Growing Up Too Fast

“BZZZZZZZZZZZ,” went my alarm clock at 3am yesterday morning, followed up by the alarm on my iPhone.  Because when you have to wake up at 3am, you take all the backup you can get. Why did my alarm go off at 3am?  Because The Kid was flying the coop.  Spreading her wings.  Leaving for a mission trip with her senior youth group for a full week.  Off to South Dakota to help build some houses for the poor. This chick will be wielding a hammer, planing some wood, caulking windows perhaps.  All for the good of humanity.

It will be a great experience.  But this is the first time she will be this far away from home for this long without me.  Well, last year she flew down south to visit my parents, but she was with family. That was different.

Sure, there are chaperones going.  One being the pastor of our church who is totally cool and just loves the kids. Still.  I won’t be there to remind her about stuff.  You know, to put on sunscreen, drink plenty of water, wear a hat, eat her vegetables.

I won’t be there.  Period.  I am relinquishing control.  I knew this day was coming, but I’m just not ready.  What happened to my little baby? The baby who depended on me for everything?

I guess DH and I did good.  She’s off for a week to do great work in a place that she’s never been.  She’s going to see how people live who don’t have everything, or even anything. This will be a humbling experience for her. We are so proud. It’s pretty brave of her, going somewhere so foreign without us.

So, as DH and I are standing there saying goodbye, hugging her for dear life, I start to cry.  I hear her say, “gawd mom” as I’m squeezing the life out of her.  My baby is growing up.  In exactly 2 years from right now, we will be getting her prepared for college.  I don’t know how I’m going to do it.

So, should I turn her room into a spa or a mom cave? Ooh, I’ve always wanted my own luxurious bathroom. Decisions, decisions.

This one will do just fine.
This one will do just fine.

My Writing Process: A Blog Tour 2 Months Later

I know I have undiagnosed adult ADD.  Or something close to it.  How do I know?  Because I have the attention span of a gnat, the memory of a goldfish and can be known to space out more often than Captain Kirk.

I was checking something on my momfeld Facebook page this morning and saw in the left margin a link that was shared with me from another blogger.  From May. As in March, April, May.  “Hmm,” I said to myself, “What’s this?” I saw that people left comments, so I clicked on them.  One of the people who left a comment was ME so obviously, I saw it already.  I opened the link and saw that this awesome blogger chose me to participate in a writing process blog tour.

After I read the post again, it all came flashing back.  I suddenly remembered that I was very touched and said to myself at the time, “I’ll come back to this later.”  But never did.  Because…I have adult ADD and I got distracted by something else and completely forgot about it. Out of sight, out of mind.

I REALLY need to start writing notes, reminders. Or tying a string around my finger, but I’m pretty sure that method won’t work because I will be smacking myself in the head trying to remember why the hell there is a string around my finger. And then I would have nothing but a headache and a blue phalange because of lack of circulation.

So, to Kim Ulmanis over at (she’s a really great writer and has awesome things to say, you should go check her out), thank you so much for thinking of me, but here you go. Sorry I’m 2 months late but that is the story of my life. I know you get me, girl.  No hard feelings?

blog tourWhat am I working on?  That’s a secret.  If I tell you, then I have to kill you.  And I don’t want to go to jail because jail scares me and I’ve seen far too many episodes of “Orange Is the New Black.”  Besides orange just isn’t my color.

How does my work differ from others of its genre?  I am self deprecating. Almost to a fault. I like to put it all out there, my thoughts, my behavior, my stupid craziness, the weird and the ugly. I have no problems talking about my hemorrhoids (coming soon), my bad driving abilities or what totally inappropriate thing I may have said to my kid.

Why do I write what I do?  Because all my life I thought I was funny.  Whether someone laughed at me, with me or not at all. I crack myself up. It started when I was 7 and thought my Sonny and Cher skit was dead on and would perform it in front of all my parents’ friends at every party. And because I love to make people laugh.  Or try. Also, I am just weird. And I want you all to know that. Because, why not? Why should I be the only one suffering with myself? You all should suffer me too.  You’re welcome.

