November 28, 2012


Christmas.  The joyous Holiday Season.  Oh how I love to loathe you, in many ways.  Look, let’s be honest for a second.  Christmas is lovely because families gather and memories are made and I love all that.  I really do.  I get nostalgic for fires and egg nog and the scent of pine.  I love decorating my tree with pretty ornaments and rediscovering all the Christmas things my kids have made over the years.  But I could certainly love it more without all the fluff and commercialism.   I’m such a logical person.  Nothing inside of me feels good about wasting money on toys for children who already have so much.  I constantly think about the children starving everywhere as I stand in the aisle at Toys R Us with a monumental list in hand.  Yes, I do give money to needy children…but it’s all backwards, this world.  We give the most to the people who need it the least, and we give the least to people who need it the most.  It makes me hate Christmas and hate myself for participating in it.  I have stopped giving to adults.  And I don’t feel guilty.  I use that money to give more to the needy.  I can’t stop giving to the kids though.  They don’t get it quite yet…although I’m working on them, little by little.

So, in preparation for the disgustingness of what seems more like ‘the toy season’ than ‘the birth of CHRIST’, I spent ten hours yesterday cleaning out my little kids’ closet.  TEN HOURS.  I swear to you, If anyone buys them a Lego set for Christmas, I’m going to retaliate by dumping legos all over your lawn.  Believe me when I say I have enough to fuck you up.

I swear, I hate toys!  I hate Legos, because what is the point, really?  We spend hours putting this crap together, and then less than 24 hours later, they're scattered from one end of my house to the other.  $49 for an hour of play?  Really?  Is that a good deal?

I hate stuffed animals too.  You hear that people?  Don’t buy my kids stuffed animals.  Stuffed animals are a ridiculous waste of money because we hide them then throw them away, right?  Around here, they end up in the Mardi Gras bin to be thrown in parades.  So think about that when you are buying more puppies and bears for little darling.   If you want to take a chance on catching it next year in the Muses parade, then go for it.

I hate transformers too.  Another toy that is good for about three minutes.  They watch eagerly as I carefully follow directions to transform the monster into a truck.  I would rather chew my arm off on Christmas Day.  As soon as it’s a truck, they anxiously ask me to make it back into a monster.  And I smile and say, “Ok honey, I’ll do it in a minute,” and then I never do it.  Ever.  For years, I never do it.  And I’m not ever going to.  Because I facking hate transformers.   Seriously, who puts the suggestions for age appropriateness on these things?  Instead of ‘ages 6 – 8’ it should say something like this.

Recommended for:

Rocket scientists who have never thrown objects out of anger

Children who are taking the ACT this year

Women who washed down their meds with a vodka tonic

Other warnings:

Not to be used in the week prior to menstruation

Do not attempt to transform product unless under the influence of alcohol

November 26, 2012

The Jackass Whisperer

Everyone’s a ‘whisperer’ lately.  If you’re good with babies, you’re a baby whisperer.  Dog lovers want to be dog whisperers.  It was suggested to me recently that I am a jackass whisperer, and I’m extremely fond of the term.  

So, it’s been a busy week.  Last weekend we camped out with the Boy Scouts in Florida, which required a wardrobe change into Princess with a Penis.   All my friends were polished up in their fine Holiday attire for a fundraiser gala, and I was in a tent with a large pack of boys, all of whom smelled like goats asses.  I had dirty nails and a smoky ponytail, but my darlings were happy.  It was 40ish during the night and I totally hate the cold, but I zipped two sleeping bags together, and all four of us slept side by side with hats on.  We were toasty and happy, although it wasn’t my best night of sleep.  I sort of felt like a spy…being a chick at a Boy Scout camp out and all.  The men were on to me though, so they remained on their best behavior and sadly I can’t even really make fun of them.

Then, a last minute slumber party was thrown together Wednesday night at my 93 year old grandmother’s house, since she hosts Thanksgiving every year.  My laundry was still dangling from the ceiling fans when I had to quickly start packing bags.  It was one of those ‘pick out what you’re going to wear tomorrow and pack everyone in five minutes’ deals.  We left quickly and I (gasp) left dishes in my sink.  I had cooked my own Thanksgiving Feast that day and we’d eaten it for dinner, and then bolted out of the house.

