My shoulder is being cattle prodded. My neck, my shoulder, my back, and even my left rib cage all have red hot pokers being shot through them during every move. Even breathing hurts. This happened about a month ago, too. I popped left over hydros from my C-Section to deal with the pain. I suppose I could actually go to the doctor. That would be the smart, grown up thing to do. But since I no longer have health insurance and I still have pain meds, I'm determined to kick the pains ass.
But I still have to get dressed. I have to stuff these mountain boobs into my mole hill bra. I have to carry the diaper bag. Pook still wants Mama to pick her up. Damn it. Bryan offers to take her, but no, honey, I have her. Yes, it's very painful but I'll manage. Don't notice my wincing, I'm okay. Pook needs her Mama.
Being a Mama Martyr is becoming a bit too familiar to me.
"Yes, Bryan, I am sleep deprived. But I have things to do! No, don't make me nap, I am fine!"
"Yes, Bryan, I know I haven't showered today but I have got so much done! I will shower later, who else is going to scrub the floors like I want?"
I mean really now, what the hell am I trying to accomplish? Oooh, look at me! I can sacrifice everything for the benefit of my family and my home! I may be in pain, sleep deprived, and smell like a hobo but my family is happy.
I think I've been so programmed as a woman to put everything above myself, even if it costs me my happiness or health. (Because let's face it...It would've helped immensely if I had let Bryan take Pooker Butt so my shoulder could take a break.)
How many of us and even competed with other mothers on the level of our martyr-ness?
"Well, that may be bad, but there was one time when I was bleeding from every orifice but I stayed up with little Timmy for three days straight because he had a cold."
Really, from now on, if Bryan wants to help me and take the baby...Go for it. I'm too sore, I'm too tired, and frankly, if I go one more minute without some body wash the skunks in the alley behind me are going to waddle up to me and say
"Looky here, lady. You're making us smell good."
1) When he asks "Is she ready to go?" and he's not referring to you
2) When you say "I think we'll have carotts" and you're not referring to your side dish for dinner.
3) When you hit the clothing section of the store first- for your baby, not you.
4) When being covered in snot, drool, spit up, and vomit no longer bothers you.
5) When going to the store no longer involves you grabbing your purse & keys, but a bottle, a binky, her favorite toy, diapers, wipes, a blanket, and a change of clothes. All for a 10 minute trip.
6) When you see a crying baby in a restaurant and you no longer think "Please make that kid be quiet" but instead nod sympathetically. You've been there.
7) When you've developed a whole new language just to talk to your baby.
8) When your baby has more clothes & toys than you did. And you're not jealous. At least, not much.
9) When your living room, kitchen, and/or car looks like Babies R Us exploded in it.
10) When you think nothing of the binky being in the dog bowl.
11) When you and your spouse can make a bottle and change a diaper with military efficiency and precision.
12) When you no longer measure "me time" in hours but in minutes and seconds.
13) When you think nothing of using your hands and fingers as toys or binkies.
14) When you've had your hair, earrings, and necklaces pulled so much you A) no longer notice it and B) no longer wear any jewelry.
15) When you can sing word for word any and all of your childs favorite show theme songs.
Here are some Thanksgiving pictures. Because I simply don't post enough pictures!
 That's how she sleeps, with her arm over her eyes. "Oh, life is so hard! Please, turn off the light."
 Chillaxin' with Dad. Notice how they have the same pose? Like Father, like daughter.
 "I loves me some cheese!"
 Bryan, Pook and I at my stepmoms house for Thanksgiving. Believe it or not, but it took roughly 5 minutes for Pook to even remotely look at the camera. And yes, Bryan is roughly a foot taller than I.
 My awesome twin sister, Heat and I. Pook is basking is her awesomeness.
 Yes, we really are twins. Most people don't even believe we're sisters. I know, I know...She got all the hot genes and then God looked at me and said "Eh...Here. I'm sorry, here's some big boobies."
 I don't know why but we started Voguing. This is the end result.
