Stuff On My Mind (AKA Updates)

Here it is:

1. I saw a few little blurbs on facebook tonight about an impending global disaster, which will then bring forth a food shortage, the likes of which have never been seen before. People blabbing about how they've been stockpiling food for the past year, how much a 50 pound bag of rice costs, how much rice can sustain a person for x amount of time, so on and so forth. Huh? Okay, I'm still on my news moratorium, except it's starting to creep back in because I have found myself checking the local newspaper website a few times a day. I don't like that I'm creeping back over to obsessing about the news, because it only brings me anxiety, but I'm finding it hard to stop. So a food shortage? Holy shit, should I be stockpiling food too? What should I buy? Just a few cans here and there? Peaches or pears? I mean, it probably doesn't matter because you'll eat anything when you're starving. Where should I put the food I start to stockpile? Attic or crawl space? Although, it's not really a crawl space for me, because I'm short. So it's a stand space for me. I have shelving in my crawl space, but maybe I should move the shelving to the attic. Nah, the temperature extremes in the attic probably wouldn't do good. So maybe I'll start to buy three or four cans of shit on sale per week and stocking up. I'm not sure if this is just fearmongering to the extreme, so I've sent a message off to Uncle Finance (not Uncle Hippy!) through Uber Aunt and we'll see what he says. Should I stockpile water, too? I'm never sure about the water thing. I've only stockpiled water once, during a hurricane when the county water source was compromised. And that stockpiling consisted of me filling up the bathtub.

2. Made it through a year with Guy #1. We recently celebrated one year since we started dating, and guess what? Got engagement? Don't worry, I don't. Lots of discussion and chatter amongst our various friends about when that time will come, I suppose because for a lot of people, that one year mark is "it". Nope, not for me right now. We've settled into something right, something that is so right that I can't even find the words to describe it, other than it's righter than anything I've ever had before. We talk about when "the" time will come and he knows that I'm not ready. I *just* got divorced, and really, I'm enjoying having my own house where I'm in charge all of the time and no arguments about what I want to do in my house. Ten years of a shitty marriage, constant bickering and power struggles will really make you appreciate not arguing all of the time. The few times that Guy #1 and I have argued, it's been really nice that we can just go to our separate houses and not have to be together (in that moment in time, at least). And for real, this man is a k.e.e.p.e.r. of the first order. Any man who can stand twelve feet up in the air on a ladder and pull start a gas powered blower to clean my gutters out is the man for me. Or maybe that's just the firefighter in him, I don't know. But as I wake up every morning and go to sleep every night, I know that I am loved, and appreciated and cherished. That's some powerful shit. I've had a few men that I've encountered over the years tell me later that I was the one who slipped away. And guess what? Guy #1 will not be one of those men. If you've got something good, then don't let it slip away.

3. My older daughter got glasses this past week, and also had her tonsils taken out. So she gave a little and got a little. Two days after surgery, just when I knew that we had bid a fond farewell to strep throat, guess who go strep throat? My younger daughter. Are you kidding me? However, I've gotten so good at diagnosing that shit that we marched right off to the doctor's office, who promptly examined the child and pronounced that she did not have strep throat. Until the nurse poked her head in the examination room and whispered the strep test was positive. DO NOT QUESTION THE MOTHER!!!!! Dammit, we know what we're talking about! I wanted to tell the doctor if I was drug-seeking, and if I were to use my children to seek out drugs, it sure as hell wouldn't be an antibiotic. Just give me the damn prescription and let me be on my way. The older daughter likes her glasses, though. I secretly tried them out after she went to bed the other night and they seem more like magnifying glasses to me. It's just for reading, so maybe that's all they are is magnifying glasses wrapped up in a pretty Candie's frame with hearts on them. Being that she's still reading below grade level, I am slightly hopeful they will help, but I'm not holding my breath. I've diagnosed this as the most minor of all reading disabilities, because her fluency is below grade level, but her comprehension is on par. Plus, she's actually absorbing the reading because she reads a chapter out loud and then I ask her to tell me about what she read and ask her questions, and she's on the money every time, which means she's not just saying the words. She's actually reading and absorbing. I have pretty much stopped expecting the school to address it, because she's one of a thousand students in her school (holy fuck, that's a big elementary school!!!) and I'll just have to figure this out as we go along. And her grades are good (other than reading fluency). So go figure.

4. Not-so-nice things with The Ex. If you read my last shortest of all posts, you'll know that things are getting ugly on the visitation side of the custody thing. Instead of just heading right to the courthouse today to file for a hearing (as I threatened him with last night), I called my attorney today. I'm waiting on a call back, and maybe a strongly worded letter from her will set things right. In the meanwhile, though, I've printed up every email and begun transcribing all of our text messages and every other kind of communication. I think I've known for a while it was going to come to this, and that alone saddens me because I don't want to be in a place where I have to sit down every day and write everything down. I just don't. It's stupid and I hate it, and it makes me feel like I am still stuck in this strange, demilitarized zone of our divorce. I felt like for most of the marriage I was raising another child (and not doing it very well because it's hard to go back and correct 30-some years of fucked up parenting) and now I just feel like I'm his supervisor and I've ramped up the documentation in a last ditch effort of getting rid of him. But this is what I have to do right now. I look at my gorgeous, funny and most sweetest daughters, and I wonder how in the world the two best things that ever happened to me resulted from what is undoubtedly my biggest mistake. This paradox is not lost on me, believe me.

5. I called my stepsister tonight to let her know that my daughter's birthday gift arrived and she answered the phone sobbing. This would be the stepsister that I still speak to, if you hadn't figured that out. And for that one milli-second in time, I thought to myself, "Oh, shit, why did I call her tonight?" You know it's bad when that's the first thing you think upon hearing the other person. She went on to tell me, between sobs, that she's been diagnosed with a chronic, progressive pain disease thing that not a whole lot of people know about (that whole lot of people would actually be me). Ultimately (per my favorite medical source, Wikipedia) and in the extreme worse case scenario, it can lead to amputation of the affected limb. Except this shit is in her back. Yep, no such thing as a back amputation. Horrible, right? But here's the rub - this stepsister has been getting progressively fruitier over the years, much like her mother, Mothbrain, and I'm not sure how much of this is just maybe her need for drama. I feel badly for her, certainly, because she's states away and no family nearby to help her out, but at the same time, I'm like, "What?" It was after that phone conversation when I realized that my drama is really garden variety, and for real, I have no reason to complain about anything. And so, I won't. I've still got a leak in my roof (contract signed, repairs not for another two months due to hurricane backlog), I've still got bills I'm going to pay late, I still owe my younger daughter a bike for her birthday, I'm still going to get fucked on taxes this year because I can't go from six withholdings to zero in one year, I'm still not going to know if I should stockpile spaghetti sauce or just plain tomato sauce, I'm still not going to be able to figure out how to tell the world that saying "Holy Shart!" is way funnier than saying "Holy Shit!", but in the grand scheme of things.... Life is good. My children are healthy, my family is healthy, I am healthy, (knock on wood because I'm terribly superstitious about jinxing myself) and that's all that really matters.

Updates

I swear, I really have some updates coming soon. Summer school, The Ex, Guy #1, house stuff and spotting a snake under a landscaping timber, which then resulted in me frantically ripping them all out, stupid signs for the stupid athletic association, and maybe a meta-analysis of The Real Housewives of All The Places I Watch (except the meta part will be me, myself and I researching bullshit on the internet and then the analysis will be the three of myselves making up some bullshit formula about how intelligence is directly proportional to breast size and how both are impacted by hair color), and maybe something about how I realized tonight that there really is a do-over in life. It's called System Restore. If it weren't for my children, I'd want to do a System Restore on my life, right back to February 28, 1996, which was the exact day before I met The Ex. I also intend to write a good little piece about the nasty habit I have of either disappearing out of people's lives or making them disappear out of mine, though not a la the Jimmy Hoffa way. Yes, I am absolutely positive that was not grammatically correct, but you get the drift. I might also discuss my most recent traffic ticket for an expired inspection sticker, which is really just more bullshit and I'll give you my libertarian slant on the whole thing and how it doesn't serve any purpose other than the guv keeping a whole lot of halfway shystie (my improved word for shyster) mechanic shops in business. And yes, I know the damn inspection ran out in November of 2010. If I had money to buy new tires then I would probably also have money to pay my bills on time, and I can't seem to do that either, except for daycare, mortgage and utilties.

Be patient, young grasshoppers.

The good shit is coming.

Bear With Me...

Bear with me while I rant just one more time about The Ex. Okay, "just one more time" really means "today" in Stephanie-speak. I realized tonight that I need to quit checking his facebook page on a daily basis. I didn't used to do that, until the whole middle-finger-picture thing, and now I feel compelled to check it regularly to make sure he doesn't have my children hanging off of a stripper pole or anything like that. But anyway, while he hasn't posted anything inappropriate, he has posted a few lies.

