Open Letters: Happy Leap Day.

Dear guy in the red Mitsubishi Gallant on Interstate 40 at 7:30am,

Dude. I appreciate that you were moving right along in the left hand lane. I waited until you passed me to get over, because I’m cool like that.

But you, practically stopping to try to get the attention of the girl in the Toyota putzing along in the middle lane? So not cool.

The interstate is not Match.com. Please try and pick up women elsewhere, although based upon the way you drive? You are probably going to attract chicks like me. And I am totally married.

Thanks,
That Chick in the Hyundai Santa Fe





Dear Manager type person,

Excuse me? I must have something crazy in my ear.

Because didn’t you, last week, act like someone else did all the work on that major ass project I did? And now? When they need something else? You are calling me?

Why? Clearly I did NOTHING.

Why don’t you call the guy who got the credit to get the additional information? Oh wait, that’s right. We haven’t seen him around in more than a week.

Well. Good luck with all that!

-That fed-up Chick





Dear Other Management Type person,

Sorry about crying in your office like that. You don’t know me well enough to know that I’ve totally had it.

So I apologize. I feel bad that I cried because now you think I’m crazy.

Maybe I’m crazy. But not on purpose.


-That Chick who works for you. Who is probably crazy.





Dear All the Places that have Interviewed my husband in the last two weeks,

For the love of cornnuts, could someone please OFFER HIM A JOB? He's hard working and really nice and smells good even.

Thanks!
That Chick





Dear fiftysomething cases of Girl Scout cookies sitting in my living room,

I am so tired of you and your chocolately goodness already. Gah.

Love,
That Chick





Dear “The Nest Baby”,

STOP SENDING ME AND MY INFERTILE ASS EMAILS. I have told you to take me off your email distribution and yet you continue to bombard me with emails that have subject lines such as “How Big is the YourLastName baby now?”

Oh my GOD, STOP IT. I have enough trouble with my personal fertility without you FLAUNTING IT IN MY FACE.

QUIT.

-That Pissed-off chick





Dear Female family member who doesn’t know me at all,

Telling me that if I would just do what God says when he is testing me does not help. Not even a little. Please quit it.

Love,
Someone who wishes you were a little nicer

Book Review: Growing up with Tamales

Okay, before I write this review, I have a confession to make.

The author? Gwenolyn Zepeda? I have a bit of a friend crush on her.

Shortly after I had Boy and Girl Child and I moved to North Carolina and my life was a glaring pit of despair and whatnot? I got internet access. I know, I know. I'm old and crap. My children are amazed that I didn't have internet when I was in Elementary school ("How did you look things up?" they ask, in astonishment and having no concept of Encyclopedias). But I didn't have it.

I mean, I knew about it. I used to work for a company that did customer service for Prodigy (remember them? Old School!) and I heard all about old men calling in because they couldn't find the porn. Good times, everyone. Really.

Anyway, somehow and I have no idea how now, I found Gwen's website. This was back before they were called blogs. In the olden days!

Gah.

Gwen's website/blog/whatever you want to call it? Hilarious. Insightful. Wonderful. Whatever day it was that I started reading, I went back and read every single entry that she had and eagerly looked forward to whatever else she would write. Unlike many of the websites I was reading at the time (my own website at the time? Jesus God. It was basically a bunch of pictures of the kids with captions like, "I'm so big!" "Look at me!" Oh my Lord, I was a Mommy blogger before I even knew what that meant!), Gwen's was honest about things like, weight and poverty and single motherness. All of those things I dealt with, but I was posting crap like pictures of my kids in matching Weebok.

So Gwen? Was an inspiration.

My own website went downhill (quickly! QUICKLY!) and I abandoned it. But I kept up with Gwen. I never commented, because I didn't want her to think a) I was a stalker or b) That I was a huge dork.

Eventually, I started my own blog and when people started reading and commenting, I realized that people really like to get those comments. That it's important to tell people you think they rock when you, you know, think they rock. So I started commenting on Gwen's blog. And then one day? I looked at her links? And my blog was there. And seriously? I could not stop smiling. Even if she just did it to be nice. I don't care.

So. That long-ass explanation was probably totally unnecessary. I just wanted to share my pathetic joy with everyone.

I got the book on Tuesday. My daughter was standing there when I opened it and she asked if she could read it as her required reading for the evening. So technically, Girl Child reviewed it before I did. And Girl Child? Loved it.

The book is a children's book and the primary character is a girl named Ana. Ana envies her older sister Lidia because of her responsibilities in the family tradition of making tamales. The years go by and Ana always says she will do what Lidia did...but Lidia, always being older of course, is one step ahead.

Both Girl Child and I loved Ana. She reminded me a lot of Girl Child; spunky and funny and determined. I know that Girl Child will be whoever she wants to be when she grows up, and I got the sense that Gwen wanted that feeling of "Girl Power" for Ana.

As a bonus, the book is written in both English and Spanish. I want to learn Spanish, badly. Girl Child knows more Spanish than I do. She had a really good time trying to pronounce all the words. Considering we're from East Tennessee, it was probably much more hilarious than I am currently portraying it.

I loved the book. I loved the illustrations. I loved how the book flowed. I loved Ana.

I loved it. Girl Child loved it. So I guess that means four thumbs up.

