Catching up with the synapses

I've really needed to blog for a while. I've been having really weird thought and super trippy dreams. We're talking Lucy in the sky with Walter bishop trippy. So, I bequeath to you a sampling of gems from the past time period.

I noticed that all old people everywhere look like old people. Like no matter where you're from, you're going to end up looking like a gnarly apple when you get old.

Dogs don't like taking selfies.

Neither do cats

I was in a play. It was a great experience and super fun. However, it's not something that I'll be doing again. It made me bat crap crazy! Between having real kids and pretend kids, I almost lost my crap. The good news though? I totally looked like mrs. Patmore.

I swear there was more and you all were going to love it, but it seems I'm old and so I can no longer remember the dumb things I was gonna talk about.

On another note, I deduced the crap out of someone based solely on the knot of his scarf. If by deduce, you mean I could tell he has a Pinterest account because I've seen that knot zillions of time on there, then get me a Watson cause I'm amazing! 

iChildren

The boy is a big fan of Xbox. And by big, I mean that he'll throw a freaking fit if he doesn't get to play every single day. It's like Dudley freaking Dursley up in here. But recently he's been talking to this one kid who sounds like a kid. Either that or a foreigner or a munchkin from The Wizard of Oz. But this kid, we'll call him Gamertag, talks to other punk ass kids/teens in their nerdy little xbox Live parties.

One day these punks said something to The Boy like that he was a baby or something. He comes running in crying because these kids are picking on him. A few things popped into my head at this. 

1. Punk ass punks need to check themselves before I wreck themselves.

2. That's life, son. People suck. Learn to deal.

3. Oh god, life is so weird with internet kids.

Seriously, why is there not a guide book for what to do when your seven year old learns about talking to other people on the xbox? Internet exposure has seriously screwed up my parenting style. Though to be fair my style is more of a rough guideline than anything. 

I've noticed while living here in turkey that being unplugged is relaxing. I don't own a cell phone right now. And strangely enough, it's freeing. I'm not worrying about talking to this person or that person. I'm not being constantly bombarded by texts and information and crap. I can just be in the moment. Now if only I could get my kid to unplug and get in the moment.

Things I've learned in therapy.

So, we're getting ready to move to Germany in... roughly the time it takes an adult female human to gestate a tiny human. My therapist has had much to say on this topic. You see, much like crotchety old men and people with certain disorders and stuff, I don't dig change. When we moved here I immediately spiraled rapidly out of control so badly in fact, that I'm only now back on track after what? One year and a few months. No big right? Totes cool? Nope. Not remotely. It was a circle of Hell I wouldn't wish on Nancy Pelosi.

Anyway, my therapist gave me some homework. Hey, she knows who she's dealing with here. She wanted me to make a list of the most important things I've learned here. In regards to dealing with bouts of crippling depression and super spazzified anxiety episodes. So, I thought I'd share some of these gems with you. I went to Jared.

Ah hem...

I have learned while here that I don't react well to change. It makes me wonky. But the important part to remember is that sometimes it's okay to be wonky. You don't have to totally freak out because you'll never be happy again and the world is worthless and there's no point in living in a world if this is all you have to look forward to and blah blah blah... Emotions ebb and flow and that's all right.

I've learned that I'm worth a damn.

I've always had abominable self esteem, and it turns out that most of my problems stem from me not thinking I'm worth it. Like a make up commercial. I still don't wear make up or whatever but I'm starting to really feel like I deserve good things. I deserve to do something good for me. I deserve to be happy. I deserve to have the great relationship I have with my husband. I deserve way more hugs and kisses and gratitude than I get from these little freeloaders I couldn't live without. I deserve to be successful and I deserve to be...

And dangit, people like me. Just last night I found out that an acquaintance of mine, when trying to figure out who I was knew me by the description "the squeaky one". Thanks for that hubster. Anyway, it turns out, she loves me. When I'm all like "Let's do this!!!" She's all like "Yeah, now I really want to do this." And while that might just be a goofy little thing, it meant a heap of a lot that someone I barely know thinks something nice about me. It's really hard to get out of thinking that you're just a giant hunk of crap, and sometimes it's nice to just get that little boost along you know.

Another thing I've learned is something I picked up a long time ago from a kung fu master I was familiar with. I've always thought it was terribly clever, but never applied it to my life.

And it's truth. It's one of the truthiest truths of any truth that ever truthed. Mindfulness. It's a psychobabble term as well as an easterny philosophy. They're a bit different, but essentially the same. Live in the now. Take the time now. Don't spend today worrying about yesterday or tomorrow. You'll tell yourself, I'll deal with life tomorrow, but there's always another tomorrow and another tomorrow and another tomorrow. Which ironically is the day I plan to go to the gym... Regardless. Just be present. Accept what is around you. It's like the serenity prayer or the beatles song. Do what you can with what you've got and the let the rest go. You are only human. I am only human, and as such, can only do so much. I can't change the weather, speed up the harvest, or teleport you off this rock. But I can do something about some things.

I learned that to be happy is not to be manic. To be happy is merely to be content. Let me say that again.

To be happy is merely to be content.

