Every woman needs one friend willing to say, "Darlin', your ass is big enough on its own.  It doesn't need those jeans to help it look any bigger."

While no one has expressed any negativity toward my ass, I seem to have more than my fair share of friends willing to point out other issues lately.  Okay, I know I'm slightly off key.  I know I'm a tad neurotic and wildly colored.  I'm fine with that.  I'm thrilled people like my husband have found a way to embrace that side of me and even managed to find it endearing.  Mostly.

That's different than the other side of my emotional black hole that has earned me more than one, "You're such a bitch".  We women joke about the term "bitch" a lot.  We laugh when we use it to describe a particularly emotional explosion or mood because let's face it, we all have the ability to be "bitchy" occasionally.  I admit it.  I accept it.

But what really wads my panties are the (I hate this word) posers.  You know who they are.  Not the women who meet for coffee and laugh about being a bitch during a hard work day, or those of us who write on our blogs about being a bitch during specific stresses.  I'm talking about the women who proudly wear the title and take every opportunity to shout, "Don't fuck with me.  I'm a bitch!"  Those nutcases in the too tight jeans sporting the mushroom look with the half shirt bearing the phrase "100% Bitch".  Like that's something to be proud of... like you're even close to knowing what the hell you're talking about.

Those of us who are real emotional train wrecks see it a bit differently, you know.  Do you think I'm proud of the fact my inability to trust anyone or believe in anything has managed to screw up everything good that's ever happened to me?  Do ya assume constantly struggling to find a way to explain myself well enough to get someone to understand my roller coaster mind is one of my favorite pastimes?  Do you honestly believe I get off on having the ability to go from sweet serenity to psychotic meltdown faster than a cat can lick its own arse??  Maybe you suppose I'm complimented by sometimes being seen as crude or obnoxious?

No.

I find no proud comfort in knowing I have alienated myself at times and lost out on people and things that really could have loved and inspired my life.  But at the same time, I make no apologies.  There are things I can try to change, insecurities I can work to deal with, but ultimately most of these traits are always going to be here because it's just who I am.  So if you see me as being crazy, twisted, psycho, neurotic, eccentric, eclectic, or even bitchy, that's ok.  It's all a part of me, and with me, it's all or nothing, babe.

I had someone in my life once that compared me to a character in what is now my all-time favorite movie.  I truly believe he meant it as a compliment, and the parts he associated with me weren't offensive at all.  I chose to believe he saw me as the crazy off the wall free spirit side of the character and not the desparate emotionally overcharged twit side.  Once he was gone from my world, I grew bitter and detested the mere idea someone could EVER see me as being anything close to that kind of person.  But the reality is maybe it's my favorite movie for a reason?

Joel:  I can't see anything that I don't like about you.

Clementine:  But you will!  But you will. You know you will think of things.  And I'll get bored with you and feel trapped because that's what happens with me.

Clementine:  Too many guys think I'm a concept, or I complete them, or I'm gonna make them alive.  But I'm just a fucked up girl who's looking for my own peace of mind.  Don't assign me yours.

Clementine:  Come back and make up a good-bye at least.  Let's pretend we had one.

~Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind~

I woke up with a certain song stuck in my head, and it's driving me crazy.  Mostly because I don't even like the song, I don't remember the last time I heard it, and it's an American Idol song.  *cringe*  I am totally anti-reality show.  I hate them.  I'd rather watch paint dry.  I don't want to like American Idol winnners because they bother me.  Probably because I'm jealous, but even more because I know that whole thing is staged.  You guys don't REALLY believe you're choosing the winner, do you? (suckers)

It's just the kind of mood I'm in, I guess.  Angry chick music mood.  It's funny how feeling sorry for myself translates, rather quickly, to "Come a little closer.  My aim is off, and I don't think I can pierce your heart with this toothpick from way over here.".

Hopefully I can translate this into some much needed energy, work it off, and feel better so that I don't kill anyone today.  I mean, I don't want to go to prison.  Ever notice how none of the lesbians in prison are hot?

Pay attention.  I'm posting twice in one day.  It isn't because I think I'm just that good.  It's because I want to teach you how to eat your own foot without burping toe jam!  It may get confusing.  There will be rambling.  If you need to form study groups in order to understand me, please do.  Knowledge is power!

This morning I was doing my usual blog hopping, and I came upon a fellow MoTimer's most recent post.  It was apparently a blog review from what is officially the dumbest site on the internet.  The reviewer was absolutely horrible with everything she said.  I admit it.  I was angry.  Being the fair person she is, the blogger provided us with the link to the actual site.  You know I had to hop on over there and take a look for myself. 