What does my writing process look like?  Geez. My brain hurts. These are hard. I know what the process looks like in my head. These things just come to me. I write them down immediately.  Whether I am at the doctor’s office (I have been known to rip a page out of a magazine that I have written in the margin of), in my car, sleeping. Yes, ideas come to me in my sleep and force me to wake up which is really annoying because the older I get, the harder it is for me to fall back to sleep but I digress.  I keep a notepad on my bedside table. I have 12 million different drafts going on in my draft folder and it’s really messy and discombobulated and makes no sense. All this will sit and sulk and fester until I feel it’s the right time to make sense of it all and turn it into something that is something.  Boy, that makes me look like a nutcase, doesn’t it? And I’m still putting in 2 spaces after a sentence. Working on that. I swear.

Phew.  Now I’m supposed to choose my fave bloggers and spread the love except I don’t think I’m going to.  One reason is because I love way too many of you to chose just a few and I can’t make a decision worth balls. But mainly because I am late to the party and I am embarrassed. And I wouldn’t want people to roll their eyes at me and say, “What’s HER problem? This was so yesterday.” You know, kind of like my clothes.  But thanks Kim, this was fun!



Teenagers Don’t Suck Anything But The Life Out of You. Sometimes.

TeenagersWhen I was pregnant with The Kid, I absolutely dreaded the thought of having a teenager. Especially a girl teenager. Freaked me the freak out. Honestly. I was making plans for either having her enrolled in a military boarding school by the age of 13 or me running off to a hideaway for “Moms with Teens” for 5 years. One or the other. Because there was no way there was going to be room in this house for the both of us. No way in hell.

Of course, this is going purely on assuming that she was going to be just like me. And if she was going to be just like me, there was going to be a little problem. Because although my dear mother says “you weren’t that bad,” I kinda was. A little. The crap I did would be enough to send me, as mother, running to the nearest homeless shelter. Because that sounds more appealing. Homeless vs. Hormone Laden Teen. You’ll find me in the woods. By myself. No forwarding address.

We all assume teenage girls are awful. And they are. For the most part. But, there is the exception, of course. There is always an exception. The Kid isn’t horrible. I am becoming increasingly pleasantly surprised. She’s not a dang thing like me. She doesn’t cut class, doesn’t smoke, doesn’t hang out at the 7-Eleven drinking beer. I haven’t seen a hickey on her, she’s a great student and an all around happy kid. Okay, so I’m pretty sure she doesn’t do these things. My mom didn’t think I did either. Oh shit.

Still. She’s a teenager. There are days that can suck. I could definitely do without those times where there is nothing I do or say is right. Other times I am her most treasured friend. You know. Like when we are at the mall. Hmm. 

Two Spacey

I don’t know why, but this makes me so, so sad. And old.

I was taught how to type in the 80s.  You know, when they had special classes just for typing.  And you sat at a desk that had a real, live, actual typewriter.  Not one of those things with the autocorrect built in where if you pushed some button it would go and correct your mistake.  You know, the kind that had the little tiny computer screen above the keyboard.  The typewriter I was taught on was the kind where you used carbon paper to correct your mistakes.  The kind with the big handle at the end of the carriage called the RETURN that you manually, with your hand, pushed over when it dinged to tell you that you were at the end of the line.  THAT kind.

This said class was taught by an old lady (love you Mrs. Darling even though you are dead now — RIP) who would walk around with a ruler and smack the back of your hand if you so much as peeked at your fingers.  Peeked, I tell you.  Just so you know, I never got smacked because I never peeked.  Because I was a damn good typist and was a natural.  I really was.  In the day, 95 WPM was my time.  I said, in the day.

Anyway, I was also taught to double space after a sentence.  You know, make two spaces after a period.  One, two.  Well, it seems that the rule has changed.  Somewhere, somehow, it changed.  The rule now is that it is only necessary to type one space after the end of a sentence.

How do I know?  For starters, The Kid has been yelling at me about it for about 2 years.  For some reason, it drives her bat-shit crazy when she sees me type and I put in a double space after the period.  “It’s not necessary, mom.  Why do you even do that?  It’s so weird.”

Of course, I completely ignore her and tell her she knows nothing and to carry on with her day.  Then last week I was looking to enter a short story I wrote into a writing contest.  Guess what one of the rules was?  You got it.  Single space only after a sentence please.  Hmm.

