Motherhussy Dos

The Best Part

2012-01-26T08:00:00.000-08:00

Waking up to the sound of my sons' laughter is the best. Folgers ain't got nothing on that.

Light it Up, Beyotch!

2011-12-16T11:51:00.001-08:00

All that means is that I'm going to attempt to put up some Christmas lights...before Christmas is over. I'm sure there will be something humorous, or sad, to write about my experience.

Parental Tip #37:

2011-12-14T10:49:00.000-08:00

When in the course of trying to be a fun mom, if you ever find yourself saying, "Shoot me in the forehead with the Nerf gun...," stop yourself before you get hit. At close range, Nerf suction cup bullets hurt--and will most certainly leave a red mark.

Should I Be Concerned?

2011-11-01T11:11:00.000-07:00

Colton, who is home from school sick today, comes wandering into the living room from his bedroom.

"Hey, buddy--how are you feeling?" I ask.
"Okay, I guess," he replies.
"Mom, can I have a Coke?"
"Sure." I answer.
He cracks open the Coke and goes on to tell me, "I've been watching a documentary about the prohibition--and for some reason it's making me really thirsty."

Should I be concerned?

Eve Could Have Been an Egret

2011-10-20T14:37:00.000-07:00

Last month, my adorable brother-in-law got married to my new, adorable sister-in-law. It was a gorgeous wedding which took place at Our Lady of Sorrows Church in Santa Barbara. I won't go in to all the wedding details, because there were a lot--and they were all very beautiful, but that isn't why I am recalling this tale. It was because of this wedding, a particular bible passage has been brought to my attention. The passage is from Genesis 2:18-21. Now why was this brought to my attention? Normally, I'm not a Bible-thumping scripture studier. In fact, I'm not even a Bible-cracking scripture browser--to be quite honest. What lead me to ponder this nugget of theological treasure was I had been asked by the soon-to-be-wed couple to read it at their ceremony.

So, here I am, the day before the wedding, reading over what I was to present to the matrimonial congregation. Lo and behold, I found myself reading Genesis 2:18-21 out loud and cracking up. Why? Well, because of the whole "God finding Adam a helper" stuff. As I read it, in verse 18, God is like, "Well, Adam. I've had you around for a little bit, and you obviously need somebody to pick up after you, because you're kind of a slob. How's about I find for you a little helper, hmmm? Would you like that?" And then Adam is all, "Sure, God. Let's see what you've got up those ample celestial sleeves of yours."

God then proceeds to create a bunch of beasts from the ground and flying animals from the sky. He then brings them to Adam. So, what I'm realizing here is that God thought it would be a great idea for him to try to hook Adam up with one of his animal creations. I can only imagine how this all went down.

"Adam, so, I made this animal. Check it out. It has a hard outer shell! Isn't that awesome?" God brings an armadillo to Adam.

"Umm, yeah, God. That's pretty cool. But, I'm not sure about hooking up with it though. Looks a little complicated. Kind of small for my size. And the hard outer shell is kind of a turn off."

"Well, okay then. Can you at least give it a name? I'm no good at naming stuff. I mean, all I could come up with for you was 'Adam', Adam." God says.

"Sure. Uhh, let's call it an armadillo."

"Armadillo it is! See, you're so good at naming stuff!"

God takes off for a little bit and comes back to Adam with another animal. This time the animal is covered in long, thick quills. When Adam tries to embrace the animal in an intimate manner, the quills come out of the animal and become lodged into Adam's bare skin.

"Owwwwwwww! What the $%&*, God! What was that all about?" Adam screams, while trying in vain to pull the painful quills out.

"Oh, uh. Sorry. I guess I thought that if I made the animal look fancy you would be more attracted to it as a mate. My bad. Stop pulling at the quills, stupid. We have to cut the ends in order for them to come out. Clever, right? See, that way when you get stuck with the quills and want to kill the animal, you're too busy figuring out how to take the quills out and the animal has time to run away. Smart, huh?"

Adam glares at God.

"Well, would it be too much for me to ask you to name this one too?" God asks sheepishly.

"Sure. Whatever. Porcupine. Now help me get these quills out of my stomache, old man!"

This type of scenario goes on and on. Each animal being presented to Adam as a mate, Adam rejecting the animal for intimacy, but still giving it a name--just to be nice. Finally, God gets frustrated.

"Adam, I've made you so many freaking animals and none of them is to your liking for a mate. You know, it's not good for you to be alone. You get weird. You need a partner...someone who will pick up the wet towels you leave on the bathroom floor. I'm God, I'm not doing it for you anymore."

"God, I'm sorry. I know you're trying but, knocking boots with a mule just doesn't seem right. French-kissing an orca is just plain scary, and I don't care how downy and egret is; I don't want it down on me. Those beaks are pointy."

God sighs.

"Well, I didn't want it to come to this..."

God whacks Adam over the head with a coin-filled sock, knocking Adam out cold. He then sticks his fist into Adams abdominal, and rips out a rib, Mola Ram style. Somehow, he turns the rib into a nice lady by magic--I'm sure unicorns were also involved. Eve is created.

I know. It's a lovely story. But, as I practiced reading the story out loud in my hotel room the night before the wedding, can you see how I could find it a little funny? Maybe a lot funny?

The creation of Eve was a miracle from God. Another miracle from God, the fact I didn't laugh so hard I threw up at the podium while reading the story the day of the wedding.

Thanks God!

Love,
Charise

Caprese Charisee

2011-10-01T16:30:00.001-07:00

I just got done pulling up some old basil plants from my backyard garden box. Now, whenever I get a whiff of my hands, I can't help but thinking that I should eat them with some sliced tomatoes, mozarella, and a drizzle of olive oil.

Italian self-cannibalism--it's a good thing.

No More Apologies

2011-09-19T08:11:00.001-07:00

"Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad! I'm sorry I screamed at you!" Carter screamed to his father.

Pondering the Complexities of Urine Puddles

2011-09-15T11:53:00.000-07:00

Today I'm going to totally be on it. It's true. I've wrote out a list of everything that I'm going to do. It ranges from going to the post office to folding laundry. I've already drank two mugs of mojito mint green tea, but I feel that might not be enough for what I have planned today. Seeing as we don't have any Diet Pepsi left in the house, I might just have to make an emergency run to the Burger King down the street and get a large one. I know, the price of buying a soda at a fast food joint is enough to buy me a liter at the grocery store. Well let me tell you something--you can get off of your six pack of budgetary lectures, because I have The Husband to tell me those things.

