Just Like Epic Badassery, Except That it’s Not

Facebook may need to be turned off for awhile until I don't feel the need to splat about stuff anymore.

What I need is a good old fashioned Interwebz fight. Interwebz, why won't you fight with me anymore? I'm not even famous enough for "Ban American Women" dude. Ban American Women Dude, why won't you ban people in my comment section? It would make me feel better, and I promise to tell all the American women to stop trying so desperately to date you.

I met a guy named Thaddeus the other day. This allowed me to cross one thing off my bucket list.

Bucket List:

1. Keep the house clean for ten minutes in a row.

2. Take an epic walk. (In the style of Frodo)

3. Meet someone whose actual name is Thaddeus.

4. Call him "Thad."

This was quite exciting…I'm 25% finished being alive, yo! If I continue at this rate, I'll finally keep the house clean for ten minutes when I'm 124 years old. Sounds about right.

Donovan made it through his pictures today, even though I tortured him with a tie. I can't blame him. I would have let him take the pics in pajamas, but the daycare liked the suit and it was for their scrapbook. He managed to smile in one picture. In the others, he's looking off away from the camera with an expression that clearly asks why he should have things tied around his neck when he has a box full of perfectly good sweatpants and T-shirts.

I agree.

X-Men in Daycare

Because nobody ever sleeps at my house and also there is a definite lack of chocolate due to the Lenten season, serious crankiness abounds. I think we all need therapy.


Maybe that will be our summer activity. It'll give the kids something interesting to talk about when they go back after the break. Last year, we went to the lake for two days, and they talked about that like we "spent our summer at our lake house".


Today, we only had three hours of homework, so we luxuriated in screaming about bed time during all that extra time we had. Donovan has pictures tomorrow at school (daycare). We are going to work on combing his Wolverine 'do into something more befitting a three year old trouble-maker. Although he does rock the Wolverine look pretty hard, I'm just not sure he will be so impressed with it when he looks back on pictures ten years from now. Especially because he usually attains that look by using macaroni and cheese as hair gel. Now picture it on a three year old, stained fake-cheese orange. Awesome, right? That's my boy. Unfortunately, his nails aren't quite there yet and he's still working on the glare. This face was more of an "I know I asked for those green beans, but why the hell didn't you realize I'm only three and don't know what I want" look. (Photo by: Tracy the Famous Italian Cousin) But like I said, he's working on it. Anyway, if I clean that gunk off his face and remember he hates green beans and break out the comb and hide the mac and cheese....he should be just fine for pictures tomorrow, right?

Party at My House

Saturday nights are wilder than ever now that I'm single again.

At the moment, I am drinking heavily trying to get enough of a buzz to get through the rest of the night. The coffee was a must, because it's cold in here and I was falling asleep at 6:30.

There are six people running the halls in various states of undress, hair all wet and piles of clothing scattered around the living room. Bath time at its finest, church clothes all set out and ready to be misplaced sometime between falling asleep and waking up. I am pretty sure there is a sleepwalking clothing-loser living in this house.

I told the kids to go to bed. Hijinks ensued. They are still ensuing. I am giving up.

Another thing I noticed today about being single is how bad headaches suck. When you're a single mom, you don't get to just have a headache. You say "I have a headache" and six thousand people scream at you. Or maybe six. Either way, though, really. And nobody tells them to stop except you, and they can't hear you because it hurts to be heard over them. And you don't get a nap or even to sit down for five minutes, because if you do, people are spilling orange slushie all over the floor you just mopped and pulling all the clean clothes out of the closet.

Also, when you're single, you don't get to be in a bad mood because you are in charge of the mood for your entire house. This applies even if you don't have kids. I hate when the house is in a bad mood, but sometimes, I just want to be bitchy and I can't. Hence the hateful post this evening...if I can't bitch up the house, I'll have to settle for bitching up the internet. Sorry, Interwebz, but something has to give here.

I am going to go to bed and hope they don't burn the house down before I wake up.

Fourth Grade is a Jerk

I have been owned by Warrick's fourth grade state project. I had to read the assignment 12 times, and I'm still not sure we did it right. I can't imagine what my son was thinking as he was trying to figure it out on his own.

I am done with school projects until next year. I don't want to do any more homework or anymore artwork. I would like to have just one family meal without papers spread all over the table. I want to go for a walk after dinner instead of searching for pencils and crayons and glue. I want to sit out on the truck and watch the sun set. Do you see the negative way in which my kids' homework is affecting our well-being? Do ya? Stupid homework.