Here's my interpretation of a few of his facebook postings. This could be really funny, or it could be really catty in that ex-wife catty kind of way.

Woke up and the house was 48 degrees. After only a small fortune, a wink and a promise; a brand new motor resides in my attic to run the fan next to the furnace. This means either his girlfriend paid for the motor or his mother did. I'd vote for the girlfriend. Yet another reason I let him keep the house and then made sure I purchased a house with a 6 year old heating system.

What's on your mind?.......Shameless self promotion! An appropriate post for a narcissist. I'll get into that later.

Replaced the ______. Down-sized a bit ;) This was a post about him getting rid of the SUV and buying his mid-life crisis vehicle. The new smaller sports car goes fast and probably doesn't last too long, like his dick.

VCU!!! Ahhh, the eternal college student. I am so glad I won't have to worry about paying back those student loans. His girlfriend can take care of that, too.

‎3 for 3 for 3 I don't even know what this is. He had sex three times in three days and it lasted for three minutes?

Amusing what gets noticed and ignored... gotta' love honest feedback. This would be for the people who made not so complimentary comments on the picture of the children with their middle fingers up in the air, but then didn't comment on his engagement. I can only assume.

Happy Easter! Just finished one of the best sets I've ever played Okay, it was at church. Are you kidding me? Jesus said, let not your drum stick break, for I give you my rhythm.

enjoying an evening of dinner, homework, and games with my daughters. Life is good. Except he didn't do any fucking homework with either one of them. You lie!

What really concerns me here is that if I keep checking The Ex's facebook page he's eventually going to do one of those stalker apps and my mom is going to end up being his number one stalker. And then he might unfriend her, though I would have thought he would have already done it after I confronted him about The Picture. But it also makes sense that he didn't, because that's not someone with Narcissistic Personality Disorder would do.

And that's the real crux of this post. Yes, I've called the man a psychopath once or twice. To his face. Okay, okay, maybe it was a little bit more than that. And maybe I was screaming. But now that the proverbial dust has settled, I've come to the conclusion that this was a misdiagnosis on my part. Silly me, I got my Cluster B personality disorders all mixed up in the unfolding drama of a separation and divorce. Oops.

He's not a psychopath. I've come to this conclusion because I know he was never diagnosed with Conduct disorder as a youth. However, after spending some time with Holy Grail of All Shrinks, I know what I'm dealing with. 

Narcissistic Personality Disorder.  Defined by the Shrink Bible, "A pervasive pattern of grandiosity (in fantasy or behavior), need for admiration, and lack of empathy, beginning by early adulthood and present in a variety of contexts, as indicated by five (or more) of the following:"

Here we go. Follow along with me.

"1. Has a grandiose sense of self-importance (e.g., exaggerates achievements and talents, expects to be recognized as superior without commensurate achievements)         YES

2. Is preoccupied with fantasies of unlimited success, power, brilliance, beauty, or ideal love    NOT SO SURE ABOUT THIS ONE

3. Believes that he or she is "special" and unique and can only be understood by, or should associate with, other special or high-status people (or institutions)     NOT SO SURE ABOUT THIS ONE

4. Requires excessive admiration            YEP

5. Has a sense of entitlement, i.e., unreasonable expectations of especially favorable treatment or automatic compliance with his or her expectations            AND THIS ONE

6. Is interpersonally exploitative, i.e., takes advantage of others to achieve his or her own ends     OH, YES

7. Lacks empathy: is unwilling to recognize or identify with the feelings and needs of others       STILL A YES

8. Is often envious of others or believes others are envious of him or her          AGAIN, YES

9. Shows arrogant, haughty behaviors or attitudes             HEY, ANOTHER YES!

10. Often mild to moderate paranoia, that others are out to do him in.      NOT SO SURE - COULD BE WELL HIDDEN

11. Predominant "name dropper" boasting or suggestion association with people or affiliations of importance."              AND UM, YES AGAIN

* See footnote below because I don't think I can properly footnote this thing.

So, our yeses are: 1, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, and 11. That's eight and the requirement is five. Buh-ingo.

I married a narcissist. And then I divorced a narcissist. It was all my fault, simply because nothing is ever his fault. It's cool. We will see how the next marriage shakes out. I give her five years, which would be exactly five years smarter than me.

And now, I've gone to Google. Can you believe that if you type in "how to mess with a narcissist" 234,000 hits come up? And this page could become my best friend: http://thebitchnextdoor.com/. Hey, they even have t-shirts and mugs! Holy shit, I need one of those!

Stay tuned. I've already got A game, but I might be getting ready to take it to the Ivy League level. 

* Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders-IV-TR

Reposting...

Head Lice and Skid Marks

Our outdoor day summer camp experience is complete. Head lice have determined that my older daughter's clean blond hair is a great place to ride the wave into elementary school. Ha! Caught your little asses before that could even happen, motherfuckers.

It started Thursday morning, though not with the hair, but with an ear. She woke up a little whiny and said her ear hurt. The child's almost eight, so I asked if she wanted to go to the doctor or not. I know that sounds a little too democratic-parenting bullshit to some, but for real, it's her ear. She'll let me know if it starts to get out of hand. She said no, let's just wait and see. I was down with that, because I had a dentist appointment scheduled for the younger daughter and I was already going to be late for work, but I didn't want to be dentist appointment AND doctor appointment late. Thursday night I asked about her ear, she says it's fine. But her head itches in this one spot. Hmmmm, I sure hope that's not lice. But it can't be. She washes her hair everyday, specifically so she won't get bugs in her hair.

Our daycare had a lice outbreak a few years ago, five years ago to be exact. I remember this because it was shortly after the younger daughter had been born and I had just returned to the SHITTIEST job in the whole entire world from my maternity leave. Seriously, it was a horrible job and I hated everyone there and I hated myself for having to go there every day. Anyway, our daycare owner, who could also be called the Daycare Nazi, like the Soup Nazi, declared that any child who got lice would not be admitted into her facility until the parent had a doctor's note that the lice had been treated and were eliminated. Obviously, you see where I got the Soup Nazi reference from. There were daycare workers stationed at the front door every day checking each child's hair before entree was granted. If your child had lice, well then, NO DAYCARE FOR YOU! I used to imagine her saying that with a Russian accent like the Soup Nazi.

I immediately spazzed out, because I had just taken three months off from work on vacation leave. I didn't want to burn up any more vacation time, because I would need that to call in sick to go on job interviews because did I mention this was the shittiest job ever? So I went old school on my older daughter. I used the old country ass/prison trick of rinsing her hair with vinegar every night in the bathtub, because this was what the prison system used when hosing down all of the convicts coming in from the local jails. Worked for them for decades before they switched to lye shampoo. Yes, the child was stinking horribly for about two weeks, but no lice. Mommy had prevailed. Take that, you dirty lice.

But back to the story at hand. She's scratching a little bit on Thursday night, but her ear feels all right. Okay, maybe this is just something that's psychosomatic about being back with me after spending a summer with her father whom I am pretty sure just let her do whatever in the hell she wanted. Friday morning, her ear hurts again and she agrees that we should probably go to the doctor. She's asymptomatic for an ear infection, but she always was. And her head still itches, same place. So MommyKemosabe has a little look-see, and honestly, I didn't know what in the hell I was looking for. I didn't see much, other than three or four white flakes that I assume is dry skin from all the scratching. We'll have the doctor look at that, too.

Off to the doctor's office. Swimmer's ear and a middle ear infection. Glad as fuck I caught that before the weekend, because The Ex would have been miserable had it gotten worse, since this is his weekend. I was actually more relieved for my daughter, because screw him. And yes, we have nits. Lovely. I guess nits are baby unhatched lice. I didn't ask because it was gross either way. According to the doctor, lice like clean, light colored hair the best. Who knew? I guess I can stop strong-arming her into washing her hair every day and just go for every two or three days like she really wants to do anyway. I will continue to insist that she at least rinse her ass off every day though, preferably with the soap that I have kindly placed in the shower for that purpose. Off to the pharmacy to get the prescriptions filled, because apparently lice have become resistant to the over-the-counter treatments. Ewwwwww. Or this is just part of a larger conspiracy of the drug companies to get us to buy their shit. Whatever, I don't care at this point. The good news is that it's not a full-blown infestation, it's localized to that one spot. Thank God. And the doctor gave me refills in case the younger daughter gets it. Or in case I get it. What??? Uhhh, what the fuck are you talking about, in case I get it? Oh, hell no. Hell no. Mommy will not get lice. That would totally mess up my chi. Sorry, but quiet time with my vibrator will just not feel the same if I have head lice. It would be like that time I broke my wrist and had a hard cast. I refused to have any kind of sexual relations for the entire duration of wearing said cast because who has sex with a cast on? Seriously, who does that?