Anywhoo, I've put in a load of laundry, loaded and run the dishwasher, made my bed, and put the Soft Scrub in the toilets for a very-near-future scrubbing. Which brings me to the question that keeps plaguing me: Why, why, why must there be little drips and dribbles of urine somewhere on each toilet? I guess I could blame it on Carter--he just barely turned four and his urinary skills are sub-par. However, my instincts tell me that there are three more older contributors to this bodily fluid phenomenon. I am not one of them. My fluids are contained-yo!

From my previous post you would know that we had a party at my house. Previous to the party, I cleaned the place up pretty good. After all the excitement, I cleaned up as well. The toilets were pee free as of last week. Sadly, I know it's time for a deep clean when the earthy scent of urine starts to mingle with the exotic aroma of my Island Paradise Air Wick. That is the perfume that greeted my nostrils this morning as I used the hall bathroom. It was the smell of a housewife called to action!

To be honest, I don't really mind a good deep clean every couple of weeks. It is time for me to turn on, tune in, and take out the trash. I think what bothers me most is the obliviousness, whether authentic or faked, to my efforts. Why wouldn't my loved ones want to make my work a little easier? Why can't the men of my home control their aim better for their dear mother, and beloved wife? If they did, the toilet would do it's awesome job and just flush the pee away leaving no trace of "eu de hobo" in the bathroom . Is it laziness? Is it a physical problem they should see a professional about? Am I being insensitive because it's so easy for me to make the excretory target?

As the Soft Scrub slowly makes its journey down the three toilet bowls of our house, the question forever remains:

Why is it that certain males just can't get all of their urine into the toilet bowl? And, if a puddle or drip does happen, how hard is it for them to just clean up after themselves so I don't have to?

Now that I got that out of my system, it's onward and upward!

[Charise holds scrub brush directly into the air as if holding the glowing flame of Lady Liberty]

Saturday Evening Post

2011-09-10T21:08:00.000-07:00

Last Sunday Carter turned four years old. It's been really amazing as each year passes, that I, a noble faired, long-haired, leaping gnome, have been able to keep each of my three children alive and kicking. I'm pretty proud of myself for getting up each day, making sure they are fed and watered, clothed and sheltered, and for the most part, properly hygienated. Cody and Colton for fourteen years, and Carter now, for four.

It was a lovely affair. Carter chose to have and "Angry Birds" themed party. For any of you reading that don't know what I'm referring to, congratulations--you probably have a very fulfilling and active life. For those of you that do know what I'm referring to, congratulations--you know what it is like to live with addiction. I'm not judging.

In the past, birthday dates would sneak up on me and The Husband. We would postulate back and forth about whether or not we should go all the way and have a party...with balloons. Inevitably, we would succumb to our slacker-selves and decide on taking the kids out to dinner, or out of town in lieu of an actual birthday party...with people. Well, this year we made the leap. Carter told us what he wanted, we consulted with one another, and finally The Husband said, "You better just send out the invitations before planning anything, because if you don't, we will back out and not have a party...with balloons and people." So, I made up a guest list, and shot off the invites through Punchbowl. And what do you know? People RSVP'ed. Funny how that works.

Our little Angry Bird-day party went down without any major occurrences. In fact, it was downright pleasant. I made decorations, barbecued, decorated a cake and socialized with people. There were even balloons! It was a success. It was so much of a success, that no sooner had the last guest stepped out the door, before Carter started planning his next party--a Spiderman party. With a Spiderman cake.

Haha! Fat chance young lad. In the four years you have known me, haven't you figured out I don't do action figures? Only iPod apps.

Me & The Neverending Weight Obsession Extreme Ramble-Fest

2011-08-17T14:55:00.000-07:00

Okay, you might not know it by looking at me--but I'm a little weight obsessed. I know, you would think if I cared so much about my weight I would be health conscious, fit, or have a non-dormant eating disorder. But that's just it, I care about my weight--but only enough to obsess over the thought of being chunky, not really do anything extreme about it.

Don't get me wrong, I exercise and try to eat somewhat healthy--but both of those I do inconsistently. I will go through periods of time where my eating habits are really great, or borderline anorexic, either way during those periods of time I am watching what I eat. I also go through periods of exercise. In fact, I just got done doing an hour of Just Dance. Yes, I know, there are newer version of the game out there, but I don't update my technology all that often. In fact, I am typing this blog on a Datapoint 2200.

Recently, I took a trip to my home state for a couple of weeks and during that time I, of course, fell out of any healthy semi-routines I had been doing. In fact, I acquired another bad eating habit on the trip--I started drinking sugar free Red Bull. I know, you're thinking, "Okay Ms. Edgy-Edger-Pants, drinking Red Bull is not really bad." Okay, I know it's not bad, but it's really not good for me--right? I mean, I can tell by the way it makes my heart flutter like a bird in a bread basket that it's probably not what I should be drinking. Want to know why I moved to Red Bull? Because, Starbucks coconut frappucinnos are choc-full-o-fat. Okay? I replaced a fat habit with a heart attack habit. At least I won't be contributing my hard earned money to those greedy Jewish capitalists at Starbucks anymore...like I care. Anyway, now there are empty cans of Red Bull rattling about on the floor of the back seat in the car, because at least I care enough to think about recycling. THINK about it.

By the time I had returned home from my trip, my jeans were fitting a little snugger--and to this day, they still are. In fact, last Sunday afternoon I was taking a nap and the waist of my pants was digging in to my newly blossomed gut. I thought for a moment that if I undid the button on my pants, I would feel much better, but then I realized if I unbuttoned my top button, that would be acknowledging the fact that I have mini-muffin top. Instead, I pulled my pants up higher up past my belly button. The resulting wedgie was much less painful than the muffin top torture. I slept soundly for about 37 minutes. It was great.

One of my tactics during a time of weight gain is to avoid the scale. I don't know where or why I acquired this tactic, and needless to say it doesn't help the problem at all. When I had gotten home from my trip I weighed myself and realized that I had gained almost four pounds. After avoiding the scale, I gained two more pounds. Obviously scale avoidance isn't working. On the other hand, when I am doing well with my weight management, I will weigh myself an unhealthy amount of times throughout the day. I have gotten better with this number obsession over the years, which is to say I now weigh myself less than half-a dozen times a day. I know, it's stupid, but you are wasting your day reading blogs about weight, so what does that say about you? Just kidding. You're not stupid. I love you and so does Jesus and his harem of angels.