Warrick gave me a hug and told me he couldn't have done it without me and thank you. I cried. So maybe the homework brought us closer together, but could we honestly not have bonded over a beer just as well? I'm just sayin.

In other news, I got word that the kids' dad may be "inpatient" for another six months. If Donovan isn't potty trained by then, I call dibs on the next hospital stay.

He is the last kid in diapers, and he's hanging onto them for dear life. I was kind of hoping the day care would do the training, but apparently not. We are stocking up on skittles and undies and staying in this weekend to see what happens. I keep telling him to use the big boy potty, and he says "Ohhhhhhhhhhhh", but I don't think he's really getting it, or else he doesn't understand what "Ohhh" means. Either way, no success so far. If it doesn't work, I'm going to teach him to change diapers so either way, win for me.

This is a pointless, rambling post, showcasing the utter brain-drain that results from countless hours spent on an Alaskan deca-ball project (I know, I just made one and I still don't know what it is), so I'm going to sleep.

Good night.

Something has gone terribly wrong here

I am not a morning person. I like the night time. I like it when everyone else is asleep and there isn't traffic or waking up or Things Needing Doing or whatever.

It's not that I don't like mornings. I do. I just despise doing things during them. Unless those things are drinking coffee and wearing giant pajamas and watching the sun rise through the window.

I can't stand rushing and fighting over the bathroom and waking up children who are perfectly asleep and going anywhere at all.

Before Noon:

You see? This should never happen to anybody. At first glance, it looks like my glasses are crooked here, but that is not the case. It's my eyes. My eyes are crooked, and that's what mornings do. This is bad, people, it's really bad. We need to do something. (Also, pay no attention to the misleading smile. When this was taken, I hadn't completely woken from a dream in which our pediatrician had prescribed Ambien and no homework to all the kids.)

I say we find all the morning people in the world (there can only be like ten of them, anyway), and their new job is to make the coffee. The rest of us can start everything at noon. The morning people are only allowed to talk to each other, because pep before noon is honestly too much, yo.

The rest of us should resume avoiding eye contact and develop a system of communication using only grunts and flipping the bird. Any speaking beyond that can begin at sunset, when the day gets fun and people aren't all down about having to go to work or making sure their cell phone is charged or whatever is bothering everyone during the day. Then it can be happy and there will be merriment and laughter throughout the land until we all go back to sleep around 6am.

The Reason for Everything, with Sparkles and Spikes

There is a bracelet. It belongs to me because one day I had ten dollars to my name, and for some reason, when have very little money, I have a desperate need to spend it on things for which I have no use at all. So I bought the bracelet.

It is a leather sparkly-spiked bracelet. It looks like this:

It clearly says that the wearer is amazingly intelligent, not too old for it at all, and totally into being attractive and stylish.

To further that point, I wear it upside down, like this:

Because that's how I roll, yo....put the best parts where nobody can see them and the functional parts up high to show how excessively functional I am...and also how very sparkly I am if only you look under my wrists.

The ring is a bonus...it's actually two rings, because the one just wasn't accomplishing what I wanted, which was to border both sides of yet another ring that says "FAITH", only I lost my faith ring, which is symbolic of absolutely nothing except maybe that I don't always put things were they belong. Anyway, I wear the rings in case I ever need to punch someone really hard in the forehead with my left hand, which happens a lot more often than you might think, but still less often than, say, Christmas. Still, you obviously don't want to make me angry.

Anyway, the point to all of this is that I lost my bracelet (again). I like to drive with the windows down, so I'm guessing the bracelet jumped ship because I hadn't been out of the truck yet.

Did I mention how much this bracelet means to me? As in, I would drive around for miles looking for it in ditches and possibly even attack 12 year old skater chicks because they may have one that looks almost similar, or not really at all similar unless you're driving 45 miles down a dirt road? Because that's exactly what I did for this bracelet today.

His name is Toby the Awesome Bracelet.

And he was lost.

I didn't find him in any ditches, and if there were a 12 year old skater chick who learned a lesson about talking to crazy old lady strangers today, it wasn't on her, either. I spent hours or maybe minutes looking for Toby.

Toby may not love me as much as I love him. Figures.