You can pre-order Growing up with Tamales at Amazon. You can also order Gwen's other book To the Last man I slept with and all the other jerks just like him, if you are so inclined. And if you are not already, you should be reading her blog.

Because I said so.

There should be a registry for people like me.

At Girl Scouts on Monday:

Girl Scout IAC, age 8: Miss Chickadee, why do you wear four rings on your ring finger?

Chick: Well, see *taking off rings and showing her* it’s really only three. One is my engagement ring and one is my wedding ring and then there is a ring that wraps around my engagement ring. It looks like two, but it’s only one.

IAC: See my ring? *shows me a ring on her index finger*

Chick: Very beautiful.

IAC: Did you know there is a difference in a wedding and being wed?

Chick: Boy did I ever! I mean, what do you mean?

IAC: See, you can be wed to someone without being married.

Chick: Is that right?

IAC: You have to be at least five to be wed. I’m wed to a boy in Kentucky. If I ever take the ring off, that means we’re broken up forever and ever.

Chick: Too bad divorce isn’t that simple, huh?

IAC: Huh?

Chick: Never mind.

IAC: The boy I’m wed to? His name is Josh.

Chick: Is he a nice boy?

IAC: He’s okay for now. I’m not taking my ring off until I find someone better.

Chick: Well. Thanks for waiting.

The Perfect Mother.

Both my children yesterday, in completely separate incidents and without the knowledge of one another, declared that I was “the perfect mother”.

No, seriously. They said that. They aren’t even on drugs or anything.

After laughing myself silly, I thought about what they said. And I? Was pretty touched.

I can guarantee that when I was almost ten years old, I did not think my mother was perfect. Or that her parenting was perfect. I already knew, at my daughter’s age, that I was a disappointment. My sisters were pretty and I was not. I loved to read and make up stories and tell jokes when I was supposed to be outside and being quiet. I didn’t fit in to my own family, ever. I still don’t.

I don’t think I’m the perfect mother. Far from it. So far, that you couldn’t see it from the Hubble telescope. I’m not always patient or kind. I’m fat and I can’t do math in my head. I’m funny, usually, and usually on purpose. I think its okay to laugh at yourself, and I hope I’m teaching them that.

I’m also profoundly depressed. Clinically. I have to take medication every day. I have to take more medication to sleep. I have to pay a therapist a god-awful amount of money to convince me that life is worth living. I am, depending on your perception, one crazy bitch or one hot mess. Not that one is better than the other, I’m afraid.

There is a very real possibility that at some point in the future, my children will have to deal with my illness.

There is a very real possibility that someday they will have to deal with an illness of their own, all because of me, and my crappy genetic contribution.

That’s pretty far from perfect.

I wonder sometimes, at night when I can’t sleep, if God won’t let me have a baby with Jason because something about the combination of me plus him would make a child who is one of those children who climb the clock towers and do terrible things to other people. It’s a horrifying thought, and even more horrifying when I look at my little children who are, by all outward appearances, completely normal, healthy, happy and well-adjusted. Divorce did not scar them. Knowing that their biological father exists in the world and doesn’t want to know them does not bother them. Somehow, the majority of my anxieties and fears do not seem to have transferred themselves to these small people, and for that? I am enormously grateful.

Also? Scared to death.

I’ve always wondered how far personal desire will take someone. More than anything in this world, I want to be a good mother. There is nothing else on this planet that I could ever or will ever want more than to be the mother that my children deserve. To be the mother who doesn’t freak out over every little thing. Who would rather read a book together than clean the house (anyday!). Who really wants to have children grow up to be good people, in a world where being good isn’t really valued.

I also want other things, deeply. Like to work in a job that isn’t Hell and for my husband to have a job. To not be in debt to Sallie Freaking Mae for the rest of my life. To be creative and have the opportunity to live my life in a creative way, instead of having my soul sucked out of me at every avenue. To have something published, to be a real writer instead of just playing one on the internet.

All of those things I want too. And none of them are happening.

So it’s scary. All of it.

Because I’ll never be perfect.

No foreshadowing.

Last night my son was dancing around the living room wearing these pajamas:

They are green and red, right? But in real life? They are darker. They look almost black.

"Boy Child," says I. "You look really spiffy in those pajamas."

"Thanks Mom!" he said, running frantically. "I look like I'm in prison! Woot!"

Yeah.

Ass! Ass! Ass!

When I was in second grade my quasi-friend Kim and I were discussing our future children.

I call Kim my quasi-friend because, actually? I couldn't stand her. Seriously, even though we were like, seven or whatever she was a complete bitch. I was in a classroom of people I didn't know very well that year and it was either be friends with/fear her, or have to talk to Crystal, who was, at seven, like five-foot five and drank beer and threatened to kick my ass all the time. And that? Was not going to happen.

So anyway. Kim said a lot of curse words. Her mom, per her, did not care that she said curse words and let her say them at home.

This to me was just shocking and amazing. When I was five I learned to read. I was also forced to ride a school bus every day and that bus contained kids who were a lot older than me and liked to write lewd phrases in the steam on the school bus windows. I got into a huge mess of trouble when I came home and said, "Where the hell did I lay those damn papers?"

That's what I get for being literate! Or some crap!

Anyway. Kim said that when she grew up and became a mother, she was going to let her children say all the curse words they wanted.

I? Was not so sure. I mean, my parents weren't down with it. Surely it must be wrong.

