Friday, January 25, 2013

The most uncomfortable moment of my life.

     This was truly the most uncomfortable, embarrassing moment of my whole life. Embarrassed for myself, and for the other person, and then myself again. I'll tell you this story for two reasons. One, because it's too good to keep to myself, and two, because it still makes me think about some really interesting ideas. Oh, and three, because I don't have enough content for a recent story.

     From 1998 until 2008 I worked in a strip club, first as a bartender/waitress, then a bar manager, then a manager. Ooo...that's really it's not. It's sad. But for a woman who got her GED and that's it, and had three people to support by herself, it was a sweet gig. I made a ridiculous amount of money for what I did. I didn't even have to mix drinks so it was easy. In California, fully nude clubs are not allowed to have alcohol, but we did have O'Doul's, and I had a perfect pour I'll have you know. Working in a strip club is very strange at first as you can imagine, but after a few weeks it's just like any other job. I know people who have out-of-the-ordinary jobs always say that, but really, I used to eat pizza during fully nude stage shows. That's how unaffected I was about the whole thing.

     As a strip club manager, my job was to record how many and what type of lap dances each dancer did, collect a fee from them at the end of the shift, sic the bouncers on unruly customers, and hire nearly every female who auditioned. We were required by law under the Americans with Disabilities Act to let every female who asked for an audition do so. Sound fishy? It was. The club's lawyer told us we had to do that, because at the time, the city was looking for any reason to shut us down. We were located in a city which had the highest homeless and murder rate for 60 miles around, but the district attorney there was trying to further his political career, and so took on projects like city gentrification VERY seriously. We had the most beautiful trees and sculptures by local artists downtown for the homeless people to live under.

     I was a brand new manager when the incident happened. I was under a lot of pressure, being the only female manager in the whole company, and the other employees who were vying for the job were watching my every move for mistakes. Our bouncers were MMA fighters who did King of the Cage and aspired to UFC, and those steroid laden pit bulls of men did not take to a female boss easily. Despite the negativity around me, I was determined to impress the owners, and new hires were a great way to do that. The more girls you have, the more selection the customers have and the more money everyone makes. You never know when a guy with a stretch mark fetish will come in with his tax return check. Well...probably around March.

     On this day, I was counting a drop for the bartender when a bouncer came in and told me there was a girl filling out an app to audition for dancer. The look on his face was....confused. I told him to let her into my office and I'd be there soon. He looked at me for way too long. "What?", I said. "Come outside." he said.

     When I went out to the front door, the bouncers nodded toward a black, primer van with no windows in the parking lot. "That's the van they drove up in. It's that chick and her boyfriend. Just wait, he'll come out." The emphasis on the word boyfriend was to let me know it was most likely her pimp. Okay. These things are an infrequent occurrence, and although it is undesirable to hire a girl with that kind of nonsense in tow, it did sometimes happen. After a moment, a tall, American Indian/white trash (that will only make sense if you've lived in San Bernardino) dude came out of the van, along with a cloud of smoke. He was wayyy too happy to meet me, and went on and on about how his girlfriend was gorgeous and a great dancer and can't wait to work here. Okay. I let him know that boyfriends were not allowed in the club, and assured him that she would do her audition and be outside shortly. He was surprisingly cooperative for how shady he seemed.

     I went into my office and immediately swallowed a half-scream. This girl was young and pretty, had a walker nearby, was clearly paralyzed on one side, and one hand was palsied. Here is a picture of hand palsy for reference:
     Immediately she explained that she had a stroke when she was younger, and assured me that her disability would not affect her job. I broke inside. Holy fucking shit! What should I do? Was she sent here by the local cops to test us? Was she seriously auditioning? Was that guy her pimp? Was this God's way of telling me to find a new job? Was I an asshole for asking myself these questions? I had to let her audition. It was the law. Fine. I showed her the dressing room, directed the DJ to explain how the audition works and get her music, and waited for her turn on stage. The DJ, who was a friend of mine, looked just as scared as I was after he talked to her. When he got to the booth, we exchanged looks and hand signals (because that's how communication with DJ's is done) that meant, "Let's get this chick done and over with asap."
     Strip club customers are animals. They like fresh meat. Every time they hear the words, "A brand new audition", they flock to the stage like vultures on a fresh kill. As our DJ uttered those words he has uttered 1000 times without thinking, we both cringed. Customers came running to the stage. Fuck. By this time, word of the new girl had spread through the club, and employees were peeking out of every crevice to watch the worst moment of my life.

