The 2013 MommyWantsVodka Meme!

1. What did you do in 2013 that you’d never done before?

I enrolled in a 401k at work! (Also, how lame am I that this was my first answer to this question?)

2. Did you keep your New Year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
My New Year’s resolution is the same every year; to be a good mother to Caden. Only time will tell if I have irrevocably fucked the kid up, but he seems to be doing just fine for now.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

Not anyone I’m particularly close to. Plenty of people I know on Facebook, though. My timeline this year looked like a brag book for an obstetrician.

4. Did anyone close to you die?

I can’t say I was particularly close to him, but my grandma’s ex-husband (my aunts' father) died this year. He was always nice to me, and I was very sad for my aunts.

5. What would you like to have in 2014 that you lacked in 2013?

An apartment that doesn’t have a ghetto couple screaming at odd hours on one side and a drug dealer on the other with pot-smoking loafers down the hall.

6. What countries did you visit?

The United States of You’re an Asshole for Reminding Me That I’m Too Broke to Travel.

7. What date from 2013 will remain etched upon your memory, and why:

I’m going to skip this one.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Probably not killing anyone. 2013 was kind of a shitty year, and I’m quite happy it’s almost over.

9. What was your biggest failure?

Why the fuck is this meme so depressing? All of 2013 was pretty much fucked.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

Um, not really, I don’t think I was ill at all in 2013. 2012 saw my first kidney stone and an abscessed tooth, though.

11. What was the best thing you bought?

A skirt for $0.97 that was originally $43. And is totally adorable.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?

My son - for being an incredibly hilarious and tough little cookie. He dealt with so much crap this year, and he’s still an amazing, sweet, affectionate little love.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?

Some of my family members’ behavior. I reiterate - 2013 was full of fuckery. I really hope 2014 sees a better year for everyone.

14. Where did most of your money go?

Bills. Always bills. Y U SO DEPRESSING, MEME?!

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?

Apartment hunting. Fuck I’m old.

16. What song will always remind you of 2013?

There are a few that I think will always stir up memories from this year. My mind has very powerful associations with things like that. A song can make me re-live things.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:

i. happier or sadder?  Happier.

ii. thinner or fatter? Fatter. (I read that word in the Dylan/Cole Sprouse voice from Big Daddy.)

iii. richer or poorer? Depends on your definition. Fiscally, I’m better off, though not necessarily richer.

18. What do you wish you’d done more of?

Being more confident in myself. Giving my feelings validity instead of discrediting my gut instincts.

19. What do you wish you’d done less of?

Second-guessing myself and my feelings.

20. How will you be did you spending Christmas?

I spent Christmas Eve with Caden at my aunt’s house for a late lunch and then brought Caden to church. We went home and snuggled together and watched The Polar Express. Christmas Day we opened his gifts then hung around for a while until it was time to go to my parents’ for dinner. Afterward, we brought him to his dad so he could spend the remainder of Christmas vacation with him.

21. Why does the term “designer drugs” conjure up an image of a bunch of pills hanging out wearing tiny Chanel and Prada clothing and snappy accessories?

It doesn’t for me, but Vicodin always conjures up images of my beloved Aunt Becky. Even though Vicodin is too suburban.

22. Did you fall in love in 2013?

I fall in love with Aaron all the time. 2013 was no exception to this.

23. How many one-night stands?

None. I’ve never had one in my life.

24. What was your favorite TV program?

Game of Thrones. WHERE IS THE GOD OF TITS AND WINE?

25. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?

There are certainly people that I wouldn't feel horribly overwhelmed with grief if they happened to be mauled  and consumed by a bear, shit into a stream, eaten by fish, then massacred by sharks. But hate? Hate is a strong word.

26. What was the best book you read?

I haven’t really read any new books that I can recall this year, except for caving in to purchase, ‘Breakfast At Tiffany’s’ to see how it compared to the movie. I was delightfully surprised.

27. What was your greatest musical discovery?

I re-discovered a love for Pink. Walk of Shame and Slut Like You are both amazing songs.

28. What did you want and get?

Uh, shoes? I think that’s a safe bet as I generally tend to be a shoewhore. Too bad living in Wisconsin renders my adorable shoes useless 9 months out of the year. This weather has been fucktacular.

30. What was your favorite film of this year?

I don’t think I obsessed over a particular film this year the way I have in the past – where I watch it over and over again… But getting to see Desolation of Smaug in theatres was pretty epic.

31. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

I worked and then I went out for dinner with Aaron and Caden. I turned 28 this year.

32. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

Having had the capacity to move out of Rape Me Stab Me Murder Me-Ville sooner.

33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2013?

Shoes.

34. What kept you sane?

My son, without question. He is what keeps me grounded when I’d rather surrender myself to the chaos within.

35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

I have developed a deeper appreciation for Jon Stewart.

36. What political issue stirred you the most?

Pshaw, politics. I don’t mess with that shit. It’s all a rather stunted game of who can lick balls the best.

37. Who did you miss?

George Carlin.

38. Who was the best new person you met?

I don’t know if I really met anyone this year that would qualify to be listed as the ‘best new person I’ve met’.

39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2013:

It’s a lesson I always tend to forget; to allow myself to have a voice.