Kim, in a rare act of kindness, touched my shoulder and said, "Oh! Chick! Let them!"

I don't know what happened to Kim since that faithful day in 1982. She dropped out of school at some point. I heard she was pregnant and based upon her actions in middle school, I believe it. If that's the case, her kid is like, 19 or 20 now. Maybe she's even a grandmother.

Jesus.

I guess I didn't really ever intend for my kids to say a lot of curse words, really. It's just...I say a lot of curse words. All the time. And you know kids. They listen. They hear. They repeat.

My kids never say curse words outside the confines of our home or our car. In fact, when we are driving to visit my parents? They always say, "Let's say all our curse words now!" and then we barrage one another with "Ass! Hell! Pumba!" until we can't stand it anymore.

I don't know why Pumba is a curse. It just is.

They don't curse at school. They never say a bad word in front of our preacher. Or my grandma. Or my parents or their cousins. They just don't.

Some people think I'm a bad mother because of this, I guess. That's probably okay, because I think that people who are really far up their kids asses all the time and insist that their children are perfect? Blow. Also? I think that people who can't have a sense of humor about anything and admit that, *GASP*, maybe being a mother or a child or even a human being isn't all sunshine and roses and Winnie the Freaking pooh? Can suck it.

Oh and also? I am around your kids. I actually, you know, spend TIME with my children. Not just mine, but yours. And your kids? In addition to saying every curse they can think of? Call people the n-word and say things that are ignorant and racist and completely redneck. Because that's what YOU are teaching THEM.

My kids can say ass all day, for all I care. Because I'm raising them so they won't be asses.

It's a fair trade, I think.

Should I stay or should I go?

When the going gets tough, should the tough run like hell?

Because I'm considering it.

We've been in Tennessee for a little over three years now. My children have went to the same school for a previously unheard of three grades in a row. I got my degree and got a job. I make more money now than I ever have. Sadly, that's not saying much. But I feel like I keep moving forward. Or keep trying to move forward anyway.

Lately, there have been a lot of setbacks, which I have whined about at length.
I've applied for a crapton of new jobs. I've heard nothing.

So.

I have a bit of a problem with having itchy feet. I don't like to stay in one place for very long. It's amazing to me that I've been here for this long. I'm always looking for something else. I don't know if this is good or bad, honestly. It just is what it is.

And right now? I want to be somewhere else.

I don't know where. I don't know what I would do. I know that I have things like a house to sell and, you know, a job here and not in some other place. I'm not going to just run off or something.

But I'm finding that I want to.

I really, really want to.

Open Letters: Oh. Why not?

Dear co-worker who was recently hired and makes like, 200 times my annual salary just for showing up,

IT'S CALLED GOOGLE. LOOK INTO IT.

Thanks!
Chick

PS: Stop asking me to make you copies! I'm not your secretary!





Dear 16 year old girl in Argentina or wherever who just had her SECOND set of triplets,

Good. God. Have you not yet figured out what's causing this?

STOP IT. Get a new hobby. I hear it's fun to crochet. Why don't you try that?

Sincerely,
Chick




Dear Universe,

Please explain to me how a 16 year old girl with no job gets knocked up for the SECOND TIME with triplets (bringing her grand total to 7 kids, mind you) and my infertile ass can't even get pregnant with ONE? How is this fair?

Additionally? How is it fair that my husband loses his job and I work in hell? We are hard working, decent people. Okay, granted, we curse a lot and say things like "douchebag" and laugh when the kids say "ass". But still. We are good people.

Please rethink this universe. I feel like you owe me one. Maybe just a small one. But still.

Everyone should get one.

-Chick

FYI to all you party peeps.

New post is up at Scrivel.



That's about all I got.

Come on to my house, to my house.

Tonight:

Chick, to Boy and Girl Child: So I told the people at work that I wanted to get all of us T-shirts that say, "We kick ass for the Lord!" and you know what? They think I'm awful.

Boy Child: They suck ass.

Chick: You know that's right.

Boy Child: Mom? You know I'm a green belt? I could totally kick ass for the Lord.

Chick: I know!

Boy Child, after a moment: I could also kick ass at your work. Because they are douchebags.

Girl Child: Only if it's in the name of the Lord, Boy Child. Kicking ass for no reason isn't nice.


So wise, these children. So wise.

You'd pay $1.99 to be me!

In addition to being overweight, unattractive, and the lone financial support of my family?

I have a huge purple knot on my forehead! Rock!

Why do I have a huge purple knot on my forehead?



Because I closed the trunk of my SUV onto my OWN HEAD.




NO. I AM NOT KIDDING.



I might have to go to the hospital if I get any cooler! For reals!

Someone. Help.

It has been a very long time since my husband has not had a job. It has also been a long time since my husband has been home on the weekend.

He? Had ADD as a child. Perhaps he still does.

Because this?



Is what he did to my cabinet.

Which is nice and all but this?

Is because he had to line all the fruits up based upon the level of sweetness.


No. I'm not kidding.


And then? He said, "Let me make dinner babe!"

And I was all, "Yay!" Because he used to be a chef.

But yeah.

Not so much.

Six degrees of Blogaration.

Last night to keep my mind away from things like, you know, abject poverty and the fact that I'm the sole financial support of my family now, I decided to play a game.

