Moving...and I hope you'll come with me.

This will be my last post here. I am moving.

Please don't be upset, or sad, or angry, or apathetic.

Please come with me. It really only takes the click of a button after all.

It's not personal, I just found a place that let's me edit my pics (which has actually become a personal part of my posts) and do some other really cool stuff.

I love all of you. You have been amazingly supportive. I hope you will come with me. I pray that you will keep hanging around to see what dysfunction unfolds next.

But if you don't, I will just say...thank you.

Keep writing,

Brandi

Melodic Mondays-Kissing Life With a Fist

Some days you just want to knock life right the fuck out. Happy Monday.


p.s. I'm taking the rest of the week off of posting to play with my real life. Don't worry though, I'll be back over the weekend to share the shenanigans of the week.

B~

...All By My...Oh Fuck It.

There is nothing quite like sleeping for seven solid hours and waking up of your own accord. No alarm clock. No dogs barking. Just your body letting you know that you are rested and the sun is up and you are ready to start your day.


It is a beautiful thing.


Or so I fucking hear.


I remember Saturday mornings, as a kid, as the time when my parents were absolute about a few things:


1. It was their day off-do not wake them up. At all. Ever. Unless someone had lost a fucking limb; and then, only after you'd tied a tourniquet, called 911 and the rescue responders were requesting the signatures of a parent or guardian.


2. You feed your fucking self. Cereal. Toast. Poptarts. It didn't matter, but don't make a mess and don't you dare even breath the words "I'm hungry" at them while they still have their eyes closed and are laying prone in their beds.


3. Do not ever get into a fight with a sibling where the decibel range of said spat causes parents to be risen from much needed "It's fucking Saturday and I'm sleeping in!" slumber. Because you will pay...dearly...with chunks of your ass.


My dear reader, it is not so in my house. My precious little manipulative mouth breathers know that they can snuggle their way right into my bed and say things like "You're the best Mom. Now get your fat ass out of bed and turn on the Xbox."


This morning was much like any other (except that Saint Jason wasn't here...bullshit y'all); Elena was laying at the foot of my bed, trying to wake me up without me knowing it by rubbing my feet with hers and then as soon as I open my eyes, she's all "Good morning Mommy. Did you sleep well?"


Uh, almost. Except that both you and your brother woke me, separately (yet somehow working together in a coup) on multiple occasions that made the xanax I took a waste of a perfectly good pill. But...what I said was,


"Yes, baby. Did you? Are you hungry? Where's your brother?" (Just like that because if I wait for her to give me the answers I'll be there until Tuesday, and also because the only thing I really care about is what mischief Ian is into.)


She's all: "He's in my room, watching cartoons."


Rock on!


That is, until I find him, undies around his ankles, yankin' on his junk, sitting on the dog because he went potty all by himself but he thinks it's funny to wait for me to yell at him to put his freakin' underwear back on! These are the future leaders of the psych wards of America, ladies and gentlemen. You knew them first.


To make the day even more fucking awesome, I get called in to work. HOO-FUCKING-RAY!

55 hours down so far this week and we're just going to keep adding to that tally of exhaustion. I'm pretty sure at this point, I will snap and need to fall into my Mary Poppin's carpet bag of nanny gear for the duct tape and chloroform if I'm to survive the day; but it's my job, so here we go.


By noon, my kids are with their father (for the weekend) and I've already been at work, dodged a punch from the toddler of terror (my 3 year old charge) and cleaned up explosive shit off the ass of her little sister. Duct tape in hand, I scream "NAPTIME!"


And thank God...they listened. We all napped.


The rest of the afternoon, was actually very uneventful. I got my "extra girls" off with the other nanny for a visit with their dad and headed out for a mani/pedi.


These are happy little piggies...am now realizing I should've vacuumed my floor before taking this pic. Shit.)


I was also able to talk to Saint Jason without kids in the background for about 10 minutes, but soon after got really pissy because he's actually having fun out there and decided to be a real bitch and give him a hard time (not fair, I know and very fucking immature, but I miss him and it's what women do.)


In order to cheer myself up, I put on my favorite new t-shirt and took a picture of my boobs:


(Thank you CafePress for making clothes that understand me.)

Now, I'm all by myself (actually a little tired of this theme, so may be posting complete fabrications next week--just a warning) and watching horror flicks (am very disappointed that The Howling was not as cool as I remembered it being) and finishing the last of the 3 bottles of wine I bought Monday.

Thank God for my totally fucking cool boss, who supplied me with bottle number 4, because that one's going down too.

Still wondering if I shouldn't drag myself down to that Halloween party I was invited to by my swinger friends; then again, I'm afraid of heights. Oh well.

Until next time...

Your totally dysfunctional cussing blog friend. XoXo

...All By Myself (Day 5)

"It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are." e.e. cummings.

I accomplished some very productive things today; including killing two snakes and digging up some old dead cat that was probably the beloved house pet of the previous owner of my home...but that's not what I thought about all day.

My brain was stuck on repeat; asking the following question:

"Are you finally what you wanted to be when you grew up, Brandi?"

In spite of some of the darker parts of my childhood, there were some very bright moments. I had dreams and goals and heroes like many other young girls before me. I thought about being a teacher, a dancer, a writer, a wife, a doctor, a singer...a Broadway star (that was huge for me for many years). However, the one thing I knew I wanted to be was a mom. And not just any mom...but this mom:

and this one:

and this one:

and this one:

I had a very precious heart to heart talk with my baby girl tonight about some possible changes that may be coming to our family. Nothing more than the addition of a last name for her mommy, but it scares her and I understand. As we talked about what would stay the same: that her daddy would always be her daddy, that Saint Jason would always be someone who loves her and wants to help her be a happy & safe little girl and that I will do everything I can to protect she and her "bubbas" forever and ever as long as I am able...I realized that I am exactly what I wanted to be when I grew up.

I am that mom. I am the imperfect fuck-up who has blown the statistics right out of the water. I've failed at marriages 1 and 2 and am so thankful I did. I wouldn't have Saint Jason. I wouldn't be where I am now. I wouldn't be healthy. I wouldn't be me.

My kids see that mom...their mom and while I may not be perfect, they will always know that I am exactly what I always wanted to be--theirs. I love every whiny, snotty, permanent marker on brand new clothes moment. I relish the "dammits" in public and the "that's not fair, mom" and the hours of Xbox; because that is the tangible, palatable, audible beauty of courage for me.

I am growing up to be who I really am and it's about fucking time.

...All By Myself (Day 4)...a.k.a. For the love of God, Mom, do not show this post to Paw-Paw!

In case you haven't figured it out by now, this time without Saint Jason is quickly becoming my self imposed therapy boot camp. If you are still reading, it's because you either care (Hi Mom.) or because you are some sick voyeuristic fuck who has nothing better to do with your time. (Hi Scott. Hahaaa!!!) Either way, I'm glad you're here. Truly.

So, today's session deals with image (warning...this one may be lengthy).

Last night I posted pictures of myself and all night, I dealt with the regret of doing so. In fact, today, I logged on several times to delete said photos from the post. Why? Because I've got some real issues with my self image. (Blah, blah, blah...it's been said before, I know.)

It's not a new story. Other women have dealt with the same shit I have. It's really all fairly simple. My father was (is) a prick. Nothing was ever good enough for him. Not my mother, not my stepmother and none of the numerous women in his life since. None of his four children could ever be perfect enough for him, but I got special treatment as the "smartest" of his biological spawn. There were great expectations for me and I jumped through flaming hoops to make daddy happy...which never happened.

I married a man just like him. Then married another man just like him, whom I thought was different because he wasn't like the first man I married. The common denominator there was the "selfish asshole" factor, but it would take me a while (and the help of a Saint) to understand. In the meantime, I also dealt with being a victim-of sexual molestation and assault, of adultery, of mental & physical abuse, of severe depression and attempted suicide.

Ain't that a bitch?