40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year:

“If you speak, you’ll only piss ‘em off. If you don’t, you’re another robot. If you stop, they’ll just say you quit. If you don’t, you might lose your shit.”

The ABCs of Me, a.k.a. How I Hate Everything

A- Age: 28, and I don’t feel old because I’m almost 30. 30 is young, and I’m still a puppy in a world of bitches. Er… dogs?

B - Bed Size: Futon. Fuck you for teasing me with all this ‘bed’ talk. I want a real bed to sleep on. You people with your good night's sleep can kiss my left meat curtain.

C - Chore You Hate: Cleaning anything. At all. I’m the anti-Mary Poppins. I hate doing dishes. I hate taking out the trash. I hate picking things up. I hate rearranging furniture. I hate paying bills, too. Fuck hard stuff. Adulthood blows.

D - Dad's Name: David

E - Essential Start to Your Day Item: Shutting off the goddamn alarm. It’s far too chipper for 6:00 a.m. Maybe I’d be happier upon waking if I could smash something, but my $150 phone coverage deductible says otherwise. Jerks.

F - Favorite songstress: Kelly Clarkson. Love that woman. If I could have her baby, I would.

G - Gold or Silver: Silver, white gold or platinum. Very rarely will you see me donning anything with a yellow gold or bronze hue when it comes to jewelry. Also, do you know how difficult it is to find emeralds set in anything not yellow? Jeweler bastards.

H - Height: 6’0”. Plus heels sometimes.

I - Instruments you played: Ha, instruments. I am way too stupid to read music notes.

J - Job Title: Website Quality Control Analyst I. That sounds way fancier than it actually is, and it basically means I’m anal and correct things that don’t necessarily need correcting. Sometimes I actually fix shit, though. And it’s pretty cool.

K - Kids: 1 that I know of. Pretty sure I haven’t given birth without my knowledge, though.

L - Living Arrangements: I live in a shoebox. From Kmart, cause its ghetto. Stupid apartment.

M - Mom's Name: Noelle

N - Nicknames: Ash or Trashley. Yay for having an unoriginal name.

O - Overnight Hospital Stay: Firing my fetus cannon and when I had toxic shock syndrome.

P - Pet Peeve: All the little OCD things that Aaron enjoys provoking. Like leaving time on the microwave, not changing the toilet paper when you use the last of it, movie cases being out of alignment or sequels not being placed next to one another… The list goes on and on. I’m batshit crazy.

Q - Quotes You Like: If you’re going to be real with someone, be prepared for them to be real in return.

R - Right or Left Handed: Righty tighty. Which has nothing to do with my crotch.

S - Siblings: 4. And I only really speak to one of them on a regular basis. I am Facebook friends with another sibling, and don't speak to the other two.

T - Time You Wake Up: During the week, 6:00 a.m. On the weekends/my days off, however late I feel like it. Unless Caden decides otherwise.

U - Umbrella: I haven’t owned an umbrella in about 5 years. I’m not the Wicked Witch of the West, for fuck’s sake.

V - Vegetable You Dislike: Onions, tomatoes, mushrooms, peppers… I basically eat like a two year old. Give me some chicken nuggets and French fries, and I’m good. I’m good.

W - Ways You Run Late: Usually ‘cause I’m lazy and wait until the last possible minute. And that’s just when I start getting ready to leave.

X - X-rays: When I got pneumonia, when I had TSS - they used a portable x-ray to insert a catheter into my vein to inject antibiotics as close as possible to my heart, when I had a broken ankle, and when I had a kidney stone.

Y - Yummy Food I Make: Parmesan tilapia seems to be my most popular dish.

Z - Zodiac: Taurus. I’m a stubborn motherfucker.

Tales From The Ghetto...

I live in an apartment building that features what has to be one of the trashiest collections of human beings this side of Section 8. That's not to say that everyone on housing is trash, because I know some great, hard-working people who are on, or who have been on, assistance. However, my apartment building features cheap rent and no background checks. You do the math.

I have now lived in this building for nearly three years. I chose it because it was what I could afford on my foray into single parenthood. My city features ridiculously high rent for apartments that, most of the time, aren't anywhere near worth what they're asking for them. And the majority of the rentals you can find that are reasonably priced have income limits. It's all sorts of rampant fucktardery. But I digress.

Some of the tenants there have been fairly quiet, and a few seem like they are semi-normal. Of course, as my luck would have it, neither of the apartments on either side of me have housed any of those types of tenants... When I moved in, there was the crazy ass couple in the corner apartment (featured in this old blog post), and it has only gone downhill from there.

The newest tenants both moved in within a few weeks of one another on either side of my apartment. With the exception of their playing annoyingly loud music at inappropriate times during the night, I thought the couple who moved in seemed pretty decent. Oh, how wrong I would be...

My little guy was spending the weekend at his dad's house, and it was a good thing since the female decided to go full-on, Jerry Springer, who is mah baby's daddeh, batshit insane. Around 2:00-3:00 a.m. Saturday morning, we were startled out of sleep by what can only be described as a body being thrown around the apartment next door. Thuds against the adjoining walls, things crashing and breaking, and all manners of twatwafflery. And then, oh sweet baby Jeebus, she got on the phone. And proceeded to fill just about every stereotype she possibly could.