I didn't make it up or anything. It's basically Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, except it's for the blog world and it's not about Kevin Bacon, it's about me and this blog. I've never even met Kevin Bacon.

So here's how I played.

I typed a random phrase into Google and searched under blogs. Then I would go to a blog that came up and look at their links and look at their links and so on until I found my own blog.

Fun, eh?

Well, maybe not. But it kept me entertained on a Saturday night because my life is boring and tragic as hell.

The first phrase I searched for was:

"God thinks I'm cool"

Because, you know, despite the craphole that has been my life for the past little while, I still believe God thinks I'm cool. God knows what time it is.

That phrase brought me to Mad Marriage and a post called "While I am away". I had never seen this blog before and the author? Is one heck of a writer. That was the first degree.

From her Blogroll, I clicked on Finslippy. I think I have been to this blog before, some time ago. I have a feeling I should be reading it more often because it seems hilarious. And? The second degree.

I clicked on her links (which she calls "Excellent Alternatives to here". Love.) and onto Breed 'em and weep, which I have seen linked about a billion times and maybe have even clicked on before, but I don't know. I can't remember what I had for dinner last night, I certainly can't be expected to remember what I did last month or last year! But anyway. This blog was the third degree.

This blog's links ("Reading is good for you") contained a link to Pardon the Egg Salad. The author, the Divine Badger Girl, not only links to me but happens to be one of my favorite people alive, ever.

And she was the fourth degree.


Pretty cool, yes?


So that was working for me, and pretty fun so I tried again:

"I am so bummed about my job"

(Incidentally? The more I think about it? The phrases weren't exactly random. They were more like, um, what was in my head at that moment)

That phrase brought me to the First degree, Crazy Blogging Canuck and her post called, "Slamming doors, opening windows". Apparently? Her husband was laid off on the 12th. Small world sister!

I clicked on her ginormous blogroll and found the second degree in Midwestern Mommy. Her header cracks me up.

Under the title "Blogs I read", I found the third degree, The Hotfessional who I recently found and commented on. This blog cracks my stuff up.

She was linked to the fourth degree, my beloved Lizarita. Liz is one of those bloggers that I continually wish would post more, because I check her blog every single freaking day. Really, even when I'm busy I always take a minute to check hers because she. is. so. funny. Love her.

She links to me. Which is good, because otherwise? I'd pretty much be a stalker.


After that? I became obsessed.

I googled, “Are you kidding me with this?”

My blog? Came up. Ha.

But in the spirit of the game, I picked a different one, a blog called, Pink Morning, and a post titled, not surprisingly, "Are you kidding me?". The blog author, Julie, is pregnant. She is also gorgeous, so I'm supposed to hate her I guess, but I don't. Not even.

From her blog, I went to Pink and Blues Girls. Then to 3 Boys and a Lady. (Hi Louann!) She has the cutest boys. Probably because she's freaking gorgeous. I'm not sure.

And she links to me!

I googled, “I have boy/girl twins” and My Life as Mama Jodi and her post "Freaky Friday Questions". I don't think she has boy/girl twins actually...I think it was just a question she was answering. Oh well! Google isn't a mind reader, or it wouldn't bring all the penis blog seekers to me.

From her blog I got to Adventures in Babywearing (I love the name of that blog!) who linked me to Mason and Terri's mom, who links to me.

Rock.


Even though I could do this all night and not get bored apparently, my final Google was, “My therapist kicks ass!”

Because my therapist? Big Jim? He kicks ass!

So from Google I got Cootie Chronicles. I am certain I have never been there before, because that name? Hilarious. She linked me to Rancid Raves, who linked to the most excellent Mrs. Cpa of inappropriate party indicator fame.

And she links to me! Kick ass!

What's so fun about this game is that you find a lot of new blogs to read. I know, I know, like I need any more blogs to read! Gah! But still. It's fun. You can "find" yourself and see who has you linked that maybe you didn't even know about. And Holy Linkage Batman! I don't think I've ever linked so many other blogs in a single post.

Try it, if you wanna. Let me know what you find out.

What it feels like, for a girl.

Hurt that's not supposed to show
And tears that fall when no one knows
When you're trying hard to be your best
Could you be a little less
Do you know what it feels like for a girl
Do you know what it feels like in this world
What it feels like for a girl
Strong inside but you don't know it
Good little girls they never show it
When you open up your mouth to speak
Could you be a little weak
Do you know what it feels like for a girl
Do you know what it feels like in this world
For a girl
-"What it feels like for a girl" Madonna


My life has been reduced to one of Madonna's lesser songs.

So many things have happened this week. So many of them have been extraordinarily sucky.

There is a glass ceiling. I am banging my head against it, hard.

No matter how hard I work or how smart I am or what I do? I'm still a girl.

I'm young and I'm bright and I'm a girl.

Therefore, despite my education, despite my intelligence, despite everything I am and everything I can be? There will always be a large sector of the population that believes I'm not good for anything except making them copies.

And you know what's worse?

Even after I've "proved" myself by actually doing the work and doing a good job? Someone else gets the credit for it.

And what's even worse that that?

The person getting the credit? Knows he didn't do the work and STILL took the credit anyway.

And I can't fix any of it.


What's the worst, worst?

Yesterday, my husband lost his job.


I still really don't know why. I mean, there is an explanation, but it doesn't make sense.



Really? I feel like I'm just being kicked in the fattest part of my ass by the entire universe right now.