Somehow, some fucking way, I'm still here. I'm one of the very (well aware) lucky ones. I'm so thankful for what I have, but I still have some shit to work through.

I don't look in the mirror and see the resemblance to Julia Roberts (???? really???? LOL!) or a pretty person at all. I see every fault imaginable and wonder, when Saint Jason will see it too. And it scares me.

My living room walls are filled with photos of my children; literally dozens of pictures of all four of them throughout the past fourteen years of their lives.

(The Wall of Fame-this is just one wall)

You won't find very many pictures of me, though. I don't like to be in pictures. I hate, literally hate, seeing myself. Except when I'm with my kids.

(These are the first of four snapshots of me with each of my kids. The top is me with my oldest son, Josh. He is almost 14. The next one is me with my Cale, who will be 12 in a few short months.)

(Then we have me with Princess Elena...she will be 7 in nine short days. And then my baby; little man Ian...he's 3.)

What you might notice in all of these, is that none of them, not one, shows my body. This is an issue for me. There was a statement made to me once (that I have forgiven, but never forgotten):

"Maybe if you lost 40 pounds, I wouldn't have to go to a strip club to get excited."

For someone already carrying a lot of scars...this one statement cut deeper than I could possibly explain. Again...FORGIVEN.

It was not the comment that crushed my self esteem into the ground. Not the statement that destroyed me forever. Just another reminder that my 5'2" body isn't model perfect. And not to be graphic or share TMI, but every now and then, when I'm with Jason...I think about these things.

I remembered today about an article I saw last year...it was an article in Glamour magazine that featured plus sized models in a nude photo shoot. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. So today I Googled it and found the image again.

This is me.

Ok, so maybe not quite so "luxurious long locks of hair" or "smooth skin" and "clean shaven" (because I'm sorry, but that shit takes time and money that this bitch doesn't have. Come on, you didn't really think I'd make it through the entire post without profanity, did you?)

Anyway...see the model on the bottom row-right? See how her boob sort of sags a bit? So do mine. 38-DDD. That's me. Not perky at all anymore. And stretch marks galore. And see the creases and rolls on the one on the bottom left??? Yep, I have those too. Not to mention a hip to hip scar from the 3 c-sections I've had. I will never have a six pack...ever. NEVER.

I have stretch marks so bad that I look like a mountain lion has had his way with me.

But here is what I know for sure (and God help me if my mother picks this post to show my grandfather how great a writer I am, because he's going to drop dead right now)...Jason thinks I'm sexy.

I know this; am positively convinced of it, not by what he says, but by the way he looks at me when I'm with him. (*WARNING--TMI COMING!) I can see it in his eyes when we are in the middle of having sex, because he never takes his eyes off of me. He thinks I am beautiful. He thinks I am hot. He thinks I am amazing and wonderful and perfect.

I don't get it. I don't understand it and I am still trying to see what he sees, but I trust him with everything I am...that means I believe that he is not some certifiable nut job who's lost his fucking mind and eye sight.

So, there you go. How about tomorrow, we stick with something simple...like landscaping?

p.s. If you want to read a simply bitchy rant by me...just go here. It's much douchyer (my word, don't fuck with me) and lighter reading.

...All By Myself (Day 3)

Ok, so today I realized a few things, and since I'm determined to get some decent sleep, I'm going to bullet point them:

• I need a fucking tutorial on Photoshop. I would love to be able to show you how this blog on Skirt! was featured for about 2.2 seconds on the national main page of their website today, but since I can't figure out how to get my screen print to show any bigger than Smurf size (which is really fucking lame) you're going to have to trust me and just go read it.
• I can do cool shit, like cut my own hair & it wasn't so bad. See & enjoy, because I won't post pictures of myself very often:

(So, not happy with the way I'm aging and therefore have invested too much money in fucking collagen products...shit, balls, douche.)

(This is my fat tongue, which apparently will NEVER need fucking collagen...asshole tongue.)

• I am also awesome at ordering really fantastic t-shirts online. I finally got my t-shirt order from Cafe Press and am very happy--especially about this one...

Alright. Enough fucking pictures for one night. You're going to get spoiled. Don't get used to this shit. It won't last.

Not kidding.

Maybe.

...All By Myself (Day 2)

I can't sleep. I'm very tired, but I can't seem to fall asleep. So here I am, day 2 of my bad ass all by myselfness.

So...what did we deal with today? A migraine, a hole in my favorite sweater (which really didn't have shit to do with the overall situation, but sucked balls anyway).

I took the kids to a fundraiser for Elena's elementary school at our favorite ice cream joint (and totally rubbed it in Jason's face via text because it's his absolute favorite thing in the world & since he's surrounded by snow capped mountains he can SUCK IT!) so that was cool.

Then we came home, did the normal shit (baths, play & bed) and here we are.

Oh yeah, there was also this (for those of you curious, that is my Zoloft, Xanax & Benadryl in the background):


and this (happens to be my dinner & my 2nd glass of wine)...



So overall, I guess it wasn't so bad.

I also wrote this, which was fun; and had some fun on Twitter (fuck off haters, it's fun) today.

Shit. I'm actually starting to bore myself. Maybe I didn't need that Xanax after all. Well, fuck, that was a waste of a perfectly good pill. Going to bed now.

I Can Do It All By Myself! (Day 1)

*Image Source-http:// averysdrawings.wordpress.com

So, in case you haven't figured it out by now, I'm a fairly pushy little cow. I would say heifer, but since I've calved almost a half dozen times now, that would be technically incorrect. (Please don't ever ask me how I learned that differentiation. Thank you.)

Sometimes, I think that I'm just too much to handle and I say things like:

"I think you should use your time in Denver to decide whether or not you really want to keep doing this with me."

(**Side bar--this was before I was back on the Zoloft. Thank you makers of Zoloft. Even more so, thank you Super Saint Jason for NOT telling me to FUCK OFF that very moment for being a super giant douche canoe.)

Anyway. Back to the point of this post.

Saint Jason and I deal with a big issue of mine a lot. I mean, like, a shit ton. It is this. I have lived on my own for exactly...6 months of my entire adult life. That is it. The first two months were when I moved out of my mother's house before I got married the first time and the last four months were after my second divorce and before I moved in with the S.J.

I have always had a roommate or a husband or, as is the case now, a significant living in sin partner.

So I'm struggling with the independence thing a little bit. I am 34 years old. I'm not fucking 25 and trying to find my wings. I've had CAREERS. Not 1 or 2 but a few and they've all gone bust one way or another. I'm back in school and raising my kids in some very creative ways. I'm doing the very best I can in some very difficult circumstances and somehow making it work.

For fuck's sake, I am the most functionally dysfunctional person I have ever known which is what inspired this entire blog endeavor in the first place! So why am I such a fucking wreck?

(That's strictly rhetorical by the way, please do not flood the comments with your suggestions.)

Anyway, Jason is gone for 10 days. I am alone with the youngest two kids during that time and we've got a lot to accomplish. We have events to plan and attend. We have yards to landscape & homework to do. We have dogs to groom (or kill...that part is still totally up in the air) & blogs to write. We have speech therapy to attend & ex's to keep in check. Holy fucking shit, I'm going to need a Xanax.

Oh wait! Did I mention that I'm supposed to do ALL of this without cussing in front of the kids?!? And there is NO ONE here to help me with that part?! What the deuce? Now, that's just bullshit!

Fuck it. I can do it...all by myself.

Melodic Monday

Saint Jason flew out this morning for Denver...he'll be gone for 10 days. This makes me a little sad because I'm going to miss him a lot. This is one of our favorites: there are some days when only Radiohead will make you smile again. Love you, babe.

How do you say, "If you don't stay on your side of the bed, I'm going to smother you"??

I have a problem. Ok, I have more than one problem (read: issue, psychosis, etc.), but right now we'll just address one.

I am sleep deprived. My body sort of finds itself in a constant state of twilight (and no, not the movie although, right now, that would fucking rock, because I wouldn't care if I wasn't sleeping).

