Follow by Email

Tuesday, September 19, 2017

Fundraising II

This came home today:

Fifty-two glossy, shiny pages of crap strategically arranged to look way better than it is.  Kinda like a lot of bills that come through Congress.  Or a porn star.

Of course, Charlie came home all excited about possibly winning this watch thing that looks like a Fitbit.  She only needs to sell 50 items to do this, probably bringing in for the company about $5,000 and earning the school about 28 cents.  She only wants this thing because she asked for a Fitbit for Christmas because that was what Alexis wants and I was all like "The fuck you will get a Fitbit, you get frustrated when you can't get your hair in a ponytail and you throw the ponytail holder across the room.  I sure as shit ain't giving you a hundred dollar electronic for you to get pissed at and to chuck across the room.  That shit will break something maybe."  It was totally in a loving, maternal way with no cussing, of course, but that was totally the gist.

Seriously, bitchez.  We need to band together and STOP this madness.  I once raised the question of why this fundraiser was still going on and was told that it was a big money maker for the school.  Let's fucking strike here until there is a fundraiser that involves alcohol and an evening away from my children.  I'd totally drink with some of my kids' teachers.  They seem cool as fuck.  I'm only down for a strike, though, if it involves some song and dance numbers, a la Newsies.  I always thought knickers and a newsboy hat looked fun.  But only with suspenders.  Naturally.

I digress.  Let's get a fundraiser that I can get behind, that doesn't involve extortion of money from my family and friends in exchange for lead-based crap from China and miniature rolls/sheets of wrapping paper.  

Or-and this is a super novel idea here, so bear with me-

We could just fucking fund schools appropriately in the first place.

I so don't want the people caring for my demented ass in my elderly years to have to have attended schools that get "extra" stuff that is actually so essential funded based upon who could sell the most 3 oz tins of chocolate covered pretzels for $25.  I don't want the future of this country to depend on who busts their ass the most to get that extra $500 for some new library books or playground equipment.  And I don't want teachers to have to dip into their own pockets to give my children a rich educational experience because God knows they are underpaid and if they quit I have to then try to educate my children myself and we may as well just nuke the country because that is as horrible an idea as forcing said children to sell a bunch of shit to their family and friends, who will then demand the same from these children when they are adults, thus perpetuating an endless cycle of being indebted to the next generation to buy this shit instead of having the elderly generation just paying for their education in the first place in agreement that the youngin's will not push their wheelchairs out on the ice when they are unable to care for themselves.  

If this country is truly the land of opportunity, ALL children would be able to have the same experiences and benefit from the talent and dedication of the educators charged with shaping the future.  Things are not this way; however, so we fundraise.  Can't we at least have a fundraiser that adults actually enjoy?  Or, better yet:

Let me write a fucking check, without the exchange of plastic shit and junk food vacuum sealed in plastic.  Consider it a down payment towards the people I am going to depend on, later in life, to make sure that my martini is shaken, not stirred.

Sunday, September 3, 2017


Sing to tune of Bohemian Rhapsody

Is this real life?
Is this just fantasy?
Lost by a landslide
Electoral college got the job for me.
Open your eyes look up to the skies and see
I'm not a poorboy
Returns you don't need to see
Wives are easy come easy go
Little Hands reality show
Hit me where Steve Bannon blows
Nothing really matters to me
Except for me

Senator Paul
Tried to kill a man
Wants to pull his SuperMed
Trump'll cut the funding now he's dead
Steve Bannon
My term has just begun
But now you've gone and blown it all away
Putin's gonna make me cry
Shoulda closed this case by this time tomorrow
Bury on bury on
Election integrity doesn't matter

It's too late
Mooch's time has gone
Language too extreme for Trump
Cock-blocking priebus all the time
So good bye everybody
Me and Spicey gots to go
Gonna leave it all behind  and spare the truth
Transgenders no longer can serve
I sometimes wish he'd never ever Tweet at all....