No, not thermal heat. It's snowing outside. My bosses like the office kept at -50. Heat has taken a vacation. Heat as in my twin sister. Heat as in my other, wittier, funnier, more adventurous half. This is for her.
"Hey, fancy seeing you here, what's your name?"
"My name right now is Zygote. But eventually it'll change to embryo, to fetus to whatever this woman decided to name me."
"Oh my gosh, how funny! Same here! By the way, could you move a little bit? It's cramped in here."
"Excuse me? I was here first."
"Nuh huh."
"Yuh huh. Fine, I'm drawing a line down the middle of this uterus."
"Yeah, fine! Guess what, you can't leave to go to the birth canal!"
"Crap. I'm telling Mommy."
Thus began the never-boring, oft tumultuous, love and hate relationship with my twin sister, Heat. Need further proof? I came out with a black eye. I certainly didn't do it to myself!
Heat and I beat the ever loving hell out of each other on a daily basis. All my family had to do was walk through the door at the local immediate care center and the receptionist automatically pulled our files and asked,
"Which twin was it this time?"
For example, we were fighting one time. I don't remember over what. Y'know those plastic wand thingies on venetian blinds? Those can be used as whips, but they break really easily. And explaining why you are covered in welts doesn't mean either parent will buy your story. Anyway, we could beat the hell outta one another but nobody else could. Or you'd risk fighting both of us at the same time.
There was also the time when I took her G.I. Joes for my Barbie wedding. (Because who wants to marry that pansy ass Ken anyway?) Heat told me to stop. Which meant I, in turn, flaunted the fact that G.I. Joe was in a Ken-sized tux. (Picture a 12" G.I. Joe with his hands poised to look like he's holding a Beretta and a scar down his cheek. Marrying Barbie.) Anyhoo, Heat took her Buffalo Bill gun with powder blanks in it and shot Barbie! I screamed bloody murder, and Dad came running in, and asked what happened.
"SHE SHOT BAR-BIIIIEEE!" I wail at the top of my lungs.
"Did you shoot her Barbie?" Dad asks her.
"Yup." Stone cold poker face. No expression, staring at Fraggle Rock on TV.
"Why?" Dad is trying to be serious, but inside I'm sure he was laughing.
"I told her to knock it off. I told her three times. I told her I would shoot Barbie. She didn't stop. I shot Barbie. End of story."
Here's another thing: I was the ultimate girly-girl growing up. I loved frilly dresses, tea parties, Barbies, dolls, make-up, pretty, long hair, manicured nails...The works. If it was girly, I loved it. Bonus points if it was pink. I went to every single formal dance at my school, and many others at neighboring schools.
Heat was...My polar opposite. She eschewed all things girly. She played with G.I. Joes, Tonka trucks, she climbed trees, getting her to wear a dress or anything girly for that matter took an Act of God, (or putting the Fear of God into her), she never once got her hair and nails done, she shopped in the mens section, (more comfy), and never went to a single dance. She didn't see the point in them.
"Why would I want to spend $500 on hair I'll just mess up, nails I'll bite off, a dress that's uncomfortable, all so some sweaty, pimply guy can rub up against me and cop a feel?" Good point.
Heat and I have a very special bond. She would hurt herself and I would literally feel the pain, without seeing her or knowing she was hurt. She would be singing a song in her head, and I would hum it out loud. We don't do that anymore, but we talk in a way that there's so many inside jokes and stories, an outsider would be lost.
When Pook was born, I stayed for a week with my Mother. Heat helped take care of Pook and I. She would bring me food. She changed Pooks diapers. She would bring her to me to nurse. She cried when I cried from the pain. She told my Mom to back off when my Mom badgered me nonstop that I needed to go out and take a walk, and she threatened to take away my pain meds. She showed me a side I didn't knew existed. My love for my sister deepened that week.
At any rate, we are as different as night and day. You can see where this might cause some, ahem, tension growing up. Through it all, though, she's the woman I love the most. Heat can do a killer impersonation of just about anyone, and she'll have you crying and rolling on the floor. Heat is fiercely loyal, damn near to a fault. Once she has her mind made up, it's made. Good luck trying to change it.