Sometimes I can fall asleep, but not stay asleep; other times, I can't fall asleep at all. When I do fall asleep, I'm usually awakened by one of any number of random annoying fucking things, like my skanky neighbor's out of control dogs barking, a mouth breathing brat standing right over my face mumbling something about hot dogs or carrying permanent markers about to throw down some rockin' graffiti because they are sleep- walking. Awesome.

Or, my very fave...Saint Jason, rubbing my ass cheek (supposedly in his sleep) or attempting to spoon with me, or sleeping in the middle of the fucking bed with his head on my pillow. FORBIDDEN.

I have two rules, people. Only two. Don't use my toothbrush and don't touch my fucking pillow. And about those two things, I am extremely neurotic. Say what you will, I care not.

Saint Jason has been, of course, very saintly about respecting these rules, and also respectful about my body's need for space when I sleep. He makes an extra special effort to sleep as far away from me as he can so he's not tempted to "sleep fondle" as we call it. Rubbing my butt apparently calms him; this is also, apparently, an inherited trait he got from his father. Ewww.

Where were we? Oh yes.

Well, this week, thanks to the return of Zoloft to my nightly routine, I have been sleeping a little better (thank you, gods of the pharmaceuticals), however, am still adjusting to the meds so am dragging at night. I was looking very forward to snuggling up in my bed with my perfect pillow and falling into the 4 hour coma that Mr. Z has provided me each night this week.

Alas, it was not to be. Who should appear at my back, all spoon happy and ready to cuddle (all the while invading my personal sleep nirvana)? Saint Jason.

DAMMIT! (OK, so that word was just for my own pleasure)

My text to him this morning was something like:

If I have sex with you tonight, will you promise to stay on your side of the bed for the rest of the weekend?

Because, I'm not a total bitch. I know the man has needs.

See...the Zoloft is working.


**I did do other nice things for the world (or my small part of it) this week. I spread some awareness with this video re-posted on my FB page (which sent my mother in to a tailspin wanting to know who was bullying me & mine--she seriously needs a FB tutorial).

And I posted a very personal story at one of my very favorite support group sites for people from every possible walk of life: Band Back Together. (If you read this, please read ALL the comments to get clarification on a statement I make about cutting.)

So Happy the Speech Therapy is Finally Paying Off

Ian has a new word. He says it with absolute clarity and perfect articulation.

"Dammit."

My life will never be the same. I have to stop cussing. At least out loud. My writing, however, is going to be absolutely profane. I'm sorry.

Now is where you should jump ship if you are easily offended.

Still here?

Shit. Fuck. Balls. Cock. Douchebag. Son of a bitch. Motherfucker. DAMMIT!!!!!

I'm going to go wash my own mouth out with soap now.

Home is Where the Cooties Are...

This morning began like any other. Alarm went off at 5:20 and I hit the snooze for ten more minutes of much needed sleep, which I didn't get because I lay there thinking of all the things I really need to accomplish today. I get up at 5:30 and hit the shower, get dressed, gather the kids' crap, and it's time to wake Elena.

Well, shit. This can't be good. She looks and sounds like The Swamp Thing and...yep, is running a fucking fever too.

AWWEEHHAASOME!!!

So here we are; me, Elena, Ian and my youngest charge Sidney. All trapped in this petri dish of allergy inspired viral colds.

Elena has been banned to her room, a veritable kingdom of electronics with her t.v. and DVD player and Nintendo DS. I bring her food and meds on schedule and she's allowed out only to visit the latrine. I'm a mean mommy, or so I've been told, because I'm making her rest.

Whatever.

Honestly, she's getting on my damn nerves and I might have to duct tape her to her bed if she gets up again. I might even hook her up to the shop vac if she doesn't learn to blow her damn nose. I mean, really, what 7 year old girl can't effectively blow her own nose? I can't help it, the sound of *sniffing* gets on my nerves.

In fact, I think duct tape is in order for all the ankle biters today. I need a nap. And a xanax. And a glass of wine.

And there I go thinking about shit I can't have in the middle of the work day again. Crap.

Maybe I'll just go use the duct tape to seal my ears from the sounds of Max & Ruby before my entire brain bleeds out.

Canines, Calorie Counting & Cerebral Constipation

I have a wicked case of writer's block, so I apologize in advance for whatever comes out today. (No, this is not me. I am not this cute and my house is not this clean.) This post will also be full of as many pics as I can possible put in order to satisfy my idea of substance since I'm pretty much fucking useless right now.

I was going to write this weekend, but the weekend SUCKED, so I didn't. I was going to write last night, but in spite of the fact that yesterday was exponentially better than the weekend, I couldn't even find the motivation to help my first grader with her homework (yeah, I know, mother of the fucking year), so again, whatever.
*Random sidebar-her homework isn't due until Friday, so don't be so friggin' judgemental.


So let's just bullet point the events of the last few days, shall we?

~Saturday began beautifully; sunshine, clear skies, and the kids dropped off at their dad's house for their weekend visit. Saint Jason and I ran errands and then chilled at the house for the afternoon before heading to our favorite Irish pub (Culhane's in Jacksonville Beach) for a plate of bangers & mash (my personal reward to myself for shedding 6 lbs and an inch from the waist and hips the past month) and a pint of Guinness. All was right with the world. Happiness looks like this empty pint glass.


~S.J. (short for Saint Jason, work with me people) goes to let the dogs in for the night when we return and comes in one dog short. Pixie is gone. Slipped out of her collar, jumped the fence and GONE. What the fuck?! We grab flashlights and head outside to search, talk to neighbors and find out that she was last seen about 6pm (while we were out running errands) in the company of three young men who fashioned a leash out of their belts and were making their merry way home with our dog. We return home (me crying like a damned idiot) and Jason designs fliers for us to post the next morning.

~Sunday morning S.J. & I go out (before I've had any fucking coffee, so you know I love this damn dog) and put up 30 fliers all over the damn place that have her picture and offer a reward and talk to another guy who says he might know the kids we're looking for, but can't be sure. We go home and wait.

~I get called in to work. SHIT! S.J. comes with me because I'm in no condition to drive thanks to the lack of sleep and coffee and because we just want to be together (Shut up!). He gets a call after about an hour from someone who says they have our dog. HOORAY! S.J. leaves me at work, goes to meet the guy and calls me about 30 minutes later.

The first thing I hear is, "G%dd@mn, motherf#@king ...bleep, bleep, bleep!"

(Oh boy.) Long story short-it was a prank. Asshole.

~Sunday night, I get a text from the second baby daddy letting me know about a small little incident that occurred with my little man, Ian. He bit it on the concrete sidewalk while trying to run in his flip-flops. Dude. WTF? This weekend can end anytime now. This is what it looks like.

That shadow on his forehead, is not a shadow--it's a scuff. He cleaned the concrete with his face. Thank God, he didn't knock his teeth out.

~Monday went by without word of the dog or further incident, and I braced myself to pick up Elena and Ian after work and to tell them about Pixie being gone. I got to my ex-MIL's house (who is still one of my really good friends--just another cool & twisted part of my life), sat them down and gave them the news. There were tears...lots and lots of damn tears. Damn the people who will not give back our dog!!!

Wait! What is that text from Saint Jason waiting for us when we get back in the van?

It's a picture of Pixie!!!

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, there are still decent people in the world. There are still kind-hearted, selfless folk who believe in their God-given responsibility to keep pets with their loving families no matter what...all for the measly cost of a $100 reward. As far as I'm concerned, it was well worth the cash. It was a good Monday night in our house.

So, again, I apologize for the drivel and the lack of real wit today. I'm going to go eat something not on my 1350 calorie diet now so that I have something truly gratuitous to write about later.

Until next time,

~b

The Best Freakin' Day Ever!

Ok, so maybe, not exactly.

