Monday

Stupid Monday, marching in at the beginning of the week, all Meh, and Meh, I’m Monday, Ha! Monday can kiss my ass.

So…I’ll fill you in on some things because Monday has me all miserable like a menstruating bear with a chapped vagina and someone said “Write about the things that make you happy”. You know what? Nothing makes me happy on Monday! NOTHING!

As to my absence from this dusty blog (My God, someone should vacuum this hell hole) I shall now attempt to explain. We live in the country and for 3 years have had high-speed internet and phone service provided by a company that rhymes with Snodgers. (I hereby release myself from all litigious action because you know what you did, you stupid dickwads, and I didn’t use your name so bite me.) (That’s legal, right?)

I am convinced that there is a built-in life span for all electronic products. Right around the time the warranty wears off, let’s say a couple of days after, all hell breaks loose. So for the latter half of August, our internet hub gave us sketchy phone and internet at best and finally stopped working COMPLETELY about a month ago. Dear Hubby, in all his masculine beauty, caressed my panicked forehead, deepened his voice an octave, grabbed the phone and said “I shall take care of this, my gorgeous and darling wife, as I know how important the web is to you.” You buying that last part? Yeah, me neither. *sigh*

But what should have been easy ended up with the said company sending us the wrong  $150 dollar part (that you can’t get anywhere else. Clever.), charging us for it plus shipping AND signing us up for another 2 years WITHOUT our consent. Oh boy. To top matters off, when Dear Hubs called 4 times to rectify this bullshit, he got YELLED at by the senior v.p. in charge of this fuckery. Hence no internet and no home phone. Does anyone know what this sort of thing does to a blogger? I’ve taken to writing things on paper in longhand and shoving it in the faces of frightened strangers saying “Can you read this? And comment? Tell me I’m funny, nice stranger! PLEASE!” How I haven’t been arrested is beyond me.

Wait. I’m supposed to be writing about things that make me Happy. Okey dokey.

One good and grand thing happened this summer that I haven’t had the chance to post about, what with the above, the dead dog, depression, what not. Ready? Are You Ready?

I got invited to be in an e-book. AND I got published in an e-book! Squeals! Joyous armpit farts!

It’s called All Cracked Up and is a collective of bloggers that are some of the finest humorists and story tellers EVER! Seriously, I read it and tears rolled down my face. I actually felt out of my league, that’s how good these folks are. Here’s the link.

                    

If you do yourself one favour, buy this and snort laugh along with me. You’re welcome.

You know what? I do feel kind of …well, not happy, but less Monday-ish. But Monday can still suck it.

Oh and we got a new puppy but that’s a post for another day, which will happen soon because FUCK YEAH! We have internet again!

And don’t use any service that rhymes with Snodgers. They yell when they think they’re right.

An Update On The Invisible Blog Post

I wanted to let you know that I deleted my last post. I didn’t do it because I was ashamed of the content or the writing. As I’ve said before, this is not politics, this is my knowledge. My words are true to me and I stand by them. I’m not blogging for anyone in particular and by deleting a post, I may have committed a blogger sin. But I’m new here. I still don’t know the ins and outs.

The reason I deleted the last post is a bit complex. Anyone that blogs knows that people sometimes find your words using the damnedest search terms. For the most part, I have a readership that I ‘know’, which is amazing if you think about it. I feel comfortable here. And obviously, you do too. It’s fairly innocuous. I don’t court controversy. That’s simply a matter of choice. But this last post…

While I stand behind it, this morning when I read it, I realized that if  one of the great unholy masses used even a skiff of a search term to lead them here and I gave them an idea that would cause harm to animal, well, I don’t want to be a party to that. It was a rant over some such disgusting and unconscionable action that it bothered me all day and I needed to get it out of my head. Very few read it (Thank you, sweet Jesus!), but I started to think maybe it should go. I also read some search terms that lead people to my blog. And that kinda sealed it.

I’m going to respond to a few of these right now. I’m going to get the ones that require a mental flossing out of the way first. You’ve been warned.

woman lets big dog fuck her (and any other variation you can fathom)(and EWWWW!)