I really did go with an open mind because I believe that if you submit your blog to one of these sites you need to make sure you have the knobs to take what they dish out.  And I believed she probably submitted her blog thinking her written content would be reviewed more than anything.  Besides, surely not all the reviewers could be skillet-licking bitches, right?!  WRONG.

 This particular site is a joke.  I read and I read praying to find even one redeeming post.  And then I wept for that twenty minutes of my life I will never get back.   I expected to find intelligent reviews cleverly filled with constructive criticism (sarcasm) and colorful wit.  SOMEBODY needs to learn the difference between those things and back of the school bus insults while proving they know how to use a metaphor... or ten.  Just sayin'.

Now, this is where it gets good.  I ended back up on the MoTime blog reading the comment section, and what did I find but a link to ANOTHER blog review site where the above mentioned reviewer (waste of air) had submitted her own personal blog for review!  And oh happy day they hated her!!  Imagine that.

I decided to hang out on the site and take a look around.  Right away I noticed that not only do they actually have links to blogs they like, but they also post clear instruction on how to present your blog and what will be expected of it.  Don't get me wrong, they're HARSH over there.  The whole one millionth of a second I thought about submitting my blog for review was quickly forgotten as soon as I saw the misplacement of a coma will get these guys to serve you with their afternoon tea.  However, buried underneath all that blunt force trauma is some real constructive criticism and advice. 

So I read the latest review and decided to check out the blog on the chopping block.  It crashed my computer.  Some time after that I ended up in a comment section and read one of the reviewers had crashed in the same place.  Being the twit that I am, I decided to post a comment letting him know I'd had the same problem. 

Now, what did your darling dumbass do? 

(Open mouth)   A big fat typo!!  That's right.  A typo on a site I could not edit!  Oh but it wasn't just any typo, I misspelled the witty wonder's name!  And he called me on it.  

(Insert foot)  Being the self absorbed loon that I am I thought I'd just fire right back! 

(swallow, not spit)  He got me again.

My head is hanging in shame right now.  Honestly.  I don't presume to consider myself a "writer".  This is cheaper than therapy, and I get bored easily.  So it was no shock to me that these people were quite intimidating.  I think it turned me on a bit, even. 

The thing is, I've learned my lesson.  Not EVERYONE gets me.  Leaving that comment was kind of like having really bad sex.  I truly wish it had never happened, and the little voice echoing in my empty head is saying, "See... if you had just stroked the cocky bastard's... umm.... ego and faked it a bit sooner, you wouldn't have missed the first half of that Law & Order rerun you liked so well.".

Review:  I Talk Too Much - Yes you do.  Now shut the hell up!  Ask and Ye Shall Receive - that is EXACTLY what I'm afraid of, dude!

Class dismissed.

Lord have mercy!  George Clooney was in Kentucky last night along with Renee Zellweger.  Mr. Clooney chose to have the premiere of his new movie back here in his hometown which is a couple hours from me.  (His hometown is Augusta.  The actual premiere was next door in Maysville.)  He said it was nice to see the thousands of people waiting in the cold to see him since most of them were family!  And when Ms. Zellweger was asked if she'd ever heard of Maysville, she said of course,  she'd only been hearing good old George talk about it for the last twenty years!  Now, I admit, it didn't give me all that big of a thrill to know he was so close.  He's hot and all, but he has definitely gotten above his raising, a tad stuck on himself, I think.  That greatly diminishes his hottness for me.  Renee is gorgeous.  She should let her hair grow long.  (just sayin')

I've never been awe struck by celebrities.  I never had posters of famous singers or actors on my walls as a teenager.  I'm not saying I don't think there are some really hot intriguing people in the spotlight... just that I see them the same as any other hot intriguing person I may happen upon.  We've discussed this before, I think.  Hugh Grant may be a manwhore, but during my single years, I'd have hit on him in a dark club.  And Sean Connery... I could show that man what it feels like to be young again!  And guess what... isn't he Scottish?!  Anyway, my point is that I don't see them as being any more attractive than anyone else.  They just have better paying jobs.