     "Sadie" made her way to the stage with her walker. She parked it at the base of the ramp and scooted herself on her butt along the rail to one of the three poles. The customers were frozen. As the information before their eyes swept over them, you could see the confusion render them motionless. None of us knew what to do. As she enthusiastically hobbled and hopped from one pole to the next, made sexy faces at the men on the rail, and did the best possible floor work a paralyzed stripper could do, we all searched our moral compass for help. We found none. We were all assholes, for sooooo many reasons. Especially me, for allowing her to be in this situation. Or was I? I still don't know for sure. I looked at the DJ, and motioned the wrap it up signal. Her two minute set became one minute. It was the longest minute of my life. Longer than the last few pushes of child labor. Fucking...LONG. At the end, we all erupted into a thunderous applause. The minute she walked from the stage back into the dressing room, every single customer left the building. Every one. I wanted to cry. Mostly for myself because I thought somebody set me up and won. Yes, it was a selfish thought, and that made me feel terrible too. But also because I allowed this girl to be in such a situation. Because as hard as she tried, none of these men saw her as a sexual being. Because I didn't either. Because she wasn't taken seriously in this club, and neither was I. Because my bosses would laugh at me for being in this situation. Because I should probably be just as horrified at ANY young girl objectifying herself like that, but I never am. The whole thing fucked me up for weeks. I think about it now and still can't fully wrap my head around it.
     When she was dressed and back in my office, I told her she did a great job, which she really did. I told her I'd give her app to the owner and would call her back if we had a spot for her on the schedule. As you can guess, she never got a call back. I still wonder about her. Was that dude really her pimp? Did she work at another club? Was she a set up? I'll never know. I have told this story and laughed my ass off during it, partly because the people I told saw humor in it, and that's how I survive earth, in case you hadn't noticed. But just as often I have kicked myself for all of it. What I DO know, is that this experience made me feel like the biggest dick in history, and I am really, really glad I shared it with you so that you can feel the same discomfort I do and I'm not alone.

     And there you have it. Let's all use this opportunity to think about our ideas of femininity and sexuality, and what makes each woman unique and special. Or let's just go drink away the mental image I gave you. Either way, goodnight.


Tuesday, January 22, 2013

The Mason Dixon line is for real shit.

     This weekend Husband and I went out on a date, which hardly ever happens so I was super excited. First we went to a trendy bar/restaurant downtown and had an appetizer and some foreign beers we never tried before. It was good, but not really our scene. It was a college kid kind of place. Next we went to this  shitty little neighborhood bar we found a couple months ago. Neighborhood bars are our thing. We will pretty much go to any dive bar we come across. Except for that one time we pulled up and I could see through the window that it was a potential "Deliverance" reunion inside. I may be exaggerating, but in any case, it did not seem safe.
     Husband and I first met in a crappy little neighborhood bar, back in California. The floor was sticky but the drinks were stiff, and our little hometown bar became our second home. The friends we made there became family. It was so comfy and the people were so accepting, all the women in town had gone there at their best and worst, some in their wedding dress, and all of us in our pajamas. That's where you went to get the real story on what was happening in town. That's where we had our baby shower and our wedding reception, and as strange as that may sound to some, if you lived in our little town, it would make perfect sense.

     I don't know if we can ever find such a place again - I don't dare actively look for one, because the disappointment I'd feel at never finding one would be too great. But this place we went the other night reminded me of our home bar. Not in the way that we could find our new "family" there, but because the people we met there described it the same way I just described our second home. These people were adorable, and sweet, and a wealth of information. And they totally, totally blew up my head.

     Husband and I are so Californian, it is impossible to hide. People here ask me where I'm from before I even speak. The people who we got to talk to at this bar were as southern as you can get. Now, I am not suggesting that everyone who lives in the south is a stereotype, just like not every Californian is a stereotype. I am merely saying that these people, were FROM THE SOUTH.
     Okay let me set you up. This bar, we will call The Panther. It was an auto garage, I think they said, before it was a bar. It has no lights outside, but it does have a sick panther painted on the front wall. The inside is dirty and smells of cigarettes and regret. No, I am not romanticizing it, you can actually smell the regret. On a weekend night, the women's bathroom smells like Love's Baby Soft and meth. The pool tables don't all work, there are two statues of Spuds McKenzie on the shelf, they put a frozen water bottle in your pitcher of beer to keep it cold (the cap may be a tad stained), and the cutomers regularly bring in food to share. Pizza, a homemade peach cobbler, chili from the bartender's house...this place rocks.