Then, the other day, another blogger shared a post that yet another blogger published.  This dude talked about the sin of the double space after a sentence and how it should absolutely, positively NOT be done.  In fact, he went on to say that people who use them “are everywhere, their ugly error crossing every social boundary of class, education, and taste.”  Ouch.  That’s a bit rough, wouldn’t you say?  Geez, man.  I only put in an extra space after a sentence.  I didn’t walk down 5th Avenue in cut-off, white-washed denim shorts, spitting chew on the sidewalk while hacking a loogie.  Dang.  Can you even spit out chew and hack a loogie at the same time?  I wonder…

So, who says this?  Apparently, Typographers do.  A typographer?  Holy cow, what is a Typographer exactly?  I never even knew such a profession existed.  I suppose there is something for everything.  (If you are just absolutely dying to see this guy’s post, you may do so here.)

I’m not going without kicking and screaming though.  Do you see how many spaces I’ve been including after each sentence in this post?  That’s because I have been doing this for 30 years.  How the hell am I supposed to just suddenly stop my thumbs from hitting the space bar twice after that’s all I’ve ever known.  It’s like chewing with my butt.  Impossible.

Oh well, I guess I’m classless and lack education.  Whatever.  I’ve been called worse.  space space.  You know?

Who Are You?


Have you ever sat and wondered about yourself?  Like, who you are?  Who you really are?  For the most part, we are good people.  Well, except for the murderers, the rapists, the child molesters, the drug dealers.  But most of us are good.  Even as good people, we have flaws.  We’re all a bit judgemental.  We’re all a little jealous.  We’re all a little mean at times.  And we women?  Damn, we can be downright catty.  But that’s another story, for another time.

There is this chick I knew, who seemed to have alienated a lot of her friends.  I remember hearing her talk about how horrible people were to her.  She complained about her co-workers, family members, friends, teachers.  At first, I felt for this poor woman.  Because she seemed so cool and fun otherwise.  “How can people be so mean to her?  She’s pretty awesome,” I used to think.  I actually really, really liked her.  But the complaining never ended.  It seemed that she was always the victim.  Everyone was always out to get her.  And then she alienated my family.  It took a long time, but I finally saw that it wasn’t everybody else.  It was her.  I saw it, a lot of other people saw it.  She did not.  And unfortunately, continues to not see it.

Here’s my question:  When is it in a person’s life that we wake up and say, “gee, maybe it’s me?”  For some, it does happen.  For others, they will always remain the victim and never see the error of their ways.  And that’s sad.  It seems like a downright waste of time.  To go through life being a victim, being angry, holding grudges.  Not to mention all the bad energy you expel.  It can’t be good for the environment.

About a year ago, I sat down and asked myself a question.  Why would someone not like me?  Typically, I don’t really care if someone likes me or not.  I mean, if I’m a good person and mean well, right?  I am aware that I’m a little obnoxious and completely inappropriate.  I’m loud.  Sometimes I leave my filter at home.  But that is me.  If someone doesn’t like it, that’s fine.  I’m not everyone’s cup of tea.  I get that.

But I can be hurtful.  Maybe not so much on purpose.  Maybe sometimes yes, on purpose, if I’m being honest here.  For example, I’ve given my opinion when my opinion wasn’t asked for.  I realize my mistakes.  I’ve corrected them.  I try to keep the filter closely attached to my trap.  I am accountable for my actions.  Sure, I’m still loud, obnoxious and inappropriate.  That’s just me.  But I really do try to pay attention to how I come off when I feel the need to judge someone else.  Because no one has a right to judge.  Unless you are perfect.  And there is no such thing.  My parents always told me so.  And I believe them.

I’m just saying, take the time to reevaluate yourself.  Have you been unkind?  Have you said something not so nice to someone or about someone?  Are you feeling like a victim all the time?  Step back and take a look at yourself instead of everyone else around you.  I understand that sometimes, these feelings may be legitimate.  But sometimes, they are not.  If it’s a pattern, you may very well be the problem.

We all make mistakes.  But please, for the good of all mankind, can you just call yourself out on it?  Be accountable?  I try.  And I’m a better person because of it.  Hey, I slip up.  But I reel myself back in.  Being human can suck.  But let’s just try to be as real as possible.  The world would be a much better place.