When I lived in Montana I worked at a resort just across the state line in Idaho.  I hadn't been there very long when we were called in for a staff meeting one night.  It was to let us know we would be having a celebrity check in the next morning and we WOULD lose our jobs if we didn't pretend we didn't know him... we were to pretend we thought his name was the name he assumed on the register... blah blah blah.  Apparently he used the resort a lot because he had a home just across the lake.  This was serious business!  A real celebrity!  hHold me back!  Get real.  I mean, Ted Danson is cute and all, but he's just a man.  Back then I saw men as something to do when I was bored.  I spent the entire week just waiting to bump into him or have him come into my office for something.  I was disappointed when it didn't happen until a co-worker pointed out that I had actually passed him several times but hadn't looked up to notice.  Sorry, Mr. Danson.  If I ever see you again, I will swoon appropriately!

Oh I almost forgot to mention, Bill Clinton will be in Maysville today, too.  Sorry, Mr. Clinton.  George is cuter.

My teenage years weren't exactly stress free.  By the time I was old enough to drive, my dad had lost everything in the collapse of the coal business in this region during the Reagan administration.  So we'd moved several times, my older brother was heavily into drugs, my older sister was heavily into men who were on drugs, and my younger sister was pregnant at fifteen.  So the burden on me to be perfect was even stronger than ever.  As soon as I turned sixteen I got a job and began helping to support my parents and my sister and her husband.  That's right.  My parents signed to let her marry the guy.  By then they were so defeated.  She ran away from home, dropped out of school, was drinking, obviously having unprotected sex... the only way to get her to calm down and stay where they could take care of her and her unborn child was to let her see this huge mistake all the way through.  (Side Note:  They're still married... almost 18 years later, and FINALLY, could not be happier.)

The breaking point for my parents came over Easter weekend when I was sixteen.  During that weekend, they'd found out she was pregnant and had sworn to her she'd never see the guy again.  We woke up on Easter Sunday morning for church, and she was gone.  She'd left in the middle of the night.  My parents were devastated and worried sick.  She was fifteen, God knows where, and pregnant.  My Dad went out to search the county, and my mother fell apart.  I was busy being exactly what I'd always been, the responsible one.  I was running back and forth answering the door and the telephone.  While one of my aunts was at the house I remember being seated at my mother's feet while she lamented and howled.  She looked at my aunt and said, "What am I going to do now?  I don't have anything left to live for."  My aunt (my favorite aunt, by the way) got angry.  She grabbed my mother by her shoulders and said, "What are you talking about?  When are you going to notice the kid sitting right there at your feet?"

My mother pretended not to hear her, and that's the moment when I knew I had to get out of here as soon as I could.  And I did.  I didn't have a relationship with my mother for almost twenty years.  Not until about four years ago when I was living in Texas and got a call that my mother was critically ill and probably wouldn't hold on for me to make it home.  She did hold on and even recovered.  It was over the Christmas holiday.  I was home for a month. 

One day while we were alone, my mother, from out of nowhere, looked at me and said, "You aren't happy, are you?"  And that was the first time I admitted to even myself that my marriage was over.  When I told her that I was miserable I fully expected yet another lecture.  Instead she began to cry and told me to do whatever I had to in order to find happiness.  Her words knocked me off my feet.  In that one small conversation we had finally reconnected.  It took me almost a year to get the nerve to leave my husband and come back home with my tail between my legs, but I did it.  And she supported me every step of the way.

I have no idea why my mind went here this morning.  I sat down to write a happy Easter post.  In a way this is one.  I'm sitting here watching the kids pull things out of their Easter baskets with shrill screams and giggles, and I'm overwhelmed.  I get little eyerolls and laughs when people find out that the seventeen year old boy gets an Easter basket.  I've told the kids over and over... don't tell me you don't believe in Santa or Easter bunny, and they'll always visit.  I promise.  Even my nephew has an Easter basket here this morning.  Because no matter what, no matter how we clash, each one of them will NEVER be able to look back and feel worthless or somehow less than the other.

Easter is about rebirth.  It's a new day filled with hope.  I'm going to go steal a chocolate bunny from someone now.  Then we're going to color eggs.  Unbelievable how things change.  Life just keeps recreating itself.  I see every year as a new chance.  Goodness knows, I need them. :)

I can't believe today is the first day of Spring.  It doesn't feel like it.  It's cold outside with a chance of snow for Easter weekend.  I do have the fever, though.  I want to throw open the doors and windows to let in the sun and wind. 

I want a tan!  I haven't wanted a tan since my senior year in high school.  Back then I wanted to be really hot for the prom.  Now I just want to not glow in the dark this summer.  But the scary health stuff keeps me from tanning.  Although, come on!  One summer.... one lightly tanned body?  Would that be so bad?  Would the SPF gods cut me down over one lousy tan?!  Evil vindictive gods.  I know why they're hateful.  They're not getting enough SUN.