My older daughter was quite excited by all of lice-n-nits drama. As I was running her over to summer camp, I cautioned her that this is really something we should just keep to ourselves. Let's not tell any of your friends at camp, because they might make fun. When she asked how they might make fun, I felt this immediate sense of relief, as this was my biggest clue yet that my daughter is not a mean girl. I had to explain what making fun of someone was, and how badly she would feel if someone made fun of her because of this. She asked about telling her camp counselor, and I was like, noooo, this is something we just want to keep in the family. But you can call Nannie and Popeye and tell them if you'd like. I felt absolutely no concern about taking her to summer camp with an active case of head lice. That's where she got them at, so let's just take them back one last day for a little visit. We'll have this knocked out before she returns to the Daycare Nazi for before and after school care, and I will know I narrowly slipped through the net and got one over.

As for skid marks, I don't have much to say about that, other than exactly how old does a child have to be before they actually begin to apply the toilet paper directly to their ass instead of just waving it around down there? Really, it just made for a better title

At Least It Wasn't...

The whole thing about The Ex posting pictures of MY children (they are only MY children when HE fucks up) shooting the bird kind of exploded today, except in a quiet kind of telephone discussion in my office with the door shut. My goal was to remain completely calm while still sounding slightly pissy, all the while alternately shaming and threatening him into understanding that this is not a laughing matter.

For real, it's not a laughing matter. This is a very clear picture that he posted on facebook of two beautiful little girls sitting in the backseat of his mid-life crisis car, very specifically shooting the bird, with smiles and glee abounding. Uh, are you kidding me? The conversation didn't go very well as it ended up with him claiming that he didn't know the girls were doing that while he was taking the picture (bullshit!), and then claiming that right after taking the picture, he immediately talked to the children about how inappropriate their behavior was (bullshit!), and when questioned by me as to why he even posted it up on facebook, he said that this was just a representation of how life really is (and more bullshit!).

I very nicely told him that I didn't believe him, and he very nicely told me that he didn't care what I believed. I then took it up a notch and told him that I would be reviewing the picture with the older daughter's psychologist, and that I would be following the psychologist's recommendations regarding the matter. He said that was fine. So, I took it up one more notch, and said if the psychologist recommended that I take him back to court to get full custody of the children, then I would be doing that. Silence on his end. And then, I took it up one more notch. Because silence wasn't acceptable. I wanted to feel his ass squirm through the phone. This is what I said. "Do you really think that a judge would believe that you didn't know what the children were doing? Do you *really* believe that? And do you really believe a judge would find it acceptable that you've posted this on facebook for the entire world to see?"  Best part is... this wasn't even my trump card. And no, I'm not telling what the trump card is because I have a sneaking suspicion that I will still have to play the trump card at some point in the future.

The end result? The picture has been removed from facebook. I was less than pleased when I talked to the psychologist today and he told me if the picture has been taken down from facebook, then just leave it alone. No, goddammit, that's not enough. I want this moron to be court ordered to take a parenting class, and then I want him to be court ordered to actually be a good parent. I want him to parent with some common sense, and to at least be big enough to man up when he screws something up. But it's not going to happen like that, and I know it.

I spent some time on Wikipedia tonight reading nothing but the truth, of course, and researching obscene gestures. In the grand scheme of things, I suppose this isn't the worst gesture the children could have used. Okay, flipping someone the bird is bad. It's rude, it's disrespectful and it's horrible to see children doing it.

But I suppose it could have been something along these lines...

The Shocker.

To be followed by The Spocker, The Rocker and the grandaddy of them all, The Show Stopper.

I will say... this is kind of funny since it's not my kid. Funny in that empathetic way of who is the dumbass who taught him THAT? Because that dumbass must be related to the dumbass I married who posted a picture on the internet of my children flipping someone off. It was probably me. Hey, Mom, fucking check us out! No rules! No reading! No bedtime! TV on ALL the time! No vegetables! No protein! No bathing! No hair brushing! Hey, fuck you and your rules, Mommy!

Whoever the mom is in this picture, hey, I feel you, girlfriend. I too hooked up with a dickface and then had children with him. I feel your pain. Parenting would be so much easier if we only had to parent the children.

Friday Night In My Head

A long week is done. The TV is on. Loudly. I am up late, sucking down Diet Pepsi and enjoying the weekend. As usual, lots of stupid thoughts in my head. And so, I shall share.

I had a great dinner tonight with Guy #1 at his workplace, except I didn't eat. I sat around with Guy #1 and his co-workers and marveled at the amount of food seven grown men can put away. I've promised to make them dinner sometime in the near future (read that as the next month or so) and I'm thinking I'll need to start saving up now. I didn't eat because I was still full from my late lunch, which was from my favoritist new upscale Mexican fast food joint, where you have many more choices than old run down Mexican fast food joint has ever provided. In fact, I don't ever go to the old place anymore unless I am dirt fucking broke and have no food at home. But anyway, I always get the three taco meal, and I SWEAR, no one (other than Guy #1) has ever really appreciated the humor of me telling the person fixing the tacos that I want two soft and one hard. Hard one in the middle, please. I really do this, every time I go to this place, and no one ever cracks a smile. Either I'm not the only almost middle aged woman rolling up in the place asking for two soft with one hard in the middle, or they just don't get it. I'm going to assume they just don't get it, but I'm going to keep at it, because that's my favorite meal and I am bound and fucking determined to get someone to crack a smile when I do that.

I have decided that life is so much more fun being sterilized. To all of you out there who have all the kids you need, or want, and haven't gotten sterilized yet, for god's sake, get it done. To hell with ongoing birth control. Just make it permanent and don't look back. Yet another post-separation decision that was THE BEST EVER.

I realized tonight that I haven't gotten shitfaced in quite a while. I got a nasty little buzz on New Year's Eve that had me feeling like I was in sugar shock for about fifteen minutes (and I had to go lay down for a few minutes), but I think that might have been the three or so jello shots I did right behind a half a bottle of wine. Maybe I should make sure the jello shots are sugar free next time, or maybe I should spend the day hydrating with lots of water and not diet soda before I drink. I haven't gotten throw-up drunk in years, 2008 or 2009-ish, and that was in my own car. Watch out if I've got your cell number, because I'm a drunk dialer. My eyes are so bad that I can barely see when I'm sober that I won't be texting you. I will be calling you and it will be just like my blog has come to life and is babbling about nothing at all. If I can't manage to tie one on before summer time, I am there the week (or day) after the children move back to The Ex's house in early June.

It looks like there might not be a government shut down after all. Has anyone else ever noticed this only happens when there is a Democratic President in office? Just like state guv lay offs only happen when there is a Democratic governor in office? Whatever. Either way, furloughs and layoffs suck. A lot of us work for the government because we can't do our professions in the private sector and we're pretty damn good at what we do, and we like what we do. We also sacrifice making good money because we want a stable retirement plan and affordable health insurance, especially those of us who want to get sterilized for a $100 copay. I haven't gotten a raise in five years and I won't get one anytime in the future. I will get a five percent raise this year that will immediately be taken from me to off-set the increase in retirement that the General Assembly decided I need to start chipping in on. I was furloughed for one day last last year, and my grand plan of laying in the bed all day long reading and sleeping was cockblocked by my older daughter getting sick at school. Since I pretty much live paycheck to paycheck (being that I work for the guv), I was grateful it was just one day. Now if we could just tap into our national reserves of oil and get the damn gas prices down, things might start to return to normal. Personally, I am not that concerned about the permafrost or the caribou, because I am too far removed, and I'm pretty sure the next time I pull up to the gas station there's not going to be a caribou there to insert his credit card in the slot for me. Nor will Father Permafrost be there to lend a hand.

I'm watching Three Kings right now, which I think is a great movie. I absolutely love military and war movies, mostly because I've decided that they just reek of testosterone. In fact, the testosterone just kind of wafts right out of the TV into my brain, and that makes me love men even more. I was trying to explain to Guy #1 a couple of days ago what an incredible bitch I used to be, and he asked me what had changed. I couldn't really answer then because I didn't know. I've thought about it and I've realized that it's because I'm not living with a complete dick, and I'm getting a regular dosage of testosterone in my life that's apparently just the right combination for my personality. Which might just be the first time in my adult life, and that's certainly a new experience for me. A good experience. Big shout out to Guy #1 for having that perfect hormonal-chemical combination. Note to Guy #1, ff you will just pop a war movie into the DVD instead of a romantic comedy (which I hate), you will see what can happen to me when testosterone wafts out of the TV and enters my hormonal receptors. It's like what porn does to guys.

A totally relaxing weekend, or it better fucking be. I need the courage to make it through to the first weekend of June, when I will send my children off to live with their father for the summer. It was giving me mad anxiety last month, and now I'm ready for my summer of not so much responsibility. I know the anxiety will come back, but at this moment tonight, I'm ready for my summer.