Anywhooooooooo, just thought I would get this weight thing off of my chest, butt, and thighs for a moment. Like I said, I played Just Dance for an hour, and I'm going jogging this evening, so as for exercise I'm on the right track. However, I did eat chicken enchiladas with sour cream, a few salt water taffys, a white chocolate macadamia Cliff bar, and a peach...so far. Time to moderate the eating too, I guess.

I was telling one of my friends the other day that I needed to hit the gym because I was pudging up. She was so nice to tell me that she hadn't noticed, and that it was probably water weight. See, that's what really good friends do--they tell you it's water weight. Even though it's obviously coconut frappucinno ass.

Love,
Charise

For Suzy and Smelly Socks

2011-07-18T21:54:00.000-07:00

(Disclaimer: I am not a poet, and I know it)

Let me tell you a tale of stench

of crusty foot coverings

and smells that gut-wrench

A tome purely written

solely for soles

small toes peeking out

from worn cotton holes

It all begins in a young lady’s lair;

a lass very sassy

and incredibly fair

At first glance we see

her abode looks swell

But take a second glance,

and not all seems so well

Perfumes, clothing, and books

all shelved neatly away,

or hanging on hooks

New Wave CDs

snuggled up in their cases

toiletries and make-up

all in their places

But upon a deep whiff

rancid foot scent will tell

that under the bed

festers levels of hell

It smells of gym lockers

and wet vinyl seats

Fat lady crotch sweat

and food nobody eats

there are high notes of blue cheese

and puffy plastic pants

there are undertones of dishrags

and stuff that attracts ants

So one day the lass

could stomache no more

she looked under the bed

to find the fish-smelly core

Ho! Ho! Hey! Hey!

What should there be?

Huge hoards of smelly stockings

of all variety

socks with yellow smileys

and brown polka-dots

socks that were knee-high

and some that were not

socks with aliens

and funny colored flowers

socks that had lady bugs

and clocks with cool powers

They were all of high quality

no one could deny

but the problem with these socks

is their stench was sky-high!

Dirty socks under the bed

are tomfoolery for kids--

not for nice ladies

that wear fancy lids!

So off to the laundry

those crusty socks went

into the washer

to freshen their scent

Then out of the dryer those fluffy socks came

and the moldy smell of death

no longer remained

So socks on the floor

hiding under the bed

will no longer be

how this life will be led

When socks become dirty

into the hamper they go

No longer seeking refuge

to the laundry they'll flow!

A lesson was learned by that lass so fair--

the girl with the beautiful, silky blond hair

shall no longer toss footwear

under the bed anymore

and soiled socks on her floor,

there shall be

nevermore.

A Poem Written Just for Me

2011-07-13T19:48:00.001-07:00

A Fine Wheel of Cheese

The Newest Threat

2011-07-11T14:53:00.000-07:00

For kicks lately, Cody and Colton have started telling Carter that they are going to "bite his head open". This, of course, terrifies Carter and he will either scream bloody murder or cry, or alternately do both. In response to this, my blood pressure rises, boils, and probably thins...a little. This pisses me off. So, I calmly tell the boys to leave Carter alone, 99 percent of the time they don't listen and keep tormenting Carter. This pisses me off even more. So, then I yell at them to, "knock it off!" If they don't stop after this, I scream some more incoherent rants and take an Ativan. Then, everything is okay.

The End.

Brotherly Letter to the Editor

2011-07-08T20:14:00.000-07:00

I secretly submitted my brother's note on some up-and-coming Utah legislation to the Salt Lake City Weekly, and they published it in their editorial section. Kewl!

Observations of a Teenager

2011-06-21T17:52:00.000-07:00

Last weekend I travelled south to the La Jolla Festival of the Arts with some family I had in town. I love art festivals, but somehow the love of creative overkill, lesbians in Crocs, and very expensive outdoor food vendors did not get genetically passed on to Cody and Colton. Because of this, Cody decided to stay back home, passing his time playing video games with the occasional interlude of "Carter torture". Colton on the other hand, out of sheer love and guilt (mostly guilt), decided to come along for the festivities. Obviously, this was a poor choice on his part. Not even half-way in to our drive, Colton was already wilting from regret in the back seat. But it was too late for him to change his mind--we were well on our way.

Upon arrival to the festival, Colton quickly observed that he was the only kid his age wandering amongst a maze of various mediums. It was true, the place was packed with middle-aged men and women ready to get their wine buzz on, and make some art purchase they would most likely regret later. Although I could tell Colton was experiencing his own personal hell, he was doing his best to soldier through. To help ease his suffering, I purchased a four-dollar lemonade, and a five-dollar Hebrew National dog from one of the festival's food scalpers.

With his food in hand, Colton took a seat at a table near the outdoor stage. While he noshed, a band of Hair-Club-for-Men-forty-somethings played covers songs from the 70's and 80's. A lone couple danced at the foot of the stage, obviously a little tipsy from their Magners Irish Cider. It was at this point Colton made a very pointed, very accurate observation:

"Mom," he said, "this whole festival looks like one big Cialis commerical."

I looked around for a moment, and realized he was absolutely correct. Liver spots, silvery hair, and dentured smiles canvassed the scene. The smell of Avon Skin So Soft mingled in the air with the smoke of barbecued pulled pork. And something that happened earlier; something I tried to forget, quickly surfaced to my conscious again--when I used the bathroom...there was a puddle of liquid on the floor at the base of the toilet. I told myself at the time it was a spilt cup of Zinfandel, but more than likely it was a living testament of some poor woman's need for VESIcare.

I wondered for a moment, how did my attendance to this event reflect on me? Were my artistic wanderings putting me on the fast track to Depends? The possibility of this frightened me. It was at that very moment I decided, next year, I'll skip the arts festival and do something more youthful. It was at that moment I decided, next year, I will spend my summer's sitting at home, playing video games, drinking Red Bull, moisturizing my elbows, and exfoliating my skin. That should keep me out of the living Cialis commericals--at least for another decade or so.

Right? Right?

Efficiency

2011-06-19T13:03:00.000-07:00

I take three pills every morning: birth control (to keep me from getting pregnant), Wellbutrin (to keep me from going crazy), and Hydroxycut (to keep me from getting fat). One would think the first one would handle all three problems.

The End.

Jazz and Middle School Finality

2011-06-16T13:45:00.000-07:00

This morning I dropped the boys off at school for their last day of the 8th grade. Their last and final day of middle school. Before we got to school, at their request I took them through the McDonald's drive through to get a pre-last-day-of-school bite to eat. A "last breakfast" if you will. They munched contentedly while we drove our way to school, KJazz soundtracking the morning on the radio.