I see a little Silhouetto of a man
Scaramucci he's the Mooch
And his boss colored like a mango.
Trump's tweeting quick as lightning
Very very frightening
All I say-o
All I say-o
All I say-o
All I say-o
All I say-o Fake news-o
He gots to go....
I'm not a poor boy why don't Trump love me?
He's not a poor boy he's full of vulgarity
I'll swear and I'll rant about this monstrosity
Easy come easy go will Trump let him go?
Beshmula no!  He will not let him go! Let him go! Beshmula no! He will not let him go! Let him go let him no no no no no!
Oh Huckabee-a Huckabee-a Huckabee-a will he go?
Oh Putin says he's got a very special job for me....for me...for me.....

So you think you can stop me by impeaching this guy?
So you think cons will stop lovin' me and leave me to die?
Ohhhhh, maybe
If the votes stop well then maybe
Just gotta get out
Just gotta get Trump outta here.

Laws don't really matter
See police brutality
Laws don't really matter.
Laws don't ever apply to me.

Hit me where the KKK blows....


Tuesday, August 15, 2017


It is well established that I am crazy.  If you don't know that by now, I strongly encourage you to go back to this post and just read from the beginning.  Seriously, take the time.  I'd lay money on the fact that by the time you get to January 2011 you won't have to keep on keepin' on.  You'd be a believer.  A converted crazy cognizant, for those alliterative types out there.

Runners are also crazy people.  I mean seriously, who wants to engage in a sport where you could possibly literally shit yourself?  Seriously, google "runner trots".  Avoid the images.

I have been running more lately.  Now, don't think that I am about to go to any kind of race and win.  Or even finish in the bottom 10%.  More like dead last. (Though I suppose technically that is in the bottom 10%, so...) But it  has been good for me to have that outlet for myself.  That alone time, of just listening to music and focusing on not dying.  Because you feel that way sometimes while running.  Then you get the runner's high and can't wait to go back at it.  Hell, I probably would struggle to finish a 5K in under 35 minutes, to be perfectly honest.  Way above my times in high school...hell, way above my time in high school 7 months pregnant running cross country (true story).  I'm not doing it for any kind of award. Or even to get into shape, really.

I'm doing it for my sanity.  Which, if you followed my instructions above, is clearly questionable at best.

That is why it was so disheartening the other day when I had a really shitty run.  Like, almost literally shitty.  It was the kind of run where my limbs felt leaden, like they all had an extra 20 lb weight strapped to all of them.  Where I could not get into a rhythm of any sort.  Where my knees vaguely ached as did my muscles, but no amount of warming up or stretching would alleviate the pain.  Where I seriously thought I might actually poop while running.  And it was only 4 miles I ran.

"Only four miles".  Who the fuck even talks like that?  Crazy people, that's who.  Crazy people who run.  Which them makes them even crazier.  And thus starts the endless loop of craziness.

From now on, that is totally where I am blaming my crazy on.  Forget that I will never run a marathon.  Forget that there are people twice my age lapping me.  Forget that I have been crazy for way more years than I have run.  I am crazy, therefore I run.  I run, therefore I am crazy.  There's a nice symmetry to it.  A limitless loop of lunacy, with no clear beginning or end.  Again, with the alliteration.

On second thought, don't bother going back and re-reading.  If this post alone hasn't convinced you, just stop reading.  Forever.  I don't need that kind of negativity in my life.  And by negativity, I mean complete and total denial.

Sunday, July 16, 2017


Because I like to be all Tiger mom and shit, I decided that I was going to do something fun with the kids this weekend.  Alexis had a friend spend the night, so I looked up some tutorials and decided we were going to make some ginormous bubbles.  As I was putting this shit together for the kids, I realized that I could certainly make my own tutorial for this craft as I was not following one exactly.  So that is exactly what I am setting out to do here, for the reading enjoyment of my 9 followers.  I mean, it's not like I am using this blog to generate income or anything (mostly because I am too lazy to figure out  how the ads work, plus the whole 32 cents I could potentially generate from my 9 followers seems to not be worth the effort involved).  I am going to walk you through how I made ginormous bubbles for the kids.  But minus any actual pictures of how I did it, because you all aren't fucking idiots and I imagine that you could figure out how to screw eye hooks into a dowel rod and tie some string to it, as well as how to mix shit together for bubbles.  Anyways...Welcome to my mind.  May the odds be ever in your favor. It's not too late to turn back, you know....