Heat and my father haven't had the easiest of relationships. When Heat came out, Dad was horrified. He grew up in a time when it was acceptable to beat the crap out of homosexuals. He is also a deeply religious man and this went against his beliefs. He tried to tell her that while he still loved her more than anything, he hated her lifestyle. She couldn't seperate the two. In her mind, they were one and the same. She heard. "I don't love you anymore" though nothing could be further from the truth.
Fast forward three years, and my Mom and Dad are getting a divorce. My mother, who can be the most vindictive, begrudging person ever, outdid herself. She railed against my Father, spreading mostly lies, to anyone who would listen. Including her twin daughters. Now me, I knew Dad a little bit better than Heat. I knew that about 99% of what she tried to feed me was crap. It hurt me vert much that she would try to tell me this, but I let it go, and it cemented our bond even more.
Heat believed it. All of it. For two years. She refused to speak to my Father, and when she did, it was laced with contempt and hatred. My Father tried several times to reconcile with her. Either she didn't want to hear it or maybe she wasn't ready. Maybe it was both. At any rate, I know it caused my Father worlds of pain. It caused me pain and made me shed many tears over his pain.
Then Thanksgiving 2008 happened.
Bryan and I left after work to make the 2½ trek to my Dad & Stepmoms house. We stopped halfway there only to realize we had to turn around because someone had forgotten to pack the casserole stuff. (That someone was me.) When we finally got there, I packed Pook inside. I looked up. There she was, sitting on the couch.
Oh. My. Fucking. God. HEAT!
I ran to her, and almost knocked her over. I started crying, (which I'm doing now) I was so happy. I spent most of my time there, glued to her side. I wanted to bask in her glow. I needed my fix. I went too long without being able to talk with her. When we talk, it doesn't matter how long we haven't seen each other, we slip into our previous conversation as if no more than seconds had gone by. And again, we have so many inside jokes & stories that an outsider would be lost. One word, look, or phrase will send up into peals of laughter. No one else gets it. But that's cool, because we totally do. She completes a part of me that I can't describe. I know it's there, she knows it's there. And without each other, we'd be lost.
To see the look in my Fathers face when he saw the two of us together was priceless. I would've given anything to be there to see the look on his face when he opened the door to his daughter standing there. I haven't seen him that happy in over 2 years. Don't take offense to that Cindy. But nobody can replace Heat or I for my Father.
She said that she had a dream that she was there for Thanksgiving, and then she got Cindy's invite and it was too much of a coincidence. I didn't care what made her come, I was just happy she was there.
Then she had to leave to go back home. I gave her a hug, and we held each other very tightly for a long time. After we watched her tail lights disappear into the darkness, my Father and I held each other for a long time. I don't know if he cried, but I quietly wept. I was very, very sad that I didn't have near the time I needed with her, but I was also overcome with happyness that I at least got to see her. I just miss her so Goddamn much.
Heat...If you read this, this is for you. For the funniest, prettiest, wittiess, most adventurous, brave, beautiful woman I not only have the honor of knowing, I happen to be sister with. I love you so much. I miss you even more. Please come see me again.
I need to go now, guys. My tears are screwing up the keyboard. Much love.
Well, as I expected, Jess came over and went O-F-F on me. Whatever. She said I didn't have the right to post what I did (I do) and that I should apologize (not anymore) and that she's more mature than me (rrriiiggghhttt. The yelling and screaming at me really showcases that, too.) how I clearly think the world revolves around me (Really? I'm that special? When did that happen?) And as for her little tantrum she said that she was waiting and giving Joe a chance to calm her down. (Okay...But isn't she your child? Shouldn't you be the one to handle that? Just curious.) And she predicted that LMA will do the same. Funny, that. Bryans kids didn't, H1 and I didn't, Bryan didn't...Because we all knew better. So, I guess thanks for the heads up? I somehow think things will turn out a bit differently.