I'm really not sure why.

Reason 11 billion that I loathe the mall.

On Wednesday both Jason and I had the day off. So we went shopping. For socks.

I know. Could we BE more exciting?

Anyway. At some point I had to use the restroom and was very excited that the Mall restroom had one of those cyclonic hand-dryers. You know, the ones that blow the absolute crap out of your hands, so you don't have to use a paper towel to dry them off after you are done, thereby negating any positive effect you had on the environment like the normal hand dryers do?

Those.

So while I was peeing, I heard someone's cell phone ring and of course the person answers it while SHE was peeing, and then told the caller that she was peeing, because she was just that classy.

She and I both got done peeing at the same time, apparently, and we were both at the sink. I was washing my hands and she was fixing her hair. I dried my hands with the cyclonic dryer which is REALLY freaking loud.

And that? Really pissed off Tits McGee with the cell phone.

She gave me this LOOK.

You know what I'm talking about. Like, "OH MY GOD HOW DARE YOU INTERUPT MY CELL PHONE CALL WITH YOUR HAND SANITATION RITUAL!"

When the dryer stopped running, she rolled her eyes and said to her caller, "ANYWAY!"

And you know what else? She didn't wash her hands. Clearly it would have interfered with her excuriatingly important cell phone call about boys and stickers and jellybeans and unicorns and...I don't know, David Cassidy or something.


I hate the mall. All the nasty people are there.

Open Letters: Hearts, Flowers, and also crap edition.

Dear Ginger,

Seriously? Could you smell worse?

Never mind. Don't answer that.

Also, could you please stop gnawing on your own crotch? For the love of God woman.

Love,
Your Human





Dear two hundred year old man shopping at JcPenney's yesterday,

Sir, I totally respect the fact that you are clearly shopping for your wife, as you were looking at the old lady nightgowns.

Also?

You go grandpa! Get you some!

Love,
A Chick who hopes her husband lives that long and doesn't, you know, die from smoking so much





Dear Management Type Person at Work,

Really?

Seriously? I worked on this project for four weeks, giving up numerous weekend hours, and busted my considerable arse to get it completed EVEN WHEN MY COMPUTER AT WORK TOOK A HUGE CRAP AND DIED three days ago and I had to recreate two huge documents just from my notes and you are SERIOUSLY going to stand there and give A MAN credit for every single thing I did? Seriously?

SERIOUSLY?

Right in front of my face like that? Seriously?


Well. Enjoy Hell anyway. There's a special place there for you, I understand.

Smell you later!
That Chick





Dear Fiber One Bars,

Come with me! My love! To the sea! The sea of love!

Or some crap. Whatever.

Love,
That Chick





Dear Husband,

While I adore you, your dislike of the song I made up for my Fiber One Bars makes me question your judgement.

I mean really. Me singing, "Fiber One bars! I love you! I love how! You make me poo!" is better than a lot of the stuff that recently won Grammy Awards. Seriously. There was this song that won a Grammy that has lyrics that go: I know you're thinking, thinking that it must be I'm a raw flow cause it never get rusty I aint gotta say it, man dawg trust me. Bust somebody head, T.L.C. where was we?

Seriously. That's really the lyrics.

My song is like way, way better than that. Right?

Anyway. Love you!

Love,
The Best Wife EVER



Dear Everybody,

Happy Valentine's day!

Or not, if that's not your thing.

If it's not your thing? Happy Thursday!

Love,
That Chick

Girl Child= Genius

Jason and I were standing at the stove, talking. Boy and Girl Child were sitting at the table, doing homework.

Jason hugged me, gave me a kiss, and patted me on the butt.

Girl Child said,


"EWWWWWWWWWWW! OLD PEOPLE LOVE!"


Solid.

Long, beautiful hair.

So I dyed my hair the other day.

I'm not a real girl and I don't do things like that, ever. You know what my haircare routine is? I wash it, condition it, and that's it. I don't blow-dry. I don't put weird spooge looking stuff in it. I do the basics.

It works for me.

BUT, I'm getting older or more harrassed or some crap and I've developed a nice little wad of gray hair. RIGHT IN THE FRONT where it's really obvious, because I am an extremely lucky person.

So I went to the store and looked at the eleven million products available and picked up two boxes (I have a ton of hair, I have to have two boxes) of a product called, "Chocolate Covered Cherry". It was the closest I could find to my normal hair color.

So I spent like, two hours on this production on Saturday morning and you know what happened?

Nothing.

No one noticed.

Jason noticed because that stuff stinks something awful and he was like, "GOOD GOD WHAT DIED IN THE BATHROOM?" and so I had to tell him.

But no one else has said a word.

I told Jason last night and he said, "Isn't that the point? I mean, if you did Ronald McDonald red or something then people would notice, but it's your normal hair color, right?"

Right.

But still. That box lured me with the promise that I would somehow become really sexy and amazing if I used it. And that just didn't happen.



Good thing my self-esteem is so low or all this might have really hurt my feelings.

I'm not going to write you a love song.

My children and the two hundred commercials I have seen for Vermont Teddy Bears recently have reminded me that Valentine's day is upon us.

Yay.


I don't really "do" Valentine's day, and that's okay. Other people like it and get chocolate and sexy things and flowers and stuff. And that's okay too. I just don't care about it.

