I forgot where I was going with this….

Update to the SCOTT’S ORGANIC CHOICE LAWN FOOD NIGHTMARE entry from yesterday: 

I just walked into the entryway to put some stuff by the front door and as soon as I stepped into the entryway I yelled “Someone stepped in dog crap and is stinking up the whole house! Come figure out who it is!” Steve yelled back “I stepped in your f$#(*&$%($& fertilizer! That’s what smells!” OMFG! I picked up his shoes and gagged. I threw them out the front door and shut it quickly. I came back into the kitchen and glared at him. “You are NOT wearing those shoes in my car or in the house again!” He shot back “OH I’M WEARING THEM IN BED! WE WOULDN’T BE IN THIS MESS IF YOU HADN’T PUT THAT SH!T ON THE LAWN!” We glared at each for several seconds before he sighed and said “You probably need to blog that too.”

Son #1 just said “What is with the torrential rain lately, is this Florida?” And I said “Uh, I threw your shoes down the walkway, maybe they’ll get rinsed off.” He yelled “HEY!!!!!!!!!!!!!” and ran out to rescue them. I called after him “Don’t you dare bring those in the house!”

You know what I love best about having a blog? It’s this: when I’ve been wronged by a company, I can blog it and reach thousands of people. I can tell the world about it by clicking away on my keyboard. So I’m yelling it from the roof tops, people! DO NOT BUY SCOTT’S ORGANIC CHOICE LAWN FOOD! Unless of course, you like smelling what I’m sure it smells like at the gates of hell every single time you’re within 100 yards of your lawn.

Ya’ll know I’m the organic, tree-hugging type. So naturally I refuse to dump a bunch of chemicals on my lawn to keep it green and kill the clover. And the clover was taking over. So I dumped a metric ton of cow crap and chicken crap on the lawn. The grass started to win the battle. The downside? Manure stinks. However, now that I’ve discovered Scott’s Organic Choice Lawn Food, I’d rather be sleeping in a bed made of chicken and cow manure rather than smell this stuff.

This is absolutely the worst thing I’ve ever smelled in my life, bar none. It smells like a horrible mixture of vomit, dog crap and death. Steve is ready to move. The neighbors are complaining. Well some are. The more devious ones are laughing as they make wide circles around our house. I’ve tried watering it out, raking it out, you name it. And nothing. I pull up in the driveway, take a deep breath before opening the car door, hold it, then run to front door as my face turns purple from lack of oxygen. Oh, cuz if I don’t hold my breath, I gag.

The gardener is no longer speaking to me. I saw her dry heaving in the driveway trying to clean up the yard last week. She looked up at me, eyes watering and said “I hate you.” I said “Do I have to pay extra for this?”

It rained really hard today which apparently just makes it worse. I drove up today, forgot to hold my breath, opened the door to the truck and like a punch in the face it hit me. My head snapped back, my throat closed down and I started yelling NO! NO! NO! as I ran to front door. So I’d had it. It’s been three freakin’ weeks and it smells like Great Aunt Thelma died and we buried her in the front yard. Then vomited on her. Then the sewer line broke on her. She smells.

I called SCOTT’S today and begged them to help me. The guy told me to just water it in. I told him not only had I watered it in OVER AND OVER, but it had been raining a lot. So he puts me on hold to go check with someone who might know how to keep my nose hairs from getting singed off every time I go outside. He comes back on the line and says “Ma’am. This is an organic product. And with an organic product I’m afraid you’re going to have to smell chicken manure.” “CHICKEN MANURE?!?!” I yelled “THIS ISN’T CHICKEN MANURE! I LLLOOOOOOVVVVEEEEE CHICKEN MANURE SMELL! THIS IS SO BAD WE WANT TO MOVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” He clucks to himself and says “I’m afraid it’s going to smell like that for the next six to eight weeks. Is there anything else I can do for you?” I was stunned speechless. Not even a “can we refund your money?” No apology letter. Certainly not even a coupon so that I can not buy more of their products. The message was clear: we don’t need your business. We don’t care if you tell the whole world how bad your experience was with our products. Hell, we don’t even care that the smell of our product is making people physically ill.

The other day I came out the house and son #1 was sitting on the grass putting on his shoes. “GET OUT OF THERE!” I screamed “IT WILL GET ON YOU!” Even with my frantic screaming he didn’t move fast enough. Son #2 had no idea what had transpired, but ten minutes later when son #1 walked by him he shuddered and said “Ewwwww. You smell like the yard.”

The story continues here.