Those people who walk around constantly smiling and bubbly, they're medicated. Seriously. In some of my worst times, people would tell me how bubbly and outgoing I was and I'd be like WTF?!? Sometimes the façade is cheery but the inside is melting away. I used to wonder why I couldn't be like those people, you know the ones who have their shit together. They're all "I'm fantastic" and I'm all like "I hate you. Why are you so perfect? Why can't I be like you?" Which I guess leads us into another thing I've learned and that's to not compare yourself with anyone else. We're all messed up in some way, shape, or form. We've all got something. That perfect mom, she lost a baby. That cheery kid, she wants to waste away and die. That skinny girl, she just threw up a hamburger because her dad called her fat. And maybe not all that extreme, but everybody's got something. The point is that when you realize that you are you, it frees you up to, back to my first point, be content with your lot. Just be content with it all. I can't change my circumstances, so I accept them. That was such a freeing revelation. The entire world is not my problem. I'm not responsible for the manic happiness and wellbeing of every entity on this damn rock. I'm responsible for me. I'm responsible for how I feel. I can't do a damn thing about a lot of things, but I can change how I feel about them. And how I feel about them is content. I just let the things be what they will. It only makes me crazy and cuts weeks off the end of my life, so just chill.

I've learned a great deal about love also. Not like whoooo romantic love. Friendship type love. Love your friends. If you love/appreciate someone, let them know. Just be kind. Be a good person. Believe in something. Love someone. Those are important things. If you can do something nice for someone, do it. It doesn't hurt you at all to check on a friend or to say thank you or to just hug someone. And it certainly won't kill you to look a service worker of any kind square in the eye and say thank you. Be one with your fellow man. After all, once you skin us, we're all the same.

Merry Christmas, merry Christmas, kiss my ass, kiss his ass, kiss your ass, happy Hanukkah.

That's right, folks, tis the season! It's the annual, non-festive first showing of National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. Now before you go telling me useless information like the date, let me just say that y'all are lucky I've held out this long.

Every year, we watch this movie way too many times. And every year, I take something different out of it. Last year was "Merry Christmas. Shitter was full." You really should make sure to check your shitters at this, the Yule loggiest season of all. This year for some reason, it's the part at Clark's office when he tells the line of suits merry Christmas. It's just the funniest thing for some reason.

So our weather just changed over here, and if I pretend the palm trees don't exist, it's almost like being home. And that's another thing. You really can't go home, but by golly, once you've been gone for a while it seems like the happiest place on earth. Sorry Disney, my mama's house is cheaper and the food's better. It's not like its any less crazy than the last time you were there or that somehow your family morphed into the Cleavers. I mean let's face it, we're all way more Griswold than all that. But I just keep feeling the weather and thinking off all these horribly romanticized memories of Christmases passed. 

I think of the time I got a puppy in my stocking, and all the other stuff like that. But it's not just the big things or even the things. It's the feeling of the heater running in an old farm house, curling up in flannel Jammie's, the Christmas Story marathon, and just being together. It's not like we liked each other more, it was just too damn cold to be anywhere else. But it was Christmas, dammit! And now I have to try to make these faux memories with my kids. It's all about the experience, Russ.

Horribles, Hippies, and Hipsters, Oh My!

I  used to write pulp fiction.

No, no, not Quentin Tarantino Fan fic or something weird like that, but actual fiction in the style of pulp. I was always under the assumption that I was at least moderately good, which in my head meant I was a complete freaking genius and the world would soon bow down to my word smithing prowess.

Guess not. Cause today I stumbled upon the first review of anything I've ever written, and while I'll admit, pulp is not at it's core supposed to be award-winning, this jerk was a jerk. That's not really what I want to call him, but whatevs. Rise above it right. Yeah, that's what I should've done. What I did do was go hunting for more reviews, still convinced that this guy was a hapless douche and my brilliance would shine through on something else I had written. Bollocks! The lady that reviewed the other stuff actually used the phrase, "the plot was terrible and horribly executed". Ass hat. I've been told by the hubs that all amazon.com reviews are shit, and that's what I'm going with now. Besides if I don't make it as a writer, I could have a very lucrative career making granola!

Hey, since you bring up granola, I made some groovy granola that I'm going to have with my almond milk tomorrow morning for breakfast. In case  you didn't notice, I've become a bit of a hippie. But it's seriously great granola. Chocolate with chocolate chips and local honey. Mmm... And something funny happened to me on the way to eating dinner tonight. I freaked out all the hell over a bag of chicken breasts. All I could think of was that this used to be a living chicken. I was cutting up dead animal tissue. I was a mutilator. O.O It really wasn't as cool as Dexter made it seem.

 And then it made me really sad. I was kinda flailing around like a freakshow, mumbling about chickens.

I'm not sure that's what my dad had in mind when he let his hippie-ness rub off on me. Though I was thinking today that he did kind of raise me to be a hipster.

Hysterical book, btw, if your dad still did things like wear waaaay cut off shorts and stuff. But he always had on some kind of groovy tunes. The first one I can remember is Arlo Guthrie.

"The Pause of Mr. Claus" by Arlo Guthrie

He starts by hassling the FBI, making very astute observations about society and then sings a song about Santa Claus being a Communist beatnik. Winning! I even discovered it on a basement expedition on a freaking 8-track, the only one left. You might say it was fate that lead me to this...