Sometime during Thanksgiving Day we decided to meet family in Mississippi the next day.  We returned home fat and lazy to dirty dishes, clothes and bags askew, and had to start unpacking then packing again.  I felt like my eyes were going to pop out of my head at the disaster that was my house.  I wanted to vomit at the number of people who had snuck out into their yards on Thanksgiving night and magically put all their Christmas decorations up.  Are you fricking kidding me people?  I haven’t wiped my counters in three days and I can’t even close the door to my laundry room.

In Mississippi we met Pal, a three year old white poodle whose elderly owner was recently admitted into a nursing home.  Pal went straight up to my kids, sat down next to them, and was just really nice.  “Oh, wook at dis cute puppy, Mommy.  He wikes me,” the baby was saying.  “Oh wow, this is just what I was going to look for at the pound.  He doesn’t shed, he’s a nice size and he seems really ni….”  And in about the next four nanoseconds, Pal’s bed and food were being loaded up into my car, because I’m the Jackass Whisperer.

I must say, I do like Pal.  I’m not fond of these pussy poodle haircuts, so we’re going to let Pal grow out to enhance his level of coolness.  Then I’m going to teach him to make a vodka tonic and smoke cigarettes.  What I like most about him is that he gets outta my way.  When he sees me cleaning, sweeping, doing my thing….he knows this bitch is in a hella hurry and he scoots his li’l behind right away before we collide.  A lot of dogs follow me in the kitchen, and they don’t move when I’m coming fast.  It’s terribly annoying to constantly collide with non-humans.

He slept with big darling the first night, and is in bed with the two littles right now.  He ate a turkey leg in the yard today (no, it wasn’t the one from my sink, weirdos.) He peed on everything he could outside, hasn’t barked once, and is appreciating all the little hands petting his head.  At bedtime, all the darlings were ‘thankful for Pal’ during prayers.

So there, you weird dog blockers, who said I couldn’t have a dog because I have little kids and no fence and didn’t meet your special dog whisperer requirements.  I got one anyway.  Cause I’m the jackass whisperer.  That’s ya like me nah?

November 21, 2012

Black Friday

I’m in the asshole free zone because we had a meeting of the Assholes Anonymous Club last night.  The muthas ate, drank and were merry.  I have come to the conclusion that vodka is a health food.  Everything else makes me so hungover.  But vodka never does.  Hence, it’s health benefits. 

Many people are gearing up for Thanksgiving festivities.  Last year, I wanted to sling all the food to the floor, kick the table over, then scream and pull my hair like a madwoman.  There seemed to be zero to be thankful about.  If I had to pick something last year, I guess I could have said I was thankful that I had still managed not to be a violent psychopath, in spite of the gods repeated taunting.  

I remember turning the radio up on the way home so my kids couldn’t hear the animal noises that exited my throat while I made ugly cry faces and tried not to scare them.  Forcing my body to start the car, drive the car, pay attention to the road…it required monumental effort.  I was a dead soul in a live body.  I did it for the kids, and then I came home and got in bed.

It was the first real holiday without him, not counting Halloween.  I got through Halloween by running up the stairs repeatedly in my Batgirl costume to do shots of Patron.

365 days have passed since then, and I can’t deny that I feel better.  I’m thankful for the healing that has been bestowed upon my family over the last year.  I’m thankful for the people who have not forsaken us.  The people who still remember us, who still have a tight circle around us, the ones who felt our pain and agreed to carry some of it as their own.  The Universe does rain down good tidings too.  We live with our eyes open, so that we can scoop up every drop. 

I won’t lie that I’m still a little nervous about this time of year.  But I’ll handle it.  I always do.  I remind myself that I’m chocked full of all kinds of badassery.  As I used to say before a half million people started reading this blog, and I consequently started feeling the social noose around my neck, “I’m the chief of the badass motherfuckers in charge.”  I'm gonna live in this world my way.