The majority of it was muffled screaming that was pretty much unintelligible. I don't speak fluent Ebonics. One phrase that stood out was, "WHERE IS MAH DAMN BAYBAY!? YOU COME GIT MEH AND BRING MEH TO MAH BAYBAY!" My favorite line of the night was, "YOU AIN'T MAH BABY DADDY, YOU JEST MAH BO'FRIEN'!" She apparently decided that she was being too loud after a while, and went outside. We have our windows open because the site manager doesn't know the difference between, 'too warm for heat' and, 'too cold for no heat' and enjoys turning on the heat when it's far too warm for it. So the crazy bitch is now outside, her insanity echoing off the brick walls in the alley, and is now clearer and louder than she was in her apartment. Great. Why didn't you just use a fucking megaphone in case they couldn't hear you WITHOUT the phone? She's screeching at her bo'friend' to come pick her up and bring her to her baybay because apparently she's NOW concerned about the welfare of said squalling meal ticket.

The time for that is past. Try leaving your crotch muppet with someone you actually trust instead of the dude you're banging. This continues for a period of time, and then she shuts the fuck up and comes back inside. We breathed a sigh of relief and started to fall back to sleep. But she wasn't done with her spree of murdering REM cycles, oh no... She gets on the phone AGAIN and starts screaming at someone different. Wash, rinse, repeat. She ends up outside screeching like a howler monkey once more. Ugh.

And then, on the other side of us, there's another moron. This one sat in the doorway of his apartment the first few nights on his laptop. No joke - half in the hallway, half in his apartment. Then he proceeds to set up a router that's got a signal booster on it in the hallway. Real smart, numbnuts. We had to call our IP to fix our WiFi, and they tagged his booster. Two days later, I come out to this:

This is what it says:

"To whom this may conserne.

first off who is stealing cable? I get my wifi from my sister in apt. 2. we split the bill. 2nd off If it was illegal to use a wifi extender than why do they sell them. So before you go accusing people of crimes get the facts straight. nobody is stealing shit.

Sincersly

Adam Apt 10"

Oh my lord, the grammatical and spelling errors. It makes me tic just reading it. A few days later, the router disappeared from the hallway. Then, a bunch of tires apparently lost their rubbers and spawned a fuck-ton of tire babies, because there were five tires in the hallway resting against the wall. And then a day or so later, this:

Hiding your illegal router fail.

And just for good measure, someone has left this nasty-ass thing that looks as if it is covered in the ass-juices of 100 anal whores who didn't douche before buttsex:

It's been in the hallway for at least a month and a half. Aww yeah, you wish you lived in my apartment building. FML. I need a shower in straight bleach while I scour myself with an S.O.S. pad covered in Comet. I wonder how much the skin grafts will run me?

My Reluctant Journey

I have a confession to make…

I never wanted to be a mother when I was younger. I can recall a moment in middle school when a girl who was a good friend of mine in elementary school told me that she thought she was pregnant. She was cradling her stomach and humming soft songs to herself. My first internal reaction was revulsion. I could barely put together a school project; how could someone my age possibly take care of a child? Why would anyone possibly be happy with that situation? How could she be so cool and relaxed about it all? She ended up getting excited over a false alarm. After that, I kept my distance from her. Callous? Perhaps, but it was so similar to the circumstances surrounding my birth that I couldn't bear to be around her. She wanted to keep trying, and I couldn't be around to watch.

Unfortunately for me, it was a similar situation into which I was conceived. The woman who gave birth to me was 14 when she became pregnant, and my dad was 16. I ended up being the real thing instead of a false alarm. For years, I carried the guilt that my birth had ruined my parent’s lives. To some extent, I still wonder. If I had been a false alarm, would things have turned out differently for them? Neither of them had been ready for parenthood at that age, and they both knew it. Her father tried to convince her to have an abortion. Finally, they settled on giving me up for adoption. I came very close to a very different life than the one I have, all without any say. Thankfully, my father fell in love with me at first sight and couldn't let me go. You can see it in the photos taken at the hospital after my birth; my dad had my tiny fist wrapped around his finger, and his eyes were gazing at me in love and wonder. She looked as if she had better places to be. Probably disappointed that my dad no longer wanted to allow her the option that would have let her walk away.

My grandmother volunteered to raise me, and it was to my grandparents’ house that I went home for the first time. When I was around 3, my father brought home the woman who would become my mother, the woman who has loved me from the moment she heard my tiny voice cry, ‘Da!’ when she came through the door with my dad. I was very fortunate to have some very loving people in my life as a child.

Still, all of this turned me off to the idea of having a child. What if the maternal instincts of the woman who gave birth to me were somehow hereditary? What if I ended up being like her? I couldn't handle the idea of a child feeling about me the same way I felt about her. I didn't want to be responsible for hurting a child like that. I was afraid of ever having a child. So I made up my mind not to have children. I didn't want to take the risk.

Fate usually has a different plan in mind than the one you have for yourself. At the age of 20, I found out I was pregnant. I have never been more afraid in my life. I was afraid of being responsible for someone besides myself. I was afraid to have a tiny life dependent upon me. I was afraid to tell my family. I was afraid because we lived 4 ½ hours away from home. I was afraid of how ecstatic my fiancee was. We were working commission-based jobs that had both of us traveling all over the state and didn't guarantee any sort of steady income, how could he be happy with this? So many women would have been thrilled to receive the news that they were going to have a baby. What was wrong with me?