They said I should make my blog private. Y'know, I thought about it. And I'm not going to. After that little episode? No way.
She asked if I was sorry. No, actually, I'm not. I was sort of sorry before, but I'm not at all sorry now. If anything, my opinions of her just got reinforced. Look, Jess, I know you're reading this. Let's just be content for me to not like you very much and for you to hate me, mmmkay? By the way, your laundry is still here. Might want to pick that up since Bryan and I really want to get the den done. Thanks, honey bunch.
See, here's the great thing about living in the US. I can write whatever I want. As long as I'm not threatening bodily harm or any otherwise illegal activity, I can post whatever I want. That's the great thing.
Nobody can tell me what I can't post. So, if I want to write about my opinions on someone, I can. IF it hurts your feelers, tough cookies. If I find out more of the situation later, I may amend it, I may not. If I feel I was in the wrong, I'll apologize.
The right to freedom of speech is recognized as a human right under Article 19 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and recognized in international human rights law in the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights . So please, people, don't tell me "You better take that down." Or you'll do what? Piss and moan? HA! Okay, have at it.
If you want to tell me "You're so dumb, and so young. You are so immature, you're a conniving, selfish, immature, manipulative evil bitch" (that is a direct quote from Ms. Mature herself) I don't have a problem with that. Why? Because you have a right to it. What I do have an issue with is you telling me I can't have mine.
Let's review: my opinion=mine to have. My right. Your opinion=yours to have. Your right. Do we have to agree? Clearly, no.
My bloggy friend Jacquline fought her ass off in Iraq to defend my freedoms. So did millions of other Americans. Do you think I'm about to cheapen what they did and dishonor them by not using the freedoms some of them died for? Hell no. Why make their lives in vain?
ME! My life seems to be never ending drama.
Bryan talked to Joe last night about Leah. Apparently, Leah felt uncomfortable about spanking her daughter because she didn't know how we would react. Per Bry she was afraid we would think less of her for it. (We would'nt have.) Apparently, her daugher does indeed get spanked. However, I still think she could've removed Bro from the room until she calmed down. (And paddled her ass while she was at it.)
She is also trying to get her on a schedule. I sincerely wish her best of luck with that. Her DD needs to be on a schedule.
She didn't give her any of the rice and rolls because DD is a messy eater and she didn't want to mess up our house. So that was done out of respect. Okay, that's fine. At least she was thinking about everyone.
I still think a parenting class wouldn't kill her. I know she's a single Mom. But seriously. I'm a first timer, too. But I at least get advice from books, other parents, doctors on how to give my child the best possibly upbringing. If she thinks that I'm way off by saying her kid needs discipline and a schedule, fine. Tell ya what: Why don't you talk to a child counselor or your pediatrician? I'm sure they'd agree.
Bry also explained that I wasn't mad that Joe had her over, because I wasn't. It was that they left very late, we had to work the next morning, and it also upset Pooks schedule, which isn't pretty. (She woke up at 12:30 screaming. I think she was gassy but she also had her routine interuppted and I think that had a hand in it.) Anyhoo, Joe said he'd talk to her.
Good, it means the problem is solved. I was going to talk to him about it, but since Bry already did no sense in beating a dead horse.
Now for the 3 of you (litterally. THREE) who read my blogs daily, you've got expectations. You expect that I will be my usual snarky sarcastic self. You expect that I don't hold back. Why should I? This is my blog, why should I have to censor myself? You also expect that I will give the information as I know it to be at that time. If it changes later, I'll fill you in.
Blogging is cathartic for me. It lets me vent, which I need. I let a lot of stuff go in my life because I vent about it on here and I feel better. I've made bloggy friends on here, who read my blogs. Its like venting to a friend about my life. Bottom line: I'm not going to stop. If you don't like my site, you can find another site.
I told you that to tell you this: Leah found my blog. She is mad. As in called Joe at 0600 hours crying mad. Of course, Joe was mad. Leah said I insulted her and her child.