I found him sitting right by my computer where I left him because he isn't made for typing. Even though I specifically remember telling him to get in the truck when it was time to go. For that, he's not going out next weekend or next month or whenever the next time I have a spare evening may be. Although he probably won't mind, because the last time he went out, he was kidnapped by a woman who is wayyyy older than I, and I had to get my friend's husband to get him back.

Either way, as the only symbol of my utter awesomness, Toby isn't going to be worn anymore, which is symbolic of why neither my functionality nor my sparkliness are EVER seen outside my home (because I lose them when I bring them out, is my point.)

Chats with Shucks

Shucks: Can I have your dinner, please?

Me: No. Get out of the kitchen.

Shucks: Ok. I'm just going to sit here and watch you eat.

Me: Don't.

Shucks: I'm just looking at you. Because you're pretty. Not at all because I want your food.

Me: No. Get out of the kitchen and stop whining.

Shucks: I'm not whining, that's dinner music. For you.

Me: You can't have this food.

Shucks: Good, because that is precisely what I don't want...that food right there.

Me: You're breathing on me. Don't breathe on me while I'm eating. Or ever.

Shucks: I'll scoot back a little if you give me a bite.

Me: No. Get out.

Shucks: Joking! That was a joke! hahahahaha! I don't want your food. I'm guarding you.

Me: Mmmmm.....this is really good. A dog would love this food. But you're not a dog. You're a cat. And a fox. You're a....well, there's no good way to combine those two words, but that's what you are. If you were a dog I would give you a bite.

Shucks: Good thing I'm not a dog, because I don't want a bite of that. It looks gross.

Me: It's not gross...it's sooooo good. It has bacon.

Shucks: That wasn't drool you just saw...I was...crying. Out of my mouth. Crying tears of joy out of my mouth because I don't have to eat disgusting bacon.

Me: It has chiiiiiicken....

Shucks: I gave up chickens for lent.

Me: It has cheeeeeeeese....soooo yummy....

Shucks: Cheese? And bacon, huh? And some chickens in there, too? Sounds....gross.

Me: Good, because I'm not sharing.

Shucks: :::Super Death Bark:::

Me: nope.

Shucks: I was talking to the kids. Warning them not to eat the bacon and chickens.

Me: Sure you were. Go outside. You're weird. Don't be weird at the table.

Shucks: Really? That's a rule now? I don't want your food, yo!

Me: :::throws bacon at the dog:::

Shucks: :::eats bacon in mid-air::: Gross! Yuk! Can I have more???

Me: No.

Shucks: Fine. :::sulks away:::

Me: ::::continues dinner:::

Shucks: :::sneak attacks Donovan's plate and eats all the chicken:::

Me: I thought you gave that up for Lent.

Shucks: No. Beer. I gave up beer and smoking.

hollahollahollahollahollahollaholla

This week has been absolutely crazy. My plans for a relaxing spring break were not realized, but I think the kids had a good time, so I guess that's what counts.

I went out to the local hole in the wall bar with my oldest brother this weekend. I messed up his pool game, but he still hung out with me. Nothing like brothers for sticking with you. Also, nothing like being the driver for people sticking with you, either.

There was a dude there who told me he was gonna' have to "holla'" after he asked if I had a boyfriend. I don't like being holla'd at (or on or with whichever thing you do when you holla'). I tried to brush him off with the claim that I had enough kids to scare anyone away. He said "Oh, I love kids...I can support 'em. I'll support those kids, I'm an electrician." Clearly, the man was very drunk. He hadn't even asked for a phone number, yet was offering to support my kids.

A friend of his came to drag him away, and he told me he needed to get my digits first. I said that if digits had anything to do with holla-ing, I didn't have any. His friend thought I was very funny, but the electrician thought I was mean. I wasn't mean, only confused. I am obviously too old for that scene and have no desire to keep up with the lingo.

I stayed out until four that morning, and stayed up until six. When I went to bed, I left my phone out in the living room and woke up to about forty missed calls and eight thousand text messages from everyone who had my kids. I was scared until I realized only one of them was trying to find me for anything having to do with the kids, and the rest thought I had died. That's what happens when you get the flu after drinking one night...nobody believes that you can hold your liquor, and everyone thinks you're dead when you're only sleeping in. Never get the flu when people can mistake it for a hangover. Just don't do it. You'll never live it down.

That about sums up what this week has been like, which, if that doesn't explain why I haven't been posting, throw the kids on top of it and add some lack of sleep. Tomorrow is Monday, so if that doesn't give me some complaint to blog about, I don't know what will.