Keep It In Your Pants, Son

This photo popped up on my Facebook newsfeed a couple of weeks ago:


The Men’s Half Thong.  It’s so wrong, it’s just wrong.  I’m not quite sure what I thought when I first saw it.  I think I was a little shocked.  Which is weird for me because really, I am pretty open-minded.  It takes a lot to shock me.  And a lot to totally gross me out.  But this did it.  It both shocked and totally grossed me out.

Come on people, really?  Lordy, keep your junk hidden.  Give us something to leave to our imagination.  Would you like it if we walked around with our….oh, never mind.

Then of course, I inevitably had the next thought that I know everyone else in the free world is thinking:  How does it stay in place?

The only thing I could come up with is it has sticky stuff all up and around it.  So, it kinda works like a pasty, but instead of for boobs, it’s for penises (peen-eye?).  And even though I don’t have one, it kind of pained me to imagine ripping that stuff off my junk at the end of a long day at the beach after sweating and sea salt and who knows what else.

I shared the photo with my followers on my Facebook page (if you don’t follow me there yet, you can do so here:  I got all kinds of reactions.  Mostly everyone was disgusted.  Some had some funny things to say about it.  One follower said her friend’s mom thought it was spring loaded like ear cuffs.  Someone else said they were wondering about the amount of waxing that would be needed.  Then the conversation turned to red, white and blue.  Get it?  Red, white and BLUE?  It was all quite entertaining.  Still I needed to get to the bottom of it.  I needed to know how it stayed up.

Then a nice follower of mine shared this photo with me and shed some much needed light:

Sorry, this pic is so small it’s hard to see. But you should be thankful.

So, it’s like a pant leg except it is missing the leg.  Well, it does have a “leg” but it’s the wrong leg.  It’s missing a lot of the material except for ahem, one little itty bitty part.  Or big part, depending on who you’re talking to.

You stick your leg through it and the string stays in place via butt crack.  Perfect.  Still not pretty.  Then random weird images ran through my mind like my dad wearing it and stuff.  Totally involuntary, by the way.  Sorry dad, I love ya, but….eww.

So, you know what guys?  Can you stick to a real bathing suit?  One that covers up a little more?  We know you have a penis.  You don’t need to prove it to us.  And I would like my lunch to stay where it was intended.  Thank you, the world at large appreciates it. 😉


Dropping the Funky Bomb

Jesus cursed.  Not the same kind though, huh?
I guess this isn’t exactly the same thing…

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. My potty mouth has reached epic proportions. Seriously. I’m ashamed. But not.  So what that my head has turned into a toilet?  Do you know how convenient that can be?

Lately, I’ve been dropping the funky bomb as often as I drop my iPhone.  Which is all the time.  DH has told me he doesn’t like it.  So I try to keep it clean while on the home front.  I try.

But when I’m alone in the car?  Or with friends?  Or talking to myself?  Geez. It’s like I’m on a game show called “The Wheel of Funk.”  And I’m winning by a landslide.

Sure, when I stubbed my toe on the coffee table, it kinda ticked me off.  Or the old lady who thought I wasn’t stopping at the stop sign so she flipped me the bird…that was a three effer.  This past winter was particularly bad.  Every time I bounced my car off of a snow bank, the F’s were flying.  Lordy be.

I was out to lunch with a friend a few months ago.  This friend is a curser.  Like, she’s an F bomb dropper big time. But it seemed the roles were reversed that day. Because she was being so…angelic.  And me? I was letting it fly baby.  I was feeling kind of bad about it.  Kind of.

I apologized to her.  Then started wondering out loud if it was a sin.  I was raised Irish Catholic and although I don’t practice that particular religion any longer, the Catholic guilt will forever be with me.

Because I am me, I never know what my thought process will be.  But I started wondering to my friend about cursing and the really good people of the world.  Did Mother Teresa do it?  How about Gandhi?

And what about Jesus?  I mean he was a carpenter, right?  Surely, he smashed a finger or two with a hammer.  What do you think uttered from his mouth upon inflicting accidental pain upon himself?  “Oh, camel poop.”  Yeah, no.  I’m not buying it.  I’ve hit my finger with a hammer before.  Camel poop just wouldn’t cut it.  I love Jesus, and I would still love him in spite of it.  But it is possible, right?

