The Dr. is in!

My friends & I joke about "going to my happy place" whenever we get anxious or sad or overwhelmed. How many of us say that but don't do it?


As you now know, I am riddled with issues. Yes, it is official. I have a paper stating such. And I also have a therapist. (Jealous? You should be!) My issues have calmed down tremendously since I got older. I no longer vomit in public when I'm nervous or have anxiety attacks....much (My first attack was in 4th grade...in front of my class..as my teacher screamed "I can't teach you, you are so damn stupid....kid you not!)


I am learning how to rethink. I'm trying to make new pathways in my brain so I can have more options then just careening down the tortured, twisted path I normally tread. But to do that...I must be submersed in Cognitive Behavioural Therapy ( a psycho therapeutic approach that aims to solved problems concerning dysfunctional emotions, behaviors & cognitions through a goal oriented systematic procedure......get it? )


One thing my fairy dust sprinkling therapist (yes...she does have a waned!) has taught me is how to ease anxiety by going to my happy place. It's very simple. At first it feels stupid....really stupid. But the more you practice...the more it works. So lets get going to your happy place!



Think about something calm that you enjoy doing. For me, it's wandering in nature. For you it might be sewing, swimming, singing, jogging, playing an instrument, sumo wrestling.

What do you see around you?

What do you smell?

What do you taste?

What do you hear?

What do you feel?

You have just invoked all 5 senses. Your brain is trying to make new pathways in healthy thinking. After you have imagined all of this, pick a word. This word needs to be something that is not used often. If it's a common word, 1 of 2 things will happen. The word will lose all meaning or you will suddenly find yourself in a meditative, drooling, relaxed state when someone says the word to you. "Hey Jane! Cute puppy you got there." relaxed word.... puppy...suddenly calm & warm as dog drags you chasing after a squirrel....what would your neighbors think?!

Now you go through your meditations say the word over & over again. (yeah, yeah...it sounds stupid, just keep at it) Over time you have trained your mind to relax. In times that you can't sit, relax & daydream about your happy place...all you have to do is say the word. And like Pavlov dog, your brain will associate warms fuzzies with that word.

Now, be gone, I'm off to my happy place!

You cut me. You cut me deep

Winter has arrived. Christmas looms around the corner. Snow is itching to fall. I do my best to show my kids I enjoy this time of year...which is a big fat lie. But there is one thing I enjoy....cooking & baking. And even a cold scrooge as me, can't deny the happiness that baking cookies bring this time of year. How many people say "Aww geezzz, it was a nightmare...mother baking cookies into the night. The smell of chocolate wafting through the air. The anticipation of waiting to "test" the chewy warm treats....aggggg what a horrible memory! I could just puke!!!" I mean really? Can you go wrong with the memory of mother baking tasty treats? Really? Realllyyyy? And if for some reason that is a bad memory...well then....there are some other issues involved here. Anyway, on to the subject at hand...cookies.







I began a dinner conversation with a question (doing my best to embrace the season & make cookie memories for my kids) "Darling children, what is your favorite cookie I can make you this time of year? Wouldn't it be Jim Dandy if we got together & made your most loved cookie?"





Children. "Oh yes mother dear that would be neat-o!"





As the children thought long & hard about their most beloved cookie, I smiled at myself. Happy that I could give them a wonderful cookie memory.





My 10 year old son said "OOhhh, I know! My favorite are those cookies w/ all the colors...ummm, you know with the shapes.





"Spritzes that my mother use to make? (I was excited! He loved MY mommies cookies that I try to recreate each year)





"No, not those...ummm, they are round."





Macaroons?


Good O' chocolate chip?


Ginger snaps?


Snicker doodles?


Peanut butter?


Minty delights?





"No....Ya know the one's that come in the package w/ the pictures inside of them"





You mean these.............

Ya....let THAT sink in.

The children erupt with "oh yes! I love those! So much fun!"

And I shot daggers out of my eyes as a piece of me died.

Let me explain myself. First, I have issues. Second, I grew up w/ a mother that baked from scratch. I never had canned veggies (I love canned greened beans..because my mother poo-pooed them!) My mother never lowered herself to make boxed Mac & Cheese (which I couldn't get enough of when my kids were little...because my mother poo-pooed mac & crap) My mother was a cooking Goddess & I have wonderful memories of her cooking. (there was a time she lite her eyebrows on fire cooking her famous spaghetti sauce....but that's a story for another day)

So for me.....cooking is my thang. One thing I think I do well is bake. I scream at my kids. I swear like a sailor. I lock myself in my room & throw temper tantrums. I fart & dart. I am self deprecating...But by golly I can cook dang nabIT!

So here I was, being out shined by a package of crappy, tasteless, pre made cookies (cookies I made ONCE YEARS ago because my M-I-L left them...I felt too guilty to throw them away. And yes I cried when I baked them.)

So what did I do? I bought them the cookies. I cringed & cried on the inside. Then I let my older son cook those cookies all by himself when my husband & I went on a date.

When all was said & done I heard my mom say to me. "It's not about what you make, It's about the memories of the joy you had baking & caring for your family. It's about letting your kids have a say in what they like & not shaming them. It's about a boy taking his first steps into the world of warm ovens, happy tummies & the feeling of accomplishment"

"But mom...those cookies are of the devil! They are tasteless & gross!"

"I know Sweetie. Just do your best to grin & bare it. Grin & bare it."

So I took my moms advice. The cookies were eaten while I was away (I didn't have to witness the monstrosity of it all) My son enjoyed baking them. Clean up was a cinch. & the best part...

My son said..."yeah, they don't taste that great like I remembered them. They were pretty tasteless. My favorite cookies is the minty delights."

My spirit & my ghost of a mother high fived.. Our job here was done.

Thanksgiving crab legs

I don't like holidays...much. I am one of those cranky women who wouldn't put up a Christmas tree if I didn't have to. And...I have to because I have children. This year I'm tempted to not make a move for the Christmas decoration box & see what happens. Will my husband bring out the box if I don't ask him? Will my children shrivel up & die with out a stupid fake tree? Things to ponder.
I lost my love for the holidays after my mom died...& once I grew up & realised I have to be the one that does all the work! Gone are the days of Mom making cookies while Dad swears like a sailor trying to untangle the $%&%$ strands Christmas tree lights. Then stringing the $%#& lights on the $%H&# tree. I loved watching that all play out. In my little childhood mind I would wonder why my Dad, year after year climbed up on our roof. (this wasn't ANY roof, this was a BARN roof, yes, I was raised in a barn) stapled on the ginormous colored light bulbs, swearing the whole time. Then climb back down only to grumble "never to do THAT again!" "Screw next year, I'm not doing it." Then only to repeat the scenario the next year & the next year & the next year. Why, I wondered did he do it?

Then my mom died & the lights didn't go up. He did it all for her.