Still here?  Great.  Let's begin.

So the original tutorial I found gave some basic directions on how to make the wands for these huge ass bubbles.  It seemed fun, and if it was an epic fail it was summer and I could potentially hose the children down and/or burn the evidence of this craft, so I gathered up the shit I needed.  Some dowel rods.  Some eye hooks and washers.  Cotton string.  I measured the children up and cut the string.  Then I needed to insert the eye hooks into the ends of the dowel rods.

Now the lady at that link said something about just screwing them in without drilling first.  Fuck.  That.  Shit.  It was hurting my little fingies, and I need those to unscrew the top of the margarita mix and my Xanax bottle once  Alexis's friend headed home, amirite?  So I grabbed my husband's drill and a teeny drill bit, but the drill already had a screwdriver head on it so I had to find him to get it off and put the new bit on.  For some reason I can't fucking figure out how to do that on a drill.  I hand the drill and the bit to him, and he looks at me with the wariness of a man who is married to a crazy lady who likes to do crazy things.  Like this one time, when I was like 7 months pregnant, I started to dig up what I thought was a small rock in our yard, and it ended up being one that required two men to lift and a wheelbarrow to transport to what I was told had to be its forever home because he wasn't ever fucking moving that fucking huge ass thing again.  (In my husband's defense, he doesn't swear that much at all, so I may have added some extra emphasis there with the cussing.  His tone totally said all that though.)

Anyways, I get the wands all set up and then realize...these are fucking nunchucks.  With an extra added bonus of a washer to add some extra knockout power.  What made me think that giving Charlie these was a good idea?

Sure, give three children under the age of 10 these potential weapons.  What could possibly go wrong?

At this point, I start to question my (remaining, because let's be honest, there wasn't much there) sanity and really wish it would be ok to just start pounding the wine.  Since I am a semi-responsible adult, I refrain and move on to creating the bubble mixture.

Now, in that original tutorial, the video shows the bubbles not lasting very long.  Of course, I am all like fuck that shit, our bubbles are going to last longer.  Tiger mom, remember?  So I hit Google up, go to a second tutorial, and mix some magic bubble potion up.

That is baking power on the floor next to the bubbles.  I promise.  Semi-responsible, remember?

We were supposed to let the mixture sit for an hour at least, but of course I can't be arsed to follow the directions so we head out after 20 minutes.  I mentally prepare myself for the possibility of this being as big a failure as Sean Spicer's spins on his boss's rhetoric while attempting to hide in shrubbery, and gather up the children to head outside to try this out.

And you know what?  Holy fucking shitballs, it works.

No spin needed here, Spicey!  These are tremendous bubbles!

A twofer, even!

So there you have it folks, my first very lazy tutorial on how to make big ass bubbles.  On a ranking scale of being able to be sober to necessitating speed-balling to get through, this one is one I can handle without the aid of pharmaceuticals.  

Sunday, July 2, 2017

Rainbows III

By now, you should know the significance of rainbows and my son for me.  If not, you can find it here, here, and here.  Most people also don't know this, but a baby born after a loss is called a rainbow baby.  Technically, I have two of those, Alexis and Charlie, though not many people know that either.

If you would have told me after my son died that I would soon become obsessed with the white light of the sun being refracted through raindrops into something colorful in the sky, I would have looked at you askew.  Of course, if you would have told me that I would be willing to get twice daily injections of heparin into my pregnant stomach to keep my body from killing a baby after that, I would have looked at you the same way...point is, it has become a pretty significant thing for me to see a rainbow.