I mean, really, the best day ever would be me sitting on the veranda of my beach side home, watching the surf as I soak my feet in a tub o' the cash I just won in the Powerball drawing. It might also mean that I have a Pinot I.V. hooked up and that I'm typing on the new fold out Funbags Laptop I just had installed in my chest cavity and am thoroughly enjoying the fact that my big girls have a fresh purpose in life. However, since I'm not likely to win Powerball, buy a beach house, have a money-pedi or Tony Stark experience anytime soon, we'll work with what we've got. 'Cause that's what DSm's do...we take the shit we have and make it WORK.

Yesterday really was a fantastic day & you are partially responsible for that, my dear reader. By the time I retired my quick-as-lightning fingers last night and stepped away from the laptop & crackberry...my reading population had damn near quadrupled.

WHAT THE DEUCE?!

So thank you, thank you , thank you. Even if you don't ever actually read this blog, at least I now have the illusion that you are and that's good enough for me. I live in a world of illusions (or delusions according to some) anyway, so it's all good in da hood. Besides, I'd rather have 25 really awesome "pretend" followers than 1,000 fans. Seriously, have you noticed that some of the biggest fucking lunatics on the planet had a massive fan base: i.e. Hitler, Michael Jackson, Glenn Beck. Single Dad Laughing.

Let's just not and say we did. Ok? Good.

The day was fabulous between yesterday's post and the wine-induced sleep as well. My daughter won a prestigious award at school yesterday for her 1st grade contribution to the witches wall. She colored & cut out the best witch in her class and won sidewalk chalk. Hell yeah! That's my girl...the very witchiest! Just like momma.

Then there was the tearjerker. My littlest man, has been battling through articulation disorder for over a year now and after months of speech therapy, has made a huge breakthrough. We were working on his therapy homework & flash cards last night and he ROCKED IT!! I'm talking to the point, where Saint Jason & I were in tears. So proud.

"Banana. Pencils. Airplane. Indiana Jones. Turtle" All clear as a damn bell, and we high-fived and cried and hugged and it was a big fat love fest that ended with him running out of his room at bedtime to say "You da bes Mommy." (heart bursting)

All of the above sent me to bed with the following stuck in my head (you can thank my kids for this shit):


Now if we can just get him to say his name clearly. "Eenan Cortes" when in reality, his name is Ian Cortes, but that's a doozy for him. Perhaps I should've named him Chewbacca, because he's got that one covered too.

I leave you with two things.

1. I was asked, the other day, why I use so much profanity in my blog (and FB page, and FB DSMWLSG page and most of my speech). I could tell you that I cuss alot because I didn't cuss at all, not one single time for about 10 years, and that I'm just catching up on lost time but that's not the case; or that I'm an ignorant woman who's too lazy to find better words for what I'm trying to say, but that's not true either, because while my grammar may lack a bit, I'm no idiot. That much, I know.
So we'll just go with this excuse:
I cuss alot because I'm hoping that my trial husband (#1) will smell the stench of the sulphur rising from my blog 999 miles away. (If you don't get the sulphur reference, you haven't read enough about hell or watched enough movies about possession.)

2. I found out yesterday that I can open a store through CafePress for free, which is fucking awesome, because nannies who have 4 kids of their own are not rich bitches y'all. (And please don't make fun of me for not knowing about the free store, because I'm new to this blogosphere & if you'd all shown up a little sooner, I might be smarter. So there.) Anyway, I've had a few inquiries as to where one could acquire an I "heart" Jesus & Bacon t-shirt or bumper sticker...so I'm working on it. Hopefully, since I won't have the kids this weekend (thank God for their father's visitation rights) I'll be able to put some actual effort into getting the designs transferred and posted.

Sorry, y'all...that was a shit ton of blog post. I'll be shorter next time & probably not as happy.

Until next time,

B~

Shut Your Pie Hole! (And other appropriate ways to say "I love you".)

(photo from Perpetually Peeved)

I'm in the middle of trying to convince Saint Jason to start his own blog. He's a pretty fart smeller and, no doubt, has a shit ton of fabulous things to say about yours truly. However, like most men, he must be stroked and fondled into doing what it is asked of him. All my male readers (yep...now have some, hooray!) know exactly what I'm talking about. A little "cup & tickle" will get a girl a very long way in getting what she wants. What I now realize, that I didn't know when I was 20 (or 25) is that you know it! You are just as manipulative as we are and you do this shit on purpose. Well, I'm on to you Saint Jason!

I even have a few suggestions for possible blog titles: here you are babe. You can thank me later.

Saint Jason: Chronicles of A Step dad in Training
(You could make a whole word play thing off the C.A.S.T. Awesome, right?!)

Black Belts & Blue Balls--Karate, A Dysfunctional Girlfriend, Step fatherhood & Other Shit
(This is my favorite so far due to the obvious.)

Shut Your Pie Hole & Other Appropriate Ways to Say "I Love You"
aka: A guide to living with a dysfunctional supermom & her four much more functional kids who just happen to have two different baby daddies.
(Ok, so this one is by far the longest, but probably the most accurate to your life right now. Another excellent front runner.)

Of course, he could decide not to write about me or the kids at all; but that would be bullshit and would lead back to the whole black belts & blue balls theme and he'd end up doing it anyway, so it's circular logic. Hahaa!

Seriously, though, if Saint Jason doesn't begin writing soon, I may have to split personalities again and create a male alter ego that does the writing for him. You think this blog is bad? You ain't seen nothin' yet!

Jiffy Pop, Bird Nectar, Crackberries & Other Random Adventures

I love Facebook. A lot. Like...a lot, a lot...and for many different reasons; but mostly because I find a treasure trove of comments from friends like the following:

"Chloroform is a highly under-utilized parenting tool." (S.P.F. I heart you!)

It's like having your dope dealer give you free samples just to keep you coming back. Well, FB dealers, it's working. It's also a great place to share the daily disasters that are my life (i.e. the fact that my youngest son just tried to “plug in” a pair of headphones to his uncircumcised aardvark…I mean, “why the hell not?!”).

As to the point of this post, we had a rather entertaining weekend. I had to work Saturday morning, but Saint Jason made up for it by doing all the laundry and making sure I was completely at ease all afternoon & heartily medicated with my fave vino. We took the kids to a favorite dive for dinner and I broke my diet. “Fuck. It.” (I will be back on the wagon tomorrow, but whatever.)

The kids & Saint Jason went to Blockbuster (without me, because the cheeseburger & peanut butter cup milkshake I inhaled decided to wage a mini war on my intestines—HOORAY!) and refreshed our movies for family movie night.

All was well until…the popcorn.

We’re picky about our popcorn in this house. We prefer Jiffy Pop. Yes, it takes longer to make. Yes, it also requires elbow grease, but it is more fun & tastes better. At least, when I make it.

But Saint Jason was again feeling all “sainty” and decided he would make it. I could see his head from my spot on the living room and hear the shuffling of the Jiffy; but I couldn’t see what was actually occurring. About the time we should hear “All done, go grab your bowls you little grubbers,” we hear instead… “Shit! It’s busted out all over the place!”

“Uh. WTF?!” say I, because this has NEVER happened to me. And I, of course, get off my butt to go investigate. This is what I find.


And I start to laugh. And then laugh some more. And the kids come in and they are PISSED! Saint Jason f’ed up the Jiffy Pop! And I’m still laughing.

I, of course, have to grab my phone to take pics (which he spends the next 2 hours trying to steal from me, after he Googles “Jiffy Pop failures” for 30 minutes—which of course he can’t find any entries for—but he can find 101 YouTube instructional videos on how to make Jiffy Pop…which, of course, point out infinitum the error he made.)

(I should note here that, twice this week, he completely disassembled & reassembled our xBox360 for cleaning & repair. And that he practically rewired the electrical in our entire house & has rebuilt rooms & changed out the brakes in my car & other really handy shit…because he’s SAINT JASON!)