Well, no. Did you see the ducks in the banner? Did that not clue you in that just maybe you had the wrong site? Is there duck porn now? My advice to you is to get a new hobby. And stay away from farms. Now zip up, and move on. But thanks for stopping by!!!

fat tits tube

Exactly! Said the same thing myself just this morning. Out of the blue, like. Just threw my head back and bawled “Fat tits tube!” My husband thought I was stroking. But you and I know what it means, right? Right? *wink*

most important vocabulary words for bba

I cannot express how important vocabulary is for bba. Especially since he’s typing already. How old is he? Goddamn genius, that kid. Though he is shit for spelling.

odd

Why, yes! Yes I am. …batting lashes and looking away coyly

a store just for tampons

Holy shit, is there? Where is it? Why didn’t someone let me know? Do they have bovine sized ones? Asking for a friend…

can I have my own bear

I am an avid proponent of bear husbandry and ownership. Bears are way more useful than anyone gives them credit for. Short answer, yes. And may I borrow it?

remember your humanity and forget the rest shirt

Oh hell yes! I need one too.

when will I (insert pretty much whatever here)

Do I look like an oracle? Shit. Pressure…

In all seriousness, the searches that get me most are any related to depression. To those folks: I am so proud of you for looking for help. Many don’t. Good for you. Keep going.  And if you feel safe here, come on back. I know a lot of bloggers that have the same struggle. And reading them or me  may make you feel a bit less alone.

To all others finding this blog with freaky search terms, I have one thing to say to you:

fat tits tube.

I believe I’ve made my point.

 

 

 

Me vs. Yoga

I drive excitedly to the yoga place.

I’m alone! In the car! No husband! No kid! Yay!

I walk in the door, my excitement spilling over to everyone. Smiles, happiness.

Look at me! I’m going to do hot yoga! Yay!

I get my mat in the studio.

Good god, it’s hot.

We begin.

Oh, that instructor is my fave. She’s so pretty! She’s so good! I love her. I love everyone! Look at that woman. Such balance! I love her. Yoga! Yay!

Fifteen minutes in…

Oh my god! I am so hot!!! Why am I doing this? yoga. yay.

Twenty minutes in…

Whose sweaty old lady thighs are those? Oh. They’re mine. Yuck. Why did I wear shorts?

Twenty one minutes in…

Fuck I’m hot! Fuck I’m hot! Fuck I’m hot! WHO FARTED?!? Fuck I’m hot! Fuck I’m hot! Fuck I’m hot!

I don’t know how long in…

She wants me to what? She’s outta her fucking mind! I bet she’s a real bitch! I think I hate her.

Eternity times infinity later…

WHY IS SHE TELLING ME TO BREATHE?I AM BREATHING! BITCH BETTER STEP OFF! NO ONE TELLS ME TO BREATHE UNLESS I’VE STOPPED BREATHING!

Infinity times infinity later…

whywhywhywhywhywhywhy am i doing this? how much longer? can i leave?

Ad infinitum later…

who invented this? what sick fuck ever in their right mind decided this was good for you?

Ad infinitum infinity later…

owowowowowowowowowowowowowow now who farted? Jesus christ.

Final relaxation (that means lying down for a while)…

Oh this is good… I did it! I survived! Yay!

In the locker room…

Wow! That was awesome! I feel so good! Will you be here tomorrow?

Why yes. I think I will. I’m just masochistic enough to do it again.

Yoga. Yay.

John Boy Walton And My Soldier Shoulders

I feel the need to do a little clarifying. I want you all to know that I’m not thinking of anything drastic, and I’m not in a horrible state of being. I’ve been down the slope before, and always pulled myself back up. I know how to self manage. I just need to kick myself in the ass a bit. Get back to who I am. So first off, quit worrying!!!! Christ, I can hear you fussing from all the way over there! You’re  giving me a headache. And a small piece of advice: if worry did anything except cause grey hair and alcohol problems, don’t you think the world’s issues would be solved by now?

But. I thank you. I know you love me. And I have had some AMAZING support and dialogue with absolute strangers. And that is why I wrote what I did. That is why I am honest here. Because not one of us confused, lonely, sad, broken little souls is alone. Never think that. Ever. There are beautiful people out there in this world that are strangers one second, friends the next. And you folks that reached out to me? God bless you. Or Satan, whatever is your bag. Thank you. I will pay it forward.

Anyway. Day4 into a balls ass, week-long yoga intensive, from the women I took my first classes  from. Kundalini and Ashtanga. Chanting, singing, topped off with singing crystal bowls to cleanse the chakras even further. For me, it’s a no makeup, no chemical whatsoever, clean eating week. Okay, maybe I stink a bit, but hey.

So this depression deal? I can’t say when mine started. Probably in childhood. So much legacy I was handed. So much baggage that wasn’t mine. That and the fact that I was the odd duck. I didn’t look like everyone else. I had a big brown John Boy Walton mole on my cheek. Can you guess what the kids called me? Yup. You got it! First try! Kids can be sonsabitches, can’t they?