Blah Blah Blah

That's me tonight. Blah blah blah, because writing in my blog will help me to procrastinate better when it comes to paying my bills. This is more fun, anyway. Day two of the TV ban, and I'm not jonesing quite as bad as I was yesterday. Not quite, but almost. Fuck. I am glad my children will be at their father's house this weekend, because I need some mindless Cake Boss in my head. Since I haven't been able to either make it work at all for part of the month (thanks conference, flu, and strep throat) or make it to work on time or work an entire day (thanks orthodontist, dentist, child psychologist, and after school arts program), I had planned on working late tomorrow night to try to make up for some of that time, and besides, Guy #1 has to work tomorrow night, so I might as well be productive at work, too. But now... I'm thinking I am going to come home and lay my ass right on the sofa with remote in hand. Even if I haven't read that much this week, I've written some, and that counts, right?

Mrs. Second Grade Teacher sent extra homework home with the older daughter today, and gave us the whole weekend to get it done. Yay! So now I can send that homework over to her father's house where it won't get done. And we will get to do tons of homework on Sunday night. Really, I need to figure out where this woman lives and go shit on her front porch. Seriously. With copious amounts of liquor this can happen. Actually, I'm such a lightweight these days it would only take a couple of shots. And I would do it naked, too, because liquor makes me take off my clothes. This would go back to why I'm a lightweight, which is because I've learned that I can't just be randomly getting drunk and undressing. And the whole stretch mark thing.

I am also now annoyed with Mrs. Kindergarten Teacher, because I paid money to get a class photo of the younger daughter's class. Pictures came home this week and the older daughter got her class photo, but nothing for the younger daughter. I very nicely wrote a note to Mrs. Kindergarten Teacher and asked her to send the class photo home this evening in the bookbag. I get home, open the bookbag and nothing. No class photo and no return note. Unorganized bitch. As I was writing the note this morning, I wondered if Mrs. Kindergarten Teacher and Mrs. Second Grade Teacher are friends, but decided they can't be lunch buddies because they go to lunch at different times, unless Mrs. Kindergarten Teacher goes down to the Teacher's Lounge to eat lunch during kindergarten resource time, which is probably pretty close to second grade lunch period. The intricacies of being a bitch to one teacher without it rubbing off on her teacher friends is working out to be somewhat complicated. At any rate, if I don't get a class photo after tomorrow, then I will be moving Mrs. Kindergarten Teacher up on my shit list.

My shit list, you might ask? Ahhhh, the ever-evolving shit list. Currently, here are the standings. If I were a math geek and could keep track of all of my shittiest interactions, I would attach some statistics to this, but I took remedial math all the way through college, so there won't be any statistics. Here goes:

1. Mrs. Second Grade Teacher - have you read my blog?
2. The Ex - just general principle on this one.
3. My former neighbors, but not my Other Mother - imagine me singing the word assholes, because that's how I like to describe them. The Ex and the next door husband had hooked up routers and connected to each other's Limewires a few years ago, and so we could see what each other was downloading. The Ex and I were downloading music and concert videos (U2 at Red Rock is THE BEST!) but the husband next door? Porn, porn and more porn. What a freak show. I came to the conclusion that he.does.not.get.any.ass. which I thought was awesome, because if I were that guy's wife, I wouldn't give him any either. I am NONE TOO HAPPY that The Ex has arranged for the children to have a slumber party as their house tomorrow night because he's got some stupid band thing. Way to arrange your life around your children, dickface. I am confident the band thing will end up being gay and at the end of the night, after a successful set list and a bunch of half-drunk forty-something women panting all over The Ex, he and I will both know his dick is still small and he won't take his cholesterol medication. Okay, that even made me laugh.
4. A couple of people at work I don't like who won't quit sending me emails about shit I haven't taken care of. Really, the more you bug me the longer it's going to take me.
5. The elementary school room mothers for both of my daughters - Would you please stop being so fucking chipper. It's grating.
6. YMCA summer camp people - I am still pissed off from last summer. It's a slow burn.
7. Estranged family members - I suppose they wouldn't be on my shit list if they weren't estranged, now would they?
8. Mrs. Kindergarten Teacher - Either I need a class photo pronto or my eleven dollars back. That eleven dollars can buy me 2.3 gallons of gas, dammit. She might still be mad that I pretty much ran her off the road a couple of months ago, but jesus, lady, learn how to merge. It didn't help that my younger daughter was in the backseat frantically waving at her as I saw her out of the corner of my eye white knuckling her steering wheel as she was forced onto the side of the road.

And there we have it. Today's shit list. I wish I could figure out how to do the little up and down arrows beside each one, like they do on the music charts in magazines and such. Maybe I'll make this a weekly thing. Or maybe not. I'll probably forget in a week, or maybe next week I'll do the Not Shit List.

Stupid Link of the Day

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bear_flag_(LGBT_movement)

There's a joke in here somewhere, but I just can't seem to find it yet. Since nothing will turn me off like a hairy man, there's something trainwreck-ish and rubbernecky about me reading strange articles about the "Bear Movement". I saw a guy at the pool a couple of years ago, and he might have been the hairiest bastard I have ever seen. He had smeared white zinc sunscreen all over him, and his hair was all matted down and swirled around in the festering summer sun, and I threw up a just little bit in my mouth. Guy #1 has no idea how happy he should be that he's not hairy.

I find it interesting that there's a flag and a symbol for everything out there.

If I were to come up with my own flag, it would be... white. I would frantically wave the white Calgon flag, with a little flower in the corner, and hope that Calgon would come and take me away. Or maybe it would have the middle finger on it. That flag would say, "Fuck you, I quit." Maybe a can of hairspray. "I quit but let me make sure my hair looks good on the way out."

And good god, check this link out.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hanky_code

Scroll down the second chart. I was going to say the bottom chart, but in the context of the article, that really wasn't the right description. Okay, I work with some deviant people and I don't know anyone who does half of that shit. Okay, okay, so the cigar thing was done by a President, and god only knows what the Kennedy's were really doing, but flagging yourself with a Jolly Roger handkerchief? Can you even buy Jolly Roger handkerchiefs? My younger daughter told me the other day that she wanted to be a pirate when she grew up. I explained that her best bet would be to secure employment for a large federal government /military contracting company, or to go into that ubiquitous field of "International Security". But back to the handkerchief thing. I bet if some of the street gangs in America knew that a red handkerchief stood for fisting, they'd switch colors mighty damn quick. Or a navy blue handkerchief stood for the backdoor, we'd have a lot less gang crimes out there.

In fact, I think that most law enforcement working on gang suppression should find a way to print and laminate little "Hanky Code Cards" and hand them out during mass arrests and search and seizure operations. Homophobia shall conquer and triumph over the street gang criminality. This can work, I just know it. Seriously. I'm on to something here.

Somehow this whole Stupid Link of the Day just kind of disingrated into Stupid Shit. Ahhh, if only everyone could live in my head for a couple of days.

Dog Sitting

I've been dog sitting for the past half of a week, for my former neighbor's dog, because her husband is in the hospital and she just doesn't have time to deal with the dog. I'm not a dog person. I don't generally like dogs, and you may have garnered from a few posts prior that I care even less for dog shit.

I'd like to note that there is just one tiny little letter separating the words dog sitting from dog shitting.

I've been dog sitting and the dog has been dog shitting. Namely, in my house. Which I am less than okay with. The dog arrived last Wednesday night, and first thing Thursday morning, while I was in the shower, she left a little brown treat in the younger daughter's room while the younger daughter was sleeping. The dog then scampered down the hall to my bedroom and left the second half of the brown treat on my floor, and then merrily (I must assume) scampered back down the hallway and left a big puddle in middle of the hallway. Holy dog shit. Are you kidding me? I blame this on myself, because I thought I had time to jump in the shower quickety-quick before I took her out. Apparently not. I also realized upon stomping into the kitchen that I didn't put the cat's food bowl on top of the washing machine the night before and all the cat food was gone. I'll have to assume the dog ate the Indoor Delights Friskies and thus, left me some Indoor Delights.

So the dog and I had a little come-to-Jesus meeting, and then before everyone left the house on Thursday morning, the dog got put in her little pen that I jury-rigged in the living room.

And yes, this is the actual dog. By the time I get done with this whole post her name might be The Dog.

She's not crate trained and didn't come with a crate (hmmm....), but came with a baby-gate-playard kind of concoction. Got home Thursday evening with Guy #1 in tow since it was The Ex's night with the kids, and found that the dog can hold all of her bodily fluids if she's in her little pen. Awesome! Maybe this will work out okay. But then I was at work most of Friday (or pretending to be after my training class finished early and there was.no.fucking.way I was going back to work) and then out with Guy #1 for most of Friday night. I felt moderately guilty, because dogs actually need some attention. I spent a portion of Saturday in the house, and the dog was more than happy to terrorize Guy #1 because he's apparently scared of animals that look like overgrown mutant gerbils. Out and about again Saturday night and still no accidents in the jury-rigged pen.

Sunday morning. It was cold and sleeting outside, and I guess I rushed her through her business outside because maybe an hour after coming back in I found a little brown cookie in the younger daughter's room. Again, I blamed myself for not shutting the bedroom doors. I don't know why she only shits in the younger daughter's room. She hasn't done anything other than sleep in the older daughter's room. Sunday afternoon and she poops outside. Awesome! That second come-to-Jesus meeting must have really done the trick.