My family’s reactions were all over the map. My grandparents were excited to become great-grandparents. My grandpa was looking at bassinets online. My mom was pretty pissed. My dad asked if I had considered all my options, and told me he supported me with whatever choice I might make. My mind was made up, however. We were responsible for starting the life of this child, and I wasn't going to harm it or give it up, even if my fiancee had been in agreement. And so I reluctantly decided, a little too late, to become a parent.

We moved back home when I was about 6 ½ months pregnant. I barely showed even when I was about to give birth… I carried far back, and just looked chubby. Matter of fact, when I was a few weeks away from giving birth, I was working a temporary job and informed them that I could possibly go into labor at any time. They had no idea I was even pregnant. I had morning sickness all throughout the summer, and lost weight until my 7^th month. The nurses were thoroughly amused when I told them I was happy to have started gaining weight. They told me that most women aren't that happy about it. I had been worried that all of my morning sickness had been keeping my child from being healthy. I felt like the character of Jenna in the movie Waitress… I still didn't feel anything like affection for the child inside of me. This increased my anxiety about my maternal potential. I didn't want to end up like the woman who gave birth to me. People around me told me that my life was going to be over; it would no longer be mine. How right they would be, but not in the way they meant it.

I woke up on my due date, a Friday morning, with cramps… Eventually, I realized that they were coming at regular intervals. After timing them for a bit, I realized they were a minute and a half apart and remained so until I gave birth 12 hours later. I was more afraid of giving birth than I had been when I found out I was pregnant. What was going to happen once this little guy - who had a fondness for wedging his feet into my ribs - took his first breath?

At 9:35 p.m., I found out. I saw him for the first time, and I knew exactly how my father had felt. I fell in love with him. He was my heart, and my world, and it was right that he was part of my life. The doctor laid him on my chest after he was born, and the world I knew stopped. The life I had before that was over; a whole new one had begun. How anyone could turn their back on that? I couldn't fathom it. His soft skin, his tiny face and hands and his sweet little breaths all quelled my fears. He didn't know it, but in that moment I resolved that he would never feel about me the way I felt about the woman who gave birth to me. I would use my childhood to make myself into the mother he needed me to be.

It has been 7 ½ years since the day my new world began. My son is still the one thing that can make me happier than anything else on earth. We've been through a lot together, and times have been tough, but even at this young age he knows that I will be there for him. And my pride in him knows no bounds. He is tall, fit, strong, handsome and smart. He is wonderful, and he has made me a better person. He is a Momma’s boy, without question. His at-the-hip attachment can be overwhelming at times. However, I take it in stride, because I know that in just a few short years the affection won’t flow nearly as freely as it does now. I can’t bear to stifle his affection and love. I sing him to sleep most nights, and he still loves it when I do. I know that these days, too, are coming to an end. However, I feel confident that they will be cherished memories when he’s older. He’s becoming more independent, and he performs stunts on the playground equipment that have my heart in my throat.

I sometimes wonder how I could ever have had the doubts I had. It seems so long ago, and so surreal, that I was afraid of this. It was, and still is, the best thing that ever happened to me. Perhaps for me, the mantle of motherhood was one that I fought against until I found that I wore it well.

Totally Would Have Been A Rat-Pack Groupie

My experience with Pandora radio falls into a few different categories… As I mentioned in my post about how completely stunted my thinking process is, I spend most of my work day listening to Pandora. Occasionally I listen to it while in the shower at home, or while putting on makeup (ha, like THAT ever fucking happens) or while doing my hair (ha, like THAT ever fucking happens either – ponytails and plastic clips are my BFFs). But mostly, I listen to it at work. Because my thinking process could be equated to that of a three year old cracked up on Pixie Stix and Mountain Dew, I often have strange ideas while listening to Pandora.

While I listen to my Kelly Clarkson station, I often have fantasies of bursting out in song at work. As if it is socially appropriate to bust out in a terribly off-key rendition of, ‘Tough Lover’ in the middle of a workday. After all, who the fuck doesn’t want to be serenaded by my screechy voice squeaking out a horrible version of something by Christina Aguliera? The answer to that is NO ONE, of course. There is no one person who would not be completely blown away by the sweetly well-intentioned sound of my pathetic attempts at being an awesome singer. In my ego-centric delusions, I am met by applause and copious amounts of flattery… Why no, I haven’t had any professional singing lessons. It’s all pretty much self-taught, thankyouverymuch.

While I listen to my Alan Menken (read: mostly Disney songs and musical numbers) station, I think to myself that it would be so damn awesome to be a mermaid. And it becomes really difficult to keep myself from singing along with the songs I’ve had memorized since the age of 7. To satisfy my insanity, I will lip-sync along with these words and I will promise myself that this year, goddamn it, I WILL dress up like Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz to satisfy my inner 8-year-old – even if I have to hand-sew myself a fucking blue gingham dress. And because my son would look motherfucking ADORABLE in a Cowardly Lion costume. Except he’d be majorly pissed that I prevented him from being Batman, Spiderman, Iron Man, Thor or some equally masculine comic book character that reigns supreme on the playground that year. But fuck it, I’m paying for the damn thing. Sadly, this will only end one way; with me buying the $25 comic book character costume with the fake muscles that he will inevitably try and convince me would be the best thing ever to wear to school under his clothes because MOOO-OOOOMMMM…. Everyone will think I have big muscles! No, kiddo. No, they won’t. Because the fake Styrofoam muscles look like a 12-year old photoshopped them onto a costume. This station constantly leads to disappointment and sadness all around.

