Karmic Retribution

My husband has told me numerous times that the best part of my blog is the comments, and I really can't argue him that fact.  You people?  You're funny. You're clever.  You're vindictive as all get-out.  Sci Fi Dad will almost always leave a comment that is funnier that anything I've ever hoped to say, and that's just one example.  The Donor and I both love reading the comments and even though I am the suckiest blog comment responder in the whole entire world, don't think I don't read them all with my husband every night when he comes home.  It's sort of our thing.

That Valentine's Day post?  The comments were not his favorite.  He says I have to vindicate him.  He pays for the internet connection, and so I oblidge.  Also, I only folded half the laundry today.  Penance is a bitch.

(I will add, in my defense, that since I totally threw him under this bus on this post, he's teased me incessantly with the threat of a Valentine's Day bouquet of broccoli.  If I was especially good, maybe he'd throw some asparagus in there for good measure.  And I've secretly hoped for that, because really?  Hilarious.  So worth it.  All I wanted was some damn BROCCOLI.)

Three hours after the idiot email, he emailed again and said, "Oh, and you looked really hot."  Many, many hours later he came home from his 14 hour day at work and collapsed.  Several hours later I awoke and totally taunted him with the fact that I'd taken a weed-whacker to the more delicate areas of my body after, oh, months of neglect, and then left him high and dry.  He actually sat up in bed and mustered a "What. The. Fuck?" before he passed back out.
I came downstairs, feeling quite smug, to this:

valentines day oopsie

Yes, he'd managed to squeeze 5 minutes in his very busy fourteen hour workday to go get me something.  I am a jerk.

Inside that bag were all the candies I shouldn't have because I'm trying to be on a diet, because he loves me just the way I am, all squishy and floppy.  I am an asshole.  And when I looked deep into the bag, I found this, way at the bottom, under everything else.

Pocket Full of Kryptonite

Twizzlers.  My all-time favorite candy.  Raise your hands if you're already laughing.

The rest of you can take one guess as to what my kryptonite is, the one substance that will knock my on my ass with migranes so bad I go blind and my whole body twitches like I'm having a seizure and the nails, they get hammered into my skull through both eye sockets, all the temples and in the back of my neck.  That's right, red food coloring. Twizzlers are my favorite candy in the whole world, and I can have them about as much as I can drink a nice, tall glass of bleach.

I laughed so hard, I cried a little.  He got his little dig in.  Either he was an asshole because he forgot, or he was just an asshole.  It was comic GOLD.  And that was the best Valentine's Day present I ever could have asked for.

It's Not Me, It's You. Well, Maybe A Little Me.

My best Canadian friend Tanis is a new momma.  To a five year old.  And she didn't gain a pound.  I hate that bitch.  I was a new momma to a zero day old, and I gained 105 pounds.  Life, she isn't fair.

A bunch of people are coming together to help Tanis celebrate her very long awaited, very well deserved new bundle of Redneck with an internet Redneck Shower, which I'm told consists of buckets, Coors Light and maxi-pads.  I don't even want to know.

The idea is that we share with Tanis, and the world, how we too strive to be a good Redneck Mommy, how we aspire to be even an iota of the Redneck that Tanis is.

Yeah, right.


That house she's in?  CAME ON WHEELS.  There ain't no way nevah I can top that, and I wouldn't even try.  Tanis is the Queen Redneck, and no one could ever take her place.  In fact, I'm fairly sure that's why love her as much as I do.  I mean, really, I'm certainly no Redneck, but good lordy, I'm drowning in them.  I am a Redneck magnet.

There's my Uncle Lee, who had his prison sentence deferred by 10 hours so he could attend his niece's, my cousin's, funeral.  At her trailer.  Where we played horseshoes and drank Bud and everyone wore Lee Dungarees with their ass-cracks hanging out.  Where I showed up in a suit.  Also where Uncle Lee staggered over to me at one point and say, "Heyyyyyy, baby.  You sure are looking purdy today."  And I said, "Thanks, UNCLE Lee."  And he countered with, "Wanna come sit over here by me?" *eyebrow waggle*  To which I replied, ""Uncle Lee, I am your NIECE.  You know, Ed's daughter, Ed RIGHT OVER THERE?" *points to father, who isn't saving me one little bit*  And he says, "Oh, yeah, Ed's little girl.  You sure did grow up niiiiiiice."  And that's when he grabbed my thigh, and that's when I decided it was time to go home, and that's when my father fell. over. laughing.

There's my husband, who taught his children to pull his finger before he taught them to speak.

There's my mother's entire ancestry.  I once spent a lovely week in Georgia with my aunt Deb, and she showed me the book of their family lineage.  Yes, there is a published book, and yes, it shows plain as day how that family tree does not branch at all for 4 generations.

There's my grandmother, who pulled a loaf of bread out of her sister's trash can, screamed at her sister for wasting "...a perfectly good loaf of bread so long as you're not too lazy to tear the mold off."  And then made me a sandwich.

There's my Uncle Jimmy, who had the roof removed from his house so the chickens could have more freedom.

There's my Uncle Smitty, who has no running water, only a well, and when you go out to the well with him, he tells you the story about how he lost is frontal skullplate in "the war" and then, when you're least expecting it, grabs your hand and shove it onto his brain.  Oh, how he laughs and laughs.

There's my father, who videotaped me masturbating when I was 6 months old and has shown that video to every boy I've ever brought home.

There's my father again, who will tell you today if you asked him that is best kiss was his first kiss, and her name was Janet.  Janet is his cousin.