It's cloudy out right now, like it was this morning, but the rain has stopped. Sometimes the rain here isn't what you expect when you think of "rain". This morning the Pacific rain was just a mist; a mere suggestion of weather from an indifferent storm system. It made the sidewalks and air smell lovely, and the moisture provided a balmy cover up for my bare arms.

As I got closer to the school, I thought about how far I have come with my boys. From a bumbling, foolish teenage mother of tiny preemies to the matured mother of two tall, confident young men. I am amazed by them each day--the strong personalities they have developed, the inquisitive minds they have grown. I want to take credit for who they are right now, but I would feel like a thief. As their mother, the most credit I can take is one of stewardship. I've shown them the ropes of this wacky thing called life, they're the ones who have each taken the world into their hands and will make it into what they want it to be. My reward is watching them journey down their own individual roads. I get to be a spectator of their passions, dreams, and development. I get to cheer them on as they reach various destinations.

We pulled up to their middle school, McDonald's fully consumed, and my boys ready to finish off what they started three years ago. The rain was still drizzling on the windshield as I watched them walk in to school together. Endings, beginnings, sons, brothers. I took the long way home, past the beach. I cried while Bill Evans played on the radio. Words will never describe how amazing it is to be a mother, but sometimes jazz comes close.

An Afternoon Dialogue

2011-06-13T13:38:00.000-07:00

[Upon giving Carter a root beer float]

Carter, you have to sit at the table with your root beer float.

Why come I have to sit at the table?

Because the computer is on the counter, and if you sit on the bar stools you could spill your root beer float on the computer.

What happens if I spill on the computer?

Well, it would break the computer.

And it would get electrocuted?

Yes, you could get electrocuted.

What happens if I get electrocuted?

Well, you could get burned really bad.

How come electrocuted burns you?

Because it's dangerous.

Does electrocuted make you die?

Yes, if it's bad it could make you die.

Why come electrocuted makes you die?

Because when you're electrocuted your heart stops.

Oh. When somebody electrocute you do you have to go in somebody else's room?

Ummm, I guess it would be safer if you went in somebody else's room.

But, Mom, electrocuted would happen too fast.

[slurps root beer]

Mom, I don't like this show. (Fairly Odd Parents)

Okay, I'll change it.

Mom, what's the name of Scooby Doo?

Scooby Doo.

Mom, do you like the straw show?

Straw show? I don't even know what that is?

You know what it is. It called the Straw Show. Like when all the straws walk.

[My brain spills out my ears]

TECH SUPPORT! TECH SUPPORT!

FIN

Things I Thought About Googling Today...But Didn't.

2011-06-07T21:24:00.000-07:00

If I ate a bunch of sand, what would it do to my digestive track?
What percentage of the national budget goes to farm subsidies?
Sen. Weiner's chat transcripts
How to make funeral casserole
City of Torrance Public Works office
What plants go with sea grasses?

Oh, the things I could have learned today...but didn't.

I Want a Raze

2011-06-03T14:27:00.000-07:00

Am I the only woman out there that, upon purchasing a new razor, feels like shaving off ALL my body hair (with the exception of eyebrows, eyelashes, and head hair)?

There's just something about a sharp razor, and a smooth shave. Can I get an amen? Okay then, can I get a high-five at least for not having razor burn?

It's the little things in life...

Afternoon Intermission Brought to You by Tori Amos...and Moby

2011-05-26T14:08:00.000-07:00

Right now I am at home alone. Anthony took Carter to an Angels game, and the boys are at school. I've got Tori Amos on right now, the iTunes is delivering "Tear In Your Hand"...

Normally I don't listen to Tori Amos, at least not much since 1994, but for some reason I put her on. Tear In Your Hand is a sad song, and for some reason I feel like crying even though everything is pretty much wonderful in my life. I guess that's what good music does. Listening to it takes me back to junior high crushes and high school heartaches. Not this song in particular...just Tori Amos, and a time in my life when she was on the local radio station rotation.

I don't long for the days of obsessing over boys, and the adolescent mood swings. I don't miss homework and unpredictable hormones. I don't miss the awkwardness of it all. I do, however, miss the everyday possibility of getting lit up over silly little things--like somebody smiling at me in the hall, or getting punched in the arm by the crush of the week. The smell of cologne on a sofa pillow after an unexpected visit. I miss the high from getting A's on tests. Blowing my small paycheck from Around the Clock Answering Service at the mall. I miss having days and days of unscheduled summers with sun-baked adventure being the only plan.

I still get lit. It's just different things light me up now. Things I would have never imagined bringing me joy as a teenager, are now the source of my pride. The other day Cody came home from school and told me, "Mom, all the kids at school say you make the best grilled cheese." I walked on effing clouds the rest of that afternoon. Last week I dug up a patch of lawn so Carter and I could plant some seeds. We planted carrots, tomatoes, beans, basil, cantaloupe, columbine, and sunflowers. It's a hodge-podge of a garden, but I smile everytime I water those little dirt mounds. I check every day in anticipation for small shoots of green. I can't wait to see Carter's face when the seeds finally decide to sprout. Before I started to write this post, I repaired the toilet handle in the master bathroom. I felt like a freaking magician! A toilet that would once not flush, was now flushing again, whisking waste away like a magical little whirlpool. Is there anything now I cannot conquer, I doubt it.

Anyway, another rambling post from yours truly. I've got to keep these fingers nimble, if not for writing blogs--for the next broken toilet, future grilled cheese sandwiches, and invasive weeds that are sure to attempt a sneak attack on my cantaloupe.

Teary Tori is not longer playing. Moby and his hardcore disco is pumping away, and I must rush off to get some cardio before I pick up the boys from school. Now that Tori's gone, I don't feel like crying anymore. I do feel like snapping a couple of glo sticks, chugging a Rock Star, and dancing like an animal all over the front room. Unfortunately, there's no time for that now...

FYI:

2011-05-15T12:06:00.001-07:00

"A shark on whiskey is mighty risky; a shark on beer is a beer engineer." --SGC2C

The Coast is Clear--For Now

2011-05-12T10:39:00.000-07:00

The teens are at school. The husband is serving jury duty. The kid is in his bedroom playing with a million marbles, a pot, a large metal bowl, and a bamboo spoon. I am actually on the computer...typing.

I don't know how long this will last. I should get in all the words I can get in before something happens and I am pulled away from this world of clickity-clackity-plastic keys. I want to inform everyone of things in my brain...