To a point, she's right. I did insult her. I was apalled at her DD behavior that night, and what she did/didn't do to stop it. I completely disagree with how she handled the situations, and I wrote as such. Now, I've found out more and blogged as such. So, I'm sorry that I insulted her. (Well...Kinda.)
I'm not sorry about writing about how I viewed the situation. This is my site, and I can do that. If you don't like it, then leave. I vented, which is what I designed this for. If you can't vent on your site, in your home, or with your friends, may I ask who the hell you're supposed to vent to? I will not apologize for blogging about what I knew as facts at the time, nor am I about to apologize for expressing my feelings. Again, if you don't like it, there's the X button: leave. And hey, if you want to start a website called "I Hate Heidi" go for it. It's your American right to do so.
Joe is also pissed that I didn't talk to him about it, and I "chose to go behind her back". Well, yes, Joe, I did. Why? Because Bry had already spoken with him about it, and I wasn't going to beat a dead horse into the ground. I would've blogged last night but I couldn't connect with the laptop. Besides, I have a sneaking suspicion that you bad mouth the hell out of me behind my back all the time anyway. And you know what, I am starting to think we should just keep it this way. You vent to whoever you vent to and I do the same. That way very little tension gets brought into the house. It's not perfect but whatever.
Here's another thing. Joe once mentioned how mature Leah was and (of course) how immature I am. Really, Joe? How does saying she'll kick my ass constitute maturity? Let's think for a moment: if you threaten to kick my ass, do you think that I'm going to hold a higher or lower opinion of you? Do you think I'll think to myself "Wow, what a mature response. I sure am glad this person chose to handle this like an adult. This person just went up a few notches in my book!" No. What I think is, "Try it and see how fast you have an assault charge on your record. Honestly, take it for what it is and grow up. Let it go. If my opinion of you wasn't much before and you're trying to change it, you aren't doing a great job."
In Summary:
This is my site. You don't like it, shove it up your ass. I do like it and I refuse to change it. This is the one place where I can be truly myself. Secondly, it wouldn't hurt to take a few (free) parenting courses for your kid. And honestly, folks, threatening bodily harm isn't a mature way to deal with things. If I really wanted to push the issue, I could have already filed charges. I'm not going to because it's stupid. But next time you think about threatening someone, just ask if there are legal ramifications to your actions. (There normally is.)
HAPPY THANKSGIVING! EAT TOO MUCH, AND HAVE FUN!
WARNING: If you do not believe in corporal punishment or teaching your kids (and yourself for that matter) some good manners, then this post is not for you. Move along folks, nothing to see here.
When we came home last night, the plan was to finish up the laundry and finish cleaning up the den. After that, we planned to re-watch Factory Girl on the boob tube. But, alas, those plans were foiled by Joe, his girlfriend Leah, and her little brat, I mean daughter, Christina.
We had told Joe on Sunday our plans to have everything done, including laundry. We came home and Leah had her entire closets worth of laundry, I swear. And she was using our washer and dryer. Now I understand that doing laundry can get expensive. I’ve been there. But could she have at least waited until Wednesday night, when we’re not there? Or when we’re all done with our laundry? So that was problem number one.
Problem number two was the whole dinner issue. Joe had invited her over for dinner, which was fine; he can have guests over. But again, we’d already told him we had other plans for the house. So now I have to play hostess to this twit, and I wasn’t in the mood, frankly. Also, when you go over to someone’s house for dinner it’s considered good manners to help cook and clean up, even if the hosts refuse your offers. Leah never got that memo.
Problem number three…Was the utter lack of discipline with her 2 year old daughter, Christina. Here’s an example: Leah and Christina were outside. Christina had Leah’s keys. Christina was smacking the keys against our car. I asked her if she could please make her daughter stop. Nothing was done. I wanted to say, “Look, Leah. I don’t want to have to bill a single Mom for body work on my car because you can’t corral your kid, but so help me God if she dents that car…” After a bit, Christina was told it was time to go inside. She threw The. Mother. Of. All. Tantrums. This continued for seven minutes and forty-eight seconds.