After Mom died, the first holidays were the worst & the kindest. For Thanksgiving my Dad was too sad to cook. OK...real reason...my Dad didn't know how to cook. Oh, he could cook hamburgers & pancakes, but that was about it. So for our first Thanksgiving we had our turkey dinner at.... a restaurant. I could have DIED! I felt terrible that WE were taking people away from their families just to serve us. I begged my Dad to just stay home, but he refused. It was too depressing to stay home & slaughter a Thanksgiving meal & eat it while looking at that empty chair. So off to a little restaurant called Coleman's we went. There were only 4 people there. An older couple and Dad & I. I...was...mortified!
But that Thanksgiving will be forever burned in my mind as one of the best. That Thanksgiving, Coleman's served all you can eat....King Snow Crab legs. Aaaaahhhh, they were the best crab legs I ever had! We didn't even know they were not serving turkey. We welcomed the changed menu. We ate till we nearly burst. The mood of the restaurant was quiet & slow at first. The owner (who we knew)was there, helping out in the kitchen & came out to check on his patrons. When he saw us he started to cry. He was a big man named Brett Coleman. I felt terrible when people were upset for us. I just wanted to cheer them up. So, that's what Dad & I did. We made them laugh. The older couple joined in on the fun too. Soon our little group was laughing till we had tears in our eyes. We were covered in butter & bits of crab legs. We stayed for hours, grateful to feel normal & happy & well fed. Grateful for the slaps on the backs & the endless supply of crab legs....hot delicious crab legggssssss. The cooks & the waitress & the owner taking turns coming out to sit w/ us. We felt care for. We WERE cared for.
After our meals, the older couple took turns hugging me. The owner & Dad got into a huge fight because Brett wanted the meal on the house. Dad would have NON of that! Back & forth they went yelling. It was pretty funny. Brett refused to give Dad the check so Dad left a HUGE tip for the waitress & the cook. Both men walked away like they had won the "fight."
A few years after that, Dad & I went out for an early New Years dinner. We always had fun together (well at least I did with him, I'm sure there were days he wanted to strangle his brooding daughter) We sat eating our dinner having a gay o' time when my Dad spotted a man, sitting at a table with his young children. We recognised "the look." The look of faked happiness for the sake of your kids on the mans face. My Dad said "He must have lost her." Divorce, death...we didn't know. The man lost her. So my Dad did the only thing he could do, he secretly paid for the family's dinner.
The holidays are hard for so many people. But I am grateful for those who serve. Whether it's stuffing stocking for our troops or serving crab legs to those who lost loved ones. People who serve can make a big impression on a sad person. I will always remember Brett Coleman & his crab legs. Maybe that sad father will remember his meal was paid for & life can throw you gentle mercies when you lest expect it. I am grateful for children who just want to have a good time. Who propel us to do things we may not want to, but are good for us. Who love the smell of turkey burning & can hear the sweet sounds of their mother swearing in the kitchen. I even have to smile inside as my husband says the same thing my mother use to tell me.

"Stay away from your mother kids...she's putting up the lights!"

Brought to you by Abreva

I am sitting at my computer that has been parked at the kitchen table for 5 days. Cords splayed unceremoniously on the floor, draped over chairs & piled up in the corner. There are 6 people in my family. We have a small kitchen. Computer do-dads in the small kitchen with 6 people (don't forget the dog!) makes me very, very nervous.

I have a TV in my bedroom (the shame!) a TV in the front room. Half an entertainment hutch in my hall way. A plethora of pillows, wires in a huge Aldis bag(wires form every electrical device known to man!). A de-humidifier. A hulking string bass nestled next to my bed....well you get the picture. Crap everywhere!

5 days ago our basement flooded. We live in a bi-level so our basement ain't just a basement, it's the play room, entertainment room, office, under stair storage, bathroom & laundry room.

So yeahhhhhhhhh, when THAT floor gets covered w/ 4 inches of water, it does some damage! It's amazing how 4 inches of water can destroy so much.

I would like to load my pictures onto my post, but I can't figure out how, now that the computer is in bits. Printer over there, Disk drive back up thingy over here. That plug in I need...wait...where is that thing?

Through all of this I had to take care of myself. I have managed to shower once in these 5 days. (I think today is the day I spoil myself & add some water to my hair...maybe rub my shampoo bar over it once or twice) I have been eating chocolate all day long, starting at 7:30 am. I took a 2 hour nap yesterday, on the couch, with the sun bathing my body, my eyes covered by my eye mask....heavenly! I threw caution to the wind & didn't add my sunblocking lip balm. So this morning I woke up to a cold sore thanks to the sun...or the pounds of chocolate I have been eating...or the stress....whatever.

Even though the weekend was a bit stressful, I realize how lucky I am. It sounds trite but I have friends. Really good friends that bring over food, "beer", Dove chocolates, Yankee smelly tarts heaters thingy. Friends that took my not so clean JUST LAUNDERED laundry (that I left in baskets, on the basement floor "headdesk") & did my laundry, underwear & all! Friends who took my kids so my husband & I could stand around saying "ummm, where do we begin?"

Thank God for good friends, neighbors & church peeps. My house is slowly getting put back together. My life is getting use to the upheaval. My kids are back to annoying each other. Crisis mode is over. It's all coming together. I take deep breaths & let the relaxing energy wash over me.

Oh yeah, My daughter has been home with the flu for 3 days.

Pass the chocolate & the Abreva.

Feeding the needy

3 girls dressed in vintage 1920 flapper dresses, sitting on a bench. Feet furiously pushing, pushing the petals to an old pump piano. Girls singing at the top of there lungs as the pump piano wheezes & hums My Rag Time Gal. Singing and singing till the fair lights come on & the old mansion shuts down for the evening.

Laughter.

What you see are children, raising a motherless child.

Brandy, Brenda, Jenny, Diane, Mindy, Drew, Noel, Jen. Names that go on and on. Were these children aware of their impact? Teenagers who stepped up to take me in when my mother died, as a father mourned.

They held me accountable to my actions. They ran along side of me as I fled from my earthy worries. They grab hold of my shoulders & spoke fiercely into my brain. Focusing me onto my path I needed to take. Holding down my grief, they scooped it out with their hands only to have me face it, then helped me bade it goodbye.

Encouraging me to do difficult things. Yelling at me when I got down on myself. Pushing me onto the stage when I couldn't breath. And holding my hand as I screamed into the dark.

We give children too little respect. While adults hemmed & hawed about my grades, college plans & how much sleep I got. Teenagers filled my soul with friendship and life. Pushed me back onto my own 2 feet. Held me up while I wobbled precariously on the edge of childhood and adulthood. Madness & sanity.

I was raised by a pack of giggly, wild, intelligent, strong, carefree & loving group of misfit teens. Teens who crushed me with their protective arms. Teens who allowed me to borrow their breath, their happiness, their strength.

I am the lucky one.

Well that's just great.

I got a response back from Social Security about my brother.


Social Security has not been notified of his death. Technically, by their standards, he is still alive...or rather his SS # is.

Wanna hear something funny? When you request a persons SS # they will give it to you for a small fee. Butttt, if that person is not listed as deceased, The Privacy Act of 1974 states (5 U.S.C 552a(b))

(I'm only going to type out part because it's redundant & I'm lazy) "The Privacy Act of 1974 restricts disclosure of the information you requested. We do not disclose to the public personal information from our record about living individuals right to privacy."

Sounds good right? Well then why did they GIVE me my brothers SS #?!!!!! Yes, you read that right! They gave me his NUMBER (It's the same number I had all these years. It was a # on his college forms. Those were the good old days when they used a persons SS# on everything. From college papers to driver licences!) They just broke their own Privacy Act!