One of the other really awesome things he does is help the kids conquer fears large and small; like feeding the lorikeets at the zoo. My daughter is not so big on nature. She says she is, but only until nature actually gets close to her, then all bets are off. Not today, however; today, we were all about dodging the bird shit to get a chance to feed those pretty birds.
With the help of little cups of nectar, we were able to get those little rainbow bombers very close and feed them & Elena even got up the nerve to pet them and almost hold one. Until it bit her: she’s now back to her “fuck nature” mentality. Can’t say I blame her.

It was all in all a good weekend. We rounded it off with completing school projects, a homemade Harry Potter Puppet Pals show (complete with Ziploc sandwich bag puppets, because I suck at being a crafty mom); and now, I’m sitting here sharing it all with you, glass of wine in hand. (It's true. I can type 60 wpm one-handed, because I'm freakin' awesome like that.)

You can check out the rest of the pictures and the video of the puppet show here. I’m going to enjoy watching the “Saint-Son” bonding of Jason and Ian now: he’s teaching Ian the following phrase—“Time to lay the smack down on your sorry butt.”

Could be worse…he could be getting his phrases from his mother.

Until next time,
B~

p.s. I’m getting a new phone tomorrow. Going back to the Crackberry & I’m totally stoked!!!

Freakin' October

Today is October 1st. "Duh," you say.

What you don't know, is that my daughter has been petitioning Congress, NATO, the United Nations & Hallmark to officially change the name of this fabulous month to "Elena's Fantastic Month of Birthday Celebration" since she was born seven years ago.

I blame this on her grandmother. (Not my mother...her father's mother. The one who purchased & brought her Kodak Easy Print docking station to the hospital the day she was born so she could have printed pictures of her first grandchild w/i 15 minutes of her birth. She, seriously, had printed photos before I ever held the child. The same one who organized a $2K trip to Disney to commemorate the child's 4th bday at the Bibbity Bobbity Boutique--yep, it's a real place y'all.)

We've been gearing up for the birthday since November 1st of last year (her birthday is Oct. 30th), but we really started the countdown a few weeks ago.

"Mom!"

"what?"

"Six weeks until my birthdaaaayyy!!!"

"awesome."

"Mom!"

"what, sissy?"

"Five and a half weeks until my birthdaaayyy!!!"

"awesome."

(yep...and this goes on every half week, on the half week until this morning in the car)

"OH MY GOSH, MOM!"

"What?! Did you forget your lunch?!"

"NO! IT'S OCTOBER 1ST!!!"

"Ok???"

"Maaaawwwwuuummmmm....that means only twenty. nine. more. days. until my BIRTHDAAAAYYY!!!!"

(First off, I have no idea where in the holy hell she inherited her "drama gene", but, it's only six o'clock in the freakin' morning & I haven't even smelled a cup of joe yet. Lucky for her that I actually love her so I'm going to try very hard not to drive into oncoming traffic, even though I KNOW we are going to do this for the next 28 days. What I may do, however, is show her the movie 28 Days Later for family movie night tonight and tell her that's what is going to happen if she keeps this up for the rest of the month.)

Heaven give me strength.

I'm an @$$hole...also titled: Jason is the Most Patient Man on the Planet

So now, I have an audience of 6 (yes, I'm including myself & my Mom). Woohoo!!! Sooo...my dear, much appreciated fan club, I want to share with you a warning. I can be a real pain in the patootie. Almost everyone in my life thinks of me as a very loving, encouraging person; and, I do try. Really. I swear. But once I get home; not so much. :(

Last night, after getting home and writing down the thoughts of the day regarding bacon (& Jesus), my daughter plays messenger and brings me a card. A greeting card. From Jason. *sigh* It was one of those really sweet, long written out "I love every day with you...even the ones where you're a total shit" type cards. (Thank you Blue Mountain.)

It should be noted here, that I had piano lessons after work last night (lessons that Jason encouraged me to take, because I'd always wanted to) so Jason picked up the kids (proactively, without having to be reminded or asked) and took them to Blockbuster to pick out some new movies (again, he's freakin' awesome) and then home for dinner, baths & helped Elena with ALL of her math homework for the week. (YES! I KNOW HOW AMAZING HE IS. SHUT UP!!!!)

So, Saint Jason (as I'm heretoforth labeling him) was sitting on the couch when I got home (after feeding, cleaning, helping & playing with my kids so I could go play) and the first thing out of my mouth when I walk in the door is:

"Good Lord it stinks in here!"

No, not "Hi, babe!" or "Wow, you didn't kill the kids!" but an instant, unsolicited bitchfest. And it got better...oh yes. Because AFTER I got my sweet and unprompted card (no birthday or anniversary or death in the fam) I went to bed raging like Mommy Dearest in a room full of wire hangers.

Yay me! I'm now the poster child for why good men leave crazy women. (No, he didn't leave...THANK GOD!)

Today began with me praying that I'll be able to keep him long enough for the meds to kick in (mine, not his). Jason put it this way...
"I know you WANT to be happy and enjoy it when you slip it in, but it's like your brain's default position is to 'goalie' trying to block the 'happy' ball from scoring."
*sigh*
He's right, y'all. Whether it's chemical, circumstancial or sleep deprivation...something's got to give. Otherwise...I'm just gifting a Superfriend & Superpartner right back into the universe, right along with all the benefits that he brings to my life...like the "happy ball".

I mean really...what part of the pig is NOT good to eat?

There is something just thoroughly annoying about being stuck in traffic behind a piece of shit Dodge Neon (no offense to the Dodge fans out there, but it really was a piece of shit!) and being forced to read the bumper stickers.
"MEAT IS MURDER!" & "SAVE OUR CHILDREN-GO GREEN!" & "REAL WOMEN ADOPT CATS" and then, my very favorite..."I'M A WICCAN PRIESTESS"

Ok, so let me just address a few things here...first off, let me say, that I am a very open minded person and would never, ever judge a person based on their dietary choices or their choice of pet, or religious preference...but let's get real here.

1. You cannot have kids & have multiple (more than 10)cats, and believe me, this woman had more than 10.

2. You cannot be a "Wiccan priestess" and observe the equinox and other dancing naked in the woods type earthly holidays if you have kids, because that requires a babysitter or a REALLY understanding family member and eventually, someone is going to give you too much shit for you to be able to be true to your convictions and you're going to have to settle for "smudging" your friends' houses with sage from BB&B and lighting candles for fun.

3. BACON IS JUST F'ING GOOD!!!

You can deny it. You can protest it. You can even call it MURDER. Hell, make it a capital offense and I'll turn myself in!

Cheeseburgers, bacon, ham, pork chops, turkey, fried chicken, steak...dear Lord, I'm happy to be a mass murderer of the bovine, swine & yard bird.

So I'm going to keep it simple. I love Jesus & Bacon. I'm proud of those facts and have decided to design bumper stickers of my own...hell, maybe even t-shirts.

To my veggisaur friends, I say..."Good for you, but you all know that you drool when you drive past a Hardee's."

LOL...mmmmmmm...bacon. Dammit! I got myself all worked up that I now either have to send Jason to Krystal's or eat my own dog. (It's a toss...the dog is pissing me off.)

Until next time,

b~

I'm International Bitches!!!! (aka: I LOVE SPAM!)

I'm new to this blogging thing-and not ashamed to admit it. What I am ashamed to admit, is that I'm a total f'ing MORON!
If you are a blogger, you may already know that your blog hosting site offers you the opportunity to check your "stats". Meaning: you can see if people other than you and your daughter's stuffed animals & your "loyal to a fault" boyfriend are actually reading what you write. I have international readers, y'all!

Hellooooo Denmark! :)

*Now please do not take this opportunity to let me know that these "readers" are probably search engines randomly accessing my site for some spam inspired purpose or by accident. I would gladly take some spam just be reminded that I'm not alone in the blogosphere.

I know I'm not as cool as Jenny or Aunt Becky but I'm an average read...so thank you for taking some time out of your busy day, Denmark, in order to kill some brain cells with me.

It's truly appreciated!


B~

I may not have any readers--but I have my very own queen. SO THERE!