Call Me Ishmael

I finally got my kids back from my other-mother-in-law yesterday, and I was so excited because my house is boring when I'm the only one in it. They weren't so excited to see me, but they were happy to get home and play with the neighbors. I didn't see them until bedtime.

So today, I decided to force them to spend time with me by trapping them in the car. We headed out for coffee with Tracy, where they made me question my desire to spend time with them because they became instantly high-maintenance.

We (read: I) decided to plan a garden, so we went in search of garden-y things. We got sidetracked by a tiny little used-book store tucked in the back corner of a giant strip mall. We ditched the garden-y stuff and went in search of literature. The store is run by a nice little old lady, who loved my kids. They spent an hour picking out the Perfect Book. This included three books with famous cartoon characters on the front cover, which discouraged me somewhat. I think that the notion of writing what kids will read over kids reading the good stuff that has been written is making our nation stupider. But I digress....they got "character books", full of crappy writing and political correctness. I allowed it because, hey, whatever gets them reading, right?

Dalton chose a book on tsunamis. It turned out to be quite frightening. "The last major tsunami killed over 500,000 people, and workers found at least 500 dead bodies every day for months! Stay tuned for a chapter on earthquakes and hurricanes! Here is the definition of 'disaster'!" I was hoping for some comforting words on how to stay safe and maybe a hopeful survival story or two, considering it was written for children, but no.

Huston was in search of "horror". I don't know how he even knew there was a genre for horror, but I told him absolutely not. He settled for an inspiration book about a person called Captain Underpants. Truly, he is my little genius. So proud of that boy, he finished the book before we got home. This child, around whom I have carefully planted the classics that inspired my own love of reading. He's been reading Mark Twain for two years, C.S. Lewis since he could read words instead of pictures, and here he is, in a quaint little book store full of forgotten treasure, purchasing "Captain Underpants." :::sigh:::

Warrick searched every shelf for "Moby Dick". I don't know why, but his search was intense enough to parallel the story itself. Sadly, there wasn't a copy to be found in the store, so he settled for something else, with a promise to obtain Moby after dinner. I was very impressed when he strolled in and asked "Where do you put the classics?"

After book shopping we met my mother-in-law for dinner, during which Huston quoted the underpants dude at least a thousand times.

We got halfway home and remembered about the garden, so we went to Wal-Mart. We sat on the patio furniture for about two hours, wondering how long it would take to save up enough to buy it, then, just as we were starting to fall asleep and get strange looks from the employees, I decided it was time to go home.

I love spring break. We don't have a garden or patio furniture or anything else we set out to see, but we had a great time, we got half price on the books because they were well-behaved, and I didn't have to cook dinner. All in all, a pretty good day.

Ninja Truck vs. British Petroleum

Ninja Truck: Ok, I'm good now. Just put everything back where you found it and I promise not to leak oil anymore.

Me: Are you sure?

NT: Yes.

Me: Because the last time you said that, you were lying. Remember that?

NT: I thought I was good. But now I know I'm good, just do it.

Me: Ok, because I pretty much just did the exact same thing a second time.

NT: I know...that's all I needed...two times of that, now I'm good to go.

Me: :::puts everything back together:::

Anthony: Hey! Almost done?

Me: Yup! Just replacing the lines.

Anthony: Don't get them too tight.

Me: Pshhhh....I know what I'm doing, yo.

Anthony: :::trying to be patient::: Ok, because sometimes, too tight can leak just as much as too loose.

Me: It took me forever to take these off, so I think they started out pretty tight.

Anthony: :::wisely says nothing:::

Me: Ok, that should do it.

Anthony: Awesome! Start it up and I'll watch for leaks. :::moves oil pan out of the way::: :::positions face directly under former oil drip:::

Me: :::turns on the truck and looks underneath:::

Anthony: Turn it off! Turn it off! TURN IT OFF!

NT: :::major oil gushage all over Anthony's face:::

Me: :::scrambles back out from under the truck, fiddles with the keys, slips off the truck, starts over, finally turns off the truck:::

Anthony: I think these lines may be too tight.

Me: Oh.

NT: Hahahahahahahahahaha!!!

:::Thirty minutes later:::

Me: Anthony, did you get a black eye?

Anthony: :::pauses::: I think it's oil.

Me: Oh, yeah. From my truck?

Anthony: Probably.

Me: Oh. Sorry. The lines were too tight.