      After the required niceties and what-nots, the bartender and a regular named Chip proceeded to categorize us as "Yanks" because we are from above the Mason Dixon line. For anyone who doesn't remember what that is, it was merely a dividing line, often in dispute, between British colonies in colonial America. What it became was a cultural symbol of  the division between North and South in the civil war. That isn't entirely accurate however, since half of Delaware was like, fuck you we want slaves...but nobody cares about Delaware anymore. Anyway...Husband and I glanced at each other with the look we both know as, "Did that really just happen?", and leaned in closer because I think we both knew this shit was about to get better.

These two people knew everything we didn't:

1. How to care for our pond and lots of details about the local ecosystem.
2. What really happened after the gulf oil spill
3. That we should not go to the beach on memorial day because "the gays" will be there (that is NOT the first time someone warned me of that here, hahaha)
4. How fucked up homeland security is (because Chip worked for them, and he knows)
5. How to make racing stripes on your truck with duct tape
6. How long to wait before you plunk the lit firecracker into the pond for fishing purposes.
7. Where the best hunting is, and that you can legally hunt an animal that comes on your property
8. That the bartender makes the best chili anywhere
9. That the regulars here are family and will defend one of their own no matter what.
10. If we accept the invitation to Chip's house for his annual fish fry and BBQ, he will give our kids a dollar for every chicken they can catch. And then we will kill and eat that chicken.

     While Husband went to the restroom, I listened to Chip and Bartender lady tell me the horrors they see in Obama. They really, honestly thought that he is trying to take all of their guns away and turn America into a communist dictatorship. I felt like I was listening to Fox News. This and the "gays" part of the conversation made me uncomfortable, but I didn't want to get into it with people who own that many guns and live below the Mason Dixon line.

     I left that night thinking about so many things. Were those people for real? How can you care so much about the nature around you, but not give two shits about climate change? Likewise, do any of those Prius driving yuppies in Cali have any idea how their local ecosystem works, or are they just buying rubber charity bracelets to look relevant? I suddenly understood that guns were part of  life here, because they hunt for food and shoot for sport. It's part of the culture. And just because it's not part of MY culture, doesn't mean it's wrong. For the record, I am appalled by the lack of gun control laws in this country, in case you couldn't tell, but I do not think guns should be banned all together. Is "keeping life simple", as Chip described it, a bad thing? Does it make you less intelligent? Does it make you more down to earth, or a follower? How do so many people here segregate themselves still, when the black to white ratio is half and half? I DON'T KNOW!

     Sometimes, you can't remember the details of an event, but you can remember the feeling it gave you, with no problem. The feeling that night gave me was....enlightenment. Curiosity. I saw a little light, and I want to learn more. I think that's a good thing.

Tuesday, January 15, 2013

Sometimes, kids are just dicks.