I've been covered in loneliness and melancholy for the past few days.  I hate when that happens.  I totter back and forth between hyperactivity and a sedation that would make a slug proud.  At some point I'll sit down and have myself a really good cry, throw something, and then I'll be fine again. 

Women are like that, you know.  We're self healers.  We know the world doesn't stop for our ailments, our broken hearts.  The world keeps turning.  And we know if we don't shake it off soon, everything around us will come tumbling down.  So we patch ourselves as best as we can.  We stand up, wipe off the dust, bandage the open wounds, wipe the tears, and we get back to work.

My treatment plan usually involves pretending I'm fine right up until the meltdown.  At that point I will disappear into a dirty room or closet so no one can see me cry.  And I'll clean.  Because I can throw things and cuss and no one knows it's happening from a broken heart.  People just assume I'm really pissed off over the mess.  Talk about a house going quiet!  I don't care if there is fifteen kids in my house at that time.  They disappear like roaches when the light comes on.  And no, I don't think my kids are roaches.  They can be nasty little buggers, but they aren't THAT bad.

I had to stop painting last night when I realized the urge to kick the can of paint across the room was suddenly overwhelming.  So now I'm even more behind than before.  But it's a new day.  I WILL get caught up.   Honest.

I have something absolutely horrible to tell you.  I've been keeping it a secret waiting for just this day.  I'm thirty-six years old.  I have spent my entire life believing a lie.  I have no idea where the misconception came from, and no one will take responsibilty for leading me astray.  (I'm pretty sure it was my mother.)

Here goes...

I'm not Irish.  I may be a redhead with freckles and the size of a leprechaun, but I'm not Irish.  As far as I can tell I'm not even a smidge Irish.  This is a sad holiday for me.

If you remember my recent interest in doing a family tree this will make sense to you.  I have traced my father's family back to the early 1700s so far.  Now, I admit I haven't gotten as far back on my mother's side so there may be a pot of gold in there somewhere still, but I'm far enough back to know if it's there, it's a tiny tiny pot. 

I'm not one of those people who will change their entire life based on my ancestory.  I am who I am because of the way I was raised and the choices I make as an adult.  I don't intend to become obssessed with the whole thing, but I admit, it has been really interesting.  I have enjoyed telling my father things he didn't know.  A few of them have been rather shocking, and I must say, it has been fun watching his facial expressions.  I giggled like a school girl when I informed him his family tree doesn't always branch out quite like it should.  Apparently close cousins CAN have perfectly healthy children!

So... where did I come from besides the stork, the cabbage patch, or my mommy's belly?  As far as I can find, on both parents' sides I am not quite the mutt I always thought I was.  I had always been told our ancestory is largely Irish/Cherokee with some French and German thrown in.  Not.even.close. 

We are from Scotland.  In the 1700s a man let his brother convince him to hop a ship and come here.  And they didn't stop until they reached Kentucky.  Straight from Scotland to Kentucky.  They both ended up with wives from the Cherokee Nation.  And most of their descendants married into the Cherokee bloodline.  It's pretty much the same thing on my mother's side with smaller amounts of Cherokee, and I think one Englishman managed to sneak in.... so far.

Scotland.  I don't know the first thing about Scotland.  When I told my dad that I can trace us back  to being related to William Wallace and Robert the Bruce he pretended he wasn't even slightly impressed, but I could tell he was.  And I'm really honored to make the connections I have found in our Cherokee bloodline.  Direct descendants of a pretty famous chief or two. 

The thing is, I'm not Irish.  I did have my suspicions, I must say.  I have always been told my pride is Cherokee all the way.  But I have never been able to hold my liquor.  I'm far too much of a lightweight to be Irish.  Now I have no idea who I'm going to blame for my stubborness and my temper.  The Scottish are pretty stubborn people, right?  Talk about an identity crisis! ;)

So if you're Scottish, tell me who I am. 

And you know, just because I'm not Irish doesn't mean I can't be kissed today!  But no pinching.  I hate to be pinched.

Now I'm off to lobby for a Scottish holiday!

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

It's Sunday morning, and I don't even remember the weekend arriving.  I don't remember feeling any sort of relief that the weekend is here.  I know beyond doubt that no adult in this house feels like the weekend means time off or a chance to relax... or even a chance to catch up on things around the house.  Screw never works less than six days a week, and I don't remember the last time my day didn't start at 5:30am or end before 11pm.