Anthony: Yeah.

Me: Ok. Soooo.....you wanna get back under there and see what's leaking now?

First Ever Review Post (Sorta)

Yesterday, I was oh so sick, which I deserved after the way I handled the other sick people in my life by saying "Quit whining and get out of bed." So I basically laid in bed and whined while Tracy brought me food and my mom texted me all day to make sure I was alive and my mother-in-law got the kids an extra few days.

Today, I feel like I was hit by a truck, but still much better than yesterday, which felt like being hit by a truck over and over for six consecutive hours. Much better, and now I'm done whining and back to hating on the whining of others.

Being sick without the kids in the house has been a new experience for me. I got to really be a baby about it, and not have to cook dinner or change any diapers. That meant watching a LOT of TV.

I got addicted to the series "Firefly" which is an amazingly nerdy and awesome show that was cancelled after one season. It ran on Fox in 2002-2003, and featured a world 500 years into the future where Earth had been depleted and humans were forced to terraform and colonize other planets. (Terraforming = almost as nerdy as accounting.)

Nathan Fillion plays the lead, in what is the best (and possibly only) blend of sci-fi and western action I have ever seen. Are you getting clues to how much of a nerd I am deep down? It also stars Adam Baldwin whom I have long had a crush on from his role in Chuck because of the fact that he almost never talks and exists only for extreme badassery.

So, day two of being sick and I have run out of TV shows to watch. I decided to download Serenity (the movie made after the show), because nerds download their nerdy movies and whatnot. I can't wait...this will be the best date ever - Gatorade, Tylenol, and Space Cowboys who are NOT Clint Eastwood, cause, not really a fan of ol' Clint, myself.

Hopefully, when I am well, I can write more than TV reviews for you, Interwebz, but for now, this is what you get.

A Week's Worth of Random

I have been away for awhile because my mother-in-law fell and hurt her knee at work, so the kids and I moved in with her until my father-in-law got back into town. You'd think this would provide a couple thousand excellent blog posts, but sadly, I had access to only a laptop, and I can't type on those, which means no blogging about the last week.

The kids are going to stay with my other-mother-in-law this weekend, so I'm going to be doing some serious partying in the form of studying and cleaning the house and washing all the clothes and bathing the dog.

Here's another thing: Did you know they got rid of the extra space between sentences? When I was learning to type as a kid, there were TWO spaces between sentences. Now, all of a sudden, with no warning, someone decided there should only be one space. Right before I have to take a bunch of typing tests that require only one space. Who did this and what is the meaning of it? I don't think it's right to just arbitrarily change something so fundamental as the two spaces. That's like saying we should all start inhaling twice before we get to exhale. Or we all need to start looking behind us before we reverse the car, right? Ridiculous.

In other news, I have found a job. I found it, but I don't have it yet. The main requirements are smiling and the ability to run a cash register. I can do both of those things as long as I have coffee and nobody tells me what to do. That is what I plan to tell them at the interview, so I'm pretty sure I can land it, no problem.

I took two weeks off from homework and received a note from Huston's teacher about a report he didn't turn in. I should say, I allowed the kids to take off from homework, because they've had a rough week and I just couldn't fight them over it anymore. I warned Huston that he was going to get an "F" on his report, and he chose to flub it and take the grade. The note informed me of this fact. At the end, his teacher apologized for the "bad news". I wanted to move into her house as soon as I read it.

If there is a world where a third grader's F on a book report can be big enough of a deal to be labeled "bad news", I want to go to there. Please, take me there. Because in my house, "Daddy's in a coma" is bad news; "Grandma needs us to move in for a week" is bad news; even "Donovan has screamed for three days straight" is bad news. "The child who can nearly out read his mother got the first bad grade of his life because he was bored with the assignment" is akin to "Emma went outside barefoot and stepped on a sticker". It's not bad news, it's just sh*t that happens, yo. Here's how long I care about a bad grade he got because of laziness: As long as it takes for the report card to go from my hand into the trash can.

Not to say that it's ok for him to be lazy or disobedient with his schoolwork. He was punished for that part of it. I only mean that I just can't bring myself to work up a real good upset over it, because in the grand scheme of things, that book report isn't going to matter a bit. My sincere hope is that I can get to a point where I can worry about book reports and where my keys are and if my cell phone is charged and if someone is going to break into my car and who stepped on a sticker and who made their bed and where the dog went, because oh! what a beautiful world that would be.