Many of you know I have a book problem. A big book problem. I’ll say it out loud. I’m a book addict junkie lover. I’ve also passed this addiction love onto my children. I can’t ever just read a few pages at night before bed. I must devour the book. Now. AND ALL AT ONCE. I’m angry if you interrupt my using reading. I. MUST. HAVE. IT. I know it’s waiting there beside the bed for me right now. And unfortunately it’s long enough that I couldn’t finish it all in one day. So I stayed up all night with my crack book. And I must get back to it. NOW. It’s waiting on the nightstand for me. I have to go……

The only thing I can complain about so far in Washington is the state of athletic programs for children. I am SO frustrated. The programs rely on parent volunteers to coach. None of the programs are requiring those coaches go through any sort of training. Consequently, the experience of the children is more often so negative, they quit playing the sport altogether. Son #1 has dropped out of all sports now except baseball. He is playing fall ball and this is the first season he’s ever played without Steve participating in the coaching at least to some degree, and I fear that he’s very close to being done with baseball too. I am SO tired of these archaic attitudes toward coaching.

There was a T-Ball coach this year that told his team of five year olds, that there was going to be no more FUN, that this was SERIOUS baseball. Are you kidding me?!?! A coach for nine and ten year olds told the kids that they couldn’t do sleepovers when they had games. SERIOUSLY! These kids were in FOURTH GRADE!!!! I realize that when I’m coaching I’m bringing years and years of coaching experience to the table so I have a unique perspective. Coaching was my PROFESSION for 12 years. I have coached kids at all levels, all the way to Olympians. And all I can think of when I hear these idiotic statements from these coaches, is that I’ll bet that those kids will be completely burned out by the time they are 15. I’d bet my house they won’t finish college playing that sport. Because I’ve seen it over and over. When a kid is nationally ranked at eight, they are completely done with their sport by the time they are 18. I know this both as a coach and as an athlete. The dedication and sacrifices that have to be made over and over in the name of the almighty sport, will eventually tear down every single athlete. They wake up one morning and think “I just want to be a normal kid/teenager/college student. I want to be able to do what all the other kids do: watch TV/ go to parties/ lounge around.”

Years ago I coached at a high school and I had a kid who was ranked nationally as a 13/14 year old. By the time he was a senior in high school, he was an all-american swimmer and had accepted a full swimming scholarship to Stanford University, one of the most prestigious swimming colleges in the nation. He had been swimming since he was six. One day, during his freshman year in college, I was still coaching at his high school and he stopped by the pool and said “I really need to talk and I think you’re the only person I can talk to about this.” We sat down and he said “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I hate swimming. I hate it with all my heart. I just want to be a normal college student and enjoy life and go to parties and do all the stuff the other college freshman are doing, that I can’t do because of swimming. But I’ve got this scholarship and my family won’t even hear of me saying I hate swimming.” My heart almost broke for this kid. He was an extremely dedicated swimmer. He was extraordinarily talented and a coach’s dream. But you could see in his eyes, he was defeated. He was completely burned out. I explored his feelings and motivations with him before coming to the conclusion that he had nothing left to give to swimming. Sadly, I suggested that maybe taking a little break might help him refresh himself. He shook his head. I think he knew what he wanted to say, but was afraid to say it out loud. Finally he did say it. “I want to quit and never go back. What do I do?” I told him he needed to go talk to his coach honestly and tell him everything he had just told me and see what he said. I told him that it was ok with me if he quit. He seemed like he needed permission. He came back to the pool a few days later smiling like I had never seen him smile. He had had that conversation with his coach and his coach told him the same thing I did. It wasn’t worth doing anymore. So he quit. It was a shame too. He could have had a great college career and possibly an Olympic career. This isn’t a unique story. I’ve seen it over and over throughout my coaching career. Part of burn out is perpetuated by the parents. Because within 24 hours of him quitting, his mom was down at the pool screaming at me that I had made him quit and his life was ruined. Parents who are trying to live out an athletic career vicariously through their children will always do more harm than good. Kids don’t need to “get serious” about their sport. They need to do it because they love it. A coach’s job is merely to give the kids the tools and skills they need to be the best that they can be while making sure at the same time they they never lose their love for their sport. What these parent coaches continually fail to understand is that you can make the experience fun and get the most out of the kids without making it seem like work.

For example, I can make kids do sprints. OR I can tell them we’re doing “blue jean relays.” I can offer prizes like candy bars to the winning relay and have these kids work twice as hard as they would if we were just doing sprints. With blue jean relays, they wear their jeans in the pool while doing the sprint relays, which creates an incredible amount of drag. It forces them to really work and serves as a kind of weight training exercise and the kids LOVE it. They think it’s hilarious. And they’re so exhausted by the end of this, they can barely lift themselves out of the pool. But I got 110% out of them instead of 85% and they leave still loving swimming. This type of coaching philosophy is new in the last decade or so. What coaches on the cutting edge of their sports are finding out is that BALANCE is what keeps these kids in the sport. It reduces injuries. It quells burn out. When I was swimming, the philosophy was the more, the better. I could bench press more than my body weight. I swam an average of 10 miles a day. We ran 5 or 6 miles before we even got into the pool, doing hundreds of push ups and sit ups before we got in. What did it get me? Injuries to my back, shoulders and knees. Injuries that I still feel to this day and four surgeries didn’t fix. Career ending injuries.  