     Toddlers do weird shit. Well, my toddler is doing especially weird shit because she's on medication that makes her loopy. This morning I gave her dose just before breakfast, and by the end of her meal she was face down in a pile of bananas, talking to them sternly. I wish I would have video taped it to show at her sweet sixteen party.
     Hormones are a bitch. They make you think you want to get pregnant and have some kids. Isn't it funny, the language people use to describe parenthood? Once you actually have the kids, you suddenly hear the true meaning behind the cliche's. For example, "They will change your life, but you'd never have it any other way", sounds more like, "You won't go to the bathroom alone for the next 3 years, and you will never watch porn in the living room again."
     Countless books have been written with titles like, 'What you need to know about parenting that nobody tells you', but they don't actually tell you anything you didn't already know. Chapters like, 'Potty training is hard!', and 'Your marriage will become unrecognizable', are common sense. There is a dark side, people. One of those sources of dark moments is embarrassment. I'm not talking about the kind of embarrassment caused by your kid looking like this:
Me in 6th grade. Yes, I cut my own bangs.
 I'm talking about the kind of embarrassment that makes you wonder if they are actually yours, and cause you to consider whether or not you can build them a shelter in the attic to live in until they grow out of their "awkward phase". This usually happens between year one and five. That is why they're so cute during this time. So you don't put them up for adoption. I also have a theory that children cause you to develop Stockholm syndrome.
     Anyway, if you're lucky it's just a mild form of obsessive compulsive disorder, like speaking only in third person, or making you say, "zing, zing, zing" when you put mustard on their hot dog before they eat it, like my son did. But sometimes, they're just dicks. When my brother was 3, he used to watch war movies with Grandpa a lot. One day my Dad took him shopping and when an Asian family came into the store, my brother pointed and yelled, "Daddy the Japs are coming, the Japs are coming!!!!" My Mom tells an equally awful story about when she took me to her work (in a hospital) to meet her co-workers. One of the doctors asked me if I wanted to be a nurse or a doctor when I grew up, and in front of all my Mother's friends, I replied, "No I wanna be a stripper when I grow up!" The back story on that one? Well, there were no parental controls on cable TV in those days, so I don't know. Or just the other day when Bug tried to suffocate her brother with his own sweatshirt. That was a pretty dick move on her part.
     The worst feeling parenting can give you is guilt about occasionally missing your freedom. Sometimes you just get so tired, you would give almost anything for an opportunity to be alone for a couple hours, or to go somewhere without a stroller in front of you. That is not what you are "supposed to" feel. You are "supposed to" love every minute of family life and feel that your life fucking sucked before your kids were born. And the thing is, it kind of did. Once you meet your children, who melt your heart and give you a reason to keep going in life, you really don't want to turn back. Usually, you are so in love with your children, you don't ever think about what you might be missing. But do.
    Things you planned with your spouse have to be put on hold. You might have to work at a job that you hate just to survive. And, if you do want to continue trying to realize your goals or save money for the future, you have the agonizing decision of choosing who or what daycare will raise your child for you while you go back to college. I think a lot of people act like that part is no big deal, but it is. Something about our society makes us believe that it's normal and perfectly okay to put our children in day-cares or drop them off with babysitters. I can't tell you for sure that it's not okay, but what I am sure of is that most parents do not want to do this. It breaks our hearts. I'm pretty sure it breaks some of our kids hearts too. My Son hated day-care, and could not understand why nobody in the family could take care of him instead of those strangers (his words). I hated dropping him off there, and grilled him for information about that place each time we left, to make sure nothing fishy was going on. This time around, me and my Husband decided we can't feel good about allowing some stranger to care for our daughter. The world is too dangerous and people are sick fucks. So, I stay home with the kids while Husband works, and we will remain poor until they get the hell out of our house. Being poor means you have to be extra inventive to entertain yourself. Example: Husband's artistic endeavor tonight was an alteration to every single model in the Catherine's catalog:

    This is my first time being a full-time Mom. At first I thought it was a dumb-ass job, even though I posted facebook quotes about how "Moms have the hardest job" and shit like that. But I didn't really believe it. Women with no education or who belong to religious cults are the only ones who choose to be housewives, right? NOPE. When it got really hard to run all the errands, create a positive home environment (ie: force myself not to murder my family over dirty socks under the desk), feed and clean up after four people on 2 to 5 hours of sleep for six months straight, I changed my tune. I have since found that this job requires a level of effort that I thought was reserved for ER doc's on the 4th of July. I have to be "on" all the time, 24 hours a day. What I do and how I do it affects every person in this house, positively or negatively. I should point out though, that their jobs around here are just as important. As Husband says, "Each member of this family has a role to play, and if one piece of this puzzle drops the ball, we all fail." That is the truth, as evidenced by them eating nothing but Hot Pockets and frozen burritos for a week when I had to go out of state.

     I really do take pride in this job now. I truly enjoy it, and I am learning to embrace the times I want to jump off the roof, too. It's all part of the journey.
     Oh shit, I was supposed to teach you something. Fuck. Okay. Here's the recipe for the bombest pork burrito you will ever have unless you got one from a hole in the wall taco shop in San Diego:

Bomb leftover pork roast burritos

Large Tortillas
Leftover pork roast from the night before
Refried or whole pinto beans
Your favorite salsa
Jack cheese, shredded
Diced onions
Some of the potatoes from the roast, if you're crazy

Instructions: Put all that shit in a tortilla and eat it.
Bon-Appetit, bitches!

(Just kidding, I like all of you very much.)


Monday, January 14, 2013

Mayonaise and bananas???