And that my friends, is why the Government can be stupid. Oh, how did I get this delicate information you ask? "You must have jumped through hoops to get his #! You are amazing!" Well, I am amazing...but I did not have to jump through hoops. All I had to do was type on a piece of paper his name, birth date, father's & mother's name of the person I was search for. Oh, & $29. And for the low price of $29 I got myself an unused SS#! Wow.......My trust in the governments ability to keep me safe & healthy is one more flush down the toilet....morons.

So for now my dopey brother is still lost. Is he alive? I doubt it. His low life, drunk of a father never bothered to notify SS, that's all.

I guess I have to pick through all the states to search for his death certificate. That can take 100's of dollars & lots o' time. But I'll do it..maybe...if I'm in a good mood.

Remember kids...the government is our friend & is the smartest friend we have! I love you government...I want to be just as smart as you when I grow up!

His name was Brian

Brian was born to a popular, playboy city kid and a kind, wounded girl. He had red hair & freckles the moment he was born. He was a brilliant child. IQ through the roof.

He watched his father beat his quiet mother. He saw the parties, the drinking, the fights. He ran with his mother. He saw the blood splattered apartment his mother had rented. All of her clothes shredded, belongings broken, every window smashed & his bleeding father sprawled on the white carpet. He watched as his mother did the unthinkable. She got a lawyer and won an annulment, the car, the furniture, the dog, the restraining order...in the 60's. My mother slowly shed her wounded childhood heart and become a women to be reckoned with. She put her foot down, slammed the door & made a new life for herself. But she was punished, by her mother, her society and her church. The Catholic church excommunicated her for leaving her abusive husband. Her husband....he finally walked away from her, never to see punishment in this lifetime.

My brother was about 9 when mom ran. Mom married a nice man, who took Brian on ski trips, camping, fishing & canoeing. He taught him how to fix cars and anything with a motor. Brian was safe. But he never healed for everything he witnessed.

A boy & his beloved dog

Brian with the "new" guy on his wedding day.

Brian, his freckles & his blue eyes.

At 15, his sister was born. I must have thrown him off greatly, because at 15 he became a drug addict. It started with a cigarette his friend offered him. Then a beer from the friend's father. Soon after..pot. 15, Fifteen.

Me & my brother who, on this day became my Godfather.

My parents tried everything, well everything you could do for an addict in the 70's & 80's. But in the end nothing helped. My brother traveled the world...selling drugs. He was a pusher, a pimp, a felon, a thief, a user. He was the guy who would sell drugs to your children. A brilliant mind wasted.

My exhausted mother & my "high" brother at Thanksgiving dinner.

He finally left our lives for good when I was about 10. I breathed a sign of relief. My mother just sighed. I cringed when I received his gifts to me. Cards that said "be good." Clothes, jewelry, flowers. The gifts came for my birthday or Christmas. My mother, never received a thing, not even a word from her son. I hated him because I knew what he was doing. He was slowly killing our mom.

Brother & sister

My mother was a strong, feisty, fun, kind, loyal women. She never showed weakness. She tried not to cry over Brian. The closest she got was when he was stabbed in the gut after a failed drug deal. He lay dying in a New York hospital. Mom cried, not because he nearly died, but because he healed & walked out to sell more drugs. He left her sitting by his hospital bed alone. The tears she swallowed soon settled over her heart. She never again allowed them to flow, so they festered in her breast till it rotted with cancer. Her left breast carved off her body was a reminder of how powerful a wounded heart can be. All that remained was twisted, black, burned flesh that she tended to day in and day out for months. Tending the hurt Brian had left her. Mom lived with her cancer for 5 years. I watched everything. I saw the flesh. I saw the infections & the rot she would get. I watched as her hair fell out, then her fingernails. I heard her vomit violently after chemo, only to apply fresh lipstick & march out the door & go to work. I listen to the years of hacking she did. An uncontrolled cough that would break her ribs. My brother remained silent. Knowing she was dying & never getting clean enough to care.

At 15...Fifteen... I buried my mom. At 15 my brother slithered back to attend her funeral. I hated him. I hated he was in our house. My father made him cut off all his stingy red hair. He took him to get his teeth clean. He handed me a wad of cash to take my stupid 30 year old brother shopping for respectable clothes. I watched as my brother twitched & fidgeted. He couldn't walk without looking behind him, waiting for someone to stab him in the back. At 15 I knew a jonesing drug addict when I saw one. I hated him. My mother was dead & I was hauling his pathetic ass around Crystal Point Mall. He said crap like "I'm clean. I went to rehab. I'm getting better." Liar. "I love you. I'm sorry I left you." Liar. "I'm sorry I never wrote mom, I love you, forgive me." Liar. He could barley try on shoes he was shaking so hard. He jumped every time a salesmen talked to him. Liar, I hate you.

At mom's funeral, my clean, suited brother stood by my dad's side. He wore a light pink shirt and a light colored suit. I refused to stand near Brian. I refused to be his sister. I had a friend say that he was cute. I told her "His nose cartilage has rotted away by all the blow he did. Oh yeah, thanks for coming to my moms funeral, so nice to see you."

Brain followed me everywhere. Outside to breath...Brian. Sitting on the steps...Brian. Bathroom...Brian. He creeped me out. I over heard my dad tell him "stop hovering around your sister. She doesn't trust you. If you bother her, I will kill you." I smiled at that last line. After the funeral my dad thought it would be fun to take a road trip to visit his sister in Minnesota. Grief makes people do weird things! I sat in the back of the car as Brian & his stepfather drove in silence...the whole way. One night at the hotel, I decided I needed to away from the men folk, so off to the pool I went. Swimming in the pool....Brian. Diving board...Brian. Ahhh hot tub....what the Hades?!....Brian. I bolted out of the hot tub & ran off to find a place to hide. Me, being oh so smart hid in the....sauna .........Brian. Brian in a bathing suit, awkward me in a bathing suit. Door shut...sauna. I felt the bile rise in my throat. He had me trapped. A drug addict had me trapped! I stayed calm as he sat next to me. I scooted away. He started to cry. He told me he knew he messed up. He knew I would never trust him. I asked him why he did it. Drugs. Leaving mom. He started to retell his story. "I watched my father beat my quite mother. I saw the parties, the drinking, the fights. I ran with my mother. I saw the blood splattered apartment my mother had rented. All of her clothes shredded, belongings broken, every window smashed & my bleeding father sprawled on the white carpet."

"It's still not an excuse, but it was too much." "I was too weak." "Mom...mom...mom suffered terribly. I saw it all. Somethings to horrible to repeat.""I'm so sorry.""I missed you.""You are my only family." Cold air rushed in as my dad slammed open the door. My dad, standing there in his short swim suit growled, "Get away from her...now" My brother towered over him as he walked out. My brother hide his tears from dad. My brother disappeared when we got home from our trip. He left saying he was going to get better. Make his life better for mom. But he knew, as we did, it was too late.

The awkward trio in MN. "Smile everyone! Mom's dead & you are standing in front of a lovely lighthouse. Ain't vacations fun?!"