I love other bloggers. I love The Bloggess, Jenny (she's my very favorite because she tickles my nether parts). And then there's Aunt Becky @ Mommy Wants Vodka. Funny bitches y'all. There are others, lots of others and I love that they make me smile and laugh (and piss myself); but mostly I love how they inspire others to react & respond.

Sometimes...ok...a lot (I know, I'm pathetic, but you can kiss my ass anyway)of times, I wonder if there is a flea's chance on my pit bull's butt that I'm EVER going to have a fraction of the readers they have.

Probably not...*sigh*.

I guess, that until then, I'm going to have to "make my happy". And you know how we do that around here y'all??? We dragulate. What the hay-ell is dragulate you ask??? It's when you let RuPaul and his gift for the fabulous, transform you (or some unsuspecting soul of whom you just happen to have a facial photo) into a FABULOUS DRAG QUEEN!!!! What the deuce?!!! Hell yeah!

So here's my shot--funny shit y'all.

Meet Pixie Truman. I love her (except that it sort of annoys me a little bit that I know a man took the model shot for the body and it's sort of AWESOME! And why do I bother even working out at all, if my "goal body" is a man? I'm pretty sure that's gonna require surgery & drugs y'all. But I digress.)

This was sooo much fun. Even more fun??? The first damn thought that popped into my head--Ooooohhhh...Jason would make a CUTE queen!

How many crazy cows do you know that would, first of all, have the thought to turn their s.o. into a drag queen; and second, to actually spend 30 minutes on the computer while he was out driving from store to store trying to find the new Tinkerbell DVD, because it was sold out EVERYWHERE, just because he adores your child (one that he did not "donate" to) and wants her to be happy????

Well, now you know at least one, for sure. I'm going to hell y'all. First class.

This is Dainty Moline. Ain't she pretty?!

You know what makes me wonder about myself most? That I'm less disturbed by the image of Jason in drag than my own, and all because I envy my drag queen's body.

*Sigh* I need therapy.

Until next time...

B~

Break-up note to the Starbucks barista..

One of the things that Jason brought into my life is a budget. Yes, I used to manage my money just fine, but he took it to an entirely new level: my weekly budget for EVERYTHING is planned out in this really effin' cool Excel spreadsheet that includes a checkbook register and all y'all. Like for the rest of the damned year. Not even kidding.
Included in that budget is a $25 weekly "Personal" budget. *Sigh*. That was my Starbucks money y'all. *SIGH*. But I've given up Starbucks my precious angels. Aaargh!

What the deuce?!

Giving up Starbucks for me is like a bad break-up with a good man who just isn't "good for me." There were some really nice things about the relationship-but also some bad ones. You tasted soooo good Venti White Chocolate Peppermint Mocha with all of your whipped cream & sprinkly (now a word) goodness; but, what you did to my ass & my thighs...not cool. Not cool at all.

Like a sick & twisted domestic situation for me. I don't love you even though you're bad for me; I love you because you're bad for me.

I'm proud of myself for breaking it off; but I miss you. I miss your smell & your taste. I miss the way you lingered on my mouth for 30 minutes after you were gone. (Dear Lord, please forgive my pornagraphic attraction to coffee.)
But it's over now. It has to be. For the sake of all that's healthy. It's not you, it's me.

But alas, I am a wh0re for all things of the c. bean--so of course I'm in a rebound relationship until I can find something better. This little fling with my coffee pot and my store bought creamers is meeting a need, if you will, but it's not a forever kind of relationship. I'm still looking for that one perfect cup of low-fat, caffeine infused perfection. Some day I'll find it. I'm determined.

In the meantime--Starbucks--take care. And go ruin someone else's BMI. Love, Brandi

p.s. readers, do not suggest some healthy alternative to me. I swear I'll throw a heavy ass ceramic coffee mug right at your head. Not even kidding.

*Sidebar* In the midst of writing this, I promised my daughter we'd go to church tonight. My dear lord...I'm a hot mess. LOL!

Over this $h!t already!!!!

It has been a real beotch of a week y'all. Not even going pull punches there. Some momma & baby drama (my own), strep throat (again, mine) and out of nowhere today...just when I'm starting to feel a little calm again, my freakin' father calls.

WHAT. THE. HELL!?!

Very brief back story...my dad is a retired military man. But that's not his issue. The issue is not that he cheated on my mom, or my step-mom, or was the most perfectionistic, impossible to please, verbally abusive hard-a$$ on the entire damn planet. It was mostly that he's a master manipulator. He'll help you, just to own you later. But when you really need him...for something emotionally, spiritually or mentally difficult in life--he's a ghost.

I spent 33 years trying to win my "daddy's" love and approval. Then finally one day, I'd had enough. I cut him out and told him not to bother knocking on my door, or calling again. I was sick of living through the stereotypical cycle of falling for men like him because I wanted to be accepted and approved of by him. Ugh...just makes me sooo mad y'all! Seriously PISSED!

So warp to present day. Here I am, on my couch, watching my youngest dorks happily play Lego StarWars on the xBox, and having just got off the phone with my oldest whom is dealing with some heavy stuff of his own (AGAIN, my fault)...the bastard calls me.

No, I didn't pick up the phone. But yes, I did listen to the voicemail.

"I don't know if you want to talk." (Dad)
Nope.
"But I hope you do." (Dad)
Here's to hoping. Enjoy your Jack and Coke.
"I'm always thinking about you & love you." (Dad)
I'm sure you do. In the only way you know how. Unfortunately, that's just something I don't want to be part of anymore.

What I am thankful for...is that there are several of us, doing our very best to make sure this cycle does NOT repeat itself for my own daughter.

This is Elena with her Dad (Adrian) on her right and Jason on her left. They're playing rock band--to be specific, they are "HER" band. That's how our life is.

Not many people get it--this crazy life we live, and I'll admit, it's hard to explain. Which is why, I no longer feel the need to. I don't care if people get it or like it. I don't give a rat's a$$ if the traditional Christians in my circle of acquaintances approve of my mouth or my choices. I don't even really, ultimately, care if my own family care or approve (case in point...my father).

What I do care about is breaking a cycle that's lasted 3 generations in my family (both sides) of living lies, being abusing to ourselves and others around us, and casting judgement on each other and those outside our homes.

I want to say, for the record, that I don't judge my father; he's entitled to live his life as he sees fit and as it makes him happy. But his happy is my unhealthy. And my unhealthy trickles down. Can't let that happen y'all. Not anymore.

So pretty much...I'm over this $h!t and I'm breakin' out a big shovel to start cleaning the paths in front of me. I sure hope none of y'all are on it. ;-)

Love ya,

B~

Ecclesiastes 3:1

"For every time there is a season and time for every matter under heaven."

Today has been a day. I have dropped off my youngest children to my (2nd) ex-husband, texted with my second youngest son Cale via his new cell phone. I've also spoken with my older step-brother whom I've not spoken to in over 8 years. And did I mention that my newest FB page has proven to be a place of "finding middle ground" among women from many different places, age groups and cultures? Wow.

Let me just say this; I have wondered for years what the "F" I was doing here. Here=this life.

It's been a trip. Not the figurative, emotional type...literally, a physical trip from place to place: parent to parent: spouse to spouse type of trip. So here I am, fat & not so happy, but working on it. And deciding to invite the world to watch as I figure it out.

The funny thing is...holy shit...the world seems to be responding.

I was born with the desire to help others. It's what I do best. Wanna know why?

Because helping others deters from my need to help myself.

Wanna know what's different now?

I've asked the "others" to hold me accountable for helping myself.

From my mother to my friends, to my gay step-brother in Cali who's decided to forgive me for my jackassness from the bottom of his heart. Yep. All the way down to those who could care less if I just dropped off the face of the earth completely.

Go ahead. Give it your best and your worst. But I'm not going ANYWHERE. I'm not scared of me or you anymore.

Gotta go wipe my nose now.

LY!

b~

Nothing better than happy & fat dysfunctional supermoms!!!

Ok, so maybe we're not so happy and not so "fat" but whatever. F@*k it. Either way, we're committed. So there.