But uh-oh. What's that stuck on the hair around her butt? The dog has long hair. Long, thick hair. She's well groomed, and often smells like whatever kind of Avon shampoo my neighbor has been washing her with. Oh, god, is that a turd stuck on her butt? Holy fuck. It is. Oh my god. Fuck. She can't come back in the house with that thing back there, and she can't reach her own butt to clean it off. I guess that's the one good thing to dog sitting a slightly pudgy Pomeranian - when she sneak attacks me and licks me on my face I know that her tongue wasn't previously on her ass.

Anyway, back to the turd stuck in the hindquarter hair. I run in the house and can only come up with... Lysol wipes. Oh well, that'll have to do. I run back outside and put the dog in a mini-headlock and proceed to do nothing more than smear the dog shit all over her rear end. Oh fuck. Oh no. This is not working. Jesus Christ. Are you kidding me again? Pick the dog up and carry her at arms length into the house and then just stand there trying to figure out what to do. Well, into the kitchen sink because I don't know how to wash an entire dog. That's just too much for me to handle. And, Guy #1 was feeling neurotic about my bathrooms on Saturday morning and cleaned them for me, so there was no way I was going to put her into one of the tubs he just scrubbed. So the dog goes right into the sink and I get her into another headlock and try to adjust the water and squirt Dial hand soap onto her ass. Oh my god this is such a mess. Oh Jesus. Well, I certainly can't bring myself to actually touch this soapy, shitty mess I've created and I forgot that I have latex gloves in my bedroom (for doing my toenails, perverts, not the other stuff) so I just get a scrub brush and scrubbed the Dial hand soap around. I am now minus one scrub brush, by the way. Get the soapy, shitty mess off the dog with water that was probably too hot and then realize I have no towel handy to dry the dog. Oh well, I guess while I've got her here in this headlock I'll just take some scissors and trim up the hair back there so I won't have to go through this again. Who knew that Pomeranians have such thick non-trimmable ass hair? This dog might just be related to The Ex. Abandon all plans to trim the dog's ass hair and try to towel dry her with paper napkins. That too was unsuccessful.

Man, I needed a shot of tequila after all of that. Holy god. Actually, what the dog and I both needed a nap after that whole ordeal. But, not for me. Off to see the VCU game. Back in the pen, little fluff ball doggie. No problems Sunday night or Monday morning. At this point we've all kind of adjusted that the dog might be here for a while because my neighbor's husband is still in the hospital. The dog seems like she's enjoying us, the children are enjoying her and the cat lives in the basket on top of the dryer, right next to her food on top of the washer. No more Indoor Delights for the dog, that's for damn sure.

So, we continue on with the dog. I told my older daughter tonight, though, to quit asking me if the dog can come live here for good. The answer is a resounding NO. I'm a cat person. I want to feed the cat, put water in her bowl, scoop the litter box and have a lap available for her to climb in and get petted. I don't want to have to let the animal in and out and in and out and in and out one more time. I don't want to have to crawl around on my hands and knees with carpet cleaner, I don't want some jury-rigged pen in the middle of my living room and I don't want to have to chase a dog around around with Lysol wipes. The dog can visit, for short periods of time... but I'm a cat person. Big ups to the dog for reinforcing that.

Stupid Link of the Day

Hmmm, I might have a new column developing. Stupid Link of the Day. Check it out.

http://www.cocksox.com/

Stuff I Don't Like

First day back to work after a long week off spent being miserable with the flu, and I'm feeling a little grumpy. I didn't start feeling normal until about eight minutes ago, and the day is over. Can I feel normal eight minutes into my day instead? Actually, I know I can't. I'm a night person, and when the sun goes down I start waking up and feeling like I'm just hitting my stride. So unless I start waking up every day at about 8:20 pm, I won't ever feel great eight minutes into my day.

But in the vein of being a recuperating grump, I thought I would provide a little list of shit I don't like. Well, there's really an enormous list of shit I don't like, but it's hard for me to keep track of so I'll just go with a little list of stuff that's been floating around in my head.

In no particular order:

1. The little happy family stick figure decals that are stuck all over the back of minivans - Okay, these things are just gay. They started out cute, but now they're just gay. Please stop, soccer moms. I don't care what kind of job your old man has, I don't care that shopping is your favoritist hobby (evidenced by the shopping bags dangling from your stick arms) and I don't care how many kids you have and what they like to do. Don't care about your pets, either. In fact, if I were a criminal, I would probably find a way to use your stick-figure demographics to my advantage.

2. Dog shit - I think I covered this one a few posts back, but I have such a loathing for dog shit that it really deserves a second mention. I would like to think that most normal people would dislike dog shit, but I'm obviously wrong due to the millions of Americans who own dogs and have dog shit in their yards. I opened the front door the other day, and at the very edge of my yard next to the street, some woman was letting her dog shit in my yard. I just stood there and stared while she gave me that sheepish shrug and then wandered off with her dog. I hadn't seen her before, because if I had, and if I knew where she lived, I would have gotten my shovel out and carried her dog shit to her yard. For real, if I hadn't been actively dying of the flu, I would have yelled at her to pick up her fucking dog shit. This is the Southside. I don't feel the need for manners all the time.

3. The time of the year when I can't buy Cadbury Eggs - Cadbury Eggs do a lot for making me not-so-much of a bitch. If someone gave me a Cadbury Egg to eat whilst their dog shit on the edge (but just the edge) of my yard, I might be little more tolerant. Nah. I totally wouldn't be. Dog shit in my yard is dog shit in my yard. There's no making that better.

4. Boils - The skin kind of boil. I know that there's some fancy technical name to this, but I live in the South and we call it a boil. I've had a boil exactly once in my life, and I continue to be amazed that something the size of a pencil eraser can cause that level of systemic pain. I'm somewhat embarrassed to admit I've even had a boil, because I always thought boils were something that a little old black man who lived in a tar paper shack would have, and his wife would then throw some turpentine on it and dress it with with raw pork fat and boiled cabbage. This is what happens when I read John Jakes - too much imagination for even me to handle. I dressed mine with a cloth band aid, because those band aids don't fall apart in the shower, and when the boil had healed, I ripped the band aid off, because those band aids don't come off easy, either, and with the band aid I ripped off a neat little rectangle of my skin. So technically, I guess I know what a boil and subsequent debriding feels like.

5. People who make more money than me and bitch about being broke - Especially people who don't have kids. I always want to throw my checkbook at them and tell them to walk in my shoes for a few months. Creative bill paying at it's best. But I also made the decision years ago not to chase money, because if you chase money, no matter how much you have, it's never enough.

6. I'm still pretty agitated that I'm listed as the defendant on the divorce paperwork - But this was financially my best decision, because The Ex was the person who had to pay the money to have the paperwork drawn up and I just paid my attorney to review it, and I'm sure I came away with the cheaper deal. I am also the second ex-wife of his who has been listed as the defendant, so at this point I have convinced myself that if anyone were to ever notice that, they would then immediately infer that the real problem in both of his marriages was him.

7. Mrs. Second Grade Teacher - This woman has been the bane of my existence since school started in September. My older daughter reported that school was great today because Mrs. Second Grade Teacher was out sick. I nastily thought to myself when I heard that this evening, hmmm, maybe I should send some extra homework home for that bitch to do so she'll know how it feels. I hope she has the exact strain of flu that I had. I'm not real big on Mrs. Kindergarten Teacher either, but I can't spread my animosity too thin, so I'll just continue to focus on Mrs. Second Grade Teacher.

8. Stupid reality shows like Dancing With The Stars, The Bachelor, etc. - Gay. Nowhere near as good as The Real Housewives of Anywhere Except Atlanta And Miami. I've changed my mind. Not just gay, but super gay.

9. Not having a digital camera - Getting all of those pics off of my half-crappy little cell phone is a big old pain in my ass.

10. Sexually transmitted diseases, addiction and morbid obesity - Not that I've had any of the three, but what a complete bitch to have any one of them. Here's to not catching something yucky whilst eating Little Debbies in a crackhouse. And I don't like to be distracted while I order my food, either.

Stupid Shit I Look At When I'm Sick

Stupid stuff I look at on the internet when I'm too sick to go to work, but recuperated enough that I can actually walk and stay upright for most of the day. Maybe I'll give my commentary after each item, and maybe I won't. Thank god for the history thingy on my internet because most of this shit is so stupid it's already left my brain.