I always loved storms.  As a child, I would sit in our front room and look out the window as they came rolling in from the west.  I used to freak my sister out by jokingly running into the middle of our lawn and licking my finger and holding it up in the air for the lightning to come strike me.  (I am strangely confused as to why it did not, but perhaps it was because I was still an innocent child?  I don't tempt fate now, I tell you what...)  Of course, I always came in before the rain started, because ew.  Water.  But even the torrential downpours that accompanied a thunderstorm were fascinating to me, from the dry safety of our house, of course.

I honestly don't remember seeing that many rainbows as a child.  Most likely explanation is that I simply wasn't looking for them.  I didn't run outside when the sun started shining in the west and it was still dark in the east to look for them.  They were no where near as meaningful at that time as they are now for me.  I've said it before, I am fully aware that the times in my life with rainbows are probably just as much a coincidence as the times with fire (and I haven't even talked about all the fire alarm drama, either...).  I like to think that the rainbows aren't, that my son is still with me even as his ashes sit on my dead people's shelf in my living room.  (For the record, he is the only literal dead person on this shelf.  It's not like I am collecting corpses to pose on this shelf in a variety of positions.   It has other mementos from our passed on loved ones, as well as his urn.   I strangely feel the need to clarify this for you people.)

I'm really hoping that the fire shit isn't like a sign from hell, though.  That would not strike me in the feels nearly as much as the whole rainbow thing.

Wednesday, June 14, 2017


My hatred of water has been well documented.  Here, here, here , here, and here, to be exact.  I'm not a fan.  May have something to do with some sort of early trauma in my life, wherein I almost drowned with a lifeguard watching me and my sister pulled me to safety, or maybe I'm bitter about all the times we went swimming in Lake Erie and came out with sediment and God knows what else all up in my crack (like, literally.  Ohio is the state where a river caught on fire; of course our lake is full of rusted pieces of metal and communicable diseases.).  Or perhaps it has to do with 9th grade when a guy picked me up and threw me into the pool during free swim and I was able to get to the edge of the pool in the deep end, thereby nullifying my excuse of "I can't swim" to the gym teacher and my free pass to have grossly modified expectations for swim class. Fucker.

Anywho, I'm not a fan of water as I said before.  I generally don't go in past my waist, and it usually involves much wailing and gnashing of the teeth for me to get into the water with the children, along with some pretty serious negotiations that simultaneously makes me teary eyed with pride and frustrated as hell at their tenacity. Bathing suits aren't exactly my friend, too. I have body image issues anyways, and plus I am a 36 year old woman who's been pregnant more times than most and who nursed three children.  Shit only stays where it is supposed to because of a lot of Spanx and a solid underwire bra, plus a lot of strategic placement of body parts.

(And yes, I know I am supposed to be a feminist and all that shit, and that worrying about how my body looks in a bathing suit is a function of societal pressures to look perfect, and that my children don't care how I look.  I know all of this.  But I still feel it and by God, I'm honest if nothing more than super crazy.)

So what the fuck made me think that it would be a good idea to get the kids a fucking swimming pool for Christmas last year?  Not like the little 24 inch pools that we used to splash in with our dad when we were little.  No, a fucking 14 ft wide, 42 inches high pool with a real filter and ladder and everything.  And what made me think that my children would be ok with me NOT getting into it with them?  Seriously, if I didn't know that eggs are the devil food and I never eat them, I would question if I got into a whole gallon of egg nog the day I decided to get this thing.

(Though not gonna lie, we got one hell of a deal on it.)

I have been swimming more this summer than I have the last two, possibly three, combined.  Not even hyperbole there.  And the pool has only been up since Saturday.  My children know that I am a sucker for them, and they tend to exploit this to get me to do things that I wouldn't normally.  Like willingly put a bathing suit on and get into water.  Luckily for me, their willingness to exploit me has not extended to things like buying them meth or hacking the school's computers to change their grades.