Someone I know is cheating on their wife, which is sort of what prompted my post from yesterday. I was thinking about this person and his sorry ass on my way home from work.

I wasn't really thinking about HIM necessarily. Mostly, and I guess this is pretty telling about me, I was confused about how anyone has the time, energy, and desire to cheat on anyone else.

See, I love my husband.


It is exhausting to love my husband.


I don't think it's him, either. I really don't. Maybe I'm a hugely selfish jerk, but it is so hard to be thoughtful of someone else all the time. Really? When I come home? I want to sit on my butt and watch reruns of Law and Order. I want to pop a bag of popcorn and eat it for dinner. I want to spend hours on the computer and not do the dishes.

You know what I do when I come home?

Well, it's not any of that. It's things like fixing dinner and thinking about where I can buy Jason socks for his birthday. And neither one of those things is any fun, at all.

But I love him. So I do these things.

I cannot imagine voluntarily making another man dinner. Or buying him socks or shaving his back or listening to him sing things like, "You are the Chick that I love! You are the Chick that I love!" (Except he says my real name. It would just be stupid if he called me Chick). I cannot imagine coaching anyone else through job troubles or having to have deep conversations about the future with more than one person. Just having to do all these things with one person? Wears. My. Rear. End. Out.

So. Jason never has to worry about me cheating, I suppose. I'm lazy.

Also? I love him and stuff.

But still.



Lazy.

Odd thought I had last night.

I wonder if those people who are operators for places like 1-800 flowers and the pajama-gram place laugh at the men who call in and place an order for their wife and also another order for their mistress.

Because, you know, I'm sure that happens.












Dumbasses.

Best. Show. Ever.

My love of all things television is well documented on this blog (and also, what I write over at Scrivel). I'm also quite certain that in all of my rambling on this blog I might have mentioned once or twice that even though I am Southern by birth and also by the Grace of God, that I do not care for the country music. The old school stuff like Johnny Cash and my personal heroes Dolly Parton and Patsy Cline, yes. People like...I don't even know their names. That really young pretty blond chick who's like, 12 or whatever and sings about heartbreak? No.

So anyway, I was flipping through the channels yesterday and paused on CMT long enough to find the absolute best program anyone could have ever dreamed up, ever. Seriously.

My Big Redneck Wedding.

Heck. Freaking. Yes.

Having been to a number of weddings which were decidedly redneck in nature, I thought it might be interesting to watch a program about people who declared themselves country and decided to have a wedding that reflected this. Rather than, you know, just not knowing any better and doing things really tackily.

Is tackily a word? I'm not sure. Also? I don't care.

Anyway, I tuned in about halfway through an episode featuring a couple called Gail and John. The first thing they were doing was making a beer-can archway for the wedding.

No, seriously. I'm totally not kidding.

They hauled this big metal archway into their trailer and decorated it with empty beer cans. When it didn't look quite full enough on top, John drank numerous beers, burped really loudly, and tossed the empty cans to Gail so she could fill in. Then? Seriously, then? They lit it up with Christmas lights.

John attempts to write his own vows which he reads to "Granny". I am uncertain if she was his granny or Gail's granny or just some old woman living with them. At one point in his vows he said that Gail was "hotter than a Hot Pocket" and Granny said, excitedly, "I love Hot Pockets!"

So does John, Granny. So does John.

In a life-altering scene they went to the florist to arrange for the wedding flowers. Gail, I noticed, was missing a number of teeth. Perhaps all of her top teeth, I'm not sure. Gail and John decided, much to the absolute horror of the florist, that they would make centerpieces using....wait for it....used beer cans!

When they left the florist? John announced he had to pee.

He peed Gail's name into the street.

I AM NOT KIDDING!

They didn't release doves at the ceremony. They released live chickens.

She ordered her wedding dress off the internet. She's a size 28. The dress was an 8. John was trying to bind her into it and told her to take a deep breath. It didn't work.

Gail could not find her teeth the morning of the ceremony. Her soon to be Mother-in-law? Offered to let her borrow her teeth.


Seriously. You read that correctly. BORROW HER TEETH.


Good. Gravy. This is my new favorite show ever.

Not just because it's hysterically wonderful and, let's face it, I know a lot of people like that. But also because the couples really, genuinely seemed to love one another. I got a little choked up when they were saying their vows and a little more choked up when she gave him a wedding present. Which was a bowling ball that said, I believe, "Think of me when you touch your ball".


Good times, everyone. Good. Times.

Slave to the wang.

Apparently? I use the word "penis" a lot on this blog.

Wanna know how I know that? (Other than the fact that I, you know, write this blog?)

My sitemeter tells me the following searches have lead people to my blog recently:

1) Big Hairy penis
Oh, EWW!

2) My penis Blog Site
Good luck with that

3) Jason's penis
He would be mortified. Seriously. Mortified.

4) Never seen my husband's penis
I have no words.

5) PENIS penis
Just like that. Big and small.


Oh, HA! I made a funny!

6) Blog about my penis
I don't have one, so this isn't it.


And since I've just typed penis about six hundred more times, can you imagine my site meter next week?

It's going to be awesome. We'll have so much to laugh about.

Alert! Alert!

New post is up at Scrivel today!

Please check it out and vote for it, if you are so inclined. Or don't. I don't win anything if you vote or get money or anything like that. But it does brighten my pathetic world to see those little stars.