Today I have a birthday party to set up for a fifteen year old and a room to have completely renovated.  And since the normal stuff hasn't been done in days, the laundry, dishes, etc. will be double duty when I get to them later.  And before I could even finish this post the phone rang with a message for him saying something happened at work and they need him to come in and wipe their asses for them.  Never mind that it's 7am on a Sunday morning, and this particular pharmacy isn't even open on Sundays.  And it's never open this early.

You know us overachievers.  Once we reach adulthood we know when we're pushing our own limits.  We know when we're about to go too far.  Especially me.  I learned the warning signs long ago.  I know when I'm reaching the maximum limit physically and mentally.  The sirens are going off in my head, and for some really strange reason this morning I keep hearing "Warning!  Danger, Will Robinson!"  But being the complete idiot I am, I'm hardwired to self-destruct.  I won't be able to sit down until I'm caught up on this stuff.  That is, unless nature steps in and forces me down.  That has happened a time or twelve.

I have reached the bottom of my coffee cup.  That room isn't going to paint itself.  Those decorations are not going to hang themselves.  And I might as well go wake him up and let him know the world will end if he doesn't go prevent it.  I'll get up as soon as I can move.  Honest.

I want a spa day.

I hate automobile dealership service departments.  They're outrageously arrogant and unbelievably expensive.

I have a temper sometimes.  I admit this.  But rarely, and I do mean RARELY do I lose it in public.  I'm not one of those people who will mouth off or cause a scene.  I try to be an adult, most of the time.  There are times when I'm pushed past my voices of reason, and I will become a sarcastic little twit.  I have never been offensive or abusive to anyone in the public domain, but I will tell you what I think of you if you push me.  Ok, I take that back.  It's probably offensive to some people when I tell them they're scum sucking bottom feeders.... even if I don't actually use those words.  Dealership mechanics are scum sucking bottom feeders.  And now some of them know it.

I realize that most of the (5) people who read my blog have older children, and you've already gone through this... (I should be mad at you for not telling me).  But if you have younger children, be better prepared than I am.

When you're teaching a teenager the finer points of being a responsible driver, undoubtedly you can't always remember every single detail.  Some things will come in time, others you'll forget altogether and they will be forced to learn them from experience. 

A really important fact... teach your teen to NEVER try to roll down their car window IF the window is frozen.  This doesn't seem like a big deal, but it will be if they try and try and then it thaws suddenly, while you're driving down the street, and it CRASHES down into the door of your car.

Other than scaring me half to death, it really wasn't a big deal, or so I thought.  I mean, the window didn't break and the motor was still humming.  The window just wouldn't roll back up.  Thankfully my shade tree mechanic dad can fix ANYTHING... almost.  After taking the door panel off, he saw that a little plastic thingie that holds the window in place had broken.  After a quick rant about such an expensive car using cheap plastic parts like that, he informed me that in fact, my father does NOT grow car, plumbing, or electrical parts on trees in his backyard, and I'd have to take it into a garage to get it fixed.  This was a surprise to me since my daddy can fix anything and always seems to have exactly what he needs to do it.  I was shattered by this news, but that's a whole different post.

SO... I call the dealership service department and try to explain the situation.  The dumbass doesn't even bother to listen to me.  He talked to me just as you would assume he'd talk to a woman.  "You poor little thing.  Just bring the big bad car in and we'll make it all better for you.  But not before you take it up the butt a few times because you're a dumb chick who knows nothing about cars."

Not listening to me, he insisted it was a particular part that he would have to order and the total cost would be... $400!  Hello?!?!  I insisted maybe he was mistaken since, after all, he hadn't actually examined the car yet.  But noooooo.... "... it's the regulator, ma'am.  You just bring it in here in the morning, and we'll have it fixed by 2pm." 

Yeah, why don't you hold your breath until 2pm, you lug nut.

So I call DADDY!  And I say, "Daddy, hi!  (I make sure he can hear the loving adoration in my voice)  Daddy, I called the dealership, and that big bad mean guy tried to tell me the broken part is called a regulator, and it's going to cost your poor sweet innocent daughter $400 to get it fixed!  Is he right?"

My dad doesn't curse.  He's a Christian. A Baptist... (a Democratic Christian, even).   Anyway, he doesn't curse.  But the tone... oh, the tone.  The tone curses.  And in that tone he informed me I'd better not take the car in because the man was wrong.  That I should get in the phonebook and look up auto body shops.  Someone would be able to help me. 