Yes, I timed it.
Do you think anything was done? No. She just let her daughter scream, shriek, and pound her fists and feet on the kitchen floor. My six month old daughter is looking at her like, “What the hell is your problem?” Finally, her daughter stopped. I looked at Bryan, horrified. I have this pit in my stomach, thinking this is what I signed up for when that pregnancy test turned blue, thus confirming I was with child.
Now before you say, “Well, you just don’t know toddlers!” and spurn my blog with hatred, let me explain. I know that toddlers can and will throw tantrums, okay? I get that. However, if my Mother or Father, or Bryans Mother or Father, or hell, even Bryan himself had been in that situation, rest assured things would’ve turned out a bit differently. The child would have gotten a few firm swats on the ass, and the kid would’ve been told “If you don’t knock it off, I will give you something to cry about” in That voice.
If you don’t know what That voice is, let me explain. That voice is the voice that imparts the message that if you don’t stop what you’re doing right now, you will rue the day you were born. As a child growing up, you are intimately familiar with that voice. You know that whichever parent is using that voice means business. You know disobeying when That voice is being used will result is your untimely death.
Did is stop there? Of course not, because that would’ve required effort on Leah’s part. No, this kid ran around screaming. Trying to tear up and destroy Pook’s toys. (Mommy forgot to bring any for her.) Trying to hit the baby. Pulling the dogs tail. Taking food right off our plates. (Which, by the way, why couldn’t she have made a plate for her daughter? I understand maybe she wouldn’t have liked the steak, but surely she could’ve had some of the rice and a roll?) The harshest warning or punishment this little demon child got was “Christina May, you stop that.” In the least authoritative voice I’ve ever heard. Had that been me, I would’ve been mortified at my childs behaviors, but it didn’t apparently phase her.
Here’s problem number four. Guests, like fish, stink after awhile and need to be thrown out. How do you know it’s time to leave? If the clock says it’s after 2100 hours and it’s a weekday, then you should leave. If yours hosts are changed into pajamas, you should leave. If your hosts are putting their child to bed, it’s time to leave. If your hosts are falling asleep on the couch, it’s time to leave. If you are falling asleep on the hosts couch, it’s time to leave. Yet another memo that someone forgot to forward onto Leah. How do I know this? Because all 5 examples happened and she still stayed. Someone, please, get in touch with her and give her this memo!
They ended up leaving at one. In. The. Morning. With Christina still tearing through the house. After talking with Bryan, this is normal. Leah doesn’t have her two year old daughter on any kind of a schedule. It is not uncommon for her daughter to go to bed in the wee hours of the morning, sleep all day, whatever. She does what she likes. It is obvious to me that this kid has no discipline, no structure, and no schedule. This kid is going to turn into a candidate for Nanny 911 quickly if Leah doesn’t get off her butt and do something. Hell, she’s already there.
Like I said, I know kids will have tantrums and sometimes you can’t punish them right there. But you generally do something to stop it. A look. A few words. Anything. You do not let your kid run amuck in a guests house, or throw a huge tantrum. If nothing else, take the kid aside and try to calm them down as best you can. Don’t just ignore everything. And Miss Manners would simply die if she found out you not only didn’t ask if it was OK that you tie up their laundry room for the whole night, you didn’t offer to help with dinner or dishes, and you wayyy overstayed your welcome. To say nothing if your child appalling behavior.
In closing, let me just say this. Had that been me, I wouldn’t have been able to sit for a week. My parents would’ve profusely apologized to the hosts, paddled my butt, and promptly died of shame.
The American Music Awards were a mix of some bad, make me want to scream "FIRE YOUR STYLIST!" moments, and some "Oh my Lord, I looove that!" fashion. But, you can't appreciate the good without the bad. So, with out further ado...
 Phoebe Price, tell me again what exactly it is you're famous for? I mean, aside from looking like the Stay Puff Marshmallows slutty wife. And, I might add, if you're going to get a weave and dye job...Spend more than $50.00. Oh, you spent how much? Oh, I'm sorry. You got ripped off.