I suppose that it is part of being a parent though...this willingness to do shit for your kids that takes you out of your comfort zone.  Whether it is learning to use a booger sucker to becoming a dance mom to educating your children about the importance of locking doors to avoid murder,  my kids are constantly making me grow as a person and to expand my thinking in new ways.  Even if it means getting over my hatred of water.  And my fear of stabby murderers coming into our house while waiting up for the teenager to get home from "working a late shift".

Mama may have been born in the morning, but it wasn't yesterday.  I may be willing to allow my children to talk me into believing that water is fun, but I sure as hell ain't gonna get talked into believing that my kid always headed straight home from work after her shift.  Remember, this is the lady who had her gym teacher believing for almost an entire semester that she could not swim.

Tuesday, May 9, 2017


My two younger children have decided that they are going to do a reprisal of the toddler years with regards to avoidance of going to bed, and have recently begun doing all that they can to postpone the actual event of going to bed itself, let alone actually falling asleep.  They like to whip out all of the classics, such as I need a drink of water or to go to the bathroom, as well as some creative new ones such as I just realized at the exact moment I am supposed to get into bed that I may have potentially possibly broken my pinkie toe earlier this week and it now needs immediate medical attention (Alexis) or I just realized that I don't have every single stuffed animal in my room on my bed and we must bust out a search party for said missing stuffed animal and tear apart my whole room RIGHT NOW (Charlie.)  They have also taken to begging me to lie down with them for a while, and since I'm pretty much a sucker for them I will do this as long as it does not involve TOO long of a conversation on their part to avoid going to sleep.

I might be a fucking sucker for those girls, but I'm not a dumb sucker.  I KNOW their sudden desire for Mama cuddles has nothing to do with the actual cuddling itself and more to do with getting an extra 3-5 minutes of awake time so they can see...what?  What their father and I do in the mysterious hours between 8:30-9 PM and 7-8 AM?

It's a whole lotta not-exciting, that's what.  It usually involves some sort of lunch packing, cleaning, and prepping for the next day.  The excitement comes when we are able to eat or drink whatever crap we want without having to inhale it so the children don't see us making poor food choices and therefore irreversibly scarring them for life with food issues.  I also will get on the laptop at that time uninterrupted to binge on the news online, Facebook, and to pin things that I will likely never make/do, and Charles will go watch shit on the iPad because I am a bad wife and can't/won't watch TV or movies with him.  We are ANIMALS, I tell you.  Don't be jealous.

Today's conversation with Charlie, though, takes the cake.  She started off by asking if they could get a mini fridge for the upstairs.  She tried to sell me on the idea by saying "We won't keep pop in it.  Maybe cheese sticks.  Or stuff you keep in the fridge downstairs.  Like healthy stuff."  Uh, OK, playa.

She then also asked for a "small kitchen area" for their bedrooms as well.  Apparently the new thing for kindergardeners is to have your own apartment.  Nothing like starting independent living fresh outta preschool, amirite?

So I'm lying next to her in bed, grateful for the dark to hide my silent laughing, when she then makes her last request.

She wants a fucking underground bunker.

I shit you not.

She wants it to be equipped with a kitchen, bathroom, bed, and a lot of pajamas.  Plus there needs to be an underground tunnel going from her current bedroom (which is upstairs, so not quite sure how that will work, but I guess all the details have not been hammered out yet...) to the bunker.  For what, I'm not sure.  Is this going to be like a situation room for when her attempts at world domination fail?  Is she privy to some intelligence regarding nuclear warfare that I am not?  Or perhaps she is just terrified of the idea of a Trump Presidency during her grade school years and is just planning accordingly?

I'm trying to avoid thinking that perhaps it is to hide bodies.  I mean, I am pretty sure there's NOT a body count yet so this is what we are working to maintain here.  But perhaps she is just trying to be proactive here.  A preemptive plan for hiding bodies and fugitives, if you will.  Contingencies.

I am not sure if I should be slightly terrified of that idea, or proud as hell of her foresight and planning and organizational skills.  With the added bonus, of course, of putting off falling asleep for another six and a half minutes.