Oh, hey, I said Communist while talking in a round about fashion about my dad. There's a funny story about that. So my dad came to visit me on base. Like a military base, and we're getting his gate pass so he can come on base, and he looks at the cop guy behind the counter and goes, "I am not now, nor have I ever been a member of the Communist Party."

And hey, speaking of Communists, didja hear about how Vladimir Putin said stuff about peace and whatnot? Then people are all, "Dude is ex-KGB (as far as they know...), how peaceful is he really gonna be?" To this, folks I have the answer. He got it out of his system and now relies on his reputation. It's like me and this one poor gangly kid that used to work for the hubs. He was kind of terrified of me, it's only because I get the mother of all Napoleon Complexes when I drink. Regardless, I was never gonna beat him down or anything like that, but he knew if I felt the need, I'd probably just smack him. It's the same thing. I'm cool like Vladimir Putin.

Look at that, I covered my day, my dad, and even threw in current events. WHAT!

Foodventure No.2 Aspartame

On this edition of A Hapless Foodventure, I'd like to talk to you about a subject near and dear to my heart and probably the brain tumor I'm gonna find out I have: Aspartame.

This is where the intro music goes. It's something between the NBC Now you know thingy and the PBS Masterpiece music.

So when I was in high school, for one of my small town snooty so not so snooty science classes, we had to write a paper, APA format, 6-8 pgs, double spaced, size 12 Times New Roman, on a controversial topic in science. First I thought about time travel, but it totally tripped me out, man. Then a friend suggested I investigate the topic of Chi Energy... I leaned over and gingerly rested my chin upon the molded plastic surrounding the most sacred of beverages and then it came to me, like a beacon in the night. I would write my paper on the Aspartame that sweetened the Diet Coke I already drank with frightening frequency.

My science teacher was actually impressed by my not memorable essay proclaiming the dangers of Aspartame from it's weird combinations of Amino Acids, to it's forming formaldehyde. She commented though that it made her think twice about giving her kids Crystal Light all the time. Not enough to stop poisoning them with yummy fruit flavors, but she thought about it. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, but it's the thought that counts.

I was thinking though, I haven't heard much about Crystal Light in the past few years. Aside from their weird commercials with women dancing with scarves or something that happened to coincide with the rising popularity of the Mio liquid water flavor enhancer thingy. I'll admit, sometimes water is boring. Nothing but two Hydrogens mushed to an Oxygen held together by a weak nuclear force or something laced with chemicals to make it more palatable. Kinda boring right? But you throw some burst of flavor and color into that and suddenly...

And the part that nobody seems to notice or care about is that there's Aspartame in Mio, too. It's not healthy. It's not a good food option. Really, it probably has no "food" in it. It has a chemical sweetner to start out with, and a weird color. And don't let them fool you with "natural colors", they're just the ones they put in a corn base. But that's not what we're talking about here. What I'm talking about is how I've been totally duped! Duped, I say! Into thinking that drinking Diet Coke will keep me slim and svelte like the logo, didja notice??? But really, it freaks out your system making it think it's getting sugar and therefore energy but it's not so it's like WTF and stuff. On top that, the part that plagues me most is that it can give you headaches, anxiety, depressed feelings, a bad attitude, and a brain tumor.

So my Diet Coke induced anxiety and headaches that are probably precursors to the brain tumor pushing on my be nice and tolerant to children I didn't birth gland are going to part ways... I hope.

Food Stuffs Journey

Today, I'd like to address a fact of my life that is glaringly apparent. I'm a chunky monkey.

That being said, I also feel like cat dirt most of the time and my ... times of the month... are a bear. Not the cute little Coca-Cola polar bear from my youth, like a ravenous, man eating, blood thirsty grizzly bear. So I was thinking... Self, do you suppose that perhaps, eating all this chemically derived shit posing as food has something to do with the fact that you're fat and losing your marbles? Why yes, Self, I think that may be the ticket. And so  here we are... stuck between a Tastycake and a hamburger.

I have a friend who recently did this whole 30 thing where you like only eat whole foods but no dairy, gluten, or sugar. It worked out well for her so I thought, what the hay, hey! Then I went, waitaminute, Self, What are we doing? And Self, who was moderately freaking out, replied, I DUNNO MAN, I DUNNO. I'M FREAKIN OUT MAN, I DON'T THINK I CAN DO THIS BRO. THIS IS A BAD IDEA... And so here were are again. Twinkies and potato chips

But this time, I thought, Self, you can't just sit on your fat arse and do nothing, and clearly the post-it note you put on the fridge ordering you to "Walk Away Fatty" hasn't helped, so you should take a step. So I've decided to cold turkey quit Diet Coke. ZOMG!!! I'm pretty sure I'm gonna go into convulsions any time now, and I may or may not have been disowned by my othermother. It seems to be my nicotine. I quit, then I fall off the wagon, then I quit, then I swan dive off the wagon into a Coca-Cola factory and drown in the stuff. But this time is different... Yeah... Different.

I used to be a vegetarian/vegan. It started out well enough, but did you know that French fries and Diet Coke are vegan? I did... So I consumed. If there is a stereotypical example of the American plagued by junk food, even though she knows way better, it is me. I am that example.