I was taught to hide very early on. Hide your feelings. Hide the truth. Hide who you are. Hide what’s going on. Hide from the pain, the embarrassment, from the wrath. Hide from God. Hide who you are. Quick! Hide!

Well.You try being 5’10”, skinny as a rail with a big mole on your face. (I always wished I was a petite blonde. Still kinda do. Anyway.) Can’t hide. Too tough. Still stand out.

I felt like everyone knew everything anyway. They most likely did. I was taught two things that stayed with me.Totally affected who I am.

Shoulders back, tits out, stomach in, chin high. Soldier posture. Soldier on. Shoulder what is thrown at you, don’t bend or sway. Buck up, Soldier!!!

Consequently, I’ve ‘pretended’ I could handle a lot of what was shoved on me. I’ve dusted myself off, when what I should have done is lay there for a while, and cry. Ask for help. But not me. I can handle it. Soldier on. 

I was also taught shame. I know shame like the back of my hand. Shame is the heaviest legacy I carry. Shame comes to me as a birthright. Handed down from both sides of my family for generations. I was born shamed.

This shame has made me rebel, and say fuck this. I do what I want.

This shame has made me hurt myself.

This shame has made me keep others away.

This shame has impaired how I love.

This shame has kept me from you.

No more. 

I have nothing to be ashamed of. I stand before everyone as I am.

My depression is not shameful. It’s a part of my life I didn’t ask for or deserve and I will KICK IT’S MOTHERFUCKING ASS!!!

You can watch. And I’ll help you do the same, if I can. I’ll hold your hand if you’ll hold mine.

The world is a pretty lovely place.

I’ll see you soon. We’ll have a laugh.

My Mouth Can Be A Problem

My shiny, clean, smoke free brain still does no better at censoring my big fat mouth. Sure, sometimes it’s funny. But sometimes I even offend myself. And I’m the one that’s said the horrifying shit!

At the grocery store a couple of days ago while in the line to pay, a handsome older gentleman leaned over to my son and asked, “Where’s your ice cream? There’s a really good kind back in that aisle.” 

 The unfiltered crap trap that is my mouth said “SHHHT! Shut up!”  I then covered my son’s ears and said “No talking to strangers! No talking to strangers!” I also looked at the sweet old-timer and said “Damn you.” He (thank you sweet jesus!) laughed and told me about mango tango hip widener flavor and I nicely chatted about how we can’t have any more fucking ice cream in the house because mommy’s having midnight snacks of it and getting under arm boob fat. We parted as friends and promised to call. He may have been a pedophile but I think he was just a  grandpa type. I probably shouldn’t have shown him my pit love handles, but anyway.

My mother likes to talk to people about, oh, anything, and on the weekend she decided it was time to buy an RV. She phoned the number and left the lady’s voicemail a 35 minute message chronicling the development of our lovely little family from the time we arrived on this continent and how we now, 150 years later, are in the market to spend some luxurious time in the woods battling bears and mosquitos. Said used RV seller must be a wee desperate as she returned the call not once, but four times.  During which time, mom (Of course!) found one she liked better and realized she didn’t even want to see the first one.

“What do I do? What do I say? She’s gonna call back! She’ll probably be tracing the call and pulling it into the yard in about five minutes!”

Let me handle this.

“Hello? Yes, I’m sorry, that was my aged demented mother who makes it a habit to try to coerce people into selling her big ticket items when she really has no money whatsoever, she’s actually been arrested for it twice already and the only way the judge would let her out was if she was heavily medicated, lived with me and stayed 300 yards away from any communication devices, including computers, because you know what? The old bitch actually figured out how to use the internet, and so we have had to lock out all websites that peddle any wares for sale, cause that’s just like porn to the old dear, and also all online christian shows because I can’t stand her arguing with ‘God’ at the top of her lungs and getting pissed that she’s getting no reply. Sorry for the trouble. We’ve given her her shot and poked her back into her chair with a really long stick because she still has her own teeth, and the stick is the safest way to move her. Again sorry for the trouble. Ooops, I have to go! The dog’s wandered too close and mom’s now trying to clean its butt and growling a little. MOM, PUT THE GODDAMN DOG DOWN! YOU ARE NOT A DOG, FOR CHRISSAKE!!!”

I wish. I offered to do it but mom said no. I think she wanted to a have another conversation. But mother, if you are reading this, she better not call again or I will tell her the above.