And not in the order of the clicking:

1. Amazon - "The Official Filthy Rich Handbook" and "True Prep: It's a Whole New Old World". I came across this after I read an article in Virginia Living in the sick waiting room of the pediatrician's office today detailing the new prep, complete with models from our very own men's single-sex college right near where I grew up (and where I never, EVER behaved badly) and their more delicate (although those girls can usually drink pretty hard) counterparts from one of the women's colleges within a two hour drive. All of the models were wearing preppy clothes and posing like an Abercrombie ad. All first names were unisex. None of them looked like they might be partaking in student aid. I like that Amazon has taken some of their books and put some of the pages on a PDF-type format so you can review/read prior to purchase, but I felt like I would have gotten more out of that particular kind of viewing if they had put ALL of the pages on the PDF-type format so I could have just read the entire book for free without having to inconvenience myself by going to the library or the Big Box Bookstore. Gas is too expensive to be running back and forth to the library. And for some reason I always feel like going to the library is a little to liberal for me. I don't know why, but I'm just unsettled by the whole loaner thing.

2. Blogger - My blog, of course! Duh. Not editing, just reading obsessively and adding,more,commas. I,love,commas,can't,you,tell? I like to think that I make the comma work for me, not the other way around.

3. Wikipedia - Holy god this is a long list, and really quite indicative of the odd mish-mash of stuff going through my head at any given point in time. Here goes: Ax Men. Beaver Hunt. Bell's Palsy. Bob Guccione. Chex Mix. Collegiate secret societies in North America. Diavik Diamond Mine. Elaine Benes. Farmville, Virginia (the guy I graduated from high school with and who gave me the stash that got me suspended for six weeks is no longer listed as a notable resident), Gloria Steinem, Legionellosis, Rachael Harris, Playboy Bunny, Playboy Mansion, Seven Society, The Lady of Rage, Wikipedia, Zach Galifianakis.   Okay, so with Wikipedia one click leads to another leads to another and before you know it a whole freaking three hours is gone and you're only less-than smarter for it.

4. facebook - self explanatory. What did I do before facebook? Oh, right, I had a life.

5. Google - But I didn't Google myself. Today.

6. J. Peterman - This is how I ended up on Elaine Benes in #3. Trying to figure out what catalog that was.

7. Overrated Children's Gymnastics Place - This is the place that I would not be using now for the younger daughter if I didn't have a credit on my account from when the older daughter broke her arm last spring.

8. Spiegel - Wow! That stuff on clearance is really cheap, considering it's Spiegel.

9. Williamsburg Marketplace - Secretly, I'm a snob when it comes to my home decor. I can't afford any of this shit now, but a girl can plan. Hello, super-gorgeous pineapple trivet! I'll be back for you another year!

And there you have it. This is what I do when I'm cooped up in the house half-sick with a whole-sick child. I am still pleased with the fact that I have managed to quit craigslist cold turkey. I guess that's what keeping the company of an occasionally nekkid man will do for you.

How Hard Can It Be?

Tonight's big project: trying to grow my blog. Sounds easy, right? NOPE.

Failure of the worst kind. I figured what I would do is get my blog its own page on facebook, which should be pretty easy considering the number of stupid pages out there that I see on an hourly basis. And then, I could just link my new posts directly onto my blog-affiliated facebook page and grow from there. Hey, like me? Send it to a friend, blah blah blah.

But here's the catch. I'm trying to keep myself relatively anonymous on the blog, which means I'm not linking up to my real facebook page. This is for several reasons: 1) I like to do shit in an incredibly complicated manner, meaning when I finally get it sorted out like I had planned in my head, I feel even smarter than I actually am because I know it's yet another occasion of me driving around my ass to get to my elbow, 2) I don't want any of my co-workers to know about my blog. This is for several reasons - I don't want to become the water cooler topic of the day, and even though I haven't mentioned my employer or my profession on my blog, I don't want to give anyone any ammunition, and lastly because I really don't want to hear the snarky comments from my co-workers about how often I'm getting laid. I figure if I wanted them to know all that, I would just send it out on an email to the whole office. 3) I have spent an inordinate amount of time on this blog bad-mouthing The Ex, most recently mentioning I hope he catches gonorrhea. Obviously, I would prefer that he not find out about my blog. I also don't want a cease and desist letter to come from his attorney, and I just prefer that my blog generally remain nameless. I think it might be more fun for the reader because then the reader isn't bogged down with remembering all of these names AND relationships, and no one gets bogged down with name-baggage, which everyone has to some degree or the other. I also think it makes it easier to pick up reading right on the current post because all I'm doing is naming the relationship, which hopefully means the reader will probably never wonder to themselves, "Who in the hell is The Ex? Mrs. Second Grade Teacher? What about Guy #1?"

This epic failure that I experienced tonight is almost similar to when I started my blog and then signed in using an email account that didn't even exist. To which I had to hurry up and create that account so it would exist and my blog name didn't end up being given away to some other unknowing person with the email account I had just signed up using but didn't actually own. If you can even own an email account, that is. Again, driving around my ass to get to my elbow from the brain. I'm smart and all, but making something super complicated in my head and then still managing to conquer it makes me feel even smarter. Like my taxes, of which the state tax filing was quickly pulled out of the mailbox the other morning when I realized I might have missed a deduction on the federal filing, thus maybe not making me as much in the hole to the feds. So I will be going over to my mother's again on Saturday morning for round #3 of tax preparation.

Back to facebook. I go to the pages section, pick out my category and create a page. I then immediately send the invite or whatever it is to the 31 friends I have (out of the 160-something) that already know about my blog. I realize I can toggle back and forth between my page for my blog and my personal page. Cool! And it doesn't show up as something I like on my personal page. Go to a different web browsing tab and log into my blog. View blog and hit the share button on the facebook icon under my most recent blog post about how I'm trying to get linked up on other sites. Uh-oh. A little error box pops up on facebook and says I must be using my page as me, personally, to be able to share that on facebook. What the fuck? Why? I don't want to do that, because I don't want my blog stuff on my personal facebook page. I want my blog stuff on the page I just fucking set up for my blog stuff. So then, I figure that I can just cut and paste a link to my blog right in the link section of facebook blog page. OH SHIT! It also cut and pasted the picture of me from my blog, which is very similar to the picture on my personal facebook. So either I can remove the pic of myself from my blog (which I'm not going to do because I'm kind of attached to it at this point) or I can figure out another way around this and still remain anonymous.

Jesus Christ, this is getting complicated. Okay, the problem here must be about all of these stupid permissions. So I toggle back and forth between my blog, my blog email, my personal facebook and my page facebook and try to change all of the permissions for both of the emails and the settings. I was feeling pretty slick by the time I got done, because I had just linked everything to everything else and so it was just a big, circular I-just-beat-the-system kind of moment. Go back to the blog page and hit the little facebook link and motherfucker, that same error box just popped up. Are you fucking kidding me? I just spent 30 minutes of my life changing everything and now it still won't work? Now I feel stupid because it just can't be this difficult and complicated. It can't be. Goddamnit, I'm just going to have to start all over. Deleted the facebook blog page and now I think that if I create a fake personal facebook profile with my blog email, and then create a facebook community page, then I can use that to link up to my blog site and it will be completely unaffiliated with me personally.

But I'm too tired for all this tonight. So shout out to the person who sent a facebook friend request to my anonymous blog email. As you can tell, I'm working on it. I suppose it would be easier to just come out of the blog closet, but then it wouldn't be as much fun and somewhere along the line The Ex would find out and that wouldn't be any fun, either. If growing my blog was as easy as growing my jeans size, I would be golden. But it's not, so I guess I'm just beige for right now.

Stay tuned.

More Stupid Stuff In My Head

Procrastinating about going to sleep, because, well, if I don't go to sleep then I won't have to get up in the morning and then I won't have to do all that shit that I need to do tomorrow. Like pack a bag to go to a conference and send my children off to my mother's for the night. But I'm only staying one night because the thought of being away from my children on school nights is giving me anxiety. I feel like this routine I've worked so hard to perfect since late August will be totally blown out of the water with if they spend more than one night with my mother. Or anyone for that matter. I'm totally fine with them going anywhere on the weekends, but week nights? School nights? I think not. I also think the separation anxiety I am having from being away for one school night is exacerbated by thinking they will have separation anxiety from me, although, I know realistically that's not it. What's really going on in my head is that I feel like their father has already fallen down on so many promises that if I am not there, they might worry I'm crapping out on them, too.

Taxes. How the FUCK did I go from being married and getting THOUSANDS of dollars back each year at tax time to owing the feds? How did that happen? I have six months of mortgage interest to claim, one child, daycare expenses, medical expenses, sales tax, anything my mother could find to itemize and I STILL OWE????? I am so incredibly pissed at myself for agreeing to let The Ex claim our younger daughter that it's not even funny. Greedy bastard. I guess that's the big fuck you I get for agreeing to him not paying child support, though in his defense (why do I even bother to defend him?) he does pay the younger daughter's child care and some other lightweight kind of stuff. But I'm still mad at myself. I suppose that's what ten years of being mistreated, harassed, stalked and condescended to will do to a person's willpower. I hope he catches gonorrhea.