These old school, hard core, “toughen ‘em up” attitudes are idiotic and destructive. I want to throw up when I see coaches of elementary school aged children allowing only the best kids to play or allowing only the stronger kids to play the better positions. I got news for you, Coach. You’re only as good as your weakest player. Because any team can have a talented kid or two. And those children will thrive under any circumstances, because of you or in spite of you. What proves how well you can coach is how all the other kids are doing. How much improvement your weakest player shows. Any sports fan knows that depth, not the star players are what wins games. And depth only happens if you can build a team. You’re always going to get a child or two that is a coach’s dream. Kids with more talent in their pinky finger than the rest of the kids put together. But if you don’t know how to harness their talent, make them truly love their sport, feed it, and watch it grow, you still failed as a coach. I know many of the old school coaches believe their methods get results. You may still win that trophy, but what did the KIDS gain from the experience? And at what price? Will they still be playing five years down the road? There’s a better way. As a coach, if you don’t care how each and every player on your team is improving and you are only focused on how good you can make that one player, or your child, YOU HAVE FAILED. You’re in it for the wrong, selfish reasons. Get out before you hurt some more kids.

I was talking to one of the Senseis at the dojo the other weekend. I told him how I thought he was absolutely fantastic with the kids. I was so grateful that he was teaching their minds as well as their bodies. He was teaching them life skills and sport at the same time. Son #1 loves karate like he’s never loved another sport and I’m watching him push himself harder than he’s ever pushed himself because he wants to. He wants to work hard for this Sensei and he wants to be as good as he can be. I thanked him. And you know what Sensei said? “My wife is a teacher and we are trying to change the world one child at a time.” So am I, Sensei, so am I.

So I guess you’re wondering where I’m going with this. Sigh. I caved. I am the head coach for son #2’s basketball team. Because I want him to play sports because he loves the sport. And if he doesn’t want to play anymore, I want it to be for the right reasons, not because he had a lousy coach. I’ve finally realized why all these parents were asking me to coach even though I keep insisting I don’t know much about basketball. Coaching is an art. Not just anyone can do it. You may know more about a given sport that I’m coaching, but I can guarantee you that I’ll still get better results. I’ll put my new age coaching philosophy (teach fundamentals, teach the mind, make it fun) up against your old school coaching attitudes any day of the week. You’re only as good as your weakest player, Coach. Remember that.

I was visiting Melissa’s blog last night, laughing my hindquarters off, when I get to the end of the post and realize—DOH! I’ve been tagged. Yes, I was specifically picked to tell you eight random facts about myself.

1. I hate reality TV. I can not understand how people WANT to humiliate themselves on national television. Those jackasses jumping up and down behind reporters? I almost die of embarassment for them. I can’t watch. It’s worse than public speaking. I don’t like cameras, watching myself on camera, and even pictures are a stretch. It’s an illness, I know.

2. Here’s a random fact: As a freshman in high school, I was named Varsity MVP for swimming. I lettered all four years in swimming.

3. By the time I was ten years old, I had a cake decorating business. That’s right folks, you can just call me mini Martha.

4. People that have been coming here for a long time know that I hate feet. That’s right, feet. I can’t stand ugly feet. And it’s very rare that people have attractive feet. Sometimes it makes me nauseous just looking at someone’s feet. <shudder>

5. If you met me on the street, you would think I have a “west coast” accent. When we moved to the west coast from Louisiana when I was a teenager, I used to sit in my room and practice saying words like a Californian because I was teased so relentlessly. My “west coast” accent is nearly flawless, except if I’m drunk, tired or talking to another southerner. There are still words I struggle with constantly and sometimes you will hear me repeating a word several times to get it right. Words I still struggle with: towel, stroller, Tyler, horrible, wash, and thing (if I’ve been talking to someone from the south. THANG is hard to shake.) Actually, most words that end in “er” are hard. It’s sort of like the Hollywood actors who have had a voice coach and are imitating an accent. I slip up every now and then.

6. I loathe dirty children. I can’t stand snotty noses, dirty faces or smelly kids. My children are bathed, with their hair washed, every single day. Their clothes are clean and unstained. Even when they are sick, I will bathe them before taking them to the doctor. My children have never been out in public in their pajamas. When the kids were younger, if my friends or relatives brought over their kids and they were dirty, into the bathtub they all went. Dirty kids don’t leave my house still dirty. Now that the kids are older, I have to tolerate more filth from other children. But in the summer, I tell them it’s time to play in the sprinkler. That way, kids still leave clean. I’m sneaky that way. You wouldn’t believe how bad fifth graders can start to smell. It’s another illness, I know.

7. I love numbers and hate math. I memorize tons of numbers like phone numbers, birthdates, social security numbers, driver licenses, credit card numbers, etc. It’s frightening the strings of numbers stored in my head. I have to focus to NOT memorize every phone number I dial or pattern of numbers I come across. But math? HATE. IT.