When I listen to my Static-X station, it is usually up deafeningly loud and it is usually because I’m pissed and contemplating things that would inevitably end up with me playing a game of cat and mouse with a profiler from the FBI.

When I listen to my Christmas Don’t Be Late (Alvin and the Chipmunks) station, it is because I’m not listening to it because it is my son’s station. And he loves nothing more than to listen to (and be sung) Christmas carols any time of the year. Perhaps he thinks that if he listens to Christmas music, it will make the joyous holiday come around that much faster. I don’t know. His mind is as screwed up as, if not more so than, mine.

My Dean Martin station is another station that constantly leads to sadfaces and dashed hopes and dreams. Because I listen to the music of an era long gone, and I see myself in a beautiful A-line cocktail dress with some super adorable coordinating shoes and a jaunty little hat perched flirtatiously over one eye, cat-eye makeup and red lipstick, and completely in my element. I see myself at some glamorously Mad Men-esque party, martini in hand, telling funny jokes and stories that have everyone enraptured. And then the band strikes up something wonderful like, ‘In The Mood’ or the French, ‘La Vie En Rose’ (also, I can’t hear that song and NOT picture Audrey Hepburn serenading Humphrey Bogart in Sabrina), and a dashing partner in a well-tailored suit whisks me out on to the dance floor. He leads me through a beautiful dance, and the atmosphere is intoxicating. And then I realize that the era I would have thrived in is long gone. We just don’t have the same class and standard that we used to. Granted, a lot of other things have come a long way in terms of social acceptance, but some of the wonderful qualities that were commonplace have gone the way of the Dodo bird. I am also incredibly sad that I’m too young to have had the opportunity to thrown my cat at Dean Martin. And if you are young enough to think that ‘Little Bitty Pretty One’ was originally sung by Aaron Carter, you can go fuck yourself.

Pandora is depressing as all fuck.

It's Almost Back-to-School Time!

The first day of school is coming up in just over a month. A new school year, full of struggles, arguments to get homework done, tearing my hair out because he just won’t put on his pants in the morning… And, best of all, celebrating his progress, achievements and growth. First grade was a year of leaps and bounds in terms of his academic progress. His method of learning is very similar to mine. It may look like Greek to him at first, but once he understands something, he doesn’t lose it and he flies from that point on. He’s a smart little boy, and I’m so proud of how well he does in school.

I found this great article today, The 31 BestBack-to-School Tips for 2013, and I wanted to share it with all of you. Some of the tips I read will be really beneficial for us this school year, and some of them don’t really apply to us.

Some of my favorites include:

Celebrate the first day – Start a first-day-of-school tradition, such as making their favorite breakfast, going out for ice cream after school, or slipping an encouraging note in their backpack.

Choose brain food, not junk food – I’m just as guilty as some other moms are of slipping my son processed cheese and cracker packets as a pre-dinner snack, but peanut butter on whole wheat crackers or a smoothie would be so much better for him – not to mention he loves pressing the button on the Ninja blender.

Create a home gallery – They suggest stringing up empty picture frames with clothespins glued to them so you can rotate artwork, graded tests and school projects. I don’t know about you, but I’m personally convinced that schools are singlehandedly responsible for deforestation with the INSANE amount of paperwork that comes home in my son’s folder every day. This is a good way to allow him to choose what to display while letting me recycle a bunch of the stuff he doesn’t so I can avoid the Leaning Tower of Handouts on my side tables.

Expand attention span – This focuses on reading aloud, or having your child read aloud to you, a book every night. This allows their attention span to get back into the groove of remembering details.

Schedule playtime before homework time – This is one of those, ‘of course, why didn’t I think of that’ type tips. My son is 7, and he’s got enough energy, if it could be harnessed, to power a skyscraper. It makes sense to let kids burn off that energy to help them focus better on their schoolwork.

Make a morning checklist – I can’t tell you how many times last year I wondered if CPS would be called if I allowed my son to just go to school in his underwear because it was such a hassle to get him to dress every morning. The checklist idea puts them in charge of getting themselves ready, and they can feel it is an accomplishment rather than a chore and can help motivate them to take on more responsibility in the future.

Take an a.m. breather – I have done this sporadically in the past, but I have always enjoyed it. Setting aside 5 minutes to crawl into bed with your child and snuggling them quietly can be a very peaceful way to start the day that benefits both of you. My son is a cuddler, so this suits us to a T. Tweaking this for you and your children’s personalities and relationships shouldn’t be too difficult.

These are just a few of the great tips in the article that I think will work for us this year. However, I encourage you to check out the article, because there are plenty more tips – such as making them more responsible for their allowance, downloading apps to keep track of after-school engagements, and exploring ethical dilemmas with, ‘what if’ scenarios – that I’m sure will hit home for you and your child or children. After all, as a parent you know that anything that will ease the school year turmoil is one small victory on the way to winning the war…

My Mind Jumps About Like A Spidermonkey Jacked Up On Mountain Dew.