His father called one day out of the blue. I knew immediately as my father said "John" with disdain & dripping with hate. My dads face never changed as John told him what happened. I didn't have to hear John to know. They found Brian alone, dead of a heroin overdose. All he had left of the $300 worth of clothes, shoes & toiletries my dad bought for him was a duffel bag, a pair of socks and a worn picture of me. A picture of me.

My dad & I didn't shed a tear. All my father could say was "at least he waited to die after your mother."

I don't remember when or where he died. I know I was still in high school. I continued my life just trying to survive my teen years. I didn't have time to think about a brother that deserted us. But all these years later I search for him. Sometimes I imagined he was alive...hiding somewhere from the drug lords that owned him. But I doubt a 5o something druggie is smart enough or healthy enough to survive this long.

When I joined the church I heard about how families can be together forever. I didn't want Brian to be apart of my family. All the agony he caused our mom....it caused me to hate him. I put the thought about doing his "work" into the back of my mind. I got married & moved on with my life. I forgot about Brian. Until one night my husband & I had a dream...each. It was of my brother, in white..... "please, I'm sorry." He actually looked happy. Dang nab it...now I had to find him! Besides, I realised, if I don't do it, no one will. I am his only family. I asked my Dad if he remembered Brian's death info. He didn't. So the search began.

Years ago we didn't have the Internet yet. I couldn't just pop on the computer & find all the info I needed. So I had to go the old fashion route of working with a genealogist and then writing 3 stated for his death records. My searches came up empty. But now, I got smart (I really don't know what took me so long!) I finally realised I could contact Social Security to have them search for his SS number & hopefully it will tell me when & where he died. So here I sit. Waiting for the paper to tell me his info.

I don't know if I really believe in "the work." It's a sweet but impossible, confusing thought. The best I can do is offer up this olive branch. Offer him a new life. Remeber him as a child. Think of him as a brother he wanted to be. Do the work & HOPE that in the end...it is true. And in the end I will see my mother and brother healed...together.

Teen angst

I have entered a new faze in my life....mother of a teenager. So far...a few hours into it, it has been going well. I'm not weepy or sad. I'm excited for my baby. I think I'm a little more excited for him then he is. He enters into this new world with hesitancy & a bit of fear. I, on the other hand embrace this change as exciting & thrilling. I am giddy for him...is that weird?

On Sunday I was trying to think of something symbolic for him. A little turning of age ritual for a boy turning into a teenager. I offered to get his ear pierced or get a tattoo...he promptly turned me down. So I settled for a picture scavenger hunt. For me a scavenger hunt is symbolic of a child turning into a teen. The game itself is childish. The lure of gifts is a selfish childish desire. Then there is the Thrill of the Hunt!! The actual hunt takes brain power & perseverance. A trait learned from experience & age.......ok, you do know I pulled that out of my butt. Sounded good for a second didn't it?!

For the scavenger hunt I will take pictures of hiding places. Each place will have a little treat. Markers (permanent markers...only a teen would get permanent markers! No more washables for him! ), Gum, Nerf bullets, candy. For the candy, I went to a little candy shop downtown. I picked 6 different candies & put 13 pieces of each candy in bags. The store owner got a good chuckle of me counting out 13 tiny little balls of mini midget jaw breakers. Stupids balls kept rolling off the scoop.

I then will take pictures of hiding places. (praise to the digital camera!) My neighbors sand box, undercarriage of the van, the school garden, the library. Oh, yes, I'm going to make this kid work for his treats! Hopefully he will be able to get thought the hunt in good time, because then it's off to dinner. At the end of dinner the waitress will hand him his last clue, a picture of home. A kitchen table with his gifts resting on it, a homemade chocolate cake.

My baby is 13. A true teenager. No longer a child, not an adult...but yet...he's a little of both. He stands on the line, teetering. Dear Lord, help me to keep him upright. Help me to steady him. Let's us all enjoy his ride together.

Awwwww crap...now I'm a little weepy, sheesh!

Slob

What has happened to me? I use to have energy (ok, not really, but I did have more then I have now!) I use to care. I really don't care anymore. This picture proves it. I got a smudge of chocolate on my shirt. Didn't want it to stain. So at least I treated it..........& proceeded to leave my shirt on because I really could not be bothered by picking out a new shirt.

Brilliant

Oh, & to make matters worse, before I stained sticked it....I licked the chocolate stain. Yes, my friends...I ate something..... off....my...shirt.

Kill me now

Facts of life

"Mommy, where do dust bunnies come from?"


"Well Sweetie, dust bunnies come from a very special place. They nestle tight & safe inside a protective layer of soft downy fur. Then they wiggggggle out slowly. It gets so hot, they want to be free & float in the air just like the bunnies before them. When conditions are justtttt right, like right after I mop the floor or when your Grandparents are just about to visit, they spring joyfully from their comfy home. They float & fly. Swirling & whirling on the current of cool air conditioned breeze. For a moment they are soooo happy to be free. They flutter onto the fans, into the potato salad,to top of the fridge & into my nose. Then after all that hard work...they rest. They gently, gently droop & sway onto the awaiting floor. Some bunnies only rest for awhile. They get bored of laying around. They want to float free again. They are sad they are on the floor or stuck to the greasy oven. They get desperate. Once they get desperate...they become rabid. They cling to black dress pants, they sneak into my cosmetic basket. I find them confused & floating in the toilet. I even find them hiding in the van. Poor little things. If we don't step in to cull their numbers they will rise up & slaughter us as we sleep. Then they will take over the world & we would become their food supply...& we don't want that do we Sweetie. So then...this is hard to hear. We have to put them to rest. We must gather them together & send them Elsewhere. yes....Elsewhere. We gently suck them up with my new cool toy. The Swiffer Sweeper Vac (que music, AaahhhaaAAHHhhHHHH) The vacuum is their portal to Elsewhere. It doesn't hurt them, but they are now tired but happy to go to Hel.....Elsewhere.

Sleep well little one, Don't let the dust bunnies bite....or float up your nose, get into your brain & then suck the life juices out of you.





My dog proudly displaying her fur of death & carnage after a good brushing. Dog fur dust bunnies are of the devillllllll.

My mother would be proud?

I grew up as an only child. Raised in a barn, (built in 1850, converted into cheese factory, then house...kid you not) by 2 great parents. They taught me wonderful things. My Dad taught me how to sit reallll still & feed birds, squirrels & chipmunks out of my hands. He taught me how to hit a nail just right so it felt like it melted into wood. My Mom taught me how to stand up for myself. A lesson that wasn't mastered (well...still trying to master that one) for a few decades. She taught me how to be witty, cook & clean.

Cleaning....the art of housekeeping. She taught me the shortcuts, tips of the trade & reasons to keep a clean house. Saturdays where "cleaning day." Since my Mom & Dad worked full time, Saturday was get-things-done-or-else-day. I didn't mind it too much. I enjoyed tiding up my space. As I grew, I loved cleaning my little world before my friends came over. Even as a teen, if there was some friends meeting at my house, I would spend my time cleaning every thing in sight. I blossomed in a clean house...who doesn't?! Clutter brings hostility, rage & depression. I feel it especially now as I get older. A clean house is a heavenly house.