I've decided that being "morbidly obese" is not my cup of tea. Although, let me just say for the record, that all the research I've done shows that the classifications of obesity are based mainly on waist size and I have a fairly small waist for my 199 lbs. so therefore I say "BULLSHIT" to the classifications. It is my ASS that's obese and my boobs that need the personal training. My overall classification is FINE. Thanks for playing!

Anyway...I saw a video of myself taken at the beach last night. Not in a swimsuit. That would have to be done over my dead body. No, really. Literally. The mortician would have to stage my body in the bathing suit after the embalming fluids were processed; because my fat ass in a swimsuit is not something I (or anyone else in the free world, who still maintains their vision) would ever want to see.

I was in jeans, and dear God...that was enough for me. You know what's worse than a fat chick on the beach? A fat chick with a bad, short haircut on the beach. OMG, people. It was so bad, all I could do was laugh. And start a new FB page.

The Dysfunctional Supermom Weight Loss Support Group.

yep...there you go.

How do we deal with morbid obesity? With sick & twisted humor...oh yeah...and bitchiness. It's just what we do. It's a gift. Hate the giver, not the recipient.

Anwyay. So here I am, putting on my big girl panties and dealing with it and putting myself on a 90 day challenge (no Starbucks...can you say 5 years probation anyone?). But I have friends. Ah yes, you seem shocked.

Is that because my FB page has more fans than my thought out blog? 3 friends, in fact. That's 3 more than I have here. How 'bout them apples?!

Anyway...my personal goal is amazingly NOT to lose 180 of the 199 lbs I'm carrying. It's to lose 30 lbs by Christmas by exercising 4x per week and by starving myself until I'm retarded. Yeah, that's the ticket. I'll be too weak to put food in my mouth.

That's got to be some Hollywood fad diet, right?

Because some parts of me are AWESOME!!

New MySpace Layouts

Sara Bareilles - King Of Anything

Treading somewhere between "a little off" and "bat shit crazy"

Ok, so I suck. It's been WAY too long since I was last here. I'm a fraud as a blogger; but the consolation is that I am just as shitty at real life. You can do one of two things here: deal with it or kiss my ass. :)

"So, what's been going on?" you ask. Although, not really, because the only person reading this blog is the one writing it. Hahaaaaa! Joke's on you, because I've set up Elena's stuffed animals and they get an exclusive preview to my fabulous insights as soon as I hit "post".

I digress. The summer included the following events (not necessarily posted in chronological order):

1. Josh & Cale came for a shorter than normal summer visit, because they were too booked to spend any more time here with me. Football camp, church camp, friend camp, texting camp. You get the picture. We had a great time while they were here, which included the zoo, swimming at Aunt Tracy's house, hanging out with their baby brother and sister and a knock-down, drag-out, snot flinging, come to Jesus meeting in which I had the pleasure of sharing with them the details of the end of my marriage to their dad and why I left Louisiana. Ugh. One of those things that needed to be done but OH MY GOD...I'd rather be scalped than go through that again.

Needless to say, things have not quite been the same, since.

2. Elena (finally) mastered tying her own shoes. Halle-FREAKIN-lujah!!!

3. Ian has been attending weekly speech therapy and doing an amazing job--we can actually understand him when he tells us to "shut up" now. So that's cool.

4. Ian (the summertime king) mastered the potty. He not only mastered it, but created a sort of P90X style potty work-out where he does push-ups off the rim of the bowl while pissing (not shitting you). There is nothing cooler than NOT having to wipe poop off a 4ft. kid's ass cheeks anymore. WOOT-WOOT!!!!

5. I have discovered a few new favorite things, that I'm using to maintain what's left of my sanity: and by sanity, I'm referring to the fine line I walk between "a little off" and "bat shit crazy". Thought I'd share...

www.lochers.com This is a site for the most twisted female. Those of us who like the finer, feminine things in life--and still want to make sure that everyone knows that a restraining order might be needed in 2.2 seconds if we are looked at the wrong way. A dear friend shared this one with me.

www.thebloggess.com Holy Shit...she's funny. You have to check her out. I've added her to my blogs I follow. The only downside is that she's forced me to increase my pantyliner budget due to the spontaneous pant-pissing that occurs when I read her blog.

Sara Bareilles-"King of Anything" Great song. Total girl power anthem. Elena & I know all the words and enjoy belting it from our rock (mini) van. Looking very forward to the rest of the album-posting the youtube video on here too.

Sex. I think that goes without saying, but since I'm writing this for just me and stuffed animals anyway...a little self reminder never hurts. A girl's got to have her "oooh, yessss" time to stay sane. LOL!

Until next time,

B~

Oh yeah! And I've gone back to college...decided to finally finish my B.S. in Nursing. Because I didn't have enough shit going on.

When I grow up...

My daughter's on a kick--

"When I grow up, I'm going to be..."

Her list has included everything from astronaut to veterinarian; actress to rock star. Somewhere in that list, she wants to be "a mommy like you."

Most mothers' hearts would burst with joy at the sound of that--that my daughter is so happy with my role as her mom, that she'd want the same thing for herself. It's either that, or I'm screwing up royally and she wants to do better than me.

I always knew that I wanted to be a mother. The first time I got married, I was eighteen years old. I believed it was the right thing to do, because it seemed like my only opportunity to live a truly good life. I married a young preacher and set off on a mission to change the world. We started strong, or so I thought. By the age of twenty, Josh was born and then Cale just two years later. By twenty-four, I had accomplished more than I ever thought; I owned a growing business, had two beautiful kids, a successfull pastor as a husband--but I was absolutely miserable.

I couldn't put a finger on why until a few years later; but I was so sad, lonely, frustrated and fearful that it just ate me up inside. By the time I was twenty-five, deception, heartbreak and despair set in full force. Our marriage ended and I couldn't deal with anything, so I could only assume that suicide was my only option. Better for everyone around me (including my boys) if their crazy mother wasn't around to ruin their lives. I failed in my follow through...thank God.

Fast forward a hospital stay and a few years later; and I was married again, in control of my depression and anxiety, had two more beautiful children (including my only girl) and my life was still falling apart. Before we ever reached our 6th wedding anniversary, marriage #2 was over.

Thanks to the love and support of really good friends, my mother and brother, and a lot of time alone to think about my choices and what would happen next; I found myself quite at peace with my decisions. I slept well, felt strong and secure in my own skin for the first time in years. Don't misunderstand me...it hurt like hell. Failures like that (twice) take time to get over; crap, I'm still getting over them. But I realized that I could be happy & healthy without another person telling me I was. I could look in the mirror and be okay with the woman & mother I was. My life was nowhere near ideal, but I was content and safe; all four of my kids were in healthy environments and as a mother, I couldn't ask for more than that.

It was then, that I fell in love with my best friend.

So here I am, almost thirty-four and very happy. Jason and I are committed to ourselves, each other & our family. Sometimes, I wish that the kids only ever saw this time in my life--no drama, not heartache in their parents' eyes. But other times...I think that maybe they are lucky to witness certain parts of this. I've decided to always be honest with them, to answer their questions with care and tenderness. I truly believe with everything I am, that if my parents had done this with me--just been honest about how things really were and could be--I could've been spared a little bit of the struggle. I believe that my own kids will make the right decisions in their own lives.

So when Elena says she wants to follow in my footsteps, I tell her that she will be a wonderful mommy. I tell her that someday, she'll fall in love and have a family of her own; but until then, I tell her to love herself, her God and those around her first. I remind her not to be in such a hurry to grow up; that everything comes in it's own time. And that, when it does, it's very well worth the wait.

10 lbs of $h!t in a 5 lb bag...

We have a small house. We lovingly call it our cottage; when what we mean is "Can you please hurry up in the bathroom? It's my turn!"