     Yesterday I felt like I needed a vacation from home. A "Target" vacation. Nobody was being an asshole here, it was just one of those days where you feel like a moth, and Target is the bright light. This is not something I get to do very often, and even though I had Bug with me, it was still pretty awesome. I squished novelty pillows and smelled candles and fantasized about how I'd decorate our house if the walls weren't fucking orange. I was in the store for over an hour, and I even threw caution to the wind and bought myself a scarf for 50% off, jeans for 20% off, two bras for $18, and two new eye-shadows, in very different shades of grey and brown than the other greys and browns I had at home.
     Like most little girls, I learned how to do makeup from watching my Mom. Unfortunately, that was circa 1986, when the style of makeup was to wear candy looking colors like baby blue, cotton candy pink and teal green. Mom pretty much just smeared one of those colors on her eyelid, threw on some red lipstick and rose blush and called it a day. Don't get me wrong, Mom was a beautiful woman, she was just doing what all women did then. It was the style.
      I don't know how to do fancy makeup. I don't know how to wear blush without looking like a hooker from the 20's. I can't perfectly blend and layer eight shades of blue to violet on my eyelid. The best I can do is follow the paint-by-number on the back of the eye-shadow palette. I spent a whole 6 minutes on painting by number today:


     My birthday is this week. I will be 36. Every year around my birthday I unconsciously attempt a self improvement overhaul, in proportions I can currently afford. Do all women do this? This year it's the scarf, jeans, bras and makeup combo, and, God willing, a trip to the thrift store, where I can find already comfortably worn-in Levi's for 1/8 the price they are in stores. When we moved here, I threw away nearly all my clothes. Being dirt poor for so long and never buying clothes for myself has created a wardrobe of hand-me-downs from friends and exes that is ridiculous. Between wearing someone else's jeans and being 6 months post partum, nothing fits me correctly. It's embarrassing. After the closet purge I was left with 5 T-shirts, a few tank tops, and 2 pairs of jeans, all of which fit me either pre-pregnancy, or immediately after giving birth. I am no longer either of these sizes. I'm pretty sure I look like an orphan.

     Here is me today, in my awkward self-portrait-with-no-tripod pose. When it's jeans and a T-shirt, do you really need a full length view? You get the picture. This is the same outfit I wear everyday, except the shirt will be a different color. It's pretty bleak. So now you can see why a trip to the thrift store holds so much promise for my beauty overhaul. I'll let you know how it goes.

     My husband and son tell me constantly that I'm beautiful and to stop thinking about my looks. Husband says that I don't need makeup. Okay I will admit that I'm totally hot, but not needing makeup?! Surely the man has Tourette Syndrome and is blurting out random weird shit. There are such women who don't need makeup to look good, but those women are not 36 year old, partly fair, partly olive skinned Polish women with adult acne who can't tan and had a hard time in their twenties. I don't consider myself to be girlie-poo or even fashion conscious, but I do wanna look as good as possible while I still can.

     Today I got to start writing early, because Bug is taking an afternoon nap, FINALLY. She was on nap strike for a few days. There's a Mexican-ish seasoned pork roast in the oven, so that tonight we can eat it as is with potatoes, and tomorrow we can shred what's left for burritos. That's how you stretch $6 my friends. That reminds me, it was brought to my attention that blogs should give information or teach you something. Uhh...okay....Not sure what I should include...maybe just what I find funny or interesting. Here's funny:
And this was interesting. The most recent favorite find in my vintage recipe collection. This one was from
Christmas candle salad
1 1/2 envelopes ( 1 1/2 tablespoons) unflavored gelatin
1/3 cup cold water
2 cups canned cranberry juice cocktail
4 ripe bananas
8 salted almonds
Salad greens

Soften gelatin in cold water. Heat cranberry cocktail to boiling; add to gelatin and stir to dissolve gelatin. Pour into 8 small, star-shaped molds. Chill until firm; unmold. Cut out and remove a small circle from center of each star the same diameter as the bananas. Peel bananas; cut in halves, crosswise. Insert 1/2 banana in center of each of each star as shown. Top each “candle” with a salted almond for a “flame”. Add a little mayonnaise to look like melted wax. Serve on salad greens with mayonnaise. Makes 8 servings.
Cherry and Banana Mold
Dissolve the contents of 1 package (3 ounces) lemon-flavored gelatin in 1 cup of boiling water; add and stir in 1 cup cold water. Chill gelatin, stirring often, until thick but not set. Fold in 1/2 cup well-drained, halved, canned pitted black cherries and 1 cup sliced ripe banana. Turn into 1-quart mold; chill until firm. Unmold, garnish with salad greens and serve. Makes 4 to servings.

Published by – COOKINDEX – Division of H.S. Stuttman Co., Inc. New York ©Copyright 1958 Tested Recipe Institute, Inc. New York


     I double dog dare you to make that recipe. I'd do it, but I don't have the balls to eat it, and I don't have enough money to pay my family to try it so.....wait. Hmmm.....I just got an idea....