Fast forward....2009. I am a hostile, rage filled, depressed women. I ain't 10 anymore. I hate cleaning my freak'n house! I only clean when friends threaten to come over. I do still have a faint rush in my veins "oooo, my friend is coming over, I can CLEAN!" Then I start to clean....anddd.... the wonder lust is OVER. I stuff crap in closets, tubs, ovens, cabinets. I spritz Bath & Body Works gag-me-with- apple-blossom-tree-scent to mask the fart smell wafting through my living room. I run around flushing toilets because thanks to a 5th. grade teacher, my sons don't flush toilets. "If it's yellow, let it mellow, If it's brown flush it down" (Thanks Mr. Walker...you obviously don't have kids at home!) Here's a new one kids...."if you shat in the toilet, flush it damn it!" Have you ever experience that first humid not quite hot so you don't turn on the air conditioner day? You walk into your house after a long day of running & smell....outhouse? Yeahhhhhh..... MY house...everyday!

So every spring I try to be like Mom & spring clean.

I take one look at the fan & my allergies start up. Yum, dust. How do I fix it? I flip the switch so it spins the opposite direction & watch the greasy dust balls plummet into my kids 5 hour old cereal bowls still filled w/ mushy cereal bits. Hey, that's what a garbage disposal is for! I don't wipe them down. I just make sure the fans are always on. Can't tell how dirty they are if they are spinning!

Behold the banister. That is just the first layer of dirt I wiped off. I scrapped the rest with a wool pad & a knife. I thought the wood was stained dark black/brown. Yeahhhh no.

I have some glare, but if you look past it you can see the difference of clean/dirty. Can you see it? What...in a child's chemical makeup compels them to draggggg their dirty, greasy hands along the walls? Seriously, can we not invent a drug that makes them stop that habit? I now know why our Victorian ancestors put up chair rails! I would like to market my new invention. Chair Rails encrusted w/ shards of glass. That should do the trick!

Isn't it cute? A fuzzy, wuzzy, dust worm. This little bast#$% appeared 2 days after I dust moped. TWO DAYS! Kill me now please.

Problem....dust covered....no...greasy dust covered fake flowers gracing my kitchen shelf.

Solution....greasy dust covered fake flowers gracing my garbage can.

Please mother forgive me!

The never ending road

Hi, my name is Jennifer & my crises of faith crashed into me in 1996. Thanks for having me...pass the cookies please.

In 1996 I had my first squishy, pink, widdle shnoopy baby. He was sweet & happy. I was bitter & lost. I plunged into post partum depression that didn't lift for 10 months. With the help of a lovely therapist (that I would eventually run into at a Le Leche League meetings & counsel her with breastfeeding) I clawed my way out of darkness & began my new journey down a strange, unfamiliar road.

I battled with Heavenly Father after the birth of my son. Knock down, dragged out fights. I yelled, I cursed, I spit, I stomped. I basically threw a huge adult temper tantrum...at God. Yeah, real mature! I was truly as a "little child." I arched my back, kicking & screaming as Father held me. I screamed "I hate you." Then would beg for forgiveness after the storm was over. (sounds familiar to anyone that has a 3 year old!)

Did I push Faith out the door or did she jump out the window to escape my childish antics? I'm sure a little of both. But one thing was sure...Faith was gone.

So I lived a new normal. I made my own rules. For starters...I would have babies on my own terms, in my own time. That was a huge healer for me. I didn't ask God when I should have them...I just planned them to come when I wanted (& crossed my fingers that my method of birth control/baby panning would work...& it did! I used F.A.M. for 9 years with great success!) The next 3 babies were a pleasure. I avoided PPD & actually loved my post partum experiences! (well the 4th baby gave me a run for my money, but that's a different story for another time) I was even able to enjoy some nice, happy spiritual feelings. Faith peeked her head in now & again. I must admit....most of the time I ignored her. I can hold a grudge for a very longgggg time!

The year is now 2009. 12 years after my crises. I have come out the other end different. I am less paranoid "Gods watchinggggggg". Less superstitious. "If I don't pray, something bad will happen to me." Less holier then thou "well if she only did what the Lord wanted, then she would not have this trial." (yeah, I'm an idiot....but we've ALL pulled that crap!) Less to trust people in authority "If Brother Cool said it, then it MUST be true!" These are all good things. I wish I would have worked these issues out in a different, less painful way, but what is done is done. And in the end, I am grateful.

So what about Faith? Religion? I am on a never ending road. I can't hop off of it. I will go where it leads me. I will take detours. I will do my darnedest to enjoy the freak'n journey! I will explore the scenery, the people, the ideas. & experience. I will never say never (never thought I would end up here!) I will get hurt. I will feel pain. I will be disappointed. I will question. I will have fun. I will feel love. I will love.

I don't have the answers...never had. And for once in my life, that's fine with me! I'm just put'n one foot in front of another. Religion is a crutch for weak people. And I am weak. Not ashamed to admit that some days I would like to beat The Religion with the damn crutch because I am so frustrated with it. I have a love/hate relationship w/ The Religion. But we are like a dysfunctional couple who can't live with, can't live without each other. One day that might change, but for now its all I got.

A scripture I always loved was "Faith is a hope in things that are not seen, which are true."

I will steal part of it for my new mantra FAITH IS A HOPE.

Beginning of Broken Faith

Once...I asked myself.."self, how does one know when one is (or should be)done pooping out kids?" This question comes up a lot with women my age. More so I believe, with women my age & faith. Women of faith have that Sword of Damocles precariously swing over their head "multiply & replenish...oh yeah, God is watchinggg youuuuuu.!" Women without strong sense of faith...well...they don't. I have friends on both sides of the fence. My friends without strong faith have a pretty healthy attitude of when they should & shouldn't get pregnant. They get pregnant when they want too, not because they feel they have to (God is watchingggg) I'm not saying they have a better life. I am saying they don't freak themselves out about Big Guy in the sky watching them.


My first baby was a "leap of faith" baby. I waited a year (much to the chagrin of my fellow church mates..."you're not pregnant YET?" Every...damn...Sunday...I was asked! ) before I even thought about getting knocked up. My year was up & then I had to really think about it. One Sunday I looked at all the cute babies in church & said "I think I could do this...I don't want to but it has been a year & I have been told I should start pop'n these kiddos out if I want to be a good girl." I thought God would help me out. I was not in it alone. He would help me. So, full of fear & excitement...I tossed my BC pill in the garbage.


1/2 hour later.... I dug it out of the garbage & swallowed it.


Next day...again with great prayer & faith I popped that pill out of its little hole & symbolically dropped it in the toilet. No going back now! Time to work on baby making.
I stood over the toilet & thought "Oh HELL No! I am so not ready or wanting to do this!" Next thing I knew I was on my knees plunging my hand into the (clean;)) toilet water. Scooping up my little pill...I watched it dissolve in my hand. I considered slurping up the pill water that was pooled in my hand...but then I though how disgusted Big Guy in the sky would be. So, on my knees I let my little pill water go...& I cried.


I had faith. He would take care of me. I was doing the right thing. So for 9 months becoming pregnant became my obsession. I cried when the test come up negative. I looked forward every month to the thought of "this could be it!" I had faith...such great convert faith. 9 months after trying, I become pregnant.