So here I am, stuck in the middle of sweet tea and some spaghetti. That's burning right now.

These... are the days... of their lives...

I was gonna write this a while ago and call it "My daughter married a guido". But I didn't, and I'm glad I didn't because sooooooo much has happened since then.

It all started one Sunday morning when my friend and I left the kids with her hubs. Our two littles's who are both 4 had a good time. We went to the market to buy fruit and when we came back, Her Boy was wearing "wedding pants". We were also informed that they had got married "for real" and kissed in the closet "for real". Then later The girl saw "her husband" in his underwear, and when they were playing at my house, they both came out of The Girl's room with her dress around her shoulders. EEK!!! I'm going to assume that's the preschool equivalent of consummation.

Not to worry though, eligible bachelors, because, on the way to school later that afternoon to pick up the biggles's, they broke up. It turns out that she had her feet on his feet in the wagon, and well...

A few weeks later, Her Boy informed us that they were gonna get married. He said, "We're gonna get married."

But then, a few days later, the kids were all hanging out in my carport. There are a handful of them, they're all four, and they're like a freaking gang. Anyway, I walk out and overhear... "No! We broke up!" So I ask other Boy, "Who'd you break up with?" He says The Girl, so I'm all like

And then the other day, all the kids were back over at friend's house. When I picked them up, she told me that she had to tell the two littles's that, no, they could not go upstairs and kiss. O.O

Seriously. OMG!!! These kids are gonna give me a coronary. I swear. Hubs wants to buy a gun just for all the little punk ass kids gonna be hittin' on shawty. Or whatever the kids are sayin' these days.

As a bonus I give you this amazing list that my dad once gave my husband...

Rules for Dating my Daughter

Rule One: If you pull into my driveway and honk you'd better be delivering a package, because you're sure not picking anything up.

Rule Two: You do not touch my daughter in front of me. You may glance at her, so long as you do not peer at anything below her neck. If you cannot keep your eyes or hands off of my daughter's body, I will remove them.

Rule Three: I am aware that it is considered fashionable for boys of your age to wear their trousers so loosely that they appear to be falling off their hips. Please don't take this as an insult, but you and all of your friends are complete idiots. Still, I want to be fair and open-minded about this issue, so I propose this compromise: You may come to the door with your underwear showing and your pants ten sizes too big, and I will not object. However, In order to ensure that your clothes do not, in fact, come off during the course of your date with my daughter, I will take my electric nail gun and fasten your trousers securely in place to your waist.

Rule Four: I'm sure you've been told that in today's world, sex without utilising a barrier method" of some kind can kill you. Let me elaborate: when it comes to sex, I am the barrier, and I will kill you.

Rule Five: In order for us to get to know each other, we should talk about sports, politics, and other issues of the day. Please do not do this. The only information I require from you is an indication of when you expect to have my daughter safely back at my house, and the only word I need from you on this subject is "early."

Rule Six: I have no doubt you are a popular fellow, with many opportunities to date other girls. This is fine with me as long as it is okay with my daughter. Otherwise, once you have gone out with my little girl, you will continue to date no one but her until she is finished with you. If you make her cry, I will make you cry.

Rule Seven: As you stand in my front hallway, waiting for my daughter to appear, and more than an hour goes by, do not sigh and fidget. If you want to be on time for the movie, you should not be dating. My daughter is putting on her makeup, a process that can take longer than painting the Golden Gate Bridge. Instead of just standing there, why don't you do something useful, like changing the oil in my car?

Rule Eight: The following places are not appropriate for a date with my daughter:
- Places where there are beds, sofas, or anything softer than a wooden stool.
- Places where there are no parents, policemen, or nuns within eyesight.
- Places where there is darkness.
- Places where there is dancing, holding hands, or happiness.
- Places where the ambient temperature is warm enough to induce my daughter to wear shorts, tank tops, midriff T-shirts, or anything other than overalls, a sweater, and a goose down parka zipped up to her throat.
- Movies with a strong romantic or sexual theme re to be avoided; movies which feature chainsaws are okay. Hockey games are okay. Old folks homes are better.

Rule Nine: Do not lie to me. I may appear to be a pot-bellied, balding, middle-aged, dim-witted has-been, but on issues relating to my daughter, I am the all-knowing, merciless god of your universe. If I ask you where you are going and with whom, you have one chance to tell me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I have a shotgun, a shovel, and five acres behind the house. Do not trifle with me.

Rule Ten: Be afraid. Be very afraid. It takes very little for me to mistake the sound of your car in the driveway for a chopper coming in over a rice paddy outside of Hanoi. When my Agent Orange starts acting up, the voices in my head frequently tell me to clean the guns as I wait for you to bring my daughter home. As soon as you pull into the driveway you should exit your car with both hands in plain sight. Speak the perimeter password, announce in a clear voice that you have brought my daughter home safely and early, then return to your car - there is no need for you to come inside. The camouflaged face at the window is mine."

Take care little neighbor boy...

And she jumped up on his disco stick and rode away to Funkytown... (I'm gonna go ahead and say NSFW...)

Or... not.