So, I’ve decided I’m going to write to the Pope about this.  He seems liberal.  Wish me luck.  Can you imagine?  I would be able to take cursing off my sin list.  How liberating.  One down.  499 more to go.

Glad I Didn’t Name Her Fern

You know, I wonder from time to time how it is I was able to raise a person.  Then I saw this on Facebook a while back and knew I couldn’t be alone:

raising a kid

Seriously.  How true is this?  Besides the fact that I don’t have one single plant inside or outside of this house because I do totally kill them, a whole, live, real person exits our bodies through our vaginas or through a hole that is cut in our stomachs and then we have to keep this real person alive.  Same thing goes for people who adopt, have a surrogate and/or are a guardian.  However you achieve one of these little people, we have to keep them alive.  We also have to keep them from turning into total assholes.

We have to do all that for at least 18 years.  Because after that, it’s totally up to the person/people that we raised to keep it going.  Hoping for the best.  Hoping they learned something from us.  Us.  People who were totally thrown into the fire.  I mean, I babysat when I was 12, but does that really count?  How can it?  Watching some rug rats that weren’t even mine for a few hours a month hardly gives me the credentials to raise actual humans.

And when I ran into an old friend or acquaintance and they asked me what I had been up to, I wish I had the wherewithal to answer, “keeping a person alive.”  That is totally compelling and sounds a little more intriguing than, “oh, I walked around the mall with the stroller brigade and bought crap off the clearance rack at Gap because I hate to pay full price,” don’t you think?

I also believe that this raising a person business should be a major bullet point on our resumes.  Damn.  I should be able to run an entire corporation based on that skill-set alone.  And I couldn’t find a job when I was looking for one because I didn’t have a degree?  Pfft.

Here is how my resume will look:

Past Experience: 

1998-Present – Kept a person living from infancy through the present time.  She knows how to walk, talk, use her manners and is fully toilet trained because of my persistence, hard work and dedication.  She has grown into someone others seem to like, which I feel is a strong accomplishment considering all the total buttheads out there.

I expect the phone to start ringing any time now.


Gaining Weight Sucks Until It Doesn’t

Remember a couple of months ago, I complained that I gained a few pounds after I quit My Retail Job?  The Retail Job that kept me on my feet, moving, lifting, squatting?  The Retail Job that, even if I got home at midnight, sat and had a cocktail with DH and 30 squares of cheese and crackers, I kept my weight off because I burned like a thousand calories per shift?  Wait.  Why did I quit My Retail Job again?

Anyway, I promised everyone on my Facebook page that I was going to lose those 8-10 extra pounds.  If I didn’t I would put up an embarrassing pic of myself (which is weird because every pic I put of myself on here is embarrassing).  I was gaining weight and I wanted to make myself accountable.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Embarrassing pics numbers 1, 2 and 3. What’s your favorite?

embarrassing pictures

1) This is a pic of me and my BFF circa 1984.  Perm, Jordache jeans and the lightning bolt crop top were so cool I was like an ice cube.

2) You already saw this.  But after thinking about it, I was wondering why would I put a pic of myself taking a poop on the toilet.  It’s so embarrassing I thought this fit the bill and needed to be repeated.

3) There is so much wrong with this photo it’s right.  So, what do you like best?  The unidentified blob of brown on my bottom, the pushed up practically to the knees elastic sweatpants, the white knee socks or the black high top Reebok sneakers?  I don’t know but I sure do seem to be in a hurry to get to my red solo cup.  See kids, we knew how to party and were doing the red solo cup long before you. You all think you’re being so sneaky…

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Okay, so here’s the deal.  I heard somewhere a long time ago that you really shouldn’t weigh yourself.  That if you are happy with the way you look and you are healthy, then what your scale says shouldn’t make a difference.  After I lost those almost 30 pounds last year, I became obsessed with checking my weight every single day.  I lie not.  Every day.  I would get up in the morning, pee, poop, take off my 10 ounce nightie and step on the scale.  And I was maintaining my weight.  That was good.  I was happy.

Then I had knee surgery so I stopped exercising.  After all, I had My Retail Job (see above).  Then I quit My Retail Job.  And I started having serious pain issues with my knee so I used it as the perfect excuse to not do any exercise at all.  Even though my physical therapist and doctor said I could bike.  It was too cold, too hot, raining, blah blah blah.