...the kid just abandoned his million marbles, pot, large metal bowl, and bamboo spoon. He is now all up in my face harassing me with a repetative, "Let's go jump on the trampoline. Let's go jump on the trampoline. Let's...go...jump...on...the...tram...po...line!"

Well, it was worth a shot. At least I know my fingers still work on this clickity-clackity word writing device.

Off to the trampoline!

Before April Escapes

2011-04-29T19:19:00.000-07:00

There really is no excuse for me not to post here at least once a month. For shame, Charise! For shame!

So, here I am--before April closes shop and makes way for May, here's what when on this month in this life of mine:

Bought a house
Moved
Colton had appendix removed
Carter started potty-talking
Cody got a mild concussion playing baseball
I hit my knuckle hard on the frame of our doorway (wah! wah!)
Anthony remained uninjured for this season

I must say I am loving this whole home-ownership thing. Although we lived close to the beach in our apartment, it was getting a little too dark in that place for me. I was starting to feel like I was living everyday in a British television drama, er, something like that. Now I have two good-sized, west-facing windows that get deliciously dreamy afternoon sunlight and I feel like a human being again instead of a lichen. I don't even know if that makes sense, but any of you that know me know what I mean. When the sun starts heading west, it streams in through the back door and windows leaving warm patches on our living room floor. I remember as a kid we had a sliding door that faced west, and when the sun would come through it I would lay in the patch of light like a cat, just soaking it in. I've had the urge to do that several times here, at my new place. I love it.

Life is pretty good right now. I can't complain and I feel very lucky to be where I am in so many ways. Well, I can always complain--but I won't.

On to May...

For Sale or Rent

2011-03-27T19:00:00.000-07:00

One set of sturdy bunk beds. I think they're made of oak, but I'm not sure--they're definitely not particle board because if they were, Cody and Colton would have turned them into a dry pile of sawdust by now. Compliments of Carter, there is some abstract artwork in several areas done in various shades of marker. Might come out; I haven't tried. Compliments of Cody and Colton the beds had been bedazzled with stickers from numerous skate shops, taco shops, shoe stores, and political rallies (ex: Mitt '08). I was able to remove most of them, although they left behind their shape creating a lighter ghost sticker imprint. There are several deep scratches in the wood, probably from a knife (or possibly shiv) fight.

Also, there is a penis carved into the bed somewhere. I haven't seen it, but the boys tell me it's there. They didn't do it--one of their friends did.

For purchase information contact: KLondike-5-4385.

This Just In...

2011-03-15T10:48:00.000-07:00

[While I am sitting at the computer searching for locksmiths]

Carter: Mom, you need to vacuum.

Me: Why do I need to vacuum? (I just vacuumed yesterday.)

Carter: Because I put jello on the couch.

FIN

It's In the Contract Beyotch!

2011-03-07T21:29:00.000-08:00

Whilst searching for some valuable account information stored on my computer's hard drive, I came across this contract I created for Anthony prior to the 2006 volleyball season:

Charise M______

Redondo Beach, CA

June 10, 2006

Anthony M______

Husband

M______ & Co.

Redondo Beach, CA

Dear Anthony:

It has been brought to my attention that you, Anthony (aka: Husband), would like to volunteer coach for Carolyn’s hot chick volleyball players this fall. I understand that this is a fulfilling position for you, as well as a nice break from the boys for me. However, in order to permit you to fulfill the role of volunteer coach, you need to fulfill some husbandly and fatherly conditions as well. Below you will find the terms and conditions that will free you to volunteer coach for Carolyn’s hot chick volleyball players. Please keep a copy of these conditions for your records and return a signed copy to me.

1. Dates of games and tournaments must be presented to me, the Wife, within a *reasonable time frame. *Reasonable= Let me know at least five (5) days ahead of actual game/tournament date, or print me a damn schedule from the internet. Schedule notification conditions are mandatory every year that Husband desires to volunteer coach for Carolyn’s hot chick volleyball team.

2. Previous to any game or tournament (or at least twice a month), the Wife must be taken out on a date that lasts at least one hour. Date must consist of an activity outside of the house, and costing more than $5.00. After date sex is not mandatory, but is encouraged. Date night conditions are mandatory every year that Husband desires to volunteer coach for Carolyn’s hot chick volleyball team.

3. Previous to start of volleyball season, you must take *The Family on a family vacation. Family vacation must consist of at least two nights out of town, preferably somewhere with a pool. Family vacation excludes staying at any relatives homes and also excludes funerals. Family vacation is mandatory every year that Husband desires to volunteer coach for Carolyn’s hot chick volleyball team. *The Family = You, Wife, Cody and Colton.

4. Husband is to understand if Wife does not want to watch all volleyball games/tournaments. It’s not that Wife doesn’t like Carolyn and her hot chick volleyball players; it’s just that sometimes Wife needs time to watch Sex and the City and not be disturbed.

5. In relation to Condition #4 above, Husband is to take Cody and Colton to as many games and tournaments as possible. If this condition is restricted by Coach Carolyn, then so be it. But, when permitted, Cody and Colton will join Husband on coaching ventures.

6. If Coach Carolyn comes across any size 6 shoes, she is to save them and present them to me, the contract writer (aka: Wife). This condition is not mandatory, but is encouraged.

7. If Wife unexpectedly becomes pregnant, the above terms and conditions may change drastically. Husband agrees to be understanding and not resentful.

8. In addition to above listed conditions, Wife would like a new book case for the front room. The book case is mandatory and not at all negotiable.

If any of the above listed conditions are not met, contract is null and void and Husband risks forfeiting his position as volunteer coach for Carolyn’s hot chick volleyball team. He also risks getting kicked in his goodies.

Sincerely,

Charise M______

Wife

ACCEPTED AND AGREED:

By: Date ________________________________________________________________

WITNESS:

By: Date _

I thought this was pretty clever of me. I should reintroduce contracts into our marriage decisions. Binding contracts with material stipulations. Yes, I am incredibly intelligent.

Carter's Collection

2011-02-28T23:08:00.000-08:00

Today, after his preschool, Carter and I walked down to the beach. It was brisk, but not too cold and the sun was shining bright in a clear blue sky. One of Carter's favorite things to do at the beach is walk along the shore looking for rocks and shells to add to his "collection". His collection consists of dozens of rocks, shells, and the odd pine cone, housed in a blue, faded plastic beach pail. This afternoon was an exceptional day for collecting. The tide was low and came in gently, shying away slowly after wetting the sand with its lingering kiss. As a parting gift, the tide left treasures of tiny little shells and smooth, shiny rocks. Yes, this was a perfect collecting day.