It's been previously established that I am a writer, primarily of unsuccessful children's books, and as such, it is a necessity that I have a novel in progress. All good writers do. And in writing said novel, I've come across many roadblocks. Sixty thousand words is a LOT. I don't like writing dialogue. The kids zombie drink my brains. Seriously, I'm not so sure but what one of my curls isn't a crazy straw. Writer's block. Feeling like I'm shit, and this is a shit novel, and I am a shit writer and no one reads shit novels from shit writers who haven't even gotten their shit published. And so on and so forth.

However, recently, I've come across a particularly sensitive issue... one might call it "delicate", "unmentionable", "unsavory"... "skeezy". I had to write a sex scene. I seriously had more trouble coming up for the idea for the novel than I did the language of the sex scene. So I did what any normal person would do, I asked my friends via Facebook. I was greeted with suggestions that were unhelpful, bizarre, and hilarious, but all reminded me of that part in 10 Things I Hate About You. I used to know all the words to that movie. Sigh... Ah hem. Anyway, I was saying... Oh yes...

And no one wants to be like that lady. No one. My guess is not even the people who write that garbage. But then I was thinking about all the hubbub with Fifty Shades of Grey. Full Disclaimer here: I HAVE NOT READ IT NOR DO I INTEND TO. IT IS SIMPLY NOT MY CUP OF TEA NO MATTER HOW COMPELLING MY MOM TELLS ME THE STORY IS. Yeah, and guys read Playboy for the articles. That's why Hef has surrounded himself with the most intelligent women of the time. I'm hoping you're picking up on the sarcasm. That being said, I've heard a lot about the "crappy writing" in this book and how "she can't even say penis". Right well, let me write you a scene with the word "penis" in it.

She kissed him until his penis filled with blood, stiffening enough to penetrate her vagina.

Romantic, eh? So if your problem is that E. L. James doesn't use the word "penis", shut up. Let me show you by this flow chart I made in paint.

Basically what I'm saying is that it's hard to find a happy medium in a normal book between "Penis" and "quivering member". It has to go with the tone, you know? And the answer is most likely not "Disco Stick".

No, I don't care if Lady Gaga says it is. It isn't. She is not a reputable source, she wears dresses made of meat. She wears dead cow carcasses. She is the Hannibal Lector of pop, and yes, I'm sure it seemed like a good idea at the time.

But anyway, I went with generalities such as "She took him inside her" and "wrapped her lips around him". I'm gonna call success on this one.

And also, just for fun...

PENIS PENIS PENIS PENIS PENIS PENIS!!!

OMFG, emphasis on the F

So the kids are whining at me all day for one thing or another. Their either hungrier than African orphans, or they desperately need their video game fix. But not the three or four video game systems currently available to them, nooooo... They want the one they are not allowed to have because they've become overly obsessed girlfriend about it.

Needless to say, it's not been a peaceful, zen inducing day. But I finally cave, because at five pm, it is finally cool enough to go outside and not drown in your own boob sweat while sinking in your swamp ass. But then apparently, poltergeists or aliens or someone about to get the piss beat out of them by Liam Neeson have come around and kidnapped everyone on our street because no one can play, no one is home, and this is clearly the start of the apocalypse. Or at least the apocalypse according to kids. Maybe that should be the name of my blog???

Okay, so whatever, whine your asses off, you've been doing it all day, what else is new? Run on sentence anyone? But then the girl comes back and after much tantruming and phone calling and get-the-crap-out-of-my-face-ing, I tell the kids to get the crap out of my face go to the purple park with their friends and the nanny. They were supposed to go to the friend's house, but not them. They're efficient, they just went to the park, came back crying and yelling and whining because no one was there. I tell them to stop crying right NOW!!!! And to go to friend's house. They seriously don't make it out of our yard before all hell breaks loose and I'm not sure, but I think I saw some Horsemen riding by me. Though, since it's the kiddie apocalypse, maybe they were like little midgets riding Shetland ponies or something. REGARDLESS! They were like screaming and yelling and freaking all the hell out for no. apparent. reason. Hand to God. No reason whatsoever. None. Pretty sure the Shetland Ponymen are Whining, Crazy, Starving, and Obnoxious.

And now we arrive at the present. They are in their rooms screeching and crying and yelling, and I? Well, I am blogging it out. Sure, I thought about writing it all to the hubs in Spain, but where's the fun in that? You all can't read it, if it's in an email, all private and stuff. Well, not necessarily private since the NSA is reading all of our correspondence now. Who do they have reading all this crap? I mean, are there special people whose job it is to read my emails? I think that's the money that needs to be going to military programs because, I'll be the first to tell you, my emails are bor-ing. Unless you think my inane daily goings on are exciting, in which case I can refer you to Overly Obsessed Girlfriend up there ^.

What was I talking about? Oh yeah, I've learned today that 7 sucks. Mostly because now, I never let them do anything they want to do, ever. Never Ever, and they know it always. And the boy wants to die. Martyrdom for the sake of Xbox Live games everywhere.

P.S. Hi NSA guy. You could at least be polite and follow my blog. Jerk. That's probably why they have you locked in a back room reading my emails, because you're a jerk. No one likes you. Carry on.

What is wrong with you people?!?