Until then, I am going to try to convince Donovan that the people in Japan have it worse than he does this week, and maybe even convince myself that my bad news still pales in comparison to someone else's.

The Cost of A Penny

Tomorrow is fort-building day, except that I'm pretty sure my kids all ditched me in favor of hanging out with their friends. I thought this would be a good bonding thing or whatever. But whatever.

I kind of need their help, because when I sit out there with a hammer and box of nails and build something that looks like a first grader did it, I should at least be able to tell people that a first grader actually did build it.

This is another instance where it's proven that I should have kept the tools and let the couch go, because we never sit in the living room, and I am pretty sure that my ex hasn't...uh...used them. It's so hard to be diplomatic sometimes. Anyway, I should have kept the tools. Because I live somewhere and living somewhere means fixing things and building forts and basically a lot of things involving more than a hammer and a teeny tiny screwdriver for changing batteries in Thomas the Train.

Also, today we discovered that Lowe's is not somewhere you go as a family. It's more like a one person at a time kind of place, because everyone has their favorite part of the store and it's never the same part for any two people. I needed nails, that was it. Easy to find, right at the front of the store. Then, we decided to find a tarp. Those aren't easy to find. We went past the hardware for cabinetry, which enthralled Madilynn. Then, Emma fell in love with the giant toolboxes for pickup beds. Donovan liked the appliances because he quite dangerously fit into most of them. Huston liked the plants. Dalton was entranced by the variety of doors. And Warrick just had to go to the bathroom (note: the bathroom in a home improvement store is always a mile away from what you're there for...it's faster to just go home).

It turns out that the single common denominator for all the kids was handsaws. We were heading to check out and walked past a display of handsaws. Within two seconds, each child was armed and dangerous, playing Luke Skywalker: The Construction Worker. I kept walking and pretended I didn't know them, but it turns out that people had already seen them with me, so I had to "do something about it".

When the saws were all put back in their original spots, more or less, we proceeded to have no less than two hundred arguments about why we couldn't buy all the flashlights near the register while the guy in front of me argued with the cashier about pricing. He wouldn't quit even after I rolled my eyes at the back of his head at least a dozen times.

After we finally got through the register and were all heading toward the door, the cashier (who I learned, during our wait, is currently in her EIGHTH YEAR of college) calls my kids back and asks them if they want a penny. Not if each of them wanted a penny. But if they all six wanted one penny. Again, I was already at the door, mission complete, you know? But no, because they all go running back to fight over the damn penny. So she held it over their heads and said "as long as you don't fight over it." Nice. Luckily, three of them have no interest in pennies, as they have learned that the only coin worth fighting over is one you can stick in a vending machine. The other kids, not so much.

Finally, one of them grabbed the penny and bolted for the door with the rest chasing after. I threw a handful of pennies into the truck and waited till the last kid jumped after them and slammed the doors. Somewhere in all that fuss, we lost the nails. So perhaps our fort will just be boards leaning against trees like the kind I used to spend hours making as a kid. Perhaps it is for the best. Perhaps not, but I now know the nails aren't worth it.

Rock Stars from Mars

I tell you all my secrets, Interwebz. Except for the ones I don't want anyone to know about, because, let's face it, you're a horrible gossip.

Either way, most of the secrets I don't tell you aren't actually mine. Some of them belong to other people, or at least involve other people and I hate getting sued and I also hate getting yelled at, so I try not to tell those things.

Occasionally, celebrities, who live their lives in the public purely for our entertainment, do some things and I'm all "yup...I did that..." because their secrets are better than mine.

And sometimes, those same celebrities don't even bother with the secrets. They just go on 20/20 after their publicist quits and put it all out there. Aren't they kind? Purely for our edification. Celebrities are so giving, you know?

That being said, I may or may not have a very good personal reason that I would love to punch Charlie Sheen in the face, or anything that will make him just stop talking. Only I won't punch him...mostly because I wasn't the lucky person interviewing him, and also because I'm quite frightened of his fire-breathing fists. And clearly, it would be idiotic to mess around with any bitchin' rock star from Mars, but especially one named Sheen.

Since I am so very afraid, will somebody please make him stop? I appreciate his candor and ability to heal his mind with blinking, but I find it disturbing that one person be allowed to say so many words in so short an amount of time. And as much as I love and condone smoking, someone needs to warn him that only dragons should be breathing smoke with every single breath. However, he may actually be a dragon, and that could be the one secret he isn't telling. Possibly, it's why he no longer has a publicist...maybe it's hard to work for a dragon. Or maybe it's only his fists that are dragons? I don't know.