8. I can change a tire. In fact, when I was 7 months pregnant, I ended up with two flat tires while Steve was out of town and changed three of the tires that afternoon because I had to put the spare on the back. I was so pregnant that when I sat down, I had to open up my legs so that my belly could rest on the ground while I was changing it. When son #1 was in first grade I got a flat tire at school and as I was scooting under the car (the spare was stored underneath) a crowd of moms gathered to watch me because none of them knew how to change a tire and all of them wanted to know why I didn’t call road service. (Duhhh, I can have the tire changed and be gone before road service even gets there.)

So there you have it, eight, random, weird facts about yours truly. And guess what? I’m passing the meme onto: Jessica, Alfred, Judy, Hotfessional, Mommy has Tattoos, A mommy story, Jeff, Charlie, Beau, Heather, Dr Bolte, Brandy, and Dawn.

Son #2 is still home recovering from surgery. Today he finally made some progress and seems to be feeling dramatically better. Consequently, he wanted to call everyone he knows and chat. Lately he’s been frustrated with me because when he asks for someone’s phone number, I forget to tell him to dial the 1 first and then he has to hang up and redial. So today, I thought I was being EXTRA smart and gave him a list of phone numbers with my mother-in-law’s (Nana) phone numbers, my grandmother’s and my aunt’s phone number. And son #2 dutifully made the rounds and called and chatted with everyone. About thirty minutes later I heard him on the phone again, and since he had already called everyone, I asked who he was talking to. “Nana” he says cheerfully and kept chatting. Less than an hour later, he’s on the phone again and I ask him who he’s talking to. “Nana!” he again replies very cheerfully. He waited less than 20 minutes and called her at work again. I am sure I am Nana’s FAVORITE now.

The fifth time I heard him call her I asked if I could talk to her. I said “I bet you LOVE ME right now and am SO THANKFUL I gave him your work number.” She laughed and said “Well, now I’m just answering the phone ‘This is Nana.’ ” I know she is SO loving me because he called three more times before she went home. I’m writing the book on winning friends and influencing people.

Talk about panic. A complete heart attack. I typed in the URL of my blog, and suddenly I’m looking at a p()rn page. I stared open mouthed and went “HOLLLLLLLLEEEEEEEEYYYYYYYYYYY SH!!!!!!!!!!!!TTTTTTTTTTTTTTT! They hijacked my blog!” And of course, as what always happens when you accidently open up one of ‘em pages, the kids are talking to you and about to walk into full view of your screen. I started to sweat and frantically tried to click on another window, when…..my computer just hung there. Sh!t the bed, with p()rn on the screen! “DAMMMITTTT!!!!!” I screeched, which only made the kids take notice.  So I slammed my laptop shut, sweating, cursing and praying the kids didn’t see that. After they walked away and my heart rate returned to normal, I sat there wondering how I was going to fix this. I mean it’s not every day your blog gets hijacked by a bunch of perverts. Ok, well maybe yours does, but mine doesn’t.

I carefully looked around to make sure I’m not in danger of being surprised by the kids again. I slowly open my laptop again. Yep. It’s p()rn. I checked the URL again. Yep. It’s mine. Another thing I learned after having to throw my body in front of the screen to protect the children’s eyes and innocence is that if you click ANYWHERE on the window, like, to try to close or move it, it opens up, like, forty more windows, with penises and vaginas galore. I’ve had to yank the power cord out of the wall before  while screaming NO! NO! NO! It really tends to draw attention to yourself, if you ask me, but when I panic, I can’t help myself.

I carefully made sure to open another window clicking FAR AWAY from the offending window. I don’t even want to move that window or for sure I’ll be looking at a three foot long penis. Miraculously, my blog comes up. So I peer closer at the OTHER window. I check the URL again, I notice that it IS my URL but one letter was left out. So somebody intentionally stole my blog URL for a p()rn site so that if someone makes a typo, they get the p()rn. Isn’t there a law against this?! Those chicks don’t even look like me!

Fashion designer Mark Ecko just bought Barry Bonds’ homerun ball, number 756, that broke Hank Aaron’s career homerun record, for three quarters of a million dollars and is leaving it up to the public to decide what should be done with it. The choices are: give it to the hall of fame, brand it with an asterick or launch it into outer space. Voting ends September 25. Go VOTE!

4:21 pm

Son #1: Mom? Why’s the sink making that weird gurgling sound?
Me: Because it knows your father is gone and it’s trying to–
Son #1: Commit suicide?
Me: Sigh. Yes.

Oy! You know that sequestering in a hotel for four days stuff Steve has to do all the time? Guess what? He’s sequestered in a hotel for four days again. Didn’t we just do this, like, 2 weeks ago? Let’s hope the plumbing doesn’t find out until he’s back. The sink looks like it knows though and I thought I heard the toilet telling the shower he’s gone.

Yesterday I called son #2’s doctor in desperation. He had stopped eating, drinking and talking. I was also out of narcotics. I’m still dosing him every 2-4 hours around the clock and he’s been in a ton of pain. I come to find out from the nurse that he was on the “minimum” amount of pain meds. It’s a shame it’s not possible to reach through the phone and choke people. Because that’s what I wanted to do. So they increased his meds by 75% and whaddya know? This morning he is talking, he even ate a little and drank something. He also appears to have come down with a cold or something. Sigh.