Also? There are RSS feeds on the site, if anyone is interested.

WOO! Yeah! What a Friday!




Not really, but I'm trying that faking it thing.





Did it work?

The one where I answer a bunch of stuff.

Today I had an Important Meeting with Important People. It went well.

By 4pm however, my girdle was cutting me in half and the high heels that I never, ever wear had rubbed huge blisters all over my feet. I, stupidly, decided I would walk to my later meeting and that? Was a bad decision.

Anyway, I was going to be all smart and cool and write this great post tonight, but truthfully? I just don't have it in me. I still have to make dinner, help with schoolwork, and then I have at least two more hours of work ahead of me tonight so I'll be prepared for something tomorrow.

So instead of the fantabulous post I was going to write tonight? I'll just answer some of the questions I've been getting via email and comments lately. How about that?



I thought this was supposed to be a humor blog. This isn't funny at all!

Oh my freaking freak, I am so tired of this comment.

I. AM. NOT. FUNNY. EVERY. DAY.

No one is.

I have a life outside of this blog. Not all of it is good. When it is not good, this is my place to write about it.

Some people don't like my blog. I get that. I would encourage those who don't like it to STOP LOOKING AT IT. It's not going to change. It's not going to get magically better just because you don't like it. I'm not going to change. You will still find me offensive, not funny, stupid, fat, ugly...whatever you find me.

Just stop reading. Then both of us will be okay.



Your job sucks. Thanks for the update Big Ben! All you do is complain about it. Why don't you get a new one?

Well holy crap, why didn't I think of that? All my problems are solved!

No seriously. I appreciate when people say, "You need to get out of there! I hope you find something else soon!" and stuff like that. Because that? Is supportive. That? Makes sense.

Random person who I do not know who emails me this? No.

Maybe they meant it supportively. But calling me out on complaining? Leads me to believe they probably DID NOT mean it supportively.

For the record, I'm looking for another job. I've applied for at least thirty jobs in the past three months. I applied for a job today. I'm trying to get another job.

Also for the record? If you had to work at my job, you'd complain also.

Additionally? For the record? I'm going to keep complaining about it, as long as I have to work there.

So. You know. Keep that in mind.



Don't you think it's inappropriate that your child knows what a penis is for?

No. Actually, I don't.


And for the record? He doesn't. But even if he did? I still wouldn't think it was inappropriate.



What's going on with that woman who works for Jason?

Oh my corncakes! Y'all! She QUIT!

She told Jason she would just have to quit because her daycare was so expensive. How having $0 a month is better, I have no idea.

Also? I don't care! She QUIT!



Why would you go and help Jason out at work after what happened before? I wouldn't give them any more of my time!

Oh, I know, right? I'm such a waffler. I was all like, "IT WILL BE A COLD DAY IN HELL BEFORE I DARKEN THAT DOORSTEP AGAIN!"

And then he asked and I was all like, "Okay."

Well, not really. He had to persuade me. But still, I agreed.

And the reason is? Well, I wasn't there to help out his company. I was there to help HIM.

Maybe it's silly, but I see our family as a team (which could be why Boy Child has decided to call me "Coach" recently). We all work together. Our success is all intermeshed. Our failure is too.

If we could do something that would benefit Jason then, in reality, it will benefit all four of us.

So maybe that's sappy. But that? Is why.

Mother of the Year.

Today, Boy Child and I were driving to pick up Girl Child and some guy talking on his cell phone drifted into our lane.

I honked at him and muttered, "Jerk"

The guy flipped a bird.

Boy Child said, mockingly, "Ooh! Look at me! I'm a big douchebag! I have to flip off women because my penis is so small!"

I laughed hysterically, of course, because I'm wildly inappropriate and then I said, "I don't want to hear about anyone's penis honey."

And he said...


"Except Daddy's."




Put that one in your book.

Killing me softly.

Last night? Ginger crapped on the rug.

She just doesn't do that. So it was weird. And it smelled like, well, crap. Which I guess makes sense but still doesn't make it any better.

I couldn't sleep. Jason was snoring really loudly and the dog was wimpering until about 5am when she decided she would just bark loudly. I went and let her out of her crate and she immediately drank every bit of water in her bowl.

At about 6:30am while I was dressing? She peed on the floor.Boy Child decided he would help and went to clean it up.

With Kaboom or Bam or one of those cleaners that Billy Mayes shrieks about on the television while I'm trying to sleep.

On my carpet.
My light beige carpet.

So I'm on my hands and knees with a bucket of water and it's not even 7am. Not even.

No school today because of the elections, so I take the kids to Taekwondo. No one is there.

We drive to the bank so I can deposit two checks. I have the checks, my check card and the envelope in my hand. I go to write out the deposit slip and my checkcard is gone. I drove around got out of the car, dug through the seats, under the seats, in my clevage, everywhere. I can't find it.

I start crying and debate going home.

But I can't, because I have to give training at 10am.

I go back to Taekwondo. It's open.

An hour later, I get to work, open my email and the first one is from my new boss and it, in my opinion, is accusatory.

I go to the bathroom. Cry again.

I get an email informing me that someone else decided they wanted to use the conference room, which I intended to use for my training. Even though I booked it last month, I am booted.

I have to scurry around making other arrangements.

Twenty people come. One of whom marks up the test, tells me how every single thing I did was wrong (I passed out the tests incorrectly even) and then seriously asks me what I've been doing for the last year that I haven't fixed this yet.