My mother finished up the taxes yesterday and I signed the paperwork and was getting ready to slide the form in the envelope, seal it up and mail that puppy off. My mother says, "Um, you need to put a check in with that." I was like, "What?" She said I need to mail a check in with what I owe in with the actual tax filings. Huh? That is not how that was working in my head. In my head, I was going to mail the filing in, the guv people were going to review it for accuracy and mail me a bill for what I owed. I was then going to call the 1-800 number on the bill and work out a payment plan with the guv. Kind of like my student loans. I mean, they certainly didn't expect me to pay in full upon my college graduation. Why would taxes be any different? But apparently it is. So fuck again. I just won't mail that one in right now. We're not to the deadline anyway. But I did change my withholdings today. I changed from six exemptions to five, because I've figured in order to have money to feed my children, I'll have to crawl it back each year by one. I don't even know how I ended up with six exemptions to begin with, because I got a copy of my withholding form last week at work that I filled out back in 2005 after the younger daughter was born, and all of the numbers were right. That's the guv for you. Funny math and all where none of it adds up right on one form and all of it adds up right on another form and the two forms don't match when it's time to make the forms match.

I put a profile pic on my blog. It always pisses me off to read a book and I flip to the back cover to see what the author looks like and there's no picture. Hello, I want to know what you look like. Don't be recluse. I guess I need to do that, too. So until I change my mind, freak out and take the picture off, which might be tomorrow, here's what I look like, for that one person who reads my blog who might not actually know me personally.

The suspected East Coast Rapist has been caught. I got a little panicky last week after I saw one of the giant electronic billboards on I-95 with the profile up and I came home and looked it up on the web. I'm still on my news boycott, so I don't know much of what's going on if someone doesn't tell me or I don't see it on facebook. But panicky... I came home and immediately checked all of my windows, because my bedroom windows are low enough that when my children locked me out of my bedroom this past weekend, I ran around the back of the house with a screwdriver, popped the screen off and hoisted my younger daughter through the window to run and open Mommy's bedroom door. Thank god the window itself was already open because that would have required some additional effort on my part. But dropping my child in through the window... I didn't even have to hoist her up on my shoulders, I just lifted her up and dropped her in because the window is that low to the ground. I could have climbed in myself, but the neighbors were in their yard and I didn't want anyone to see how that worked. Of course, if the morons who lived in this house before me hadn't put an actual exterior door knob and locking mechanism on the master bedroom door, this would not have been an issue. My children already know simple lock picking, but we haven't gotten to the exterior locks yet. I was waiting until middle school to teach them about the tumblers.

But after I read about this East Coast Rapist, and I knew that however many victims they know about can probably be multiplied by two or three for the real count, I got a little panicky and rushed around and checked all of my doors and locks. Even though the chances were slim he would select my house, I know that there's another one right around the corner. Maybe literally, but I hope not. Kind of like when people get all riled up about school safety and scanning ID's of people going into the schools and oh my god, it could be a sex offender. Yeah, it could be. Probably won't be, but it could be. I always tell people that they don't really need to worry about a registered sex offender trying to get into a school because there's probably already one with full access to the school WHO HASN'T BEEN CAUGHT YET. But the stay-at-home moms and administrators never really like to hear that and their faces get all tight and squinchy when I say that. That's okay. I know it's true. Jut like all of the parents like to say there are no gangs in Midlothian. Sure. Maybe not like what you see on Gangland, but if there are no gangs in Midlothian, then who put the Gangster Disciple graffiti on the big Electric Company substation box across the street from the fancy new hospital with the bell tower and the marble lobby? Oh, wait, I forgot. GD stands for Growth and Development. My mistake.

And now, I've managed to waste an hour. Time to go pack up for this shindig tomorrow and try to make it through til Friday, when Guy #1 will come over and help me paint the kitchen, which was my big weekend project, except I'm so tired of running around doing shit for cheerleading that I really just kind of want a weekend of nothingness, interrupted only by the cheerleading and basketball banquet on Saturday afternoon that I need to finish making the Pie Sale signs for and bake some desserts. But if I go the painting route, which I won't because I just made up my mind I won't, I'm thinking I can paint and he can sit and watch because I'm kind of anal retentive about painting. Or maybe we'll just hop in the sack at three in the afternoon and see what shakes out. Holla!

Stupid Stuff In My Head

I had planned to sit down and write this awesome piece on the youth basketball league game I went to this afternoon, but it will have to wait until tomorrow night because I've got too much other stupid stuff in my head just dying to come out.

First of all, to pic or not to pic my blog out. I'm so undecided on this whole thing I just don't even know what to do. I want to have some pictures to break up the monotony of the writing, and because I think I'm the only person in the world without any pics on my shit. Not OF my shit, but ON my shit. Big difference there. But then I don't want to try too hard and have obvious and contrived pictures that go with the writing and so it ends up being ho-hum in the end. Or maybe I'll just randomly find some crazy ass picture and then I'll write around the picture. Which I can totally do.

And this is what I've ended up with.

Some crazy ass picture of a crazy ass cat with some crazy ass curly hair. This totally looks like a cat that could be living in my house, if it weren't for this Screaming Mimi Siamese cat that already lives here. The kind of cat that would very nonchalantly wander through the living room when I've got people over, and the conversation would stop short and heads would turn in unison to watch the cat walk by, flop down in the middle of the living room and then lick where it's testicles used to be, since pets only seem to lick their genitals when company is around. I mean, I would totally do that too if I could. Um, yeah, not. I don't play for that team. But the end result would be someone saying, "What the fuck happened to that cat's hair?" or "Oh my god, did you curl your cat's hair?" And then I would explain, no, I didn't curl the cat's hair because I don't have a curling iron that small, but I do put scrunchies on their tails every now and then to see what happens, kind of like when you put napkin-booties on a cat. Napkin-booties on a dog don't work quite as well because a dog will just lay down and eat the napkin off of it's paw. A cat will act highly insulted and pretend like nothing is happening here, and will limp off in the most offended manner.

Marital statuses on facebook. I think they might have added to the list. This is what it used to be:

Single - I think we all know what this means. Not taken. Or pretending to be not taken.
In a relationship - I think we all know what this means. Taken. Or pretending to be taken.
Engaged - Only one or two steps away from the wedding ring. Rethink! Rethink! Rethink!
Married - You failed to rethink, or you rethought and decided it was too late to get out of it because you've already put down a non-refundable deposit on the honeymoon.
It's complicated - Finally rethinking and deciding it's not all that it's cracked up to be.
In an open relationship - This says, "My other half and I have decided to just go ahead and sleep with other people. It's cool."
Widowed - This might happen if the other person didn't really agree to sleep with other people and doesn't really agree with you doing it, either.

This is where the list stopped, until sometime last year, late summer-ish, I think.

And then they added:

Separated - Revisiting the whole rethinking part.
Divorced - Rethinking has been completed. Who knew that filing fees through the Circuit Court were so fucking expensive? I bet there would be a lot less marriages (and consequently less divorces) if the goddamn marriage license cost $750 instead of a mere $25. Just saying.

And I think they've most recently added:

In a civil union - This one actually means I'm gay and had to choose this one because "In a Relationship" really doesn't define this level of commitment and I'm not legally allowed to marry in my state. And I want to make a socio-political statement to everyone who already knows me.
In a domestic partnership - And this one means we are SHACKING UP, baby. Why buy the cow when the milk is free? Hellllll yeahhhhhh!

Here's how the last twelve years of my life would be in facebook relationship statuses. I say twelve because I was with The Ex for twelve, married for ten. Yes, we had a very strained ten year anniversary two days before I moved out. I bought him a set of plates at Wal-Mart to make up for the ones I was taking with me. Just to define boundaries, I told him two days prior to the anniversary I would appreciate NOT getting a card. That I would then feel obligated to sneak off and throw away.

Single - The Army guy I just fell in like with went back to his regular stationing in Texas. I'm lonely and you're available.
In a relationship - I am still lonely and you're still available. Sure, we can call this a relationship.
Engaged - I've convinced myself that no one else will ever want to marry me and my biological clock has become a ticking time bomb. Yeah, we can give this thing a whirl.
Living together - This was about when I became The Housekeeper and Laundress.
Married - Everyone said that getting married on a rainy day is good luck. In my heart I knew it wasn't true.
Thinking I don't really like you that much but I can convince myself otherwise - This phase lasted until the birth of the older daughter.
Oh, God, now we're stuck because we have a child together - You are effectively stuck with me forever because I am not putting my child(ren) through a divorce. I don't really care if we don't get along and have nothing in common. We now have DNA in common so let's just suck it up.
Making it work - This was the phase of me really trying hard to fall in love and make it stick.
Second child on the way - This might just cement the previous relationship status.
In my head it's not working - Realizing that I have two children I gave birth to and one I married.
I wish he would just cheat on me because maybe then he would leave me alone - Does this really need a description?
I don't even remotely like this man - This might have come into fruition around year eight of the marriage.
I am miserable - Year nine of said marriage.
Separated - Oh, sweet light at the end of the tunnel. Oh, agonizing guilt for doing this to my children.
I will never date again - Because I am really scared this might happen again.
I need to get laid - Well and often. Because a girl can dream, right?
Dating website - Which worked out very nicely after I finally stopped changing my mind. Mad props to Guy #1.
Pending depositions and divorce - Again, why are these court fees so high? That's almost two months worth of before and after school care for the one child I am responsible for paying for.
Divorce - I anticipate it will be a sad and sobering relief. Life lessons do not always come cheap. Maybe that's what the court fees are trying to tell me, or it's the government's way of trying to restrict divorce without really restricting it.