So, a little advice…to those gathering with family this week.  Hold your people close.  Even those that are past due for attendance to the Assholes Anonymous meeting.  Be forgiving.  Be patient.  Be kind. Be loving.  Be ACCEPTING.  Those people are not going to be here one day.  Hell, they may not even be here tomorrow.  You will never be sorry for doing the right thing.  If that shit doesn't work, then kick the table over.  At least  you tried!

November 12, 2012

Delusions of Grandeur

Things were getting sort of boring, right?  The kids were even bored and were beginning to overuse their British accents.  I was just thinking the other day that I haven’t done a public service announcement in quite some time.  When lo and behold, a cause has landed in my lap.   So here’s a little public service announcement for “Dave’s friend.”  She has now left two hysterical, angry messages on my answering machine, where she shouts about how sober she is now, provides me with detailed information about her urine testing, then angrily screams that she has spoken to her lawyer, and will be filing suit for defamation of character.  She goes on with outlandish babble like “if you can write a book, I can too!” 

Apparently this delusional person has gotten wind of the Diary, and is alarmed that a book may be forthcoming.  Of course one minor detail is that she hasn’t actually read the Diary.  She has erroneously jumped to the narcissistic conclusion that she is an important part of the story and that I have called her out by name.  But, alas, we regret to inform you that your character has been eliminated.  In other words, that means, “You ain’t a pimple on my ass, crackie.”  Not that the madwoman has pimples on her ass.  Occasionally, I might have one on my chin.  Anyway, what she says is so true.  Anyone can write a book.  But convincing others to read it…well…therein lies the challenge, right?  I’m not even sure I can do it.  So, good luck with your little book.  And please, never, ever scream and curse into my answering machine while I have PMS.  If you are not aware of the intricate details regarding my cycles, then you should err on the side of caution and just do that…never.  Not to mention it took me 16 days to even know you left a message on my home phone.  Little darling doesn’t even think that phone is real.

You all are probably wondering what in THE FACK is even going on here.   So, let me just say that negative, weird, insane people who were friends with Dave have no place in my life.  And that any person who colluded with my husband to secure pills on a regular basis did, in fact, contribute to his addiction, and thus ultimately contributed to his death.  If that thought makes you a little uncomfortable, it’s because it should.  I don’t provide the discomfort.  I just provide the words.

I’m so disgusted that the door to the past was absent-mindedly left ajar, and a sliver of Dave’s addicted past was able to slip through.  I’m seriously thinking about throwing that phone away, and buying a new one.  Just thinking of the vile message and even all the words that were spoken between Dave and I over the years on that very phone make me feel quite sick.

All the many times I pleaded with him, threatened, cried, said crazy things, poured my heart out, begged, promised…just all of it…so intense, so frustrating, so SAD.  No wonder it was so hard!  I had no clue what I was even up against.  I realized today after I was left shaking from her message that Dave’s death gave me the ability to close the door, once and for all, on all of that.  And I vow to put a lock on that sucker that the Navy Seals themselves can’t penetrate.  Cause I’m done with crazy.  I’m on the healing path.  Surrounded by positive, loving, sane people. We ain’t cray cray here no more.  No indeed.  We’re British.

November 6, 2012

I might have PMS

Yeah, because I killed some cute baby squirrels and I hate election wavers.

That’s right.  The heinous and grotesque hairy creature that was scratching and rummaging through my attic was not a rat after all.  Unfortunately it wasn’t a baby giraffe either.  It was a poor squirrel.  We watched him go in this afternoon.  I should have known because when I drew a picture of his poo for one of the muthas yesterday, her eyes got wide and she said, “That’s big.”  Not much I can do to save him now because I got into a bit of a frenzy and threw the rat poison everywhere.  You know why?  Because baiting disease-y, scurrying things is not my job.  I shouldn’t even be doing this, Dave!  It’s creepy up there, with all these rules about where to walk, constantly hitting my head, being distracted by old things everywhere.  Why, why, why do we even put stuff in our attic? I’m balancing on a small board with poison in my hand and the hair standing up on the back of my neck.  I’m certain rats are staring at me, but I’m still pondering whether I should muscle this wooden table downstairs and paint it and use it somewhere.  Facking hoarders!  Now I’m going to have dead squirrels in my attic too.  I should be approved for the hoarding show soon.