I was never the same after that. For better & unfortunately for much worse. I had my leap of faith baby. He was tiny & sweet. I had my baby & I have never known such darkness. I felt God leave me. I truly was alone. Faith left. It has never returned to the vigor I had before. I did everything I thought God wanted me to do..& faith left. It just snuck out some time between me screaming my baby out. It just left me. It didn't even say goodbye.

Me, fresh from the oven Wee One & my fake smile that would improve with time, but still be fake.

I'm not taking it ANYMORE!

That's it! I'm done! I'm taking matters into my own hands! How DARE you step onto my property to peddle your scams, sell your crap & annoy my nice spring day! Yeah right you're "working."! This type of "job" is no better then dancing around a pole...well that's not true. I do have respect for pole dancers because they actually have a talent. But not you! You want to sell, scam or convert me? Well then...Pull up your pants, wash your hair, Don't flick your nasty cigarette butt into my yard, stand up straight and respect my 'NO" and move away from my damn door! Oh...and get a nice job...you know, the kind that is actually legit. Wal-mart is always hiring. Oh...would that not work for you? Oh...I see...you want freedom in your job. You want to be free to suck on a smoke all day long. You don't want a dress code, you have the "right" to wear your pants around you ankles...because your BVD's are encrusted with diamonds & you want to show off how fly you are. (By the way Dillweed, sagging started in the U.S. prison system thanks to ill fitting pants...& since no belts are permitted, inmates had to walk around with sagging pants...wow....great style choice moron! Your penal system style screams "I'm a serious businessman." You so smart)

Get a job. Any job will do. Make sure that job keeps you off my doorstep. Just hop back into the white van with out of state licence plates & drive away. This gal is done with you & your cronies. I will write that licence plate down. I will be calling the police. I will not hold my dog back. I will slam the door in your face. Because I have the "right" to be an ass.

Woo be unto you if you can't read. Because Momma just might be sagg'n her pants in women's lock up after I get done w/ you.



This is my finished sign. I'm pissed that I had to put one up. Each summer the "solicitors" get worse. Each summer I become more scared. Last summer I spent my time diving into my house when I saw "them" coming. I'm over it. I put up a sign. If you can't read it..because you dropped out of grade school...sorry...I have no pity for you. Plenty of programs out there to help you. Get off my door step & attend a class. For the rest of the buttheads...you can read. You are rude & nasty to still ring my doorbell. So I will now throw all that nastiness back at you. My house, my rules.

Other sign options were.

Oh HELL NO!

I know how to use it & it rhymes with RUN!

It's a good day to be mauled

No! No! and ummm...... NO!

My dog was a rabid infected pit bull in her past life.

Beware of cooped up, rage filled, kitten kicking, PMSing Lady of the house, willing to cage fight.

Get your ass off my door step before I shot it off! Have a nice day:)

Real Moms of Genius

Real Moms of Genius

I’m Just Fine… Presents: Real Moms of Genius

(Real moms of genius)

Today we salute you, Mrs. Keeper of the Sacred Mom-Bag.

(Mrs. Keeper of the Sacred Mom-Bag)

Only you can defy the laws of time and space by cramming 15 metric tons of “stuff” into a bag no larger than a standard carryon.

(Would you like a forklift for that bag?)

Packed with more tissues, wet-wipes, gum wrappers, receipts, hairbrushes, half used chapsticksss, baggies and smooootz than a convenience store before Memorial day weekend.

(where is the bottom?)

Conventional wisdom tells you to simplify, but when was the last time life was simple and you didn’t need a half eaten lollipop or band-aid, or Kleenex, a two day old cookie, or an invitation to an Avon Party?

(Do you have any mint gum?)

While the world is falling apart around you, small children are screaming, your husband is rocking in a corner you simply reach into the depths of your Sack by Syndy and pull out the solution to everything.

(Why is it so dark in there?)

So crack open an ice-cold IBC Root Beer, Oh wielder of the Mom-Bag because the world is a safer place when the bag is in your hands, and out of ours…

(Is there anybody trapped in there?)

No mans land

Ahhh, the purse. It's a catch all, a nurses station, snack shop, make up counter, bill holder, Diaper Genie, & money eater (I know I had a $5. It...must..be in...here..somewhere.)

This is my purse.. It started out as a diaper bag. But...I'm a mom w/ 4 kids, I will be lugging around a purse as big as my head until my kids move out! Then I'll become a Grandma. Then I will have "the Grandma" purse. Which is even bigger then "the mom" purse!

This bag makes me happy. I've had it for about 2-3 years ish. I had a friend from church whip up this beauty. Check her out. She is very talented! http://www.sacksbysyndy.com/ Anyway I don't plan to give up my bag anytime soon. For a moment I thought about having a new one made. But I fear my first bag would feel bad. I can't do that to my bag!

I remember my Mom's bags. They were always made out of leather & they were HEAVY! I hated when she asked me to hold it. I'd rip my arm socket out every time she plopped it on my shoulder! Her bag was...scary. You'd never dive into her purse w/o asking. Foraging around in a women's purse uninvited is as bad as sticking your hand in her pant pocket...ya just don't do it w/o asking!

My Mom's purse always had horrible smootz at the bottom. Ack! I could never turn down a stick of gum she offered me, because she would think I was in one of "those moods" again. Then she would spend the next 20 minutes telling me to wipe that look off my face. So, when she offered a stick of horrible minty gum (Ackkk!) I took it. To this day I can't stand minty gum! Mom's minty gum would always come w/ the extra flavor of tobacco. I'd spend a good 10 minutes picking off the bits of cigarette tobacco that some how got smashed into the wrapped piece of gum. Tobacco was in her wallet, coin purse, hairbrush, lipstick case & tissues. (ever try blowing your honker into a tobacco smelling tissue?..not...pleasant!) Don't EVEN get me started on the sugar free candies coated w/ tobacco. Now THAT was truly offencive!

My son hates going into my purse. He was scarred once when he needed a tissue in church. I like to fold tissues & place them in a little snack baggie. So he reached in & pulled out a baggie. Opened it up & pulled out ....a panty liner ( I like to keep a few extra panry liners in baggies too....just in case! Those baggies are up there w/ the invention of the light bulb!) He will NOT go into my purse! Even for a tissue as his nose runs down his face. I tell him there is candy in there...but he ain't budging! Diving into my purse is like diving into a jet black pond in the middle of the night...after you read 1o,000 Leagues Under the Sea.

So here's to you o' purse of greatness! Yes, sometimes we tire of lugging you around from park to park. We look upon men w/ a tad bit of jealousy as they strap on a wallet & go. But in the end...we, purse sling'n ladies of power will always be the ones who come swooping to the rescue! We are the ones that the lost & hopeless seek out (do you have a map?) We will give freely of our bag-waress (do you have a wet wipe?) We will feed (mmmm, cheese stick!) & cloth (do you have a pad?) our friends & family.

We hold the world in our bags. The WORLD! But you must remember, With great power, comes great responsibility. Use your bags for good not evil. Keep those bags clean & tobacco free. Or you just may have kids in therapy (or the ER) for years to come.










When I clean out my bag...

am I the only one who asks myself "Why do I have a cheese stick in my purse & how long has it been there?"