I don't like cleaning. If you don't remember me telling you that, I have, and you should catch up.

http://motherofanadventure.blogspot.com/2013/04/i-dont-like-cleaning-or-glitter.html

But sometimes you have to bite the bullet, suck it up, put on your big girl panties, use lotsa metaphors and just clean the damn house. And since hubs is gone. To sunny Spain. To the beach of sunny, Southern Spain. On "work".

Looks like work doesn't it?

Anyway, I cleaned the house so I wouldn't be on an episode of Hoarders. But the kids were home. And you know what that means...

So, Oreos in mouth and Pandora rockin' out some AC/DC, I set to work. I swept the floors first. I was taking it slow. Which basically means that I didn't want to do crap but the house was nasty so I had to sweep the floors. It was then that my littlest Oreo... er... kid decided she wanted to run through the house with a pilfered package of graham crackers leaving bits and crumbs behind her, you know, in case she lost her way to the butt kicking I wanted to give her. Why do you do things?!? What is wrong with you?!?

Then the next day, I set forth picking up, mopping, and wiping off surfaces in the house. Being grown up is bananas. I actually scrubbed finish off the desk trying to get colored and regular pencil off it. In the desk's defense, I was the one who redid it, so the finish was sub par at best. But still. It was a lot of trouble and was annoying. So, job wonderfully done, I set off for a shower with my step bouncing from my feeling of success. It really is true, cleanliness is next to godliness because I was some kind of magic. Fifteen minutes later. When I got out of the shower, I walked into the computer room to check on the Girl Oreo when what did I see but PURPLE FREAKIN CRAYON ALL OVER THE DAMN F***ING DESK!!! I was a little upset. What is wrong with you?!?

Then I was putting up the boy's clothes and there was crayon on his underwear drawer. WHAT. IS. WRONG. WITH. YOU. PEOPLE?!?

I quit life as a result. You've reached Mom. I'm not in right now, but if you'll leave your name and number, I still won't care.

The Other Boleyn Girl by Philippa Gregory

I read The Other Boleyn Girl and thought I would give a little review of it.

The book takes place in the Tudor court of England. Basically, the Boleyn family has two daughters and lots of ambition. They marry off the young one and ship off the old one. The young one is pretty and gets shoved basically right onto King Henry's knob. They do their thing and the Boleyn's think they're just the coolest kids ever. Then the old one comes back. Aww... snap. It's Anne. Spoilers. So Anne throws out her boobies and wiles and catches ole horndog Henry's eye. But she won't put out. She won't be cast aside because Hank is tired of her. So she skanks it up like whoa and gets a queen exiled, a king excommunicated, and a new church founded, not to mention the heads lobbed off in her honor. So, Katherine is out of the way with her piousness and sincerity. There's no room for that crap at court. And the king marries Anne, but Anne can't birth a baby who is both alive and has bits. Then she does the nasty with her homosexual brother and gives birth to a stillborn monstrous baby thing. The king yells witch with the help of the rival house of Seymour, lobs off Anne's melon, and dips his stick in someone else called Queen. The End.

The story is told from Mary Boleyn's pov which is nice because Anne was AWFUL. So much so, in fact, that I was kind of glad her melon got lobbed off. I would like to point out that the rival families of Howard and Seymour were just barely classed up Hatfields and McCoys. Also, if you seriously think skeeziness and gay love and crap like that is new, you're a moron. I'm not sure there was a skankier time period than Tudor Englad. Nor was there one more entertaining.

The book was great. Follow it up with the movie of the same name and the Showtime series, The Tudors.

Mad Men

I've been watching Mad Men. I really like it. I like it in the way I like Napoleon Dynamite or "The Catcher in the Rye". There doesn't seem to be any real plot other than drinking and checking out Joan. I really love the costumes. They're amazing. I can't watch this show without wishing I could change my wardrobe. It makes women want to wear dresses and men want to smoke.

Also, I find it to be a comedy. I mean seriously. Aside from aiming a jab at the people we sprang from under the guise of entertainment, we get to laugh at the ridiculousness of "olden times". Just by the way, I hate it when people say "olden times". I feel like times should be tymes and you should be 8 years old or in a special school for special people who say "olden tymes".

For instance when the Drapers went on a picnic, Don chucked his empty beer can in the trees and the family left all their garbage on the ground. Somehow the director of this show has an uncanny ability to zoom in on these things without actually zooming. Also, the drunkenness and the pregnant women smoking and drinking cocktails.

Speaking of cocktails, do you ever break down words to try to guess their meaning and/or origin? Break that one up would ya? The cleanest I can make it is a chicken's ass. I'm not sure what that has to do with putting juice in hard liquor,  but there ya have it.

Mad Men also has an interesting view of women.

The poor jilted housewife kicks out her husband and then apparently loses all desire to go on. She stops getting dressed. She drinks and naps in the middle of the day. She basically just gets modernized.

 Then there are the "professional" women. Not like those kinds of professionals, you pervert, the kind who work.

There's the adorable little girl who is "one of the guys" now, except for the fact that she (gasp) had a baby "out of wedlock" with one of the guys she's supposed to be now and went whackadoo for a bit.

And that brings us to probably my favorite character: Joan Holloway. It is my opinion that Christina Hendricks owns that show. She's Sterling Cooper's own Marilyn. Curves and great hair, and then she finally gets a chance to have a job she enjoys, not just managing secretaries and what do they do? The bastards give away her new job that she likes to some punk kid who has no idea what's going on. Well f you, fat glasses guy (I can't actually remember their names), you should know that the voluptuous lady that has been charming networks is a better choice than the idiot you picked.