Forget that.  Who has time?  I decided I'd go visit the guy who just serviced the vehicle for me.  I knew he doesn't do this kind of work, but I figured he'd point me in the right direction.  I trust him.  He's a good ole boy mechanic like my dad.  The teen girl wants to go with me.  So I warn her before we go in, "Listen.  There may be some flirting and hair flipping.  This is not what I want to teach you to do, but sometimes a girl's gotta do...  If they're going to treat me like a silly female who needs them to save me, I'm going to act like one.  But you never do this.  NEVER use your feminine wiles to get your way... unless it'll save you $400."

And I was right.  He sent me to another good ole boy.  He wasn't in his shop yesterday, but his employee knew the exact part I was talking about immediately.  Yay!  So I'm going back today and hopefully they'll be able to fix the window and it won't take forever to grow the part in their backyard.

I'm having an identity crisis.  Isn't it too early for one of those?  Obviously not.  I find that in our defiance of comformity, we have conformed.  I want to be someone you remember.  I want to tell you things about myself that will stick out in your mind and force you to think of me long after I'm gone.  But I want to be accepted.  I want to fit in.  Sometimes I think we share the dysfunctional sides of our lives so that we DO fit in.  We wear our obscurities around our necks like gold medals, and we're more likely to share our icky parts before we share the average ones. 

It's hard work being an enigma and the girl next door at the same time.  But I think that's what I want.  I want you to know the shocking parts of me so that I seem unique, but I want to be approachable and safe.  I want to be a challenge but as solid and warm as the blanket  you wrap around yourself at the end of the day.

I'll tell you that Emily Dickinson became my favorite poet when I was fifteen because of her darkest depressing works, but I'll rarely mention I love Shakespeare's sonnets religiously.  Why?  Because everybody loves Shakespeare's sonnets.  That's just way too normal to be special.  I'll tell you stories about being raised by an emotionally vacant mother long before I'll share the stories about my perfectly normal father.

I want to be the cool girl by not being the cool girl.  It seems like we have to keep trying harder and harder at being weird enough to fit in.  And the thing is every little idiosyncrasy I share is true.  Last night my husband spent a good twenty minutes laughing at me and telling me how adorable I am, and I have no idea what I did.  Obviously it was one of those quirky little things that make me who I am.  But mundane things are part of me, too.

Am I REALLY as complicated and mysterious as I think I am?  Or am I just another face in the "look at me, I'm rare, elusive, and special" sea of people who think we stick out when we really all look alike?

Yesterday was mostly a good day.  We finally made it out to buy the new furniture.  We found the absolute perfect dining room set.  Paid for it, left the store in search of the family room set, and then came home to a message on the answering machine saying they had UNDER charged us.  Someone put the wrong sign on the table.  Not my problem!  We even commented to the lady... "Gee, this is really cheap for this, are you sure it includes the six chairs?"  And her reply was, "Well, he hit a big liquidation sale and got some really nice things for next to nothing."  Convinced me!  But I was tired and hateful, and I certainly wasn't going to pay them any more for the furniture.  It was worth more, but, I don't know... my feelings were hurt!  I wasn't giving them another dime.  Their mistake!  So they refunded us our money, and now I don't have a new dining room set.  But that's ok, really.  We have one right now.  We just need a new one.  But with the extra money on hand that we didn't use, I can buy some accents for the family room furniture, right.  And we'll do the dining room later.  (Of course you realize that the game tables are still in the middle of the floor.)

We didn't get the snow storm everyone else got.  About four inches on the ground.  I wanted more, but I'm not going to complain.  It's beautiful out there.  Beautiful and freaking cold.  I'm not liking my view here from the desktop, but it will have to do until FedEx finds its way out of its own ass and delivers my adapter.  There is no such thing as good customer service anymore! 

I know I've been complaining a lot lately.  With me, complaining is like... like when you go out drinking and finally  have to go pee for the first time.  Once you "break the seal", you have to pee every three minutes for the rest of the night.  I never could hold my liquor, literally or figuratively.

I'm so proud of myself.  It only took two cups of coffee to get me going this morning.  I even made breakfast.  For future reference, me making breakfast consists of me popping open a couple cans of Pilsbury cinnamon rolls.  What?!  NO ONE around here gets up to eat breakfast, anyway!  I'm the only one ever up early enough to consider a meal to be "breakfast".  Besides, I've complained before about missing out on the southern gene known as "I love to spend hours in the kitchen frying up anything that will stand still long enough for family, friends, and anyone who wanders in off the street" gene.  I manage decent dinners most of the time.  Breakfast and lunch... do  ya like instant oatmeal?  No?  Then stop somewhere for breakfast before you get here.