 Nikki, Nikki, Nikki...Loose the Axl Rose GNR headband, for starters. Two, stay out of the eyeliner. You're not a racoon. Three, is that a dorag? Somehow I can't picture you throwing up West Side symbols...And quit sticking your finger in a light socket, look at what it does to your hair!
 I know the invite said it wasn't formal. But somehow I don't think they meant jeans and sneakers. And, BTW, looove the Val-U Village ski jacket circa 1986.
 Rihanna, why? I love your devil may car style! But you look so frumpy, dumpy, schlumpy..All of the umpys. And pregnant. (Not that I would blame you, I mean..Chris Brown...Wow.)
 Shailene Woodley. Nut sure what you're famous for. But you look young, fresh, and hip. You have a beautiful smile and gorgeous eyes.
 This dress is sexy without being inappropriate. And it emphasizes your long, lean body. Although, you could've done something a little more with your hair. Don't get my wrong, I'd kill for it. But maybe a messy updo?
 Sarah Chalke. The sweetheart neckline opens up your petite shoulders and give the illusion of a bigger bust. The asymetrical hem gives the appearance if height, too. Good show, girl, good show.
 Alicia Keyes. She looks regal, elegant, and stunning without looking overdone. The oversized earrings highlight the exquisite beading on the Grecian-inspired gown. The jewelry is otherwise minimal, which is a plus. If you're going to make a statement with your accessories, pick one thing. And she does it so well. The earrings bring the focus to her lovely face.
 For once, Miley Cyrus doesn't look like a little girl playing dress up. She is alluring without being Lolita. The gold plays up her cooper colored locks. And the dress is neither too revealing nor too modest. She srtruck the right balance between "Not A Girl...Not yet a Woman."
Okay, so now that I'm calmed down from Angel. Whew that woman makes me mad. Here's a little bit more, because why the hell shouldn't everyone be interested in my damn drama?!
"My kids are never dirty!"
1) They're not just yours, moron. In case you don't remember high school health class, let's review how a baby is made. Man has penis. Woman has vagina. After some grunting, thrusting, and faking orgasms, the mans penis releases sperm. If you happen to be ovulating, it meets up with your egg. Nine months later, a baby is born. Bottom line: it takes two to produce an offspring. 2) Whose kids are you talking about? What kid do you know doesn't like to get dirty? Obviously your mother never let you make mud pies as a child. I know that I'm not their biological mother, and theoretically, I shouldn't know as much about them as you. But I have a newsflash for you: your kids like to get dirty.
"What do you think you're doing, shooing them outside? And how dare you have them watch TV just so you can get shit done?!"
Look, they're never outside alone. The house we're in doesn't have a fenced backyard and its right up against an alley. People drive down the alley. Fast. If the kids are outside, one of us is out there with them. Typically, Joe or I will go outside to smoke and the kids come with us. We make it a point to smoke a few more or just chill outside so the kids can play. Especially if the weather has been crap all weekend and we have a rare moment of sunshine. Yes, we shoo them outside to get some sun, run, and yell. And please, please, please don't play the Holier Than Thou card with me. Like you've never popped in a DVD or plopped the kids in front of Miley Cyrus so you can start dinner or complete some other chore. Every parent does it, and you're no different. It's not as if the kids sit and rot their brains the entire time they're with us, so step off.
"You know, the kids hate coming over because of Heidi."
Is that why every time they see me they give me big bear hugs and they're favorite game with me is Tickle Attack? Or how about the special time we have when I give them each a "Fun Bath"? You've even got Bryan confused on that one. Sure, I'm not their favorite person when I have to punish them but I'm doing a damn sight better than you did. You've apparently forgot the time you showed up at our house at 3 AM roaring drunk, to the point where you couldn't stand up. You woke the kids up and they sleepily, sadly said "Mommys sick again." And when I asked, this was something normal!! They were used to seeing you this way! Or how about telling Bubs he was a fag for wearing my cherry-flavored Chapstick? That was a sterling parenting example. Or how about the dark times when no matter what they did, Bubs got blamed for everything and T got away scot free? I remember Bubs crying because he had to go home. With you. So, again, Angel, don't play the Holier Than Thou card, woman. You will loose every time.