Overall, I love this show! I think it's great!

Celebrities = Courtiers???

Hola, world. I've just been mopping my floor listening to "Tom Cruise Crazy" by Jonathan Coulton.

I've also been reading

 



 

Anyway, I was thinking, "What if celebrities are modern day courtiers???" Let me submit my evidence. Back in the dizzle, courtiers were supposed to keep the king entertained... in every way. And as an aside, HenryVIII was a HOUND DOG. WHOA! But they put on plays and charades and masques and played cards and were a source of  G O S S I P. So then I was thinking about Tom Cruise because that song is ah-mazing, and it starts with "Tom Cruise is so in love with Katie". Except the thing is, he's not. But it's still there. And we all dig the scandal and eat it up via Us Weekly and People. But they only have jobs to entertain us. I mean, sure they get paid WAAAYYY more $$$ than me, but without me, they'd not be them. Right? So by my thinking then, I am the modern day equivalent of a Kingslashqueen. Hmm... What the french, toast? Where are my untold millions and ability to boss everyone around? Why don't I have an amazing coat made of the fur of baby seals or something. I don't even think baby seals have fur, but I'm kingslashqueen so it's irrelevant! I think I just turned into Cruella DeVil... Eek.

 

Cruella Out!

Be yourself... or Batman.

Genie said it to Aladdin, and I guess that all worked out in the end. But what if you're a writer and hate the way your name looks on the top of a page? It's dull and bland. It's got no flair. What's a girl to do? Well, use a pseudonym stupid. Fine, jerk, I will. Crap, I don't know what name to use. I'm a writer, not my mother, what name should I give myself. We're just not meant to name ourselves. Just look at skier Picabo Street. Her name is peek a boo. No joke. I read it in a magaziiiiiinne oh oh. b-b-b-benny and the jets.

So, I hate the way my name looks on top of the page. It sucks. It's a perfectly good name, sure, but it's nothing brilliant. It's not memorable. I don't stand out from the crowd. People will NOT remember it, or pronounce it correctly for that matter.

Then I read this article on MSN. It's my homepage. It was about people who use assumed names. Not spies, actors and such. Their given names sucked so they used different ones. There was even a blurb about someone who tried with their actual name, bombed, used a pseudonym and is now wildly famous.

So it was by divine providence that I, Arthur, son of Uther Pendragon of the court at Camelot did- wait, wrong story. Barnes and Noble posted this really funny pseudonym generator. I used it and that children, is where writers come from.

But herein lies the dilemma. If I have to be someone else to be successful, am I really successful? How do I split up my ePersonality? This blog for example. Possibly not suitable for a children's book author, but it's me. And I'm good enough, and if I'm not, then I have to make myself right? But it's just a name. What's in a name? A rose by any other name blah blah blah...

So I wonder... Keep the name my mother gave me or the one with pizazz I got from Barnes and Noble?

Or be Batman...

Am I a bad mother or just an exceptional crazy person?

So, in case you didn't know, I'm a writer. Not insofar as success is concerned, but that I put words on paper and think the world needs to read them. Narcissist much?

But anyway, I just got my first peer review for this story I wrote once when the girl pulled effing Zebra Cakes out of her bed. You know Zebra Cakes right? Little Debbie snacks. White cake, white filling, white frosting, just enough brown striping to make it a politically correct snack. I mean, we can't have any racist snack cakes up in her'. So I thought, "STORYOMG!!!111" And that, children, is where stories come from.

I liked this so much, I sent it off to professionals for their professional assessment. Turns out, it's shit. But that's neither here nor there. The point I wish to make at the present, is that the person reviewing my manuscript as a peer, said something about "a neglected child hording frogs in her bed." Neglected?

So I posit this question to you, dear reader:

Am I a bad mother or am I just quite exceptional at being a neurotic narcissist with delusions of grandeur?

And as a side note, can anyone ever read/hear the phrase "delusions of grandeur" without thinking of Han Solo? Seriously.

Writers are, by definition, self deprecating narcissists. And I am, as previously mentioned, a writer. So (get your math hats on) If A=B and B=C then C must certainly be an asshat. Is asshat one word or two. Asshat? Ass Hat? And what if it's plural? Asses hat? Ass hats? Or just ass hat like moose? Boxen. Squirrel!

I mean I can barely get through a day without somebody flashing something inappropriate. For instance, today while trying to take a shower, The Girl got told on about three times for various things, not the least of which was flashing her vagina to the living room. The Boy had a friend over. It was not awesome. Also, there was salsa on the floor. Like smeared on the floor. Fan-freaking-tastic.

And just now. Just now, I had to tell her to go back to her room. She could take her Easy Bake oven spatula with her. It's not heaven, you CAN take it with you, so GoOOOOOO!!! AHHHHHH!!!

Now I want to yell about Easy Bake ovens. Seriously, who wants a whoopee pie the size of a nickel baked under a lightbulb? They taste like crap too. SMH FML OMGWTFBBQ Ugh...

Oh mighty slayer of electronics!