Saturday, January 12, 2013

Honey, you should masturbate.

     My tomato seeds sprouted! I have officially created life! Oh the kids? Yeah them too.

     Life has been busy the last few days. I did a T-shirt makeover out of one of Husband's old shirts, and one of mine that I hated the neckline on, and they came out cute! I want to do a bunch more T-shirt makeovers, so hopefully my birthday present this year will be a thrift store shopping spree..hint, hint...Here's the goods:

His OBEY shirt. Wow, that orange wall makes me look dead.

 God, I love Pinterest. It has taught me how to make my own laundry soap, do Tshirt surgery, make Olive Garden's pasta fagioli, build a house out of's seriously the shit. I am fully aware that in 10 years I will laugh at myself for saying that.

     Gage was the one who finally got Bug to walk on her own. 17 steps is the record. She won't do it for anyone else. When I stand her up and ask her to walk to me, she just giggles and sits defiantly on her ass. Maybe it's that he spoils her. He lets his sister do whatever she wants. She abuses him almost daily, and the poor kid just takes it. Here he is being pinned down in the kitchen:

I took the picture and walked away but a moment later I heard moaning and muffled cries for help. I turned around to find Gage covered in baby and choking on his own hoodie. She used one hand to hold down his face, and the other hand to shove his hoodie string into his mouth with all the force in her little 20lb body! Gage heard her say, "Eat it, you son-of-a-bitch!", as she strangled him.

     Being the mother of a teenager is scarier than I thought it would be. In 4 1/2 years we have to make sure he can survive on his own. I have to be harder on him now and give him more responsibilities, which has never been my strong suit. I told him yesterday that although I realize I seem like a kitten yelling at him, he still has to listen to me. Thankfully, he and his step-Dad have a great relationship, so parenting him together has worked out beautifully so far. The few times he has had to be punished, he eventually understands why and accepts the consequences with the poise of a young gentleman. However, just around the corner is the moment when he is much bigger than his parents and realizes he can simply pick us up and move us out of the way when we are trying to tell him something he doesn't want to hear. I guess we'll see how much of a gentleman he is then.
     The fact that he will be dating soon freaks me out. I was trying to think of smart and useful advice for him, and remembered something my Mom said to me once when I got engaged the first time, at 17 years old. She said, "You've slept with him, right? How else would you know if you wanna buy the cow unless you've tried the milk?" That was only slightly less traumatizing than the time she came into my room when I was 16, sat on my bed next to me and told me this:

Mom- Honey, you should masturbate.
Mom- I'm sorry to embarrass you, but nobody told me this when I was your age, so...
Me- Mom stop.
Mom- No, let me finish! If you don't know how to please yourself, then how can anyone else figure that out? How you do it is up to you, but...
Mom- Okay. I'm done. You're doing homework? Wow, that's different.

So, drawing from any advice I received as a teenager is not an option. Actually, I think the advice she gave me was accurate, it's the delivery that made me want to seek counseling.

     Going back to the boy, I have to mention that he is taking a break from digital life for a couple weeks so that he can concentrate on school. Instead of the laptop and iPod, he does extra chores, improves his game of pool, or works on random projects we give him to fill up his time. The idea is that these things will stimulate his brain and thinking skills rather than dull them. Here's the painting assignment that Husband gave him to finish today.

     It turned out great! It just needs a fancy frame so we can hang it over the fireplace :)

     Hey, I know I'm all over the place with subject matter and my thoughts don't always link together smoothly, but that's how it all happens in my head. Plus I write these things rather quickly, in between baby's bedtime and hang out time with the guys, so...hmm. That sounded like an apology for my writing style.
Fuck you.

Wednesday, January 9, 2013

Bratty, horny, babies.

     Yesterday our septic tank overflowed again. Luckily, I had tons of stuff to do out of the house, so I got to leave and pretend it wasn't happening for most of the day. Gage and I picked up her Rx at Walmart, where it never fails that some stupid old person who thinks they're cute starts touching my baby and making weird noises at her, without asking me. It's dangerous. Strangers have germs and ill intentions. What makes it worse is that I'm deaf in one ear and sometimes can't hear the commotion over my shoulder until it's too late and this idiot has her hands on Bug's FACE! Yesterday it was an old man, and even though I was holding her on my hip, this fucker managed to boop her nose. Bug looked at him like he was a moron. Her little eyebrows were furrowed and she dropped the pacifier out of her mouth. I took a step back and mumbled a response to his question about her age, and we moved on, with homeboy still reaching out to touch her again. Dude. Get your rickety old fingers off my kid, this isn't 1955 and I am not friendly. Fuck right off.
    When I met up with Gage at the checkout, he told me some girls were checking him out and following him around the store. I instantly knew which teenage succubus' they were. I passed these blond things a couple times in the food section. They were giggling and stupid and probably plotting my sweet son's demise, the bitches. I actually see girls looking at him all the time, and I swear all they look like to me are giant unfertilized eggs. As Gage once said, "teenage girls are just bratty, horny babies". Agreed.