My apologies. I just had to rub lotion on my hubby as he is setting up the pool and has a sunburn on his back that is going to be torturous by this eve. As I did so, I berated him for getting burned and finished up with “Go ahead! Get skin cancer! See if I care!” See what I mean about the mouth?

Somehow my husband has realized that I don’t mean half of what I say. Which is mostly why we are still married. It took him about a year to figure out that in my family threats of extreme physical violence are our way of showing our love for one another.

“What’s for supper?” “My boot up your ass is what’s for supper!” (Huh?)

“Come give me a hand please, before I rip your arm out of its socket and beat you with the bloody stump.” (Okay, mom.)

And my personal favorite, the ongoing threats to my fathers testicles.

“I am going to take your fathers balls off and shove them down his throat until he chokes on them!”

 “You’d better sleep with one eye open, because I know where you keep your balls!” (Again, huh?)

 And once in a blue moon, the exasperated sigh while she is cooking and holding a knife and she will tell him quietly “I could do it, you know.”( That old man can move, let me tell you!)

I suppose after reading this that I do come by it honestly. But jesusmurphy, at times I would really like my lips sewn shut. And today at my son’s school one of his mates asked me if it was true that I ‘ripped his arm off and beat him with it when he didn’t go to bed on time?'( Obviously, my kid’s got a damn big mouth. On the plus side, I may have just saved myself the trouble of sleepovers.)

The mouth overrode the brain again and I told the little kid “Yes. It’s true. He was born with eight arms and is now down to two so it’s all worked out for the best. Did you want to come for a play date?” His eyes got huge and he shook his head really quick and took off.

It’s okay. I didn’t like that kid anyway.

She Be The Amateur

To live a creative life, we must lose our fear of being wrong. Joseph Chilton Pearce

 

I am an amateur writer. You may interpret that as you wish. To me, it means a beginner, someone learning, someone who hasn’t reached their apex yet. I’m not particularly concerned with any label, amateur or professional. I’ll likely always consider myself the A word. There is just so much to aspire to, so many phenomenal writers out there right now. Chances are they feel like amateurs now and again as well.

There is a certain freedom in it. As soon as someone throws the confining term ‘professional’ at you, it can take what was once a joy and turn it into a job. Creatives hate the word job. We want to have fun, enjoy the experience, feel a little breathless at the end. Be a Pro? The money would sure be nice, but just don’t expect too much of us. We want to do it our way, in our time.

May be I am a dilettante, a bumbler. So be it. But I am having fun. So no labels. Let me bumble. Imagine your dad drunk at a wedding, doing the heaven/earth, heaven/earth finger point made famous by Travolta, while belting out ‘You Should Be Dancing’. At that moment, he is Barry Gibb. Is that really the time to tell him he’s  no pro? I don’t think so. The old boy barely ever busts loose as it is.

Let me be Barry once in a while. You can be Maurice and your sister can be the other one. Let me be the happy amateur. And trust me, no one will clap for your bumbling as loud as I will. Because here’s what I know: Every professional was once an amateur. Keep on.

The Spank of Love

I’ve been doing some reading of other ‘mommy blogs’ on the internet and I realize I am dangerously unqualified to be a mother. I should have looked into this 7 years ago. What the hell is wrong with me? This is so like me, biting off more than I can chew, and struggling at it the whole time.

Why am I saying this? Let me fill you in on the areas I lack according to what I’ve been reading:

I don’t like the word poop. And I don’t like discussing it. We have 2 dogs and 3 cats. I also have a son that took forever to potty train. I wasn’t too worried about it as I thought he probably wouldn’t being graduating high school with a loaded diaper. I just assumed there would be a girl he was interested in who would tell him she couldn’t go out with him until he stopped shitting his pants. He did get used to the toilet, yet the little twerp refused to wipe his own butt because he “didn’t want to get germs on his hands.” I kid you not. So, while I am averse to feces on the whole, in the past 10 years, I have been forced into the role of amateur scatologist. Not particularly entertaining, save one time the dog and child ate a bunch of Crayons, but that lost its allure after, oh, 3 seconds.