So, I gained 8-10 pounds.  My new, smaller jeans were a tad tight.  Just a tad.  I can’t say they were horrible.  Maybe showed a little more muffin than I cared to show, but it wasn’t bad.  But I freaked the freak out at the weight gain.

I started exercising again.  I rode my bike, got on the elliptical, went for walks even if pain was shooting to parts I didn’t even know existed.  I started watching what I put into my mouth.  I lost maybe 3 pounds.

It is no secret that I adore my wine and love my food even more.  The weekend would come and we would go out with friends.  I would go out to dinner with the fam.  I would have a bagel for breakfast.  A ham sandwich for lunch.  Wine with dinner.  By Monday most of those maybe 3 pounds I lost would be back on.  Then I would start over again.  It was a vicious cycle.  I’d get angry at myself.  Exercise my ass off all week.  Eat salad and blueberries all day.  Lose a pound or two.  Weekend comes around and by Monday I’m back up again.

And then I had an Aha! moment that would make Oprah proud.  I’m not meant to be rail thin.  I had gotten down to my wedding weight.  Actually, I had gotten down to my wedding weight for a day.  Then I gained about 4 pounds and held steady.

When I was 25, that weight looked good, normal.  At 47, not so much.  My body has changed over the years.  My hips have widened a bit with the birth of my child.  Body parts have moved around with the birth of aging.

DH actually told me he didn’t like my “wedding weight.”  My ass was gone, my boobs were diminishing.  He “likes his woman to have some curves.  Curves are sexy,” he said.  So, who am I to deprive my guy of some sexy curves?  Pfft.  I wouldn’t want to do that.  Besides, it’s too hard to keep a body curve-free.  It’s just too much dang work, I tell you.

I have come to the conclusion that I live a fairly healthy lifestyle.  I exercise in some form almost daily, I eat right most of the time.  If I want to trash it all for a weekend of fun with family and friends, I’m going to.  I have one life.  I’m going to enjoy it.  I have a really difficult time turning good food and drink away so I’m not going to.  It’s a balance.  I know when I’m in danger of putting on serious weight, and I’m keeping that in check.  Because I was unhealthy when I let those nearly 30 pounds pile on me.

But these 8-10 little pounds?  I’ve tried losing them.  I can do it, I’ve done it before.  But why do I want to struggle with those pounds for the rest of my life?  That’s not fun.  I have a weight that belongs to me.  A weight that is my normal.  I like the way I look in the mirror.  I look healthy.  I look “sexy.”  I’m good with that.  And I haven’t stepped on my scale in 2 weeks.  She’s a bitch anyway.



Driving In Cars With Teenagers

The Kid recently received her driver’s permit.  Actually, she got it exactly 14 days, 12 hours, 27 minutes and 32 seconds ago.  But who’s counting.  Besides the fact that I am completely freaked out that she is 16 already, I am completely freaked out that she is driving.  And I am really completely freaked out that she is driving and that I am in the car.

DH took her out first.  To the parking lot of the local movie theater.  It’s the perfect place — large, open and empty.  The operative words being large, open and empty.  I was kind of bummed that I wasn’t there for her first time behind the wheel.  But then I had an opportunity to take her myself.  I promise you, it was a treat.

After doing the parking lot a few times, she said to me, “mom, I think I’m ready for the roads.  You know, the real roads.”  Yes.  She claimed she was ready for the real roads.  The real roads with stop signs, yellow lines, curbs, people and cars.  And because I can be easily persuaded and she’s got the gift of negotiation, I caved and took her driving on the real roads.

mom driving with kidBesides the fact that she got honked at, drove (just a little) onto someone’s front lawn, barely missed about 12 mailboxes, had a bit of pedal confusion issues (no, honey, that pedal on the right is not the blinker), stopped so hard at stop signs that I have whiplash, nearly drove through our garage door, gave me about 50 more unwanted gray hairs and knuckles that have taken on a permanent white hue, all is fine.

After much thought (2.3 milliseconds), I have decided that this is a job for DH.  And I am not to take her out again until I feel confident enough to be able to close my eyes.  Because that’s how I shall only be the passenger in a car that is being manned by The Kid for a while.  With my eyes closed.  I will keep you posted.  That is, if I’m alive.