I had a brilliant stroke of genius for a blog topic today. I had to start making a list, because I was busy doing worky-things and I couldn’t just start writing, much as I would have liked to. If you need evidence that I’m batshit crazy, here it is, my idea list:

Penny per mile to operate.

Math is bullshit.

Aliens don’t wear hats.

Circus peanuts – eating a bagful.

Lip-syncing at my desk.

Yeah, there’s something irrevocably wrong with my mind. I’m also slightly impressed with myself that I spelled, ‘irrevocably’ correctly on the first try. So now that I have my introduction of sorts typed up, let’s move on, shall we?

Penny per mile to operate.

My job essentially to be an un-glorified Grammar Nazi. It suits me really well, even if my brain sometimes wants to commit brain-suicide a’la jumping into a running Ninja blender as a result of some of the terrible things people do to the English language. I wouldn’t call myself a crazy, hardcore Grammar Nazi… I am far too lazy for that. I’m more like Grammar Nazi Lite. I see things everywhere like the restaurants that spell, ‘vegetable’ as, ‘vegetabal’ or, ‘pickle’ as, ‘pickel’. Or the car wash that used the incorrect version of, ‘too’. And then I take pictures of these things and look at them by myself, giggling at their stupidity and feeling strangely complete in my superiority.

As satisfying as I find my grasp on the English language to be, I find my grasp on mathematics that much more lacking. I hate math. So fucking much. So this is also going to be Math is Bullshit, because I said so. I was proofing a slide today that stated that a particular model scooter costs a penny per mile to operate. I attempted to rouse my math-brain to figure out how many miles per gallon a scooter would get if it cost a penny per mile to operate.

And how do these assholes get off assuming something costs a penny per mile to operate? Have they not seen the prices of gas bobbing up and down like a hooker’s head? It’s $4.39 per gallon, and then a week later it’s $3.59 per gallon. How does that allow you to accurately advertise it as operating for a penny per mile?

And then I remembered that I don’t know math, because I suck at it. And I gave up the fight. Because honestly, this is what always happens:

Story Problem:

If a scooter operates at 0.01 cents per mile and the cost of gasoline is $3.59, how many miles per gallon will the scooter run at?

My Brain Turns It Into:

If I have 10 ice cubes and you have 11 apples, how many pancakes will fit on the roof? (Answer: Purple, because aliens don’t wear hats.) Fucking hate math…

I bought a bag of circus peanuts today. Circus peanuts seem to have a Quentin Tarantino effect on people… They either love them or hate them. I love them. I can only seem to eat part of the bag on very rare occasions. Usually I start eating the bag, and I’m happy. And I continue eating them. And I think to myself that I should stop eating them. So I stop for a bit. But I’ve already made my crucial mistake… I forgot to put the bag away. Aw, one more won’t hurt. I’ll stop after that. Three more later, and I’ve decided that I’m going to stop eating them. They’re delicious and all, but I’m pretty sure that they’re made from the same chemicals that are in sheet rock. My resolve strengthens, and I pick the bag up to put it in my drawer. And I realize there are only four left. Fuck it, I may as well eat them. What’s the point of saving four circus peanuts? So I’ve eaten the whole bag. And I feel slightly sick to my stomach. This probably explains why I only buy circus peanuts every six months or so. That’s about how long my stomach-memory takes to stop flip-flopping when I look at circus peanuts after a binge.

I am fortunate enough to have a job that allows me to sit in my wee sparkly cubicle (I have decorated my cube with a ridiculous amount of sparkle and glitter – and I’ve got Christmas lights in it) and I can listen to Pandora pretty much all day long. Because I had to upgrade to Pandora|One - because they’re fuckheads and only allow so many hours of unpaid play per month without it – I have my stations fairly customized. And as a result, I know the words to a lot of songs that play throughout the day. On a related side-note, I’ve always had a secret yearning to perform. My closest brushes with performing were my solo in 10^th grade, a duet with my good friend at a talent show, and karaoke. Of course, that’s not counting my poor car… If cars had ears, it would probably look weird, and its ears would be bleeding. The point of all this is that I really enjoy sitting at my desk and lip synching to the songs that play on Pandora. I have a (not so) secret desire to perform  at a drag show sometime. As a female. Yeah, I know, drag queens are usually men dressed as women (and some of them are hotter dressed as a woman than I am), but it would be so much fun to get up on stage, dressed in something over-the-top sparkly and lip sync to a fabulous song. And I don’t just lip-sync. I perform that motherfucker. Anything from the movie Burlesque is a surefire guarantee to get my ass moving, along with Selena Gomez And The Scene. Cause my heart pumps the blood of a performer. Or a dork who flails about like the white girl she is.

People Should Be Thankful That It's Not Socially Acceptable For Me To Hit Them In Public

I swear to all that is holy, while I have only waitressed a time or two in my life, I have enormous respect for anyone who can be considered waitstaff. If you have ever seen the movie Waiting - you know the cardinal rule. Don't fuck with people that handle your food.



Almost all of us, at some point or another, have witnessed the douchebaggery that abounds when crotchety assholes decide to crawl out from underneath their rocks and go out to eat. If you haven't, you are extremely fortunate. There are people who go out in public and make general fucktarded spectacles of themselves.