What I do know is that I would like to learn to defeat earthworms (and creatures that suck so bad we just call them earthworms) with my words. That is what this blog is all about -- Earthworm Defeatery! Also, sucky things defeatery. I was obviously lacking purpose before, pursuing all the wrong goals in my quest to live the life I want. From here on out, it's all about the words and the no-more-earthworms and the defeatage. And also the blinky-healy thing...that could be useful, too.

Mushy Stuff

When people hear my story, they tend to wonder if I'm lying. At least, I assume they do, because I would think that if I wasn't the one living it. I have been asked so many times how I handle everything, and I feel the need to clear this up. I don't handle anything.

Mostly, I just drive.

When things go terribly wrong, and I need some time to take care of it, my sisters and my parents are the ones who pick up the slack, not me. They watch my kids, listen to me complain, send over food, run errands and generally take over my real life so that I can focus on the disaster. And I'll tell you a secret, Interwebz, many times, the disaster is easier than my day-to-day life, so they're doing the dirty work while I get all the glory.

When I'm having a bad day, and I need to talk or to laugh, I have a BFF who always knows if I want to talk or just text, if I want coffee or beer, and will also tell me I'm pretty, which, WIN. She also knows when I want to just be left alone.

I have another friend I rarely talk to, who calls me at the just the right times to say just the right things. This has to be very stressful, but this friend has helped me through the darkest times.

I have more friends who live close to me. They do things like watch my kids, bring me things I need, check on me when I'm sick, and show up in my driveway when trouble's brewing.

I have brothers who get late-night phone calls and bring me cigs when I forget to buy them. And I can't tell you how many times they have helped me put my kids to bed, which is the worst thing in the world to do.

My dad loans me money and is always there when I just want to be mad about it all. He helps me think of the best words to use. I know he'll be mad at me for this, but he's also a softie. He's brought me heaters and even (don't tell anyone) babysat a few times.

The people who own Donovan's daycare have helped me find a lawyer, they have sent goodies over for the kids, they have told me to put them on speed dial in case I ever need them (ahem...28 years in the Marine Corps, that's some serious backup), and are even helping me pick out my very own gun. Because I live in the country, now.

My neighbors, who also own my house, have let my kids spend countless hours playing at their house, they take my boys out to do guy stuff, they jump my truck when the kids leave the lights on, and have become very good friends in the short time I've lived here.

Today, as I went through my normal routine, it struck me that these people I see every day, from the couple who owns my favorite gas station, to all of my neighbors, even the people at my school and my kids' school, have become very important to my life. Without them, I wouldn't get through any of this. I would have quit a long time ago. They are the people who keep my life on track. They are the ones who "handle it". I'm just along for the ride.

Second Best Mom, Bless Your Heart

Here's the thing about being a mom...it's a thankless job. Nobody ever comes to you and says "You know? If it weren't for you, the inside of the washing machine would never be clean", because they don't even know it has to be done. Nobody appreciates the fact that it literally takes six hours to obtain food and install it into the pantry. The closest you're going to get is when someone yells "Mom?? Do I have any pants?" and you say yes and they wear them. Instead of pajamas. Basically, when your kid leaves the house in clothing, consider yourself thanked.

Last night, Dalton (who is the king of charm) told me that I am the best mommy in the world and he would've cried if he got any mom but me and the only mom who was ever better than me was Mary, because she was Jesus' mom, but otherwise, I was the best. Warrick, not wanting to get left out, said "I agree. And other parents think you're great, too...that's why they always say 'bless your heart'".

Which, ok, I guess it's not always thankless, because that made me laugh and cry all at once. But it reminded me of a conversation in which someone was explaining why "bless your heart" is deemed as an insult. After reading a little and talking to a few people, I realized that the phrase seems to be an insult if you're from the south. In the south, it's used for people who have just really messed things up. "Oh, well, ever since he got fired, Johnny just sits in the basement and drinks all day, bless his heart." Something like that.

Although I like to think of myself as southern, we don't have the same manners, the same food or the same phrases here, so I know some of my readers are from the south, can you clear this up for me please? Because when someone blesses my heart, I'm all "thanks, man, because dragging these kids through Walmart can't be good for the ticker, ya know?"