”? Sucks.

Your friend,
The mother of TWINS who raised them BY HERSELF for five years, thank you very freaking much and might actually have something to bring to the table





Dear woman in the burgundy mini-van in the furthest left lane on Interstate 40,

Sweetheart, I feel you.

Honestly. I do.

Because it was pretty darn apparent by the insane faces you were making toward the backseat of your mini-van? That you had a screaming toddler back there. Likely, a screaming toddler who was NOT amused.

I’ve been there.

I have.

Once? I drove over five hundred miles by myself with two infants. BY MYSELF. I had to stop to go to the bathroom and I went to this McDonalds in North Carolina? And a really, really skeevy man asked me if he could hold one of my babies while I went into the bathroom. Seriously. It was crazy.

So I can sympathize with your plight.

However, dear, really? You should consider NOT DRIVING IN THE FAST LANE DURING RUSH HOUR TRAFFIC WHILE TRYING TO TEND TO YOUR BABY. Sorry, I had to yell because it’s possible you might not hear me over your child screaming. It is dangerous, it is rude, and you darn near took out a FedEx truck because, while this may come as a surprise to you, you actually DON’T have eyes in the back of your head. Seriously. You can’t see the road in front of you if you are completely turned around looking at your baby.

Okay?

Move over. Stop. Do something. Just don’t subject everyone else to your child’s tantrum. We understand, we do. We just don’t want to be killed.

Thanks!
That Chick in the Hyundai Santa Fe





Dear Makers of Ouidad products,

Will you marry me and live with me forever and ever?

Because seriously. My hair has never looked better. And it looked pretty darn good before!

Love,

Your loyal customer forever





Dear Vitalicious company,

Your brownies are the new crack.

Love,
An overweight woman who is desperate for her chocolate fix





Dear husband,

Mother’s day is SUNDAY. This Sunday. Not next Sunday. Not some Sunday twelve years from now when my children have their own jobs and cars and can go purchase something for me by themselves. THIS SUNDAY. Like, two days from now.

Also? I showed you a piece of paper that had what I wanted CIRCLED on it. I advised you that the store that carries this particular item is less than one mile from your office. LESS THAN ONE MILE. It’s less than FIFTEEN DOLLARS. We just bought you a new suit that was over $400. Really, I don’t think buying me a fifteen dollar item would tax us financially in any way whatsoever.

Get shopping.

Love!
Your wife





Dear person I work with,

I know this is something you are unaccustomed to, since you work for the government, but when I say I am here to help you, I really mean it. Please stop looking at me like I’m a Nazi spy.

Sincerely,
Your co-worker. I know you can’t remember my name

Good to know.

Jason gleefully informed me last night that due to my copious consumption of fiber, as of late, I've been "extremely gassy" in my sleep.

This is significant because he has never, ever, heard me fart on purpose.

Before we got married, we drafted a "prenuptial agreement".

I agreed to not get a buzz cut or ever start farting and/or burping in front of him on purpose.

I forget what he agreed to. I'm assuming he's already broken it by now, because it was probably something like, "I agree to hang my clothing in the actual closet instead of on the closet door."

For the love of God.

Anyway. That's what marriage is after a few years, I suppose.

In other, less flatulent news, I'm really going to try to start updating my weight-loss blog more. It's looking kind of sad and pathetic. I had been only updating when I walk, and since I suck, it's not been updated much. I'm going to try to write about my own personal feelings on weight loss and other exciting topics. Because, clearly, I have a lot to say about, well, everything. But especially that.

Oh, and it's only...164 days until we go to Disney World. In case you were wondering!

Flip the script.

Man.

I've been really depressing and somewhat negative lately. That post I put up yesterday was pretty darn harsh and almost downright scary.

What is THAT about? God, you'd think I have a brain in my head or something.

Anyway! I opened up my email this morning and guess what I subject line I saw on one of the forty-five emails that have accumulated since last night?

The OurLastName Walt Disney World Vacation

Because:

WE'RE GOING TO DISNEY WORLD!!! WOOOOOOT!

Okay, we're not actually going to October. But you guys know how I like to plan stuff, right? And you know how I get all these big, huge ideas and then just go nuts with them? Well, over the weekend I was driving home from visiting my grandmother and I thought about how fast life really passes us by and other sentimental crap and I decided that life is just to freaking short, you know? My kids are nine. In ten years they'll be off at college or whatever.

And by cracky, we need a vacation.

I then determined what Jason's reaction would be, which would likely be as follows:

"I have to work."

So I thought to myself, "Self, we are going whether he goes or not."

And I hate to be that way, but dude. We can't let our lives pass us by because he's at work.

Much to my delight, he agreed that he could take a week off in October, when the children have Fall Break from school and as soon as those words left his lips I was on the internet booking the vacation.

I will not obsess over taking time off work.
I will not allow my husband to obsess over taking time off work.
I will not worry about my fat body in a bathing suit in Florida.
I will not worry about the money we spend on this trip.

I will go and have a kick-ass time with my family. And be grateful and thankful.



Also? Since it's five months away? I'll probably talk about it way more than I should.

A question with no answers.

I have so much I want to write about lately. So many interesting things happening in my little life and so many interesting things happening in the world.

There is one thing, however, I can’t seem to get off my mind. I’m not writing this to create controversy (I don’t like controversy!), I am really, genuinely curious about this.