I'm a fairly simple girl and don't need much. I take great pride in my home; cleaning it like a lunatic weekly and nagging the rest of the family to clean up after themselves daily. I love my little house, I really do. In fact, when we left it behind for a few months to live in Jason's MUCH bigger (more expensive) house; the novelty of the extra space got old quite quickly as it just gave us more room to make a mess. "No thank you," say I, to the extra work.

BUT...when the boys are here from their dad's house in Louisiana, there are six of us in a 2.5 bedroom/1 bath house. Yes, you're smiling now, I can feel it; because you know where I'm going with this. We are all over each other. Add to that, our two rather large dogs, and you're lucky to find a place to sit, stand or sleep if you're not quick about it.

I adore the chaos (my kids would totally disagree with me on this one, but it's true), because it means that my entire family is together and that is bliss for me. What I do not adore, is my anal retentive nature during these weeks as it makes me and everyone around me miserable. And the more I see them in the house (i.e. teenage boys playing XBox360 all day or my daughter with her dollhouse furniture everywhere) the more "retained" I become. LOL! So, unfortunately, for my reader(s) ;-) I am venting it here.

Everyone who knows me, knows that I have a gift for shoving 10lbs of crap in a 5lb bag and doing it with charm; but we're beginning to tip the scales a bit. Oh well, at least the mortgage payment is small enough that it still affords this single income household the ability to get OUT every now and then. (zoo pics posted)

Until next time.


b~

Peeking behind the curtain...

I'm very new to the concept of blogging as I'm doing it now. I've written before on MySpace and even a little on my FaceBook page, but as both of those are networked only to friends and family, the responses or comments aren't truly organic in nature. It's funny this time; cathartic in a way. I'm writing to an audience of strangers and so far, one person it seems (thanks Keri for reading at least the first posting).

I don't know that anyone else will ever read me; I'd be lying if I said I didn't want them to. You don't write if you don't want someone to read what you've written. But for now, I'll just have to learn to be satisfied with finally having a venue in which I truly get to be honest; a place where I can be myself without having to worry about watching what I say so I don't hurt someone's feelings. That's just refreshing.

So, for those of you (Keri, LOL!) who don't know me or these precious sources of my inspiration, I thought I'd provide a sneak peek into my life. The slide show posted is a glimpse of our life. My oldest boys Josh & Cale spend most of the year in Louisiana with their father and so some of the pictures are from there and the rest are from Florida where I am with Jason and my youngest two kids, Elena & Ian.

Until next time!

Perimeters, Pyramids & Other Random Battles

My best friend Jill asked me yesterday,

Do you ever have one of those days where you question everything? Your abilities? Your reason for being? And just get F@#KING pissed off about it? (paraphrased)

Oh yeah.

I gave her a very specific list of instructions on how to deal with said type of day & relieve stress:

1. Have a very stiff drink.
2. Masturbate.
3. Take a very hot shower and make sure to wash your hair and shave (whatever you shave) in order to delay getting out of shower.
*I should note here that all of the above steps should be taken while your favorite music is blaring. Feel free to sing at the top of your lungs, cuss, cry or scream as needed.
4. Turn off music (and everything else that may be on); make sure that there is total silence and darkness.
5. Take a Xanax and a nap.
6. It will all be a little bit better when you wake up. And, if not, at least you will have gotten an orgasm, a shower & a nap out of the day.

She laughed. My job done. So today it's my turn.

I have yet to take my own steps as listed above, as I prefer a partner in my stress relief, not to mention, I'm working. But I'm also, really pissed off.

My daughter, oh my precious little baby girl, is going to be the slow and painful death of me. She's six and has developed the masterful habit of only eating as many foods as years in her short little life. Not kidding you. She eats potatoes, pound cake, powdered donuts, noodle soup, Land O Lakes White American Cheese, and Sprite. I can't tell you how proud I am that my daughter is a food racist; especially since she is of Puerto Rican, Mexican & Irish descent. Should you think I exaggerate, please feel free to ask the school custodian who's had the pleasure of cleaning up her vomit, because she smelled a "stinky food" in the cafeteria on several occasions.

Her fabulous little habits are encouraged by her other primary caregivers; whom, unfortunately, share many of the same issues. After six years of this crap, I've had enough. Her little brother Ian, who is now 3, is beginning to exhibit many signs of following in her footsteps and we can't even go to a normal restaurant (like Sonic or Chili's...just kidding) without there being a major emotional trauma over the menu. So, I've had to declare war on my daughter's habits, her other caregivers, and our way of life as we know it.

I've spent the morning at the Dollar Store stocking up on positive reinforcements for the battle to come (princess stickers, fake jewelry, and all the other "Hooray, you ate a carrot without puking!" items a Mom could want). I've let her Dad and her Grandma know that after tomorrow afternoon, she will be spending the last two weeks after school with me and then all summer with her Dad in the mornings and with me in the afternoons and nights. No more pound cake and donuts at Grandma's. No more hunger strikes at school just so she gets crap to eat later. No more guilt tripping down to diabetes lane. I have set the perimeters; I have done my research and have printed out the USDA's Dietary Guidelines for Americans (for Children) (www.teamnutrition.gov) We are climbing to the top of a (food) pyramid and planting a flag this summer. I am DONE!

Whew! That felt good!

Sometimes you talk too much...

I got an email from an old friend this morning who's dreading the end of her second marriage. Boy oh boy, do I know how she feels. Another friend of mine is also in the same position. My very best girlfriend has also been there.

There are times, when I feel like an island unto myself. Married twice & both failed. Like organ transplants gone wrong; we just didn't work. It was liking trying to put a kidney where a heart should have gone. Both times. Ok, maybe the second time was more like trying to put an ass where a head should have gone, but you get the point. Either way, when I want to wallow in my failure, I can sit in a bathtub filled to the brim with misery and chardonnay and think about what a failure I am and how my kids must be so ashamed of their scarlet mother. But then I stop and think about the several other people I personally know that have experienced the same thing and remind myself that statistically my kids should be able to find at least one other kid to sit with in the lunch room. Right?

I am now in the midst of an attempt at relationship #3. This one is different. How do I know you ask? Well, Jason (that's my boyfriend, not my therapist) and I have discussed it and these are the points we've decided are critical in setting this one apart from the others:

• I'm 33 not 17 and making all the decisions on my own and not under duress or need to move out of my parents house.
• I'm not knocked up and trying to do the honorable thing.
• We've been good friends for over 2 years and took the time to get to know each other's crap before really committing to anything too serious.
• He's fully aware (and reminded at least monthly) that I come with a matching set of designer baggage that I'm not likely to unpack anytime in the next 20 years.
• He's met both of my ex's. He can handle ex #1's arrogant assumptions about how we "should" be living our life with amazing ease and gets along pretty well with ex #2.
• He knows the rules about my pillows & toothbrush and follows them.
• He is absolutely amazing with all 4 of the kids and they adore him.
• He is absolutely amazing...period.

Right now, he's not working. He's been looking for work since we were both let go from our jobs on the same day, from the same company last October. I've been working as a nanny for 3 months now and we've made some big changes in our lives to keep life moving. For the most part, we deal with it; but some days are harder than others. Yesterday was one of those and I may have handled it poorly. In the midst of texting back and forth, we were talking about the burden of me having the only income & I told him to shut up. The following conversation ensued:

Jason: "Sorry I don't have a job yet. I feel like I'm putting all the financial responsibility on you and that's not fair."

Me: "Shut up."

Jason: "Shut up what? Are you tired of hearing me talk about it and want more action? Or shut I'm being stupid?"

Me: "Just shut up...you talk too much!"

Jason: "Ouch."

When he got home a few hours later after teaching karate, he was very quiet. I knew what I'd done. I knew it when I did it. I was exhausted and frustrated and have been working really long hours; but it was no excuse for doing nothing more than just being a bitch. What I should have said was;

"You are being stupid. You will find a job soon enough; in the meantime, we are doing ok. We've made it this far and we'll just keep doing what we've been doing."

This morning, after I read my friend's email. I realized, yet again, that I am really lucky to have him (in spite of myself), and that sometimes, I talk too much.