The shell beds were littered with an innumerable amount of miniature muscles. These little shells are common at Redondo Beach, so adults tend not to notice them. To children, these little shells represent a bounteous treasure. When Carter sees all these little shells strewn over the sand, it's like he's hit the mollusk jackpot! He runs up to a pile, crouches down, grabs a little handful, and hands them to me to put in my jacket pocket. I have to be conscious of what pocket I'm putting them in, lest tiny grains of sand violate my cell phone and car keys.

Wet rocks are also a prized beach find for that guy. Shiny black stones, smoothed over by the continuous caress of a salty mistress find their way into Carter's little paw. He grabs one excitedly and runs over saying, "Mom! Look at this interesting rock!" Then, he places it in my hand, and off he goes to the next one. When my hand is spilling over with slippery stones, I tell Carter that I've got enough and it's time to throw them. He loves throwing them into the waves, then watching them splash and disappear. Anthony has even shown him the proper way to throw--stepping forward with his left foot, and throwing with his right arm. He's got quite a rock throwing arm, for a three-year-old.

By the time we were ready to go home, my hands were nearly numb from plucking icy wet rocks and shells from their seashore garden. It was mostly a catch-and-release harvest today. However, I did come home with a few "interesting" rocks and several dainty little shells. As soon as we got home, I emptied our loot into the faded beach pail, and smiled. Carter's collection is not only shells, rocks, and the odd pine cone--it's a bucket full of blissful moments no material treasure could ever match.

Sick Memories

2011-02-08T22:44:00.000-08:00

Some of my favorite childhood memories are of being sick. That might sound strange at first, but being the sixth child out of seven, sometimes being sick was one of the best ways to garner my frenzied mother's attention. That, and, I got to miss school. There were also some other benefits that came with being sick in our house. If you had a sore throat, you got twin pops (lime, banana, or root beer). If you were running a fever, you laid on the couch with a cool wet rag on your forehead chewing baby aspirin, tiny little pills that I thought tasted like orange creamsicles. For a bad cold, my mom would rub Vick's on my tight chest, then put a warm kitchen towel on top of the Vick's. To soothe a croupy cough, hot lemonade with honey was her secret elixir. There was also Campbell's chicken noodle soup, cold Sprite, and Luden's Cough Drops.

In addition to all the edible goodies that came with being sick, you got to sit in the big red Lazy-Boy and watch television most of the day. In our house, especially if you were sick on a school day, there really wasn't a big selection of shows to watch. Most of this had to do with the fact that we didn't have cable television. But because everyone else was in school, the sick-o got free reign on what five channels to watch. In the morning, if I were the sick one, I would catch some Sesame Street or Mr. Roger's Neighborhood before vomiting up the Sprite and saltines my mom gave me for breakfast. After the vomiting was over, I would crash while Mr. Slim Goodbody pranced gaily about in his latex suit of nerves, vessels, muscles, and organs. Upon waking, if I were lucky, I could sometimes catch PBS's Masterpiece Theatre. The theatre du jour varied from illness to illness. One that has always stood out in my memory is The Yellow Wallpaper. The Yellow Wallpaper is about a neurotic woman named Charlotte who goes to the country side to get "well", but ends up losing her marbles over the patterned wallpaper in her bedroom; yellow wallpaper, of course. There was just something about watching a woman "creep" her way to insanity as I drifted in and out of fever dreams, that will forever make me associate horrible flues to PBS theatre. Not necessarily a bad thing, in my world.

My mom also had a thick, dark fuchsia, fleece robe that she would let us wear when we were sick. It was called "the fuzzy robe". Having that soft robe wrapped around me magically took the edge off of horrible body aches and incapacitating nausea. It was the best substitute for actually being held in my mother's arms all day long.

Now that I'm an adult, when I get sick I long for the days of the fuzzy robe, the red Lazy-Boy, Campbell's chicken noodle soup, icy Sprite, warm chest towels, and Masterpiece Theatre. Maybe it's not necessarily all the things that went along with being sick, it was having a mother around to provide all those things to me. Now...well, now I'm pretty much on my own. Although, I must give credit to my husband; he brings Jamba Juice and 7UP with him on his way home from work. It's just, he's not my mom.

Even when we're all grown up, I believe most of us long for our mothers when we're ill.

That's all.

Love,
Charise

One (or more) On Wednesday

2011-01-26T22:29:00.000-08:00

1. Cody came back. Of course, I'm not going to go in to details as to what exactly happened; we'll just say it wasn't pretty. Although it was ugly, I am ecstatic to have him back. I figured his old man wouldn't come through, but I am amazed at how quickly he blew this priceless opportunity. Loser.

2. Carter has started preschool again. I spend the time he's there sweating my face off at the gym. I don't really know if I'm really reaping any physical results as of yet, but after an hour of cardio I always feel like I could join the revolution. Too bad there isn't one.

3. During one of the show-and-tells last preschool session, Carter was asked to guess what it was that one of the little girls brought to show the class. Carter asked, "Is it a phone jack?" This, of course, got a lot of surprised laughs from the other adults who were there at the time. Because of this response, Carter's guess for every show-and-tell now is "phone jack". I still laugh, but I think his teacher is getting a little tired of his answer. We'll have to think of something else original, maybe "tire iron" or "door knob"?

4. I have started reading Ayn Rand's "We the Living". I've realized that although I really love the moral content of her books, the characters, and the overall romanticism of her writing, her books always remind me of icy cold Utah winters. I can't decide if that is a good thing or not yet. I guess I'll just make sure when I read her books I'm sitting somewhere sunny or wearing fuzzy socks.

5. I have a fecal mass of laundry in the front room just dying for me to fondle, er, fold. Damn it all to hell.

Love,
Charise

A Different Goodbye

2010-12-21T09:32:00.000-08:00

Being a divorced parent, I am use to telling my boys goodbye. Goodbyes over the summer, spring break, and alternating holidays have been routine for me for 13 years. This time though, the goodbye is different. My twin teens took off for their Christmas holiday to Utah. They both went away, but only one is coming back. Cody has decided to spend the rest of the school year living with his dad.

I thought I would be bawling by now. I thought I would be an incapacitated wreck of a person, wandering around in pajamas all day. This isn't the case. Right now, I just feel numb. The reality of sending two boys out and having only one come back hasn't hit me yet. I just keep wondering why he would want to leave. The questions have been percolating in my brain. What did I do wrong? Could I have done something different? Why didn't I spend more quality time with him when I could have? Wasn't he happy here?