As you might know, I became very concerned and depressed regarding the case of Mary Winkler. If you aren’t familiar with this case, Mary Winkler was the wife of Matthew Winkler and the mother of two little girls. She was recently convicted for murdering her husband (who was a pastor) last March. The crux of the case was an attempt to determine if she was a battered wife. I believe she was. Other people do not. I’m cool with that. I don’t know her and I didn’t know him.

A letter to my local paper over the weekend expressed shock and dismay that the parents of Matthew Winkler were fighting for custody of the two small girls. I’m totally paraphrasing here because I absolutely cannot remember the exact words the writer used, but basically she said, “They did a pretty craptacular job with their son. Who on EARTH thinks they could do a better job with these two poor little girls?”

So. What about that?

I know a lot of people that have grandchildren who they have custody of. I don’t mean the grandkids stay over at their house a lot. I mean the grandchildren live in their home with them and do not see the parents on a regular basis. The vast, vast majority of these people who are raising their grandchildren (at least the ones I, personally know) are really good, decent, hardworking folks. I honestly believe they did the best they could with their children.

So whose fault is it?

I mean, I guess what I’m asking is: At what point do we stop blaming the parents and start taking responsibility for our own actions? Even if our own actions mean we are a tremendous jerk who ends up in a pool of blood on the floor because our wife can’t take our extreme BS anymore?

I don’t know.

My ex-husband had this friend who I hated. His parents had divorced when he was really young and he used that as his catch-all excuse for his extremely poor behavior. He had a full scholarship to college. He got to live in the dorms for free and everything (says the girl who had to work her considerable arse off to get through school and found it very difficult to do so)! All he had to do was show up on a daily basis and maintain a “C” average.

Well, he didn’t. Within months of starting college he was getting drunk every single night and dropped out. He smoked so much weed that it was practically growing out of his skin. He ended up working at a series of fast-food jobs and living in his mom’s basement playing video games until he had to go to work again. Once, he almost shot me because he was so freaking paranoid that even though he knew I was coming over to his house, it scared him when I showed up.

Everything, in his opinion, was because his parents were divorced. If you ever confronted him on why he behaved in the manner in which he behaved he would start his sob story about how his mom and dad were divorced and it really messed him up. Never mind that, what, about fifty percent of marriages in this country end in divorce? That thirty percent of the kids in my graduating class had a different last name than their parents (and that was fourteen years ago)? That plenty of people, darn near everyone I would assume, had some kind of crap that went on in their childhood? And they made a choice at some point to move past it and become a productive human being?

He’s dead now. He robbed one of his teenage Burger King co-workers and then caught a ride in the back of a pick-up truck with an unsuspecting man and woman. When he saw a police car coming down the road (a police car, incidentally, that was NOT looking for him) he took his shotgun (which he was apparently carrying) and blew his own brains out.

I wonder if that was his dad’s fault too.

I guess the primary thing I’m wondering is, who really is to blame? For kids who drop off the grandchildren and say, “I don’t want to bother with this.” For adults who have children that they are ill-equipped to raise. For people who let drugs and alcohol take over their lives and lose everything in the process. For men and women who grow up mean and violent and hurt their families. Is it their brain chemistry? Are they just evil? Were they molested as a child? Did they not get the love they needed?

Is there a good answer here?

A different kind of Thank You.

I’ve often wondered if I’d ever come to a point in my life where I would be able to have forgiveness for people who have “wronged” me. As I’ve mentioned before forgiveness isn’t exactly my strong suit.

Over the weekend, I realized I have forgiven my ex-husband.

My aunt Tracie and I were talking about, of all things, eye colors. I have green eyes. Both of my children have brown eyes. Tracie said, “What color are Jason’s eyes?” I told her they were brown. A few minutes later, she laughed and said, “I asked what color Jason’s eyes are because I forgot about your first husband!” I told her I had too and we laughed.

I haven’t forgotten him. He’s just like a vague, fuzzy memory of what used to be. Every now and then I allow myself to think of what my life would have been like if he and I had stayed married, and usually it’s so horrible that I just dismiss it immediately and won’t allow myself to go back to it.

It isn’t even about what a bad husband he would be. He would have been a dreadful husband. Good LORD. Words cannot even begin to express his numerous flaws as a husband.

But for me it’s more about the other things.

I wouldn’t have a college degree.
I wouldn’t have a nice home (sucky neighborhood, true. But nice home).
I wouldn’t be emotionally stable.

Okay, I’m not all that emotionally stable at this point. But I’m closer to emotional stability than I have ever been in my life.

I wouldn’t be me.

Now, some would argue that “me” is not all that great. My mother-in-law, I am certain, would have some strong disagreement with the concept of “me”. Thankfully, her opinion does not faze me. Because, you know, she doesn't count.

I’m okay with me. I’m okay with the person I’m becoming. I’m not a cake…I’ll never be done. But who I am, for now, is okay.

So many people I know right now are going through some horrible difficulties with their former husbands or wives (or baby daddy’s or whatever). I hear about their issues and I wish I could do something, anything to help them through it.

My ex-husband is a huge ass, a horrible human being, and basically a waste of skin. But he did me two of the best services ever. He provided spermies to have my two beautiful, wonderful children. And then he left us the hell alone.

And while I don’t think he’s intelligent enough to actively realize how much of a gift it is that he’s left us alone, that’s what it is. Actually, he probably thinks he’s hurting me by not being a part of the children’s lives.

The joke is totally on him!

But that’s probably not a Christian way to think about it, right? And since I’m being generous and all, I don’t want to lose my testimony.

So, ex-husband. Though you both suck and are a huge tool, you at least don’t subject me or my wonderful children to it.

And for that, I thank you.