There's my grandfather, who held a gun pointed at my father and told him to marry my mother, because they'd had a date the night before and she woke up nauseous from a hangover, and therefore was pregnant.  Even though they didn't have sex.

There's my mother, who on that first date wore tight red jeans that had a hole in the knee, so she painted her kneecap with red nail polish.

There's my father, again, who called me when I was 15 to tell me that if I met a boy about 8 years older than me named Eric, I was under no circumstances to sleep with him.  Because he was most likely my brother.

There's my sister in law, who is currently investing all of her money in firearms because she's decided that's the only safe investment in this unstable economy.

There's my brother who will not. stop. telling me. how hot I am.  Really.  Ewww.  But kind of giggle.

There's my mother in law who, I found out years later, only served my children powered milk when they were little.  Milk is sooo 1930's.

There's my childhood best friend Rainy Day, which is enough all on it's own, except that she found out right before her mother passed away that her cousin was actually her brother.

There's Rainy Day's family, who we grew up with and loved like our own family, only to find out years later that we are actually related.  I've made out with no less than two members of her family.

Which brings me to me.  Maybe it's true what they say.  Maybe you can take the girl out of the trailer park, but never get the trailer park out of the girl.  My husband offers you this as proof.

In all fairness, Oregon makes everyone wet.

So, Tanis, happy Redneck Mommy's Day.  You're clearly not alone.  We're all here to lend you Jameson when his teeth come in, make you Kraft Macaroni and Cheese when you need a casserole, and to help you fill beer cans up with rice if he starts asking for a rattle.

I Also Said I Didn't Care If He Got Me An Engagement Ring Or Not.

This morning, my husband rolled over and on his nightstand sat a bag with a sweet little card and his favorite chocolates.  We came downstairs to find the children reading the valentine's I'd left them out on the table, eating the chocolates and dousing themselves in the little pocket-tubes of Axe bodyspray I gave them.

Note to self: Axe?  Not a great idea unsupervised.

There wasn't anything for me, and I didn't really care.  The smiling faces of my gorgeous little family were all I was hoping for, and I was happy.

We were out of coffee, and I said I'd go get another bag.  10 minutes after waiting for him to say, "No, honey, it's Valentine's Day.  Let me," I headed out the door.  I decided to splurge on a big, fancy latte, the kind I refuse to waste the money on normally, and I was happy.

The Donor got ready for work and with a kiss to everyone's cheek was out the door.  A few hours later, having not heard from him, I decided to email him a picture of myself in, um, a Valentinesy sort of position on the bedroom floor with a caption that simply read, "Hurry home, baby."  No, I will not show you the picture.  I was nervous, that sort of thing being really out of character for me, but I was happy.

A little while later, he replied.  I opened his email which read, and I quote:
"Holy Shit!  Did you clean the bedroom?"

I was not happy anymore.

And so my new Valentine and I wish you all a very happy Valentine's Day weekend.


Too harsh? Yeah, I should at least find one that looks like him, huh?


That works out much better.

Where Your Heart Is

When God closes a door, He opens a window.

That's how that line goes, right?  Little Ms. Atheist isn't as well-versed in the theologically inspirational lines as she'd like to think she is, but I'm pretty sure I've gotten that one right.

Three years ago, I sat on your porch and you told me how excited you were for me, that my move to another city and another country was going to be sunshine and rainbows and magic.  You told me that I'd forge new relationships, ones that might just outshine those I was leaving behind.  You told me, in so many words, that I'd find a new you.

Now, you are almost never wrong.  Most of the things you say to me end up being dead-on correct, I just don't always see it right away.  You seem to know things that I don't, understand things that I can't yet.  I can only attribute this to you either A) being some creepy psychic sage or B) being old enough to know better.   I'm going with B.

This time, though, this one time, I was right.  You were wrong.  For once, I knew something you didn't know.

I knew that you were not just anyone.  I knew that I'd been waiting my whole life for you.  I knew the measure of the empty space in my heart, and that it would take more than just a friend,  more than just a mother to fill it.

For all of these years we've had together, you've stood back and let me stumble, you've watched me fall, you've stood at the edge of that hole I keep digging myself into and told me to get the fuck out of there already.  You've never rescued me, but you've certainly saved me.  You've never forced me, but you've guided me.  You've never imposed, but you've always suggested.  You've been the mother I didn't think I wanted and the friend I didn't think I needed.

I can't articulate how much I want to be at your table tonight, lighting your birthday candles.  I can't tell you how much I miss being wrapped up in the middle of your family.  I honestly am shocked at how badly I want to watch your grandchildren unwrap your birthday presents, how much I want to go smoke with your husband and talk about the motorcycle, to hear your son in law laugh, to hug your daughter until my arms burn, to lay my head on your son's shoulder, to see my kids run into your arms and to know that we're home.

That house, those people, the world you've created around you, the one you decided to share with me for reasons I'll never know; that's what I've looked my whole life for.  It was that place, that feeling, that thing I'd seen on paper and film, but never really knew before.


You are my heart, my family, my friend and my home.  And maybe you've got just enough years on me to know better about most everything else, but finally I'm old enough to know one little thing; I will never, ever let anything shut that door.

Say It Ain't So

Call it a cop-out post, call it sacrilege, call it the most excruciatingly off-key mess you've ever heard, call it what you will. This is my life; welcome to it.  This is what makes me laugh until I pee.

(I dubbed the actual song very quietly into the background for those of you who aren't well-versed in the greatness that is Weezer.  You should work on that.  Best band ever, not kidding.  My 8 year old even knows this much is true.)

Say It Ain't So from Mr Lady on Vimeo.

Maybe he'll be a bassist or something.