That's right bitches! Fear me!

I am a disaster with electronic devices. Seriously! I got a swanky new iPad for taxes. Yeah, it's a holiday. But I got this cool iPad cause I had an iPhone and if you have one iThing, you have to get more iCrap. So iDid. Then iHappened. Well, it wasn't all me. The girl helped. By our powers combined we will...

She launched it off the arm of the couch and it shattered into a million tiny dead hipster dreams. Sad iPanda.

Then there was the printer debacle. I killed two in as many days. I'm telling you. I am an evil mastermind. So here's the deal, it seems you can't get all excited and PRINT ALL THE THINGS!!! Because, it turns out printers can't hold ALL THE PAPER... I  had no idea you couldn't shove an entire ream of paper into a crappy little printer. It freaked out and died. So we got a new crappy little printer. And what did iDo? In my infinite wisdom, I again tried to LOAD ALL THE PAPER!!! It DIED ALL TO HELL!!! They get paper jams. Paper Jams!!!

And last but not least... my sidekick in inadvertently rendering me off the grid decided to fling my laptop from the arm of the sofa... I feel like I should learn a lesson... But if they didn't want us to put things on the sofa arms, then sofas shouldn't come with arms. KTHXBYE.

This is maybe the second or third time she's knocked this poor laptop off of something... But it's still trucking. Though, the corner of the casing is starting to come off, some of the plastic is chipped, and my left button for the touch pad is a bit wonky, oh and I killed the cover trying to pry it off like a Neanderthal instead of, oh, iDunno, just slide it off like you're supposed to.

It's cause I'm an electronics slaying gangster and shit.

I hate trends

I hate trends. They're stupid. This stuff really wasn't cool when it came around the first time, it's definitely not cool now, guy with nut hugging skinny jeans holding hands with the girl with the collared, sleeveless, button-down shirt in a dumb print that ties at the bottom. It's extra long at the buttony part just so you can tie it. Anyone else have one of these damn things?

It was terrible. I always ended up wearing mine with those stirrup leggings. You know, the ones that have the big ole elastic strap for under your foot. That's the reason we ladies of my certain age seem to fear the stirrups on the table at the lady doctor. It's not because their gonna shove a mag lite and a garden shovel up there, it's some mad Vietnam-style flashbacks of those pants. And they're not fooling anybody. We all know you have sock suspender thingies built into your pants. We can see them.

 

 

Not. Fooling. Anyone.

 

But back to trends, there's one I'm really looking forward to. I've noticed the trend for trends is moving closer and closer to GRUNGE!!! I could rock the hell outta that! All my pants already have holes in them and I didn't have to pay extra for distressing! I still have a closet full of crappy t-shirts, and have you been to a thrift shop? Flannel ahoy!

 



I've actually seen it peeking out of the celebrosphere.

Soon it will filter down to us peasants and I will be BADASS! YEAH! Who says moms can't be cool? I already sometimes forget to bathe. It would be no problem for me to stop brushing my hair. And Nirvana is cool. I'm there.

A brand new outlook on life or at least a new life aspiration.

I might be there already, but I have so much more to aspire to.

I was thinkin', shaving my legs sucks. Once when I was a kid, my first step mom told me that the reason we shave our legs now is because prostitutes in the Old West used to shave off said fur off their gams. You know, like smooth for his pleasure. Yeah, cause that's all a roughed-up, old, gnarly, grizzled cowboy wants is smooth, lady legs.

Anyway, I was commiserating with Number Five today, and as we were eating Fruit Loops out of the box with our hairy legs kicked up on her table to see who had hairier legs or hobbit feet (I win!), we were talking about hair removal. We were talking about ripping it out with molten wax, using a "laser",

 

 

 

or just continuing on with our normal routine of using an extremely sharpened slice of steel to cut hair off, I dunno, like half our bodily surfaces. Totally safe right. That's when I had the idea! The idea that's gonna change my life. I totally thought of it when I was looking at my pits. Cause pits are stinky, and hairy pits are stinky, and squirrel, and you know who has stinky, hairy pits?

 

Scummy hippies!!!

 

 

 

Plus, taking care of hair like a scummy hippie is free!




Also, if you want to keep reading, I'll throw you some Existentialism with Ashley.
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So, those hippies rocked harder than anyone. They totally lived life like life was given to you to live, not given to you to waste away on computers, she says while typing away at a computer. But I was wondering, are we hurting ourselves by reaching broader audiences easier. What is there to strive for, to live life for? Where do ambitions come from now? And what's next? If someone in Bangladesh can read my blog about hippies, where's my ambition to reach a wider audience, to "get my message out there"? Then I think about all of the brain power we waste on these idiot machines and how, essentially, our lives are stored and lived out in megs of stuff or yaks or rams or something, but basically that we can smush our entire lives, our whole being, into a teeny tiny computer chip the size of a finger nail. Whoa! That's heavy. I don't want to be a computer chip full of compressed data though. I want to twirl around and spread my arms out and soak up the sun, you know, all that scummy hippie stuff. And I realize that when I say "hippie" what I really mean is the romanticized version of hippies we're all fed now. I'm not an effing retard, I know that it wasn't always sunshine and roses, but by god the romanticized hippies sure seemed to enjoy... everything.