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.