Today afforded me one such observation. Aaron and I went to Olive Garden for lunch around 11:00, and being as they had just opened it was really quiet. A first, I must say. Usually Olive Garden is crawling with everyone and their grandparents who all want tables for 46 with 19 high chairs for the herd of baby sonofabitches they towed along that will inevitably screech like howler monkeys while no one takes them to the restroom for a 'talk'. (Hint: You're all fucking stupid.) However, we were seated at a nice, quiet booth and had a really sweet waitress. It was looking to be a very splendid meal.



Shortly after we had started in on our soups, an elderly couple was seated at the booth next to ours. When I see older couples out having meals together, my first thought is generally, "Aww, that's so sweet." Today was no different. To me, food is love, and sharing a delicious meal with someone I love... It just generally tends to not get much better than that.



Deceptively cute old people are seated and the waitress brings them a sample of wine and asks what they would like to drink. The fact that they sampled the wine and ordered Diet Cokes should have clued me in to the fact that they were grade A cheapskates. The waitress brings back their drinks and asks if they're ready to order yet.


Old Woman: "Yes, we're going to do the two for steak thing."



Tolerant Waitress: "I'm not sure what you mean."



OW: "You know, the steak thing for $25. The one on the chalkboard."



TW: "Oh, yes! You mean the steak gorgonzola alfredo?"



OW: "Yes, that's what I meant."



TW: "Sure! Just so you know, it will be an extra $4 per person for the steak because it's a premium entree."



OW: "What do you mean? They didn't put anything about that on the board up front!"



TW: "Well," *picks up the table card where the 2 for $25 list is printed, where it clearly states that the premium entrees are $3.99 extra* "Actually, it says it right here."



OW: "Well it doesn't say so on the chalkboard up front."



This argument then proceeds to volley for the NEXT. FIVE. MINUTES. I was so thrilled with the waitress for not backing off. They tried everything they could think of... It was so funny. They tried asking how much it would be without the appetizer or dessert (which is part of the 2 for $25 deal) - would it be just the $25 then? She tells them it will be full price ($15.50) each, but they won't get the choice of an appetizer or dessert. Basically, they would pay $31 for the steak entrees alone, but for $33 they can get the entrees and a choice of appetizer or dessert. This seems like a no-brainer, right? $2 for dessert? BRING ON THE LEMON CREAM PIE!! At least, that's what I would have said.



Old lady and her husband just weren't having it. They were so indignant that the chalkboard advertisement was so 'misleading' and 'deceptive'. Meanwhile, all Aaron and I can do is look at each other and try not to roundhouse kick the bastards in the face. As Aaron observed, just fucking order something else! It's not fucking rocket science! You're going to Olive Garden and you shouldn't really assume it's going to be cheap unless you're getting the unlimited soup, salad and breadsticks meal.



Finally, they settle on something and order their soups. All is finally quiet, or so we thought. As they're eating their soup, we are quietly mocking them to ourselves. Hey, don't judge. If I acted like a royal twatwaffle in public, I'd fully expect that other people would mock me. Then they are almost finished with their soup. And proceed to scrape the bowls. *SCREESCREESCREESCREESCREESCREESCREE* Are you FUCKING kidding me?!! There is more in the back, all you have to do is ask!! The look of shock and incredulity in Aaron's eyes was mirrored in my own. What possible call is there to scrape the bowls? Ugh. Use your motherfucking breadstick like a normal person, dickbag.



So as we were leaving, I left a note on the restaurant copy of the receipt; "Seriously, you have the patience of a saint. I would have flipped. You are awesome." Hopefully she understood what I meant. I really wish it was permissible for waitstaff to hit people on the nose with rolled-up magazines... Like dogs. "You want to get premium entrees for standard entree prices? No." *smack* "No." Wouldn't that be the best thing in the history of EVER? Don't be a goddamn fuckrag, and you won't have issues. I sincerely hope that she spit in their steak alfredo.



After lunch, we decided to go see a movie. (Also: Superior Value Cinema is the shit - $6 for two people... I'll gladly wait a while after a release date to pay less for two people than one regular cinema ticket.) And there were two morons in the theatre eating their popcorn at the rate of what sounded like one kernel at a time. With their mouths open. Why are people allowed to leave their houses when they can't chew with their mouths closed?! It is so abhorrently disgusting and just generally fucking annoying. I could understand chewing with your mouth open if your nose is stuffed or something similar... But even then, you can still chew slower so that you don't make the annoying cow-chewing-cud sound.



Moral of the Story: If you can't avoid being a giant gaping cuntface, just stay the fuck home.

Leave The Yoga Pants Out Of This

Why is it that women continually insist on wearing clothing that is not at all flattering to their body type? I just don’t get it. I’m aware of my body type, and I’m sure every once in a while I mess up and wear something unflattering. However, every time I venture out in public it seems as if Wal-Mart is contagious… How else do you explain people in normal situations wearing clothing you normally see Mart-necks wearing to take advantage of this week’s exciting rollback prices?