There are some things in life that I'm so certain of, other things I pretend I'm sure of, and still others I can't even fake having a clue about.

Like why FedEx had my laptop adapter scheduled to be delivered today.  Had it leaving Memphis, TN. early this morning and then had it leaving Memphis, TN. again this evening.  Who knew Memphis was that big, right.  Either way, I paid to have it shipped this quickly, but you never get what you pay for anymore.

Add to that the current condition of my house, and I'm just in an all around foul mood.  It's no one's fault, really.  Just because there's a pool table and an air hockey table in the middle of my living room floor and crazy out of place furniture sticking here and there in the new family room... with no straight forward plan to move any of it anytime soon.  It's not bothering me... really. 

I'm not even upset over the left over party stuff still not completely cleaned up.  I had no idea that silly string would bond with hardwood flooring and never ever let go.  How could I know this?  And just let me note here... if you've never seen a thirty-seven year old blindfolded man swinging wildly at a pinata, it's a must see, folks.  Although I think I was probably pretty funny looking, too.

The thing is, I don't feel good so I'm taking three times longer to get anything done, and the big stuff, Screw has to do, but he can't because he's working all the time.  He gave me an assignment.  I was supposed to go out and find a new sectional for the family room, but there was no time yesterday and today... it has only being flooding since early morning with the fleeting promise of inches and inches of snow before the storm passes tomorrow evening.  I want the snow, so we'll only get tons of nasty rain.

B lost another tooth today, and if I have to tell her how the tooth fairy works one more time, I'm going to jump off my house.  Mostly I'm just afraid I'll screw up on one of the many details and she'll realize I'm lying.

It has been a long week.  I just want to relax.  Hopefully I'll get to do that sometime this weekend.

I've been trying to post here since 5:30am.  It seems my muse has left me just when I need her most.  (evil bitch)  I wanted to write something profound and elegant.  Something to proclaim my undying love and affection as well as my humble gratitude that fate would create a day like today.  But my mind is blank even though my heart is overflowing.

It's his birthday.  This is the date the world became bearable.  He's an amazing man, really.  I could try until the end of time and I would never find the words to tell him how I feel.  Besides we've gone over the stories of our life before... right here on Motime.  And we talk about it with one another all the time. 

Oh wait...  the  perfect words:

Sweetheart, you moved the pool table and the air hockey table into the middle of my formal living room two days ago, and it's still sitting there.  And I love you ANYWAY.

Oh... and I have NEVER wanted to throw a suitcase at you... okay, almost never.

(Now he knows how much I love him, trust me.)

You're so busy with being a wonderful dad and husband that you probably won't read this for a week.  So when you finally get around to reading it, I hope you had a perfect birthday.  The kids are working really hard on your surprise party right now.  Hopefully we'll be done before you get home.:)

Happy birthday, Terry.  I'm loving growing old with you, sweetheart. 

It is an absolutely gorgeous day outside.  The wind is a bit high... an actual wind advisory.  But wind turns me on.  This may be one of the many reasons I have no problem living in a tornado prone town.   Anyway, temps from the mid-sixties to seventy degrees with brilliant sunlight washing over everything.  This sunlight in July would force us all to stay indoors with our air conditioners on high.  But not today.  Today is beautiful.  I have the windows open and the wind is airing out the house wonderfully.  But don't go getting all cheery for me.  Tonight... thunderstorms and snow again by Wednesday.  Global warming, my ass.

Getting some much needed mood enhancing rays isn't helping me any.  I'm oozing bitch, and I just can't help it.  I'm jumpy and irritable.  I'm absolutely exhausted and can't work or rest my way out of it.  I know all the tips and tricks that should pull me through it, but they aren't working.

My anxiety levels are through the roof.  Ok, they're not as bad as they were.. say... the time I was diagnosed with a terminal illness, proceeded to be talked into seeing a counselor (I'm still mad at David) only to have the quack tell me she thought a former friend had released bad spirits into my house.  (I kid you not)  I'm hanging on to my sanity better than I was when I told my mother that my dad wouldn't be such an asshole if she'd bang him every once in a while (over Thanksgiving dinner).  I'm not losing it the way I did the time I left my one and only stint as a nurse right after I called my supervisor a skillet-licking bitch while walking out the door.   I'm not as "on the verge" as the time I got up at 4:30am, packed everything I could fit into my car and left my husband with barely enough gas money to make it back to my hometown.  I'm not as out of control as I was when I gave away everything I owned that wouldn't fit into three suitcases and boarded a greyhound bus to Montana with no idea what I was going to do when I got there. 