There we have it. My marriage in facebook relationship statuses.

And I'm still looking for that ghetto necklace that says 'I heart midget porn'. I could totally rock that out in a suit with some spectator pumps, but not the platform spectator pumps, because then it would look like I was just missing my stripper pole. Nah, I'll stop talking shit. I would never, ever wear that to work, just because of what I do. Which is not stripping. But I would wear it to the mall to eat a quick dinner at the food court with Guy #1 before I slide up in my favorite big box bookstore to get a second grade science workbook for my older daughter.

Stay tuned for other good stuff about the the championship youth league basketball game I went to today, Mrs. Second Grade Teacher, and Lunchtime Musings and other stupid stuff in my head.

Stay Tuned

Since I am getting laid on the regular now (and correctly, too! Bonus!) I really have no desire to go trolling through craigslist looking for freakshows. I think I will be bringing in a new column to fill the gaps, and that column shall be called Lunchtime Trolling. I eat my lunch at my desk at work and just troll around on the internet. Well, to be honest, sometimes I'm not eating lunch because I've decided at 9:41am that the internet might be more interesting than my work, but that's another story. So I just spend 30 minutes or so farting around on the internet looking for random stuff to read. Except for adult content unless it's like that one time I clicked on random article on the Wikipedia website and ended up on anal bleaching. Oh my god, people do that? I guess instead of it being the chocolate starfish it's the bleachy starfish. Either way... N.A.S.T.Y.

So stay tuned... Lunchtime Trolling is coming your way.

Bored Out of My Skull

Literally, I'm dying of boredom here. The first free Saturday night I've had in a month or so, and I'm doing a whole lot of nothing. Tried to go to sleep, but was too keyed up from the gallon of sweet tea I just drank, so now I've switched to booze in hopes it'll bring me back down and get me off of this hormonal jag of loneliness and feeling like I really don't want to get into an empty bed tonight. Trolling around on the internet, because I can't seem to bring myself to turn on the TV, or my electronic babysitter as The Ex used to call it. Whatever. That from someone who sat around with a fucking headset on while he played World of Warcraft.

There's no one on facebook I want to chat with, I'm obviously not going to be getting laid tonight, I don't want to read because I forgot the book I'm really digging at work, I haven't met the love of my life and/or hook up of my life on this online dating site, and I'm so bored I signed up for a cougar dating site. What the fuck? All of one page of guys from Richmond on there, and all the women look like Mary Beth Letourneau. If you don't know who that is, google it, bitch. I don't think I've slaughtered the name too much.

My life has come to mean instant gratification. Technology has fucked me up like this. I refused to get a cell phone until I was 29, and that was only at the insistence of The Ex when I was pregnant with the older daughter, because of me driving back and forth to work at night sometimes. And then I refused to give the number out because I didn't want anyone calling me. When I finally started giving the number out, I insisted that no one call me because I didn't want to talk to them. Call me at home, goddammit. And then, when texting started, I refused that. I refused that until about three or four years ago, when I finally figured out this would pre-empt about 58 mindless conversations with The Ex per day that ALL had to end with "I love you." So... that might have been yet another indicator that the marriage was going south. But I still told people not to call me. I'll call YOU when I'm ready to talk.

And then, the separation occurred. My cell phone became my lifeline, along with me pacing around the neighborhood at night talking to my family and friends because The Ex couldn't eavesdrop on me from a block away. Then I got a new phone with a new provider, with my own name, so he couldn't access my phone records. The cell phone really became my lifeline, because I was good to go. Then, I figured out how to get facebook on it. Oh, god, that was then end of me repelling instant gratification. Now, I'm attached to the damn phone. I check that bastard all the time, I carry it around with me, I'm checking facebook, I'm googling myself, all kinds of stupid shit. Now, I give my number out willy-nilly and just tell everyone to call me on my cell. Of course, this is largely due to the fact that when I got my home service hooked up, I never bothered to set up the voice mail and now I don't know how to. So if the school calls, the doctor's office, someone, they'll call my cell because I have absolutely no idea how to set up my voice mail and calling the provider isn't going to be worth the intellectual pain it will cause me.

I've been on this new, paid online dating site for about, oh, I don't know, less than 36 hours and jesus! Why do I attract such fucking goofball men? I mean, I don't think it's my looks because I think I look okay and non-goofbally myself. I never know what men think when they either see me in person or online - no fucking idea. Most of them just kind of look at me in a very surprised way at first, and I never can figure that out. I'm left wondering, is my hair sticking out funny? Is there something on my shirt? Something stuck in my teeth? Why are you looking at me like that? I don't get it. So why am I getting these goofball guys? I've had one dipshit email me, and about 8 wink at me, which I suppose is this websites way of giving you a chance to test the waters before sending an email. If someone winks at me, and I like his profile, I can do one of three things, or two of three things, or any fucking combination, I suppose. I can ignore it, I can respond (with either a wink of my own, or a no thanks response) or I can send an email. I've emailed one guy, and since I refuse pay any more money to upgrade even further, I can't tell if he's read my email or not. I'm not going to stalk his profile to see how long it's been since he's been on, because you can see who has viewed your profile most recently, and I don't think there's any way you can hide that. Because I've looked. I winked at one guy, and haven't gotten a response back on that either. I actually think the winking is kind of gay, but I have some concerns about emailing a whole bunch of men and then getting a whole bunch of responses and I only have time to go out with one of them, what with my career, single parenthood, school activities, second grade homework and cheerleading, not to mention my super fabulous blog. Because what the fuck would I do if I sent out a whole bunch of winks and emails to a whole bunch of hot guys and a whole bunch of them responded? Oh my god, how would I choose? So I'm just kind of creeping along, like some kind of snail, leaving a trail of slime (or vibrator lube) behind me.

I'm annoyed that I can't find any blogs like mine. Long and painfully drawn out posts, but achingly sincere in the most humorous way, with the f-bomb dropped often and with glee. Where are these other women? I'd like to do the blog hook up kind of thing with them, but I refuse to get involved with some other woman blogging about her fantastic recipe for chutney or whatever. I also don't want to hook up with other women blogging about how tearful she became when it was time to cut little Johnny's hair for the first time. I want to hook up with women who are going through a crazy change of life, just want to get laid well and often by a guy who actually knows what all the girl parts are. I want to hook up with some other woman who spends at least 30 minutes out of each day looking at the casual encounters ads on craiglist because that's all the penis she's going to get to see for the day. I want to hook up with some other woman who doing something like this, because maybe this is someone I can learn from, someone who can help me make my blog better.  Girls!!!! Where the fuck are you? I can't be alone in this, I just simply can't.

I've got one main homeslice, from back in the day of 4th grade through high school, who has linked me up on his blog, and he gives me awesome feedback. I think his blog is awesome and I'm really flattered that he's hooking me up with posting my shit on other places, but at the end of the day, he's still got more testosterone than estrogen. And by the way, homeslice, your bloggerdom hook ups totally make up for the time in 10th grade when I got so shit-faced drunk at that party and you and another guy kept talking about me eating a greasy ham sandwich out of a dirty ashtray until I puked my spleen out, passed out for a little while and ended up at the nearby men's college and you STOLE MY BEER. Why can't I end up drunk at a men's college now? But anyway, if you know of any like minded women who blog, hook a sister up, please. Pretty please, with cherries on top? [And this would be where I duck my head just a little bit and blink my eyes a whole lot, because that usually gets me what I want, except for me ending up drunk at a men's college tonight].

Oh my god, it's only 11:04pm. I've got one hard lemonade left and three Bud Lights. Honestly, I've been out of the habit of drinking beer for so long I'm not sure what good beer is. During the days of clubbing, I usually stuck with Michelob and Heineken, but are those douchebag beers? And then, when I got married, I stopped drinking beer and most everything else altogether because if I didn't drink it all in one setting, The Ex would think I didn't want it and would drink it for himself, or he would make suggestive comments for the entire duration of me drinking whatever about how he might get the backdoor. Yeah, fuck you. I said no just to be a complete bitch. Anyway, maybe I need to switch to Corona. Need good 36+1 year old, separated and freakishly horny woman, beer recommendations. Y'all read my blog, what's the best beer for my personality, because I really don't think it's Bud Light. Nothing dark and heavy, like Guinness or any of that other shit. I don't need the beer to taste good, I just need the beer to match my personality and super cute hairdo without making me look like a bimbo.