I don’t understand why a woman should need to be told that she’s got a body that could be likened to Danny DeVito’s Penguin fatsuit. If you one day find yourself watching Batman Returns and envying the Penguin for his adorable tuxedo shirt onesie, STEP AWAY FROM THE YOGA PANTS. And when the fuck did yoga pants become interchangeable with sweatpants? To me, yoga pants are great for working out and wearing to bed as pajama pants. However, I don’t look like the Penguin. My ass doesn’t look like a frog put on a pair of pants and stood up.

If you have back titties, don’t wear tiny tops. Smearing a cute shirt over your muffin top doesn’t make you a cupcake. It makes you incapable of dressing yourself properly.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m a (platitude for chubby) girl. There is nothing wrong with bigger women, nothing at all. If you wanna flaunt what you have, I’m all for it. But please, for the sake of everyone’s sight, don’t flaunt it in jeans that are three sizes too small! Wear pants and shirts that fit properly. If your shirt is so small it hikes up while you’re WALKING – it’s time to rethink your wardrobe choices. There’s no call for wearing shirts that let your belly sag out.

I’m honestly baffled sometimes. Do these people not own mirrors? I know its June and it’s getting warm out, finally. But they do make tank tops and shorts in plus sizes. I know, I own some. Stop deluding yourself into thinking you can still shop in the junior’s section. You’re not an 11 if it looks like your torso is melted ice cream dripping out over the too-small cone you stuffed it in. And for fuck’s sake, leave the yoga pants at home unless you’re going to the gym! They didn’t do anything to you.

Unless, of course, you think this look is sexy:

"Bring me the first-borns!"

GM Update and Heels.

Because I am a total and complete loser, I thought it would be worth a shot to actually contact General Motors about my car (which, by the way, is actually at almost 361,700 miles – I underestimated, apparently) and tell them about how appreciative I was that their vehicle not only has lasted so long, but has been extremely reliable. Within 24 hours, I got a phone call from a nice guy at GM named Rob who wanted to, ‘reach out and acknowledge me over the phone’. Not expecting much, I figured I’d call them back when I finished up with work on Friday. I ducked out early because I work right near where a marathon was a’brewing, and I didn’t want to get caught up in all the craziness.

He called twice that morning, and then again in the afternoon. There wasn’t much going on, so I answered the third call. Turns out they think it’s wonderful that my car has an ‘unbelievable’ amount of mileage and I must keep it in excellent condition (HA! *snicker*) for it to have lasted so long., no. Not really…

Either way, they are going to send me a $100 service certificate as a thank you for maintaining my vehicle to such a high amount of miles, which is really pretty damn awesome of them. I wasn’t expecting anything except perhaps a form letter thanking me for my feedback. This was certainly beyond my expectations. So once it arrives, I’ll probably take my poor Beast in for an oil change or transmission flush… It deserves it.

On another note, it is finally gorgeous out today, and I am sporting an awesome pair of nude suede heels with AB crystals on the heels. This is awesome in every way. I also ended up being teased quite a bit this weekend for wearing heels when I’m already tall enough…

Words to Live By: Heels do wonderful things to a woman’s ass, regardless of how tall she is.

My Love/Hate Relationship with My Car

I have a confession…

I’m contemplating thievery. Honestly. Now, hear me out before you start calling the cops to report me. I live in a horrid apartment building. There is a parking lot that is a long line of cars against a fence. Because so many of the people in my building are losers (yes, I’m aware of what this says about me – the rent is cheap, and I moved there when I was a newly single mom, so bugger off), there are 5 vehicles that NEVER. MOVE. Honestly. A few of them have been stationary in the lot for at least a year.

What does this have to do with thievery? I have terrible tires on my car. Really terrible. I have a love/hate relationship with my car in the sense that I love that it’s got 361,000 miles on it and still runs pretty well… and hate in the sense that it’s got 361,000 miles on it and I’ve beat up the exterior and interior so much that my boyfriend refers to it as, ‘The Abortion’. It will go once I can save up enough money to buy a different car, and I’ll be sad when that day comes. Because of the high mileage and the fact that I’m going to replace it as soon as possible with a (hopefully) newer car, I don’t want to spend a ridiculous amount of money for new tires.

So a part of me has started hatching a plan to check the tire sizes on the stationary vehicles and if any of them are the same size – and in better condition than mine – I’m thinking about stealing them. They’re not using them, and the vehicles show no signs of being moved.

I know it’s wrong. I know I shouldn’t do it. But a part of me keeps saying, ‘Why not?’ I’m struggling with my sense of frugality. Unused tires are sitting right there. And on the other side of this argument, these stationary vehicles are parked in such a matter as to cause one to question the owner’s mental facilities. Because they are parked in the most nonsensical way, and it really tends to fuck up the parking space left for the rest of us with running vehicles. So maybe I should do it, as karmic justice. Some days when there’s no parking left when I get home (because some of the local businesses’ employees use it as their parking lot), I want to smash in their windows and key their paint. Surely this is a much less extreme alternative. I could call and have them all towed, but what fun is that?

On a related note, my dad told me I should write to Chevrolet and tell them that one of their vehicles has made it past 361k… I think it’s slightly over 361,400 miles now. And it still runs pretty well. I do love that I can start that beast up in the winter without any issues (in Wisconsin, that’s a huge deal when we start hitting -30). Maybe they’ll give me a new car and all of my plans to steal tires from my crackwhore neighbors will be rendered unnecessary! I’ll still want to key their cars, though.