     Dinner with my in-laws for Husband's birthday was nice, and Bug was extra entertaining because the new meds for her ear infection make her loopy. I'm pretty sure she was seeing trails. Gage didn't say much during the meal because he was shoveling BBQ pork into his face, and Husband was sweet enough to put up with the singing waitresses and obligatory birthday celebration, which I insist on putting him through every year :)

     Oh! I felt like a total badass today because I found time to mop the entire downstairs, which is like...a billion square feet, I made dinner and dessert, did a load of laundry, two loads of dishes, and still had time to shower and wear actual clothes rather than pajamas, all with a sick baby in tow.
     Ha! Less than a year ago I would not have felt the accomplishment I feel right now over the day I had. Less than a year ago I thought I was a failure and incomplete as a woman because I didn't have two jobs and a school schedule to juggle along with being a Mom. It's funny how simply being used to something sets the bar for you. My idea of what makes me a good woman has nothing to do with how many things I can struggle at and then wear a ridiculous badge about being a single Mom who can handle anything. Now I know that what makes me a good woman is the same thing that makes my husband a good man, or what makes anyone a good person. Integrity.

"Whatever you are, be a good one." ~Abraham Lincoln

Monday, January 7, 2013

It's probably a raccoon casino.

     There is some kind of animal living under our house, right under the master bedroom. The damn thing is SO LOUD and only does construction at night, right when we want to sleep. Building a nest can't be that loud. I'm pretty sure it's building a casino under there. Something has to be done. Husband went out there last night and made a few banging noises, I don't know what he did really, and that helped for a while but it eventually it came back. The animal was smart enough not to build the casino under the baby's room, or we would probably have planted bombs under there by now.

(Insert totally nonexistent segue here.) P.S. I fucking love that you are going to look up "segue" on right now. Go ahead, do it. Here's the link. :)

     I would like to take some time to say a few words about marriage. I am qualified to give my two cents because:
1. I am married, and
2. I was previously divorced.

     The thing about marriage is that you have forever linked yourself to another human that did not come from your insides. That's relevant because when a human has been created from your own guts, you are somehow more willing to deal with their shit. Having a spouse is so cool because your best friend is with you all the time, and you get to have a sleepover every day. But just like at a sleepover, sometimes you get to that point where you just wanna call the kid's Mom and tell her to come pick up her little brat. I'm pretty sure my Mother-in-law wouldn't come.
     I have only been married to my best friend for 9 months. But I have to say, we are really good at being married! We argue like most people can only dream of. Respectful of opinions, honest no matter what, aware that the argument is only temporary...We were in the middle of an argument last night and paused to discuss the lack of television programming options! As stupid as we both may sound to each other sometimes, we retain respect for each other. We listen, and consider. That is essential to a good marriage.

     My first marriage produced the most wonderful son anyone has ever had. No shut up, your son is just lame next to mine. My son is the shit, and you better recognize. Nah...I'm sure your son is great, but something about bragging about mine brings out the gangster white girl in me.
     The point was supposed to be that although our son is amazing, the marriage sucked. I was totally bat-shit-crazy, and he was a craptastic fucktard. These combined traits do not make for a blissful marriage. Maybe the problem was that we were too young, or maybe it was that we were both idiots, but either way, my advice is to avoid marrying a fucktard or any other mentally unstable person. Does that sound like common sense? It's not.
     Okay that's all the advice I have to give for today.

     As far as my day went, it was pretty rad. I took Bug to the doctor and my Mommy instincts about her having an ear infection were correct, so I can get her on the right antibiotics and get her feeling better soon. Yay. I picked up The Boy from the airport (he was visiting his family in California) and now our family is complete again. He grew another inch I think, and he can pick me up when he hugs me with no problem! Oh, and when his sister saw him and he scooped her up and snuggled her, it was priceless. Those two have a bond that is way beyond me. I love it.