I am paying the babysitter’s way through college. I’ve discovered that once both kids are in elementary school full time, you need one chauffeur per child. Because come four o’clock, one’s got soccer here, the other has baseball there. One’s got karate here and the other has scouts there. ACTIVITES ARE ALWAYS AT THE SAME TIME AT OPPOSITE ENDS OF TOWN. That’s the law. If you have kids, you know what I’m talking about. With Steve gone and son #2 house bound, I think I might ask the babysitter to just move in. lol.

I’m in desperate need of coffee. I haven’t made friends with the new espresso maker still. Sure, we’re acquaintances, but we don’t know each other well enough to make sweet, beautiful brew together. I’ve been staring at an empty coffee cup for half an hour. I want to get up and talk to the espresso maker, but I’m afraid of rejection………… Ok, I’ve worked up the courage. I’m going to go flirt with the espresso maker. Otherwise I’m going to slump over and slip into a coma. Wish me luck!

This was my Sunday morning:

7:12 am son #2: <pokes, whispers> Mommy? If there was a regular bear and a saber tooth bear, would the saber tooth bear win?
Me: Mmmmm……Yes….shhhhh, sleeping……
Son #2: <breaks into song about a garden or something>
Me: Shhh, still sleeping…..
Son #2: Chatterchatterchatterchatterchatterchatterchatterchatter chatterchatterchatterchatterchatter chatterchatterchatterchatterchatter chatterchatterchatterchatterchatterchatter chatterchatterchatterchatterchatterchatter chatterchatterchatterchatterchatterchatter
Me: MMmmmmm. Sleeping. Daddy’s in the shower. Go get in there with him……
<silence>
7:28 am <poke>
I open one eye to see him grinning widely and scrubbed clean.
Me: Still sleeping…..
<silence>
7:29 am <pokes this time with something hard> son #2: Read to me! <oh, a book, yay.>
Me: <one eye open again> Still sleeping, baby.
Son #2: REEEEEAAADDDDDDD TOOOO MEEE!!!!!!!!!! read read readreadreadreadreadreadreadreadreadread …..read? read read read read read READ!!!!
Me: Mmmmm, sleeping……
Son #2: <peers closely holding one eye open> Mom! Sometimes when I’m sleepy and I have one eye open and the other one is sleeping, *I* still can read! So read to me????????? READ?!?! Readread read readreadreadreadreadreadread!!!!
Me: Mmmmm. I can’t read with my eyes closed. I hear Daddy downstairs, aren’t you hungry?
Son #2: Yes! But when I come back, READ TO ME?!?!?!
Me: Mmmmmm ok.
7:43 am <POKE!> OK READ NOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Steve says I should clarify why I’m so tired. Son #2 had surgery last Wednesday and I’ve been having to give him pain medicine around the clock. I’ve been giving him meds every 2-4 hours since Wednesday. And he only wants me. My undivided, constant attention. So I’m not being mean for stalling for sleep time, I’m exhausted.

My search engine referrals are an endless source of entertainment. Sometimes I will sit there laughing so hard I’m crying. Other times I will just stare blinking at the screen in shock. And sometimes I wonder how whoever searched for this, gets through the day without a helmet. So now, for your perusal, some search terms from the last seven days along with some color commentary from yours truly:

trampoline slut (so jumpy with the whoriness)

how to speak slowly (Directions: move mouth and tongue s-l-o-w-e-r)

devil bag alcool (What the hell?! No pun intended.)

sex free (oh that’s here…)

naked cooks (so is that)

breakfast power balls (scrotum for breakfast?)

satanism (right here, people!)

“jewish guilt” “catholic guilt” (we hold regular seminars here)

morphine 4 mg. 13 yr. old toe broken (I hate it how my toe is younger than me)

” headache which I still have.” (I hear that’s an actual medical diagnosis)

“naked activities” (I regularly list those: Bathing, cooking, gardening……)

jet puffed fudge microwave (Willy Wonka, is that you?)

jesus and coffee (These are a few of my favorite things!)

germaphobe stay at home mom (Finally! Someone came to the right place.)

smart ass wife (who me?!)

quotes about eating crawfish (Ok here’s mine: “Do NOT eat crawfish and then touch your eyeballs, your privates or someone else’s sensitive parts. ” That’s just sound advice when your hands are full of cayenne pepper.)

bathe me rant (I would LOVE for someone to tell me where I can find the real bathe me rant.)

my dog is very sick from eating candy corns (Oh, honestly!)

characteristics of a squirrel in a dream (They’re all chattery and running around. Oh and it means you will eat lots of nuts tomorrow.)

“candy corn addiction” (I feel your pain. Betty Ford can help.)

when are you going to paint in spanish (Well, usually I like to paint in English. My Spanish paintings all end up having mustaches.)