Clearly, I've been sitting on my ass eating bon-bons. I mean, clearly.

I went outside, called my friend and cried on the phone.

Called my former boss and cried on the phone.

Went to therapy and cried for like, an hour.

Usually therapy makes me feel better, but today? Not so much.


So. Know anyone who is hiring? Because I need a new job before I tell everyone to kiss my fat bon-bon eating ass, I'm going home.

I? Am in a mood.

I. Am. Over. It.

Whatever it is. I'm over it. Done with it. Through. Thinking about kicking the fattest part of it's ass.

I could list a big long list of complaints here, but I won't, because it wouldn't do any good. I will say, however, that today and tonight I saw some of the worst examples of human behavior that I have seen in all my years.

I know a huge part of this is because I'm exhausted and another huge part is because my job is some version of my own personal hell.

I know that. I get that.


It doesn't make today any easier.

I need to simmer down.

I'm one of those people who get really random/wild ideas at about 2am and then can't sleep because I MUST! ACT! ON! THEM! NOW!

It's not fun.

Since 2am I've:

-Applied for 11 jobs
-Switched my retirement account around six different ways
-Spent nearly three hours looking up literary agents online
-Worked on my new novel for two hours
-Cried once
-Drank four cans of Diet Pepsi
-Trimmed stray hairs off Ginger's legs
-Pondered the meaning of life
-Decided to make frozen pizza for dinner
-Made numerous surly comments to those who live here


Don't you wish you had my life?

Taxes 4 Less!

It's tax season and you know what that means!

Well, maybe it means something else for you. For me? It means I'm hating life for the next few months.

And I don't DO taxes or anything. But my husband does. Which means I don't see him from mid-January until April 15th. Every now and then he comes home, grunts something at me, eats something, and goes to bed.

It's lovely, really.

Anyway, this morning I planned on sleeping in because, well it's the weekend for one, and also? My job just sucks so bad that it's not even that I'm resting on the weekend, I'm just trying to avoid shrieky people and audits and "just one more thing".

Jason has to work, however, and this morning his alarm went off slightly before the buttcrack of dawn and of course he let it go off about 80 times before he actually got up and then he says,

"Hey! I have a great idea!"

In case you are someone who is unfamiliar with my marriage, whenever he says this? It is never, ever, EVER, EVER, EVER a good idea. Ever. In fact? It's almost always a horribly bad idea.

Today's idea? Did not disappoint.

"How about you bring the kids to my office and have them hold up signs by the highway!"

"Signs!?" I asked. "What kind of signs?"

"You know! Signs that say We do Taxes! Or, Taxes for less! OH! Taxes 4 Less! With the number instead of the letters!"

"No," I said, sullenly, upset that my sleep was disturbed for this nonsense.

"What if I promise you sexual favors?" he asked.

"Number one, I'm not a guy so that doesn't work," I said. "Number two, no."

That went on for about twelve years and somehow, he wore me down. He always does, somehow.



He left and went to work and I went to tell the children about the plan for the day. I found the Girl Child watching Spongebob.

"Girl Child," I said. "You need to get dressed so we can go hold up signs by the highway."

"The hell with that!" she declared.



No really, she did. I laughed for like two hours about that.



We went to Party City which really isn't a fun place, despite it's name. As a side note: To the chick working at Party City? Could you be more of a complete bitch? I mean, seriously. Your entire job is to blow up balloons. You even have a helium tank. You don't have to blow them up with your own breath even. Please do not act like you are SO PUT OUT by me asking you to DO YOUR STUPID JOB.

Also? Come do my job for one day. Just one. Then you can be a bitch and act like blowing up balloons all freaking day is hard.

Gah.

On the way to Party City we had seen two men dressed as Uncle Sam, sitting at the bus stop. We laughed hysterically about that and I said, "Gas prices are so high Uncle Sam can't even afford to drive!" The kids laughed at that too, but they didn't get it.

Party City had those Uncle Sam hats, so I got the kids those too.

We went to the office, tied the balloons to the street sign, wrote TAXES 4 LESS! on posterboard and stood by the highway.

And absolutely nothing happened.


Well, I take that back. The following happened:

-Twelve people honked
-One guy flipped us a bird (he must work for H&R block)
-Someone threw an entire bag of garbage out of their car window. I'm seriously not kidding, like a huge Hefty Bag of garbage. It went everywhere, all over the road. The car behind it plowed into it at 60 mph and it just exploded. Diet Pepsi bottles flew like bullets.
-Boy Child danced numerous jigs, tipped his hat to the traffic, did the finger point thing like Uncle Sam in the pictures, and shrieked, "TAXES!" and occassionally, "CORN!" like that Bobby Lee stand-up comedy routine.


Did I mention it was about 42 degrees? Because it was.


Not one person stopped. Not even one person slowed down.


Total taxes done for the day? Zero.


I? Was considerably annoyed.

We got in the car to come home and Boy Child said, his eyes shining, "Man! That was SO much fun!"

"Fun?" I asked, skeptically. "Really?"

"Yeah!" he said. "I got to wear a hat and scream at traffic. It doesn't get any better than that!"




I like the way that kid thinks.

And now, for something totally different...

Come see someone you know and some other people you don't know but will probably like.

Here. Now. Today!