Now, I feel I must rant about ridiculous election wavers.  Look, I hate mornings, and I hate people.  I definitely hate people in the morning.  But you….you outlandish election wavers…just get away from the corners I frequent.  Seriously.  I have PMS.  This is not a parade, yet some of these jittery people are dressed like Uncle Sam.   I just want to bring my kids to school in peace.  Don’t wave at us.  I’m busy in the car trying not to be Mrs. Asshole again.  Little people are giving me papers to sign.  I’m not even finished checking my important messages that I might have received in the middle of the night.  My teeth are fuzzy.  I still have another kid to come home and dress and bring to another school.  I know it looks like I’m a functionally dressed member of society, but I AM NOT, so don’t mess with me.  I have pajama pants on.  Sunglasses.  No makeup.  A little tinted lip gloss so I can fool people.  I haven’t finished my coffee.  When I get home I’m not even going to be able to find it.  So don’t smile and shake your sign at me, and definitely don’t wave at me.  I don’t even know where to look.  I get the same feeling when I see homeless people on the curb and I don’t have any money.   A whole red light is such a long time for this awkwardness.  I don’t want to be mean, but I sure as hell don’t want to look at all you extra people in the morning.   It’s a safe bet that I’m not one of those cars honking back at you in support.  If you hear my horn, it’s because I’m angrily honking at the slow moving car of supporters in front of me and yelling, “Go Jackass!”

I’m voting for the person who sends the whole lot of you to pick up trash by the interstate when you’re done.  Stupid wavers!

 PS: The Diary is being featured on magazine. Give them a click!

November 5, 2012


It’s not a good day.  I put the darlings to bed last night and about 15 minutes later I heard someone rustling in the kitchen.  “Who’s up?” I called out.  No answer.  “What are you doing?  Who is in the kitchen?”  Still no answer.   “Damnit!” I mutter as I get up and head towards the kitchen.  Upon arrival there is no one there…but I still hear the rustling.  It’s not coming from the kitchen.  It is LOUD.  It is coming from the laundry room.  I nervously approach the dark laundry room.  I can’t believe how loud this scratching noise is…and I nervously flick on the light and jump back.  I see nothing, and the noise stops.  Oh my fack.  I know there is some kind of thing around here.  No doubt it is furry and heinous and grotesque.  Whatever it is knows I just turned the light on.  I stand there for a minute.  The rustling and scratching resumes.  I know one thing for certain.  This ain’t no damn mouse.  No siree.  This is a giant rat.  The noise is LOUD.  Please God let it be a cute baby squirrel.  Or a giraffe.

My house is in semi-disaster state from the weekend.  It rained yesterday and they were mostly inside.  This morning I yelled at big darling on the way to school.  He almost cried.  I should have pulled over and hugged him.  I apologized before he got out.  I hate when I do that in the morning, and my punishment will be that I’ll feel horrible all day.  I’ll imagine he is having a horrible day, crying when no one is looking, and feeling terrible about himself all day long.  I know darned good and well he’s forgotten about everything I said, and probably hasn’t given it another thought since the first friend greeted him on the playground two seconds after dropoff.  I can’t convince myself of it, though.  I’ll wait for the phone to ring all day.   “Hello, Mrs. Asshole, your son is crying in the office.”  Because you’re an asshole.  And assholes shouldn’t yell at their kids on the way to school.

On my list today is to put Halloween decorations away.  In the attic.  Where the baby giraffe is.  The gods are snickering.  I can hear them.

November 3, 2012

The Day of the Dead

My kids have always loved Halloween, and this year I was relieved that it wasn't especially traumatizing.  Last year was a bit creepy because looking at lots of dead people with blood and guts spilling everywhere made us think about our own special dead person.  That really sucked.  We had walked into the big Halloween Superstore like we do every year, but last year we ended up running out after only a few seconds.  None of us could handle it.  Not even me.  It was a total ninja surprise attack.  Big darling was wringing his hands, the little ones were crying, and I was buckling them back into their seats as fast as I could, my own hands trembling and my heart pounding.  What the fuck had just happened?