But nonetheless... I'm losing it.  If you didn't know me better you might think I'm almost clinical, wouldn't you.  If you REALLY know me, you know those are some of my calmer moments. 

Heckfire, my living room has stayed in the same position for almost two years now.  You have NO idea the restraint involved with this...  Luckily, my husband is apparently sensing the approaching storm and has readily agreed to allow me to ummm... not only move the room around but move complete ROOMS around.  That man is either long gone or he loves me.  Both?

But all in all there is always hope, isn't there... always faith.  The exhilaration that comes from thinking about the good things.... like the time I told my doctor the bad spirits in my house informed me I should no longer see my counselor. (He thought it was funny.)  Or the time I made my mother laugh so hard she peed on herself when I suggested she have more sex with my dad (over Thanksgiving dinner).  The super fiesty feeling of freedom that swept over me when I told that cold hearted skillet-licking bitch to take that job and... you know...  Especially the relief and peace I felt as I backed out of the driveway at 4:30am leaving the person who was stealing my very soul.. with nothing on my mind but getting home to the people who love me.  Not to mention the overwhelming emotion evoked by seeing the snow covered breathtaking mountains of Montana for the first time... with a fresh heart and a fresh start.

One of the dumbest things I've ever done was to remove the tv from the kitchen.  But I thought I was being such a grown up responsible Mom.  The kids had developed a nasty habit of sitting in front of the tv in the kitchen and eating even when they weren't hungry.  I couldn't have that!  Not to mention it made my kitchen stay trashed.  So I thought I'd take away their excuse to boredom eat considering they're not allowed to eat in any other room other than the dining room. 

But oh my gosh I miss my morning coffee/blogging/news watching time.  WHY do I feel like I have to do such extreme things?  Why do I feel like it's unfair of me to have the temptation there in front of them without allowing them to partake?  I could have just said, "No watching tv in the kitchen unless I give you permission!".  And I could have worked to enforce the rule.  But noooooo... I have to see things all twisted with the idea that it's just not fair of me that way.

I do the same thing with all sorts of issues around here, and then I find myself wondering where the perks of being an adult are hiding.  It can't possibly be unfair to allow myself even the smallest luxury because it might make me appear to be selfish to my children.  Isn't that why we say things like, "I can't wait until I'm grown up so I can do whatever I want!"? 

Seriously though, I think it's almost clinical with me.  Where are the boundaries?  I mean, I have no trouble with the obvious ones.  We talk about pre-marital sex, drugs, the importance of an education, wearing a seatbelt.  I make sure they're fed, warm, and feel loved.  They're polite and respectful, mostly.  (They're teenagers)  Those are easy to distinguish.  My problem comes with parenting the little things.  I learned early on that with some things you have to pick your battles, but I'm totally sucking at the choosing.  What do I enforce?  What do I ease up on?  I worry so much that I'll be too strict on the little things that I end up getting walked on.  The dirty little buggers know exactly which buttons to push and which strings to pull.  They can have me feeling sorry for them in two minutes and feeling guilty about something in even less time than that.

I throw it out there with sarcastic  wit, but it's really bothering me.  They're such good kids with wonderful hearts, and I don't want that to change.  I don't want them to become lazy self-centered adults any more than I want them to become sad bitter brats.  I just can't seem to find the middle ground, so as of right now, they're leaning very much toward the lazy self-centered side.  They're wonderful kids, and I think that's part of the reason I have such a hard time.  They're old enough to really be acting out by now, but they're not.  I find myself using that as my excuse, though.  The sixteen year old could be out drinking and driving, experimenting with drugs, skipping school, having unprotected sex, but he isn't.  He's a great kid who never comes home late, is making perfect grades, and isn't in any hurry to become serious with girls.  So what if he won't pick up his shoes, can't remember how to close a shower curtain completely, and I haven't seen the floor in his bedroom in a month, right?  WRONG... the little things are killing me.  By the time five people forget their shoes, don't put away their laundry, forget to close the shower curtain... you mothers know exactly what I'm talking about.  It feels like it was easier when I worked full time.  I think that's because I wasn't home to see it.  Now it's constantly in my face, and I think it may push me over the edge.

Ugh... I'm losing ground fast, ladies.  Suggestions would be wonderful right now.  That, or an all expense paid trip outta here for a week.  I'm good either way!