I know all those questions are self-indulgent emotional wrecking balls; personal instruments of torture for quiet, rainy days. He has told me that his leaving has nothing to do with me, or our family here. To an extent, I believe him. I know that teenagers have restless spirits. I use to be one. Believe me, if I had had somewhere to run during those years--I would have. But even more than the natural restlessness of adolescence, I believe in the genetic connection between a father and a son. As much as my blood courses through my sons' veins, the blood of their father runs in them as well. Despite my reservations about letting him leave, Cody is feeling the primitive pull of relation.

Who am I to keep a boy from his father?

But what has his father done to deserve him?

I don't have the emotional capacity to contemplate those questions right now. Like I said, I'm numb. At least the weather is doing it's job in reflecting what I should be feeling. Another storm front is moving in and there will be heavy rain for the next few days...

Metaphorically Challenged

2010-11-03T12:46:00.000-07:00

Okay, I'm a political junkie--I confess. Politics to me is like what fantasy sports is to all those people that obsess about fantasy sports, know what I mean? I watch cable news channels, listen to talk radio, check Rasmussen Reports almost daily, and read up on all the Props before I voted. Some may call that pathetic and boring, but I call it ignorance avoidance. Anywhoo, because I am such a political junkie, I have become familiar with all the stupid talking points and metaphors the politicians have been using as of late. I could bore you and list them all off, but instead I'm going to "focus like a laser" on just one, and give some possible alternatives that politicians could use that might spice up the political dialogue a little.

So, the metaphor I am so tired of hearing is one I'm sure, if you have even paid the slightest bit of attention to politics, you would recognize. Here it is:

"The economy is a car and the Republicans have driven it into a ditch."

Now, the above point can be argued, but I'm not here to prove my political leanings. Because the Democrats have been the party using that statement the most, I will offer alternatives for their point of view--just to show that I am capable of reaching across the aisle.

Here are some alternatives to the whole economy/car/ditch metaphor:

The economy is a cake and the Republicans haven't put enough leavening agent, like baking soda, in the batter so now the cake isn't rising. We Democrats need to discard that cake completely, and make a new one with a recipe from Rosa Luxemburg's "Cooking with Communism".
The economy is a ficus tree that the Republicans have over-watered, now the leaves are curling and we, the Democrats, have to administer Miracle-Gro, Bonsai pruning, and plant resuscitation in order to keep the ficus from perishing.
The economy is a chick in a bikini, and the Republicans have kept her in the sun too long and now she's got a terrible sunburn. It's up to the Democrats to keep her indoors and apply aloe vera to her blistered epidermis until she is a healthy, pale pallor again.
The economy is an Eames era antique oak coffee table that the Republicans bought from a local boutique. Instead of treating the coffee table with teak oil and using coasters, the Republicans have been setting their scotch on-the-rocks directly on the table leaving horrible water stains. It's up to us, the Democrats, to sand out those stains and re-treat the wood; restoring it to its original splendor.
The economy is a muddy ditch. The Republicans got drunk on Gentleman Jack and drove a 1972 Ford Pinto into the ditch, ruining the natural filth that is the ditch. It's up to the Democrats to pull the car out of the ditch with an awesome tow truck that's got hydraulics, roll bars, and flame decals. Once the 1972 Ford Pinto is out of the ditch, Americans can bath nude in the muddy ditch while smoking illegal cannabis. Kind, duuude!

Alrighty. That's all I've got for now. The above metaphors should come in handy for you folks the next time you find yourself in a political discussion about the economy. Keep in mind, the political parties are interchangeable within the metaphors--so go buck wild and blow minds!

Next time, I will discuss the quandering question: Who, if not the taxpayers, will pay for Nancy Pelosi's private jets, tailored pantsuits, and ever-obvious plastic surgery now that she is no longer Speaker of the House?

Stay tuned...

Being on the Bottom

2010-10-22T17:18:00.000-07:00

Many of you who know me know I reside in the awesome Californication that is the South Bay. The South Bay is a beautiful little chunk of land that stretches from Santa Monica to San Pedro Bay. Geographically, this area is gorgeous--just what you imagine when you think of California: beaches, palm trees, sunshine, and happy people (mostly). A lot of people really love it here—I’m one of them. However, because of the many people living here, the population is pretty dense. And, like most densely populated areas, the South Bay is home to many apartment dwellers. I’m one of them, and this is my story:

Anywhoo, the apartment I live in is behind the landlord's house. (It's kind of like servants quarters, except I don't do anything for my landlord except pay her exorbitant rent. She, in return, puts a roof over our head. I guess you could call it a win-win.) The apartment we live in contains two residences, ours which is the ground-level unit, and our neighbors in the upstairs unit. So, we don't share common walls, but we do share common ceilings and it is these common ceilings that are driving me uncommonly crazy.

[Now, I'm going to get into too-much-information territory, but not graphic--so if you aren't in to reading about strangers’ strange strangenesses, or people’s gross ickiness, then you should probably stop reading now. Head on over to Nick Jr., I hear they have some wonderful online games, at least that's what Carter tells me.]

Okay, back to the common ceilings. Our neighbors above us moved in about five months ago, and for the first few weeks they were living above us I didn't have any complaints. But after that something awful started happening. The ceiling above my bedroom is the ceiling common with the couple upstairs. And, let's just say the couple upstairs has a very noisy bed. Yes, I know, you're all running away from the computer right now to throw up in some type of waste receptacle. Go ahead, I'll wait for you. Okay, done? Pansies.

I'll stop right there with the innuendos and just cut to it: MY UPSTAIRS NEIGHBORS HAVE SEX LIKE A MILLION TIMES A DAY! Seriously, a million. Okay, they don't really go at it that much, but I swear it's like three times a day I hear their shag wagon rattling away. It's so gross. They freak in the early morning (like four freaking a.m.!), then in the afternoon, and sometimes in the evening. They might do it more than this, but those are the times I have been unfortunate enough to be in my room sleeping, or on the computer, or something and hear their bed-creaking passion. In fact, as I type this, I think I hear the muted rhythm of Olivia Newton John coming from upstairs [let’s get physical, physical...]. Blech!

Here’s my conundrum: Neighbors who have a barking dog can be confronted. Neighbors that play their music too loud can be confronted. Neighbors that play Rock Band at two in the morning…well, you can call the cops on them. Neighbors that get it on A LOT in a noisy, noisy fashion--how do you confront that? It's not as if I can go up there with a wrench, knock on the door and say, "Hey there neighborin-o! I couldn't help but notice you have a bed with some loose joints. Mind if I tighten up those lug nuts for yah?" No. I can't do that. And legally, I can’t send up a plate of cookies laced with sexually repressing antidepressants. I guess there’s some law about poisoning your neighbors or something stupid like that.