+”white trash” +symbol (It’s a mullet. I can’t believe you didn’t know that.)

dirty roses are red poems (I get this one nearly every day. So here you go: Roses are red, violets are blue, Trash is dirty and so are you.)

torture bra (I’ve got a few of those. Would you like to borrow one?)

crunchy pain in chest (You’re eating too many chips. Lay off.)

are we going to san francisco (Sigh. You’re asking me?)

Susan naked (Yeah, um… she even cooks like that!)

photos susan naked (I’m sorry, she’s not cool with me posting those.)

clean my chi (I am CONSTANTLY trying to clean my chi. It gets so filthy!)

I think I’m going to get fired (Perhaps you should get off the internet and get to work?)

afro hair timeline (Look. It started when I was a kid. It keeps getting bigger. There’s nothing I can do about it.)

nipple twitch (Ew. I hope I don’t get one of those.)

bycicle seat with testicle hole (Right. They’re also developing one with a hooha hole.)

strawberry sex free (Aw, Ms. Shortcake, you’re better than that.)

soapy penis (Silence.)

“scuba diving” “take a dump” (ooooohhhh. I’m going to pretend I didn’t read that.)

did a dingo take the baby (Why yes. That dingo stole my baby!)

whore slap face (Stare. Blink.)

dream rat biting a squirrell (I’ve noticed they fight a lot.)

I swear. All the weirdos come here. Sigh.

I’ve got an arachnid problem. The kids are catching bugs and putting them in spider webs to help the spiders. They’ve named the spiders and told me I am not allowed to touch the webs. Except my yard now looks like a haunted house. And I almost walked straight into a 2.5 inch spider at the front door. We screamed at each other. I was louder. I informed Earl, or whatever his name is, that he was moving. I promptly took a stick swooped through the spider web and Earl ungratefully attacked my stick. With his fangs still in my stick, I scolded him on making webs at face height where I can walk straight into them.

I have news for all the spiders. They are all relocating. They are the hugest, fatest spiders I’ve ever seen, grotesquely overfed by the boys. I have now made a rule that only spiders in the garden can be fed. Apparently now that the spiders look like they’ve been on ‘roids, they were scaring the kids too and they have happily agreed to stop feeding the spiders. <shudder>

You all depend on me to get to the hard-hitting topics. I know this and I take this responsibility very seriously. Therefore, today’s post is all about vasectomies and the men who have them.

We’ve been doing an informal survey for about a year now. Talking to people who have had them. I know, it’s a great dinner topic so you can depend on me to bring it up. Most of the men said with a whole lot of bravado ”It’s not too bad.” while the woman said “Oh please, he was SUCH a baby.” It took years for Steve to even warm up to the idea of sharp objects near the boys. He finally found some people who said they did no scalpel, no needle vasectomies. I was like “Um they’re lying” but who am I to burst his bubble? Because we were out of options. I’m allergic to latex and nonoxyl9 and I can’t take the pill. And NO WAY am I leaving it up to the rhythm method. Oh HAY-ELL NO.

So on Friday I’m at the gym with my trainer and I said “Steve’s finally getting the vasectomy tomorrow.” And he grimaces and says “Oh poor Steve.” Indignant I said “POOR STEVE? DO YOU KNOW WHAT I WENT THROUGH WITH PREGNANCY AND LABOR?!” That Sean, he’s a smart man. He just smiled. Then he said “I heard it feels like you got kicked in the nuts for a few days.” I scoffed. “Pulllleeeezzzzz. We talked to a whole bunch of people. No one mentioned that. Besides, DO YOU KNOW WHAT *I* WENT THROUGH?!?!” Sean wisely shrugged and said “I’m just saying that’s what I heard…..”

Saturday morning rolls around. I stagger out of bed at 7 am, already grouchy because he’s been in the shower so long I know there’s no hot water left. Pre-op instructions were to shave the coin purse. Dr. Evil insists there’s nothing like a shorn scrotum. It’s breathtaking, I assure you. I stomp into the bathroom. Where I scowl at him and tell him to get the hell out the shower. Then I see. It. OMFG. It looks like Mr. Bigglesworth.

I scowled further and said “It looks like Dr. Evil’s cat! It’s all pink and ugly and what’s with the porn shave?”

He said “Don’t look at it like that with disdain. I was trying to neaten it up. I think it’s quite tidy!” Horrified I said “It’s disgusting!” I think I hurt his feelings, but at this point, my horror is outweighing any sense of social decorum. I shuddered and stomped back out the bathroom. A few minutes later I have to pass him and it again and I made a face again and ran for the shower. About a half hour later I notice the set of his mouth. The tightness when he talks. He is NOT HAPPY. He is really not looking forward to this. Why? I have no idea.

So we part ways around 9 am. The kids have karate, so he has to go by himself to plop Biblo Baggins down on a table and have it replumbed. Incidentally, he says the worst part of the whole thing was having Mr. Biggelsworth taped up to his stomach to make sure he stayed out the way.