I made broccoli cheese soup for dinner. Mr. Husband thinks it smells like awful so he doesn't partake. But Gage and I love it, so..humph.

     Bug had Garbanzo beans, sweet potato, and green beans. I was lazy.

     Oh and I almost forgot my Mom of the Year moment! I let her play in the pantry while I cooked. Yes those are beer bottles. They have been saved because we plan to make our own beer eventually. Okay...they are glass, and dangerous and whatever, but they kept her quiet for like...15 minutes! Do you have any idea how LONG that is???? If you are talking shit right now then, no, you don't. Go have a toddler for a few weeks and then tell me how many ideals you've never smudged a bit...Mmm Hmm....Thought so.

Saturday, January 5, 2013



     So, today was very regular-ish.

Today, I :

Decided that it's cruel to make Bug go around with her hair in her face like a shaggy dog, so I consulted my  board, Baby!! on Pinterest and found this great blog on toddler hairstyles! Here's what I was going for:

Here's what I accomplished....NAILED IT !!!!!

I sang, "Let's clean the poo-poo!" with the passion of a gospel singer on Sunday morning.

Bug tried to eat the salad OUT OF MY MOUTH.

I got really sad 'cuz I went to call and chat with my Dad and then remembered he died a month ago.

I poked around on Pinterest and found another 84 ways to use mason jars.

I let Bug cry in her walker for 10 minutes so that I could get the dishes done. She's been here 10 1/2 months, hasn't she caught on that I have other shit to do besides play with her toys??

I read four web pages about composting and pH levels of soil and animal deterrents and regional plant diseases ssssnnnoooorrrrree..........

For our dinner I made cous-cous with chicken and veggies.

For Bug I made her favorite. Pasta with this fucked up sauce I make to disguise the veggies in it. Tomatoes, broccoli, carrots, a jar of baby beef with gravy, and parmesan cheese. Dash of garlic powder. Can't shovel it into her mouth fast enough. Here's the pic. Try not to puke.

I contemplated the reasons why one cannot simply be drunk all day, as I made my favorite cocktail, a white-trash martini. Coors light with 2 olives and some olive juice, in a Beatles glass. I'm not picky about which Beatle. Tonight it's John.

We played peek-a-boo around the couch for what had to be an hour.

I grew a zit on my chest.

I discovered a way to snort olive oil:
Click the link to learn how.
 Powdered olive oil

I played pool with my husband, and lost, as usual.

I listened to this Japanese compilation of Beatles hits on vinyl. It's a Beatles night.

And now, I will philosophize with my husband about random shit. Then end. :)

Friday, January 4, 2013

Planted some shit.

     I fancy myself nothing of a gardener. Spider plants and cactus have dropped dead at the mention of my name. However, I can be quite determined when I want something, and lately I want to not spend $250 a week on groceries. Hence, I am trying to save any way I can, and growing my own produce is step one.

     I never imagined that produce could be so crappy and so expensive in Florida! In Southern California, it was cheaper to buy fresh foods and cook them yourself, but here it's cheaper to buy frozen corn dogs and Happy Meals. I recently figured out why this is. There are no Mexicans here. Before you tell me I'm racist and ignorant and should go to hell, shut your mouth. So. Cal is right next to Mexico, and the whole state is dotted with farms. The grocery stores are filled with produce that was grown down the street using cheap labor (migrant workers) and from just a hop skip across the border. You can get a head of romaine in California with the dirt still on it for $1 when it's on sale. Last week I bought a head of romaine in a sealed bag, from Chile or some shit, for $2.19. We're on one income. $2.19 for lettuce is unacceptable.

     On to the project of the day. I found this site, which tells you based on your zip code what to plant, when, and how. Seems idiot proof. Unfortunately Walmart didn't have everything I wanted, so I settled on roma tomatoes, jalapenos, and collard greens. Bug "helped". Actually, she tried to eat a dead moth, crawled into the mud with my phone, and dumped one of my freshly planted tomato pots. I just put all the dirt back in it and acted like nothing happened :)

 The collards are the leafy ones. This was the sunniest spot I could find near the house without putting them out in the yard for the squirrels and armadillos and God knows what else to get.

Yeah, she licked those carpets >>>>>>>>>>>>>

She's about to eat the moth.

Thursday, January 3, 2013

Is that a chicken fetus in my egg?

I'm sick again and had a sudden craving for some deviled eggs a little while ago. So I pick up one of the eggs out of the container and it feels like there's a rock in it. Is it a fetus?? I don't know....I put it back.