Basic safety information here went something like ‘don’t run with scissors’. I believe that childhood is meant to be filled with bumps, bruises and scrapes. It’s the time in your life when you learn that if you do something stupid it’ll probably hurt afterward. (Sadly, stupid never hurts before you are about to do something stupid. It should. Wouldn’t that be helpful?) Now, since he could talk, I’ve had the Why child. Why, why, why, why,why,why… And he’s not one of those kids that will accept “Just because” or “Because I damn well said so”. He would give us this look like “You expect me to believe that? You guys are assholes.” So as his mother, I racked my brain on how to get this kid to pay attention to what I was telling him. I couldn’t wrap him in bubble wrap and he refused to wear the helmet I bought for him so I decided I’d get him where guys fear most. I started telling him that if he did certain things his penis would fall off. It actually worked for a couple of years until around age 4, he looked me dead in the eye and in a manly, serious tone said “You’re lying. My penis will never fall off. Now quit saying that!”. I changed tactics after that. The new rule of thumb regarding safety is you get one brain, two eyes and one penis. Wreck those and there is nothing you can do. I think he’s listened. ( And yeah, I keep throwing in the penis thing. I’m hoping it’ll make him keep it in his pants until, oh let’s say thirty. I know I am bullshitting myself. But let me hope,okay?)

I love him but I don’t find everything he does darling or precious. He’s human. He makes mistakes and steps out of line. Discipline is required. We have tried most everything the parenting manuals say. Time outs, consequences. What have you. Much of it to no avail. I don’t believe in beating kids and I think spanking doesn’t work. But we did come up with something. Oft times, this kid will push my buttons til I’m about ready to rampage. My mother said something one day that made much sense. “He needs to know you love him. Then he’ll behave.” I came up with the ‘Spank of Love’. In the midst of a yell fest, I will bellow “DO YOU NEED TO KNOW I LOVE YOU?” to which he will he will sweetly reply, at the top of his lungs”YES! I DO!” “OKAY!!!! SPANK OF LOVE IT IS!!!” We then proceed to fly shrieking around the house ‘spanking’ each other, him as hard as he can (I deserve it) and me, well, I pull my punches. It seem to defuse the situation and then we can talk. Weird, yeah, but whatever works. I hope child welfare never shows up during one of these sessions.

So, yeah. I guess according to some mommies I’m doing everything wrong. But I’ll tell you something. He is smart. Polite. Can talk to adults. Caring with his friends. Good to animals. Loves his family. Believes that trees can talk to him and refers to earth as “the mother” and thinks you are a shithead if you don’t recycle. And he is funny as hell. You’d like him.

I may be doing this parenting thing differently but he’s turning out well. And I don’t think he’ll get your daughter pregnant before marriage. Because I’ve warned him, well, you know.

In Vain

I should be editing my about page because it’s pretty fucking lacking (I don’t know what to say about myself. *Human, Not Satan, Mostly not an asshole, but don’t cross me*? Seriously, suggestions welcome.)

I hold no particular religious affiliation but I do know that using Jesus Christ as my son’s name is just wrong.  As in “Jesus Christ, would you go to bed? Jesus Christ, who told you the cat could go in the dishwasher? Jesus Christ, the car trunk is not a good hiding place! Jesus Christ, put down that lighter!”

I know, I am awful.

I swear way too goddamn much. It’s not charming, it’s gauche. It makes me sound like a fucking redneck. I really need to do better. Fuck. Shit. Sorry.

I tried out a new face cream. Very pleasant older lady hooked me up. I saw her a week later and she asked how I liked it. I said,” I fucking love it! Look at this fucking wrinkle here, it’s almost fucking gone! I look like I’m fucking 18!” She looked like I’d slapped her, and threatened to kick her in the box. She said, “Oh. Good. Excuse me.” Walked away.

Shameful. 

Here’s the thing. I am a clean-cut, middle class wife/motherfucker, shit, sorry, I meant mother. I drive a good car, take care of myself, and I also have very white teeth and a surprisingly good ass. I am not supposed to sound like I do. But I can’t help it.

I see these nice pretty ladies of about my age and in conversation, they say something like ‘oh darn it, or shoot’.( And I think ” Oh for fucksake, just say damn it. Or cunt, just try saying cunt! Own that word, bitch!)

See what I mean? It’s my head. My brain is foul-mouthed. A real problem. Fuckshit. Again, sorry.

I am actually a very nice person who mostly wouldn’t hurt a fly. And I am not anti-christian, or the anti christ (although I would like to have a beer with him, just to see what he has to say. And Jesus. I think he’d be a fun drunk!).

I promise to try to do better. Not here though. This is my blog, and if you can’t take it, then fuck off! Again, sorry. I actually really like you here.

I’ll try. And I promise not take the lord’s name in vain anymore. Fuckshit.

Sorry.