This year was better.  Little darling was dressed as the po-lice.  Or as my niece described, “A nark.”  He literally ran from house to house, completely manic, high on sugar, just high on life.  You couldn’t help but crack up at him.  He was hilarious, and happy.  He mostly is those things, to be honest. He’s such a blessing to me.

My niece and I had our 2nd Annual pumpkin carving contest the night before.  Big darling selected a Jesuit Blue Jay for me to carve, because he intends to go to high school there. 

My niece showed up here with two selections.  Super Mario and Tinkerbell.  She tried to get away with carving Tinkerbell because Mario ‘looked hard.’  The boys just laughed.  No way in hell 3 boys were going to let her get away with that.  Are you kidding?  My kids won’t even dry off with a pink beach towel.  I don’t care if its 25 degrees and they are soaking wet.  They will wait for you to go get another towel.  I once bought a pink raft on purpose, so they would stay off it.  They got on it after a couple hours, saying it was “mommy’s raft, but they were just using it.”  I have no clue what makes them fear pink more than zombies.  I should buy a pink comforter on sale and put it on their bed for punishment when they are bad.  Now there’s a great idea.

We lit the chiminea and had dinner outside, and carved our pumpkins while they ran wild in the yard.   Funny saying of the night:  Me to little darling, sternly "We don't roll over burritoes with a scooter!"   You guys can judge the winner.  Our judges here are the boys so they always declare me the winner.  I had totally forgotten about this, but last year, they were hesitant to tell my niece that she didn’t win, so middle darling placed 3 soccer cones by her pumpkin, and put a toy fire truck next to mine.  Then he announced that the person with the cones did not win.  The pumpkin closest to the fire truck won.  We got a good chuckle out of his diplomacy.

This year, we finished carving and I headed to the fridge to get a beer.  As I walked away, I called out, “So who won?”  I turned around two seconds later to see that the soccer cones were already around Mario, and my Blue Jay had a toy helicopter near it.  I spit my beer and cracked up till my stomach hurt.  I had totally forgotten they had done that last year.  Big darling is a sly, funny boy.  He reminds me so much of his daddy.  That is a total Dave move, to not say anything but just do something quietly funny. 

They danced in the kitchen on Halloween night until 10 pm, and I let them all stay home from school the next day.  We wrote notes to Dave and put them inside helium balloons, then released them at the cemetery.  We watched them fly higher and higher and higher until they just disappeared.  I was a little nervous that something terrible would happen….like they wouldn’t fly or we would see them pop…but that didn’t happen.  They looked like teeny tiny stars up there…until they were just no more.

I worry that I’ve confused little darling, as I have no clue what exactly he comprehends.  Through my choking tears, and with my dark sunglasses on, I tried to explain to him in a trembling voice that daddy wasn’t ‘really’ going to get the note.  It’s just a symbol.  A 3 year old doesn’t have a clue what a fucking symbol is.  Clearly I don’t know what I’m doing…but my intentions are good.

We had a nice lunch outside at a restaurant afterwards.  Little darling announced in front of some other moms I barely know that “mommy farted.”  He shouted it twice for good measure.  I have no clue why the little asshole said that, because I didn’t fart.  Of course I made it worse, by crying out, “No I didn’t! Why would you say that?” and then looking right at them to see if they heard him, which of course they did.

I was starting to like Dave a little bit again.  Starting to feel nostalgic for him and all.  But this morning I woke up to find that a raccoon popped the inflatable ring around the pool, which is what keeps it from collapsing and spilling 10,000 gallons of saltwater onto my grass.  It hasn’t collapsed yet, but my attempt at fixing it while 10,000 mosquitoes bit my legs was unsuccessful.  So I’m a little perturbed at him again…although he won’t know it when he gets my balloon.
These are pumpkins that Dave carved one year, when we only had one kid and apparently lots of idle time.

PS: You can't comment as "anonymous" anymore, because apparently "anonymous" is synonymous with "Sri Lankan asshole spammer."  I couldn't take it anymore. If you don't have a usable ID to comment, just do it on the FB page.