See? Dinner topic. Another thing no one mentioned. But I’m just letting you all know. Cuz I’m cool like that. Anyway, I never told him what Sean said because I was SURE Sean was wrong. About two hours after surgery, he’s breathing in a way that tells me he’s still not having fun. Why? I have no idea. He shifts his legs gingerly and says “It sort of…..feels like…..like I got kicked in the nuts.” I exploded with laughter and he looked bewildered. I had some ’splaining to do.

We’re now on day two of “I got kicked in the sacajawea.” He’s still not happy. I’m forcing Tylenol down his gullet, because lemme tell ya, he is GROUCHY. And all guardy with the church bells. But really, you should feel the sympathy for me. Because I now have to live with Mr. Bigglesworth.

Do I look fat? No junk in my teeth? I’m all teary and I don’t want to mess up my make up. My peeps are showing me such love. First, my new bestest buddy Hotfessional awarded my post on how much I was struggling over my youngest finally starting all-day school a perfect post award for August. Sniff. You are so sweet. Mmmmmwwwwaaaaa!

Then if that wasn’t enough, my sug-ah sweet OTHER bestest new buddy, Judy, awarded me a you make me smile award. I’m, sniff, feeling so much love here, sniff sniff.

My duty after receiving such an award is that I am supposed to pass it on to ten people who make me smile. I award this to the people who make me laugh before I can even see what their comments say, or make me smile when I see they have a new entry. Thank you for all the smiles you bring to me. In alphabetical order: Acid Indignation, Boh-logging, Hearts Wide Open, Maryamie, My life as a Hotfessional, Oh the Joys, Pointless Drivel, Space and Time, Texblog, The Underpaid Kept Woman.

Oh look, a wardrobe malfunction. I knew I should have worn a bra instead of pasties….

For the last 18 years, Steve and I have had an unresolved issue in our relationship. We have tried seeking help from friends and family, but we have been unable to get past this disagreement. It’s now affecting the children and causing a great divide in our family. Today, the argument started all over again. Please help us, dear internet. Weigh in on this issue! I won’t tell you who is on which side until the polls are closed. Please help us save our family!

OK, SO WHICH IS IT?

I was reading the news online last night and I said “Hey, Jenna Fischer split from her husband…” but Steve didn’t say anything so I looked up to see him grinning and he says “So you’re saying I have a chance……” lol.

The more “famous” you become as a blogger, the more you come in contact with the trolls. I’m not sure what possesses people to enter a chatroom, go on a blog, or just roam the internet looking for fights. I’ve seen a lot of good people brought to their knees by trolls. I’ve seen flame wars and unspeakable things said. Why? Any normal person doesn’t just walk up to someone they don’t know and start a fight. Is it that the cloak of invisibility they wear on the internet is what they think is protecting them? Let me let you trolls in on a little secret: You are not invisible. And if you leave a comment on my blog, your IP address is recorded. Then, with my very savvy skillz I can track you to where you live. Hell, you don’t even need to leave a comment, I can still see you. I can even use satellite technology to look at your house. And I will do it.

Awhile back there were some kids messing around and they left an anonymous message on my blog saying they were going to kill themselves. I had a friend who killed himself so I take that very seriously. Using my mad detective skillz, I tracked them to where they lived. They were not Americans which complicated the matter. I had to contact police in another country. They felt the threat was serious enough that they went out to the house to investigate. It turned out to be some kids thinking they were funny. It didn’t turn out to be very funny when the police showed up.

My point? I see you, trolls. This is my living room. You will not come in my house and start a flame war. You will not come into my house and spew venom all over my words. I will not engage with you. I will simply delete you. If your actions require law enforcement, have no fear, that no matter where you live, they will come knocking on your door.

This public service announcement has been provided to you by a woman with two wild boys and PMS. Don’t mess with me.

Ah, the first day of school has come and gone. But I’m convinced that the sadistic school bureaucrats who sent a phone book sized mountain of paperwork that needs to be returned the next day have never had children. And you get TWO phonebooks for two kids! I hate homework for me.

So there I am, bleary-eyed at 11 pm last night trying to fill out paperwork. My eyes were tearing by the time I got to the volunteer paperwork:

1) Have you ever been convicted of a crime?

I dutifully checked yes

2) Have you ever had findings made against you for domestic violence, abuse, sexual abuse, neglect, exploitation or financial exploitation of a child in any legal proceeding?

Again, a big fat yeperoonies.

3) Do you currently have any outstanding criminal charges or warrants for your arrest pending against you? Are you presently under investigation for possible criminal charges?

Yes please!

Pursuant to RCW 9A.72.085, I certify (or declare) under penalty of perjury under the laws of the State of Washington that the foregoing is true and correct.

And I dutifully signed and dated that sucker, so grateful that I am done and can now go to bed. And I’m stuffing it into the envelope to return to school when I feel my subconscious desperately waving and pointing…………..

“NOTHING TO SEE HERE!” I call out to no one in particular.

So I printed another copy, because that’s not the sort of thing you make mistakes about or might change your mind about before sending it in. I snatched it off the printer and Steve says bewildered “What the hell are you doing?!” Again I call out “NOTHING TO SEE HERE! I’m fine! Haven’t been convicted of any crimes! No warrants here!” I left Steve looking puzzled while I went and filled out another five pages of paperwork again.