Satan's preferred bodily fluid...vomit

The Purple juice letting happened on a Thursday. Juice every where, but by the grace of OxiClean...most of the stains were removed.

The pitcher of "DEVIL JUICE" was still in the fridge in the morning. Friday morning. I was too mad at it to serve the rest for dinner....so it laid in wait for me...knowing I would summons it. Now I will say, I heard my thoughts-Holy Ghost-Intuition-Murphy's Law-Fairie voices (whatever you want to call it) say to me

"Throw out the juice...do it now."

But me being frugal, stubborn & irritated that my head was talking to itself...did not throw away the juice. It was brand new juice. I can't just dump a pitcher full of juice down the drain...what a waste!

My bad.

I should have listen.

But Nay...I didn't.

& I was punished!!!

Mid morning, Friday...in the mist of kids running around my house screaming (they had no school that day & every vagabond was in my house) My 3 year old daughter asked for a cup of juice.

"Don't DO IT!'

Shut up voice...go yell at these kids in my house to GET OUT because I'm too tired.

I pour my daughter a cup of juice, she drinks it, puts the cup on the table & goes on her merry way....into the basement...where there is new carpet. 4 minutes later I here "ummmmm, Mrs. M.....your kid just barfed every where...& it's PURPLE."

DANG NAB IT!

Sure enough as I head out of my bedroom I hear my charming trucker of a daughter upchuck on my stairs. As I enter the hallway, I see her...in slow motion...run down the hall towards the bathroom. She projectile vomits all over the floor & wall. Purple grape juice vomit everywhere. Now remember, she is RUNNING down the hall (with wood flooring) as she vomits.....she then runs through the vomit, slips & slides through the trail of vomit, ending up belly first....in vomit. She essentially covers her whole body with....vomit. Like how a dog rolls around in a dead, smelly carcass of a dead smelly animal....yeah...it was great.

I scoop her up & plop her in the bathroom to have her refuse to puke in the nice clean toilet, so I bent her over the bath tub to let lose another torrent of vomit...all over the bath toys.

I shiver when I think of the wake of torment she left all over the house.

At this time..all the dang nab it kids & their friends want lunch. I....b.l.e.w. my lid.

"YOU... DON'T leave this bathroom."!
"YOU!... You want food...get..it..yourself...or...go...home.!"
"YOU!... Get your own food or go to his house to eat his food!"
"All of you...don't...come...near...the...vomit. Don't talk about the vomit. Don't look at the vomit. No more TALKING!"

A neighborhood boys asks. "what can I do for you?"

I say "ya can shot me in the head." (probably not the most grown up thing to say to a 11 year old.)

Neighborhood boy "You're funny Mrs. M. No really. Let me help you. I'll feed all the kids."
So crazy, loud, most of the time annoying neighborhood boy wrangles all the kids. Helps with my sons to make lunch. Then herds everyone outside...to leave me with peace...& vomit..& a crying 3 year old bent over the bathtub.

At that moment I felt relief. I felt even..dare I say it..loved. My daughter needed me. The crazy neighborhood kid respected me enough to help. And my sons entertained their other sister so I could clean.

AND clean I did. I even calmed down enough when neighborhood kid came back in the house & asked if he could clean the vomit...(because he knew how) I was able to tell him "I can do it Sweetie..thanks for helping with the kids."

So if you hear that still small voice to throw away the juice...DO IT. Take the neighborhood kid up on his offer to help. And take the bath toys out of the bathtub...just in case. The fight with the purple grape juice ended after I threw it out. Although my battle with vomit waged on...for 3 more days.

Lesson learned...no more purple grape juice!

Satans preferred drink...grape juice.

It started as a small spot. My eyes went right to it. A small PURPLE drop...on my couch. 100% PURPLE grape juice. Terror struck my bones as my eyes were drawn to another splotch on the couch pillow...Then to the horizontal blinds....then to the floor...then to the coffee table legs.....Sweet Mother of Colonel Munster!



The kids...with sippy cups...running free in my house. What horrors have they unleashed? I found the culprits down stairs, playing with cars, dinosaurs & Polly Pockets...their sippy cups lay on the carpet. Calmly I told them sippy cups must remain upstairs. They pretended not to hear me & I walked away with the blood pounding in my head.



Upstairs...more carnage. 100% PURPLE grape juice trailed down the hall. The juice was splattered up my door. "How the he$$ did that happened?" I studied the door & imagined the CSI team reenacting how the juice was flung & at what velocity. My room....juice splashed up the wall, closet door & on my bed spread. Little sprays of juice...as if some one had stabbed a chicken as it flew around the room.



Not done....



My daughter's bedroom...on the blankets, the clump of cloths on the floor, pillow case & the bed skirt (really, the bed skirt? How did that happen?!)



Holding back tears I stomped through the house dropping all kinds of F bombs & muttering under my breath all sorts of words that would make my merchant marine father quite proud. Only to pull the mask of composure over my face when a stray 2 year old wandered upstairs to get a snack



I set to work cleaning the offending stains. Much to my relief... most of the juice can out. All thanks to praying, swearing, cursing, cold water, hydrogen peroxide, spray in wash, more swearing & Oxyclean. The walls & doors are permanently stained...but as long as I don't look at them, I can't see the stains!



At lunch I made a point not to serve the kidlets 100% PURPLE grape juice or put anything in sippy cups. The juice was safe in the fridge, where it could harm no more...or could it?









Note to self....when you hear a little voice in your head saying "Hey.....heyyyyy, throw away the juice! Pour it down the drain...do it nowwwwwww"





Don't ignore it












You will regret it












BADLY







Listen to the voice!











But that's a story for another day.

I hate school free days!

I'm hiding again. Huddled in the basement w/ the computer trying not to scream. I'm not good at this thing called motherhood. I'm not good at being the helpful neighbor.

Ya know, you grow up thinking you'll be this way or that. I'll be patient. I'll be caring. I'll be a great leader. But then I grew up. I became none of those things. What I became was a girl, raging in the basement at the fact that the neighbor kid is eating all my food & there is not enough room in the freak'n kitchen for 7 people to get their lunch ready!

My husband & I always said that we wanted OUR house to be the neighborhood hang out. We wanted to keep an eye on the kids. We wanted to be involved in the neighborhood.

But now....I want all the kids OUT!

They eat my food because their parents don't feed them. They make so much noise I fear the rest of the neighborhood hates me. I feel like I'm being pushed out of my own house! I can't even get to the fridge to feed my OWN kids!

I'm not like this all the time. But summer comes & I pray for the chance to move far out into the country...where no one can run through my house & eat all my food!

So whats a mom to do? I crave solitude. i thrive on calm & silence (note to self, you want quiet...don't pop out 4 kids!) But I also know that I'm suppose to be welcoming & supportive to the neighborhood.....I'm just tired of being the ONLY one! So I set up rules. No kids Tuesday & Thursday. Use walky talkies to keep in touch when you play around the neighborhood. 2 quite hours happen everyday. Don't go into this house or that house, they like to watch porn. Be mindful of the neighbors. Don't scream at the top of your lungs till your eyes bleed. Don't do this, Do that...bla, bla bla.