"She's practically calling my kids heathens!"
Again, see above as to why they're not just your kids. And if you had read my blog, you might notice I was basically calling the kids...Kids. I don't know if you've noticed, but your kids aren't perfectly behaved all the time. No kid is. And what siblings do you know don't bicker? Like you and your siblings never argued? Whatever. I wasn't calling your kids ill-behaved. If I wanted to call them the ill-behaved Spawn of Satan, I would have. But I didn't because it wouldn't have been the truth.
"Kiddos? How insulting!"
Huh? I'm confused. You're drunk again, aren't you? Thought so. Go gamble. It's what you seem to do best.
"She can too talk to the kids about the presidential nominees!"
You're kids are smart, but they're not that smart. I know every parent thinks they have produced the next Einstein. 99.99% of the time, they're wrong. (IN my case, I did. I'm special.) But rest assured, your kids cannot discuss various political topics. The only thing they know is that John McCain is good and Barrack Obama is evil. Because you told them so. (So much for encouraging individual thinking, eh?)
I won't repeat all the names she called me, all the things she called Bryan, and all the insults she tried to hurl. Bryan did stand up marvelously for me, and countered every point she tried to validate. It just pisses me off that she operates under the mistaken assumption that everything I do is to either A) piss her off, or B) somehow hurt the kids. For one, she very rarely enters into my thoughts. And two, every interaction or action with the kids is for their benefit. They might not see it, and clearly you don't. But trust me...Just like you, I would die before I saw harm befall those kids.
Angel somehow got into my Myspace account and read my blog, entitled "June Cleaver I Am Not" and got pissed. Instead of reading like it was meant to be read- in a humorous, self-depreciated kind of way, she took personal offense to it. She called Bryan yelling at him. I mean, I was half way across the kitchen and I could hear her through the phone. She claimed I called the kids dirty, ill-behaved, insulted her, and that by calling them "the kiddos" I was insulting them. Oh, and by saying we "shooed them outside while Pook played happily in her swing" that we were essentially shutting the kids out in the cold so our daughter could play in the warm house.
Now, Angel and I have for the most part tolerated each other. We both love the kids. We both want what's best for them. She has bad mouthed me to anyone who will listen, simply because I am with Bryan, and we had a child together whereas she cannot. And I for the most part, stay silent. By doing so, it keeps Bryan out of the middle, and simply, it's taking the high road. But saying,
"That little bitch whore you've shacked up with better shut the fuck up about the kids or I'll fuck her ass up"
crosses the line. (BTW, Angel...Classy. Way to make sure your thoughts and feelings were intelligently articulated. Really showing your IQ, aren't you?)
First of all..I can be a total, raving bitch when I want to be, so that I will give you.
A whore? Eh, maybe a bit when I was younger, sure. But um, weren't you the one who thought Bryan could be T's father but you weren't sure? Didn't you have the number narrowed down to three? Oh yeah, that's right, you had to have a paternity test done to make sure he was...
As for being little. Honey bunch, next to you, a sperm whale looks little. So let's not go there.
Oh, and don't tell me to shut my mouth. It'll never happen. Besides, at least when I speak, for the most part, my thoughts are well articulated, something you seem to have issues with. To quote Abraham Lincoln, "Tis better to be thought a fool than to open your mouth and confirm everyone's suspicions."
One last little thing, dear, before I sign off to have nasty, sweaty, dirty, filthy, knee-weakening, bed-sheet-changing, back-arching, can't-walk-right-for- three-days sex with your exhusband....
The next time you threaten me you will have Spokane Police at your door so fast you won't be able to blink. I will tie you up in court for so long you'll regret the day you ever uttered your first word. Your freedom ends where my nose begins.
But, by all means....Fuck me up. I dare you to try it.
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