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~