A huge lightening storm woke me up in the middle of the night last night. As a testament to how old I am, once I wake up in the middle of the night it’s really hard for me to go back to sleep. Sometimes I lay there for hours. During those hours I lay there staring at the ceiling last night, I thought about the legacy my grandfather has left me.

I suppose you could say that I try to travel down the path of self-enlightment. There are people I meet along the way that utterly lack self awareness and there are those, like my cousin, who have a little more experience traveling this road and thus are quite a bit more enlightened than I. I aspire to be more like my cousin, Kelly. She’s thoughtful, probably one of the most emotionally healthy people I’ve met, and certainly the most serene parent I’ve ever known. My aunt tells me she never raises her voice at her kids. She never seems rattled or annoyed. I don’t think I’ll ever be THAT enlightened unless I start doing heavy duty downers, but hey, I can at least aspire to be more serene, right? Lately she’s been into evaluating how our parents and grandparents and their parents and their parents before them leave this legacy down the ancestry line. But it’s not the kind of legacy you think. It’s a legacy of patterns of behavior. A legacy of complex emotional baggage, if you will.

—

My maternal grandfather died December 17, 1992. It’s difficult for me to articulate the essence of my relationship with him. I can remember the smile that would play across his face when he saw me. Or I can still hear the love in his voice when he called me “Dawlin’.” I remember how excited he was when I showed more promise on an air rifle than all my cousins and uncles put together. I can remember how proud he was that I could shoot any pecan out the top of his pecan tree that he picked out in one shot.

I don’t know why, but I can only remember good things from when I was little. Sure, I remember his rage, but it was never directed at me. As a teenager, I can remember him belittling my grandmother. He was viciously cruel. I can so clearly hear his racist tirades in my mind. I can remember how he couldn’t lay eyes on my uncle without using such words as no-good and worthless. One of my aunts is so close to my age that we grew up essentially as cousins. She used to tell me stories of how my grandfather would hold a gun to his head and scream at them that if they didn’t behave, he would shoot himself. He was probably the angriest person I’ve ever met in my life.

One night when I was 15, my mother wanted me to clean the kitchen and like any teen, I back-talked. For the first time, my grandfather turned that infamous rage on me and he was never the same in my eyes. Some part of me that had loved him unconditionally died that night.

As his health and mental accuity declined in the last few years, he was only a shell of his former self. He was no longer an imposing man filled with rage. He was still angrier than any person ought to ever be, but his mind had deteriorated to the point where he rarely raged at all anymore.

The last time I saw him was in April of 1992. In my mind’s eye I have a perfect snapshot of that moment. I knew it would probably be the last time I ever saw him. I made sure that I told him I loved him. On some level, he was still with it enough to understand that we would probably never see each other again. Tears shone in his eyes as he said goodbye and he loved me too. And the image I have of him that is forever etched in my memory, is him framed in the rear view window of the car as we drove away, stooped over with age, waving sadly, trying to smile, both of us knowing it was goodbye forever. I softly waved back as the tears streamed down my face. Sad that I would never see him again. Loving him but hating what he was.

Even with 15 years perspective, my love for him is equalled by hate. For I never have so clearly understood that what he left me was a mother so emotionally damaged, so full of rage herself, that I feel his rage to this day. I recognize his rage inside of me. It is a legacy I do not want to pass on, and yet I know my children will never completely escape it’s wrath. I hope that my grandchildren and great-grandchildren are not also doomed to feel his rage.

My mom was one of six children. Every single one of them has very significant control issues. Ironically, not one of them is aware of their control issues. They are all damaged goods. My no-good, worthless uncle, lived up to the expectation that he would never make anything of himself. That he is no-good and worthless. He drifts through life, jobless, on drugs and living like the no-good, worthless piece of sh!t my grandfather always told him he would be. All six of these children wear very visible scars from years of emotional and verbal abuse.

I understand that my mother is the way she is because of the way my grandfather was, but yet, I cannot forgive her. The buck could have stopped with her. She could have made different choices. And I can not forgive that she refuses to acknowledge that she might be repeating his mistakes. That she might have carried his legacy on to another generation. She revels in repeating the same patterns over and over. She lacks the self awareness required to make changes that will break these patterns. She finds comfort in these patterns of abuse. She thrives on generating hate and rage. She cannot find forgiveness in her heart. She refuses to accept blame. She is always the victim.

THIS is the legacy my grandfather has left me.

In dealing with the current situation with my grandmother, I am encountering this legacy of hate and rage around every corner. It is requiring every ounce of strength and courage I have. I am having to stretch and grow as a person, cope with feelings and situations I’d rather not have to face, all on this road I’m travelling. I know by the way I am being challenged that I am growing. I am becoming more enlightened. I am viewing this legacy with objectivity I’d never had before. The price I’m paying can’t be quantified. It has cost me dearly. But I want his legacy to stop with me.