But some days...rules break down. I break down. 2 many kids. 2 dirty of a house. 2 many neighbors that don't give a crap about their kids. No place to hide.

I can't wait till next school season!

Dirty blood, baited breath & asking ...."Does this kidney make me look fat?"

On Monday, a mother of 2 boys tumbled down a bunny slope somewhere in Canada. After her tumble she bounced up & walked back to her room, shooing away any help, probably embarrassed of the tumble. By Monday night just a few hours after her fall, her brain was dead, her body carefully kept alive by beeping machines, pumping her blood & pushing air into her lungs.

This wife,mother of 2 boys, brilliant actress Natasha Richardson was flown into New York to die with family crushing around her. Wednesday she was declared officially dead.

Yesterday a mother died.

Yesterday, my great friend of 19 years received a call..."we found a kidney for you."

Yesterday, hopefully my great friend had a bright, shiny, healthy kidney tucked into her body. A kidney that was donated by someone who just recently died. Someone who was loved, someone who's death crushed the joy out of friends and family. I'd like to think Mrs. Natasha Richardson gave her kidney to my friend. My friend is all drama, flair & kindness. Natasha Richardson's kidney would be quite at home in my friend!

Of course we may never know who gave my friend her new kidney. I doubt it was Natasha Richardson. I don't even know if she was a organ donor. But someone was. I hope that persons family get a sliver of pride & happiness knowing the death of their loved one is not in vain. As rehearsed as it sounds...the truth is...a piece of their loved one lives on in a vibrant, funny, intense, passionate, faithful, friendly, kick-ass women. Someone who will treat their new kidney with kindness. Someone who might even give a pet name to their new little organ. I hate that people have to die, to give others life. But I will be eternally grateful to those who choose organ donation.

I sit here now with baited breath. Waiting to hear how the surgery went. Waiting to hear if the kidney was really put into her. Once, a few years ago, she got "the call". Rushed her into surgery, cut her open & the Dr. mistakenly thought she had cancerous growths on the site & didn't put in the kidney. Yeah...that sucked! But now....right now she might be drugged up with a new kidney. I can only hope & wait.

Hopefully my friend will have a kidney that decides to stay awhile. Then she can ask me (after her body swells to a nice plump from all the steroids she will have to take for the rest of her life) "Does this kidney make my ass look fat?"
Hopefully I can say "It sure does make it look phat! You wear that kidney well my friend."

Bite my crunch!

A few weeks ago I experienced a rude drive-by-shout-out. Ya know, a drive-by...when someone walks past you saying something stupid to you. They then keep on walking because they don't have the balls to "argue" their point.



Let me set the scene. I was in Wal-Mart shopping for paper products for a dance/ chili cook off event. I have been planning parties for large groups of people for 4 years now. I know what works & I know what doesn't work. Paper plates....don't work. Styrofoam plates...do work. Imagine this. A room filled with up to 180 people. Most of these people are children. Now, place a paper plate filled w/ food into the hands of these 180 people & see what happens. Can you see it? Food plopping to the ground. I have seen it, I have cleaned it & I have cried over it. So for my budget, Styrofoam plates & bowls always win. My budget doesn't allow me to buy 20 tough paper plates for the price of 200 Styrofoam plates.



So know you know me & my thinking system. When people are butt holes & do a drive-by-shout-outs, they don't know the person or what their thinking process is. That's why drive-bys are the product of rude morons who couldn't think their way out of a Styrofoam cup!



So I'm minding my own business, filling my cart w/ things I will need. 200 spoons, 200 cups, 200 Styrofoam bowls"humm should I get the small plates or big? Hummm well if...."





"YA KNOW PAPER IS BETTER FOR THE ENVIRONMENT! YOU SHOULDN'T BUY STYROFOAM. EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT!"



I looked up to see mister butt hole & his goggling eyed girlfriend speeding away sneering at me over their shoulder. So I LOUDLY replied "Hey honey, when YOU feed 200 people & YOU clean up after 200 people, YOU would realise that Styrofoam works way better the paper. Oh & like I would take environment advice for a dude who shops at

WAL-MART!"



Idiot!



What I really wanted to say, but didn't have time to was.



"Hey jack smack, You don't want to mess w/ my crunch, because I will out crunch you. So ya wanna play this game do ya?

Well, did you know that my family of 6 probably produces less trash then you & your girlfriend combine. We put one, 35 gallon garbage pail out every week....did I mentioned I have 6 in my family...you do know how to count right? Or did you learn for liberal puppets about "how to save the Earth" & we all know they come from the school of " do what I say, not as I do"



I garden & freeze my produce.



I shop at Goodwill & donate to Goodwill. I also have a clothing circle for my kids cloths. My friends pass clothing back & forth to each other like kids pass colds.



I compost



I recycle



I breastfed all 4 of my kids.



I cloth diapered 2 of those kids.



I used homemade cloth wipes to wipe their baby butts.



I home birthed 2 of those kids. Not much waste from that. one small garbage bag of trash was all that was left..unlike a hospital birth that produces huge amounts of waste from 1 birth.



I used cloth pads...yeah, ya heard me. Top THAT you jerk. Oh I see your girlfriend getting wobbly, "What honey, you can't handle the thought of washing out pads? But think of all that landfill you generate each year by your products because your too scared of get'n down & natural. You probably don't want to know what I did with the soak water...that's too much for the widdle nature girl to handle."



Listen, I love the environment. I have been recycling ever since I was a teen. In fact I DRIVE my recycling to drop spots because my town doesn't pick it up. I can't stand Al Gore, I can't stand talking heads, I can't stand liberal, family hating freaks, I can't stand dudes who shout out to me in WAL-MART that I should not buy Styrofoam!



Funny thing is...I don't really care what you do. If your recycle, fine. If you bottle feed, fine. If you hate Goodwill, fine. If you throw out mounds of garbage, fine. God has given us this Earth to care for. We are doing a so-so job at it.(Try living in New York circa 1880. You want filth & pollution...please honey, 2009 we are living in the cleanest environment ever...learn some history...ooo I forgot, liberals don't teach real history) But I do feel we will only get better at reducing waste, clean energy (sorry, there is no such thing) supporting local farmers. Down sizing our frivolous spending. etc, etc.



Do one one thing that will help your environment & then do one even better.



Help those around you. Be kind to those around you. We spend so much time telling people what to do for the Earth we have lost the importance of people & good manners. So drive-by-fool, your momma would be ashamed of you. Don't be rude to me or others & maybe, just maybe I won't put you in your place in front of your girlfriend.

Now go wipe your ass that I just handed to you with a cloth wipe!

Strange dinner conversation

This conversation happened a few nights ago in our house. Yes, we sometimes bribe our 3 year old to eat. The older kids get threats, but the 3 year old...bribes all the way!


"Sweety, if you don't eat your dinner you can't have a bite of snake."

Sweety "I wantttt snakeeeee!"

"you have to eat first, no dinner, no snake."

Sweety "I wanttt snakeeeee!"

"Eating the snake with no dinner in your tummy, will make your tummy hurt."

Sweety "I want a bite of snakeeee!"

Eat your dinner or NO SNAKE.

"ok, I eat dinner. Eat snake?"




Sweety gets her snake