So, what am I, as a bottom dwelling apartment resident with unsavory neighbors to do? I’ll tell what I’ll do: I’ll write a blog about it and share my suffering with the world. That's what I’ll do.

Liar, Liar, Parent on Fire

2010-10-04T21:43:00.003-07:00

I’ve been thinking a lot about lying the past few days. I haven’t been planning and scheming about who I’m going to lie to, and what I’m going to lie about—I’ve been pondering lying in general, and how it’s sometimes a necessary evil when it comes to being a parent. At least it is for me.

For example, the other day I took Carter for an ice cream cone at McDonald’s. Now, I dread going in to McDonald’s for so many reasons, most of which stem from a short employment stint when I was 15-years-old (but that’s a whole other story). The sounds, the smells, the mauve and yellow décor at McDonald’s, it all causes my stomach to curdle a wee bit upon entry. McDonald’s represents so much that is wrong in the world: grease, gluttony, binge-marketing, cheap plastic toys, senior menus. If Dante had lived in the 21st Century, I’m sure he would have cast Ronald McDonald, Grimmace and The Hamburglar as his assailants in the Inferno. There’s evil in them there costumes.

So, instead of going in to McDonald’s, I went through the drive-through. As we pulled up to order, Carter told me that he wanted to go in to the play place. Hoping to avoid confrontation, I kept it sweet and simple by saying, “Carter, we’re not going in today.” Of course, when you’re dealing with a toddler, nothing is ever simple. Carter responded in a higher, more brain-jabbing pitch, “I wanna play in McDonald’s!” I again answered him simply by saying weren’t going in. Carter, being the rationalist that he is, wasn’t going to accept this for an answer, he needed a reason—a reason that would soothe his troubled toddler soul. So, I lied and told him, “We can’t go in to the play place because it’s closed.”

“Why is it closed?” he asked.
“Um, it’s uh, closed because, because, uh…because a kid peed in there and they have to clean it up. See that sign on the window,” I said pointing to a large poster of an egg McMuffin, “It says, “Play Place Closed for Cleaning.””

Well, that seemed to be a sufficient answer. Of course the play place was closed. The McDonald’s crew was in there sopping up puddles of urine. No tot in their right mind wants to go exploring plastic, urine-soaked catacombs—that’s no fun. Yep, kids are smart creatures. Carter accepted the clean-up answer and even repeated to himself a couple of times, “Somebody peed in the play place.” He’s so freaking adorable!

Anyway, the fact is, I lied to Carter to avoid a confrontation and possible meltdown. Does that make me a bad person? There are other things that could qualify me as bad person, like the years between ages 13-24, but I don’t think my white lies are one of them. I could be way off on this, but I think it’s pretty much standard to lie to your kids. Here are a few more examples of how I have deceived Carter:

• I tell him there are “candy bugs” in his teeth to get him to brush them.
• I’ve told him as soon as it’s dark outside; cartoons on the TV go to sleep.
• When Anthony is away for a few days on business, and Carter asks when he’s coming home, I just say, “In a few hours.”
• I told him that the mouse we saw skittering about at the farmer’s market the other day was Jerry from Tom & Jerry.

I know! I should totally be ashamed, shouldn’t I? I am bringing this child up in a web of filthy, stinking lies! I don’t know how I look myself in the mirror sometimes (not necessarily because of the lies, but because of the crow’s feet around my eyes; I should really start looking in to Botox).

You’re probably wondering, what about Cody and Colton? Does she lie to them too? Well, somewhere between the time the boys were tots, to their current cynical teen years, I started being truthful with them. Maybe too truthful. Without going in to hysterical detail, we’ll just say they know a hell of a lot more about the world than I knew at their age. So, I’m honest with them now about most things, but I lied to them too when they were little. To this day, they probably still think that when they turned two, their bottles took a magical ride on the “Baba Train”, never to return again. And those toys, the toys they wouldn’t put away, they were taken by the ever-notorious, yet oh-so-elusive “Snitcher Snatcher”. It’s no wonder they don’t believe me when I tell them I use to be cool.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I ask you: Is it really so bad to disperse white lies to your children? I swear I only lie to them when it’s to my benefit—uh, I mean their benefit. Were your parents 100% honest with you when you were a wee one? I’m betting if they were totally truthful, they avoided all manner of “birds and bees” subjects until you were 21 years old, am I right? Don’t lie to me.

Speaking of honesty, I’ll be honest with you; I don’t feel bad about telling these things to my kids. In fact, I think it would be pretty lame to have a parent that was honest all of the time. How boring and unimaginative. Hey, that’s it! If I’m ever confronted by the boys about these fibs, I will just tell them, “I wasn’t being dishonest—I was being imaginative.”

Now, if I could only imagine my way out of the why the laundry, after three days, still hasn’t been folded…

The Island: Me

2010-09-17T20:31:00.000-07:00

Recently I've become aware of the fact that I am somewhat of a social recluse. It's funny because I don't remember when I became this way, or what exactly started my transformation from public participant to a self-made semi-shut in. I suspect maybe it has to do a lot with a change in lifestyle when I got married. A change for the better in so many ways, yet, a change that took me away from familiar faces and comfortable friends. People that have known me and been there for me for years are now miles and miles away. Of course, I keep a little in touch through the phone and that necessary social evil that is Facebook, but it's not the same as sitting down across a table from someone.

I've found myself pretty lonely lately. Not in a depressing, head in the oven, kind of lonely. More of a whistful, nostalgic lonely. I feel like the more I try to inject myself into the "social scene" around here, the more I want to just hold on to the memories of the people I use to spend time with.

Today I took Carter to the park. A bunch of the Baby-Mammas from church take their kids on Fridays, and I feel like it's an opportunity for me to work on my rusty social skills while getting Carter out of the house. I admit, I do like some of the Mammas. I don't really know any of them very well, which I guess is pretty pathetic after living here for over 6 years. But, anytime I'm with a group of them, I find myself bored to death and just wishing I were somewhere else. I don't know what it is about them, I guess they're just so positive, whole, and together. I like my people deep, damaged, and on the verge of insanity--like me. I know being around these people is supposed to be healthy, but when I hear them ramble on about the cute things their kids say, how their food storage is coming along, and church activities I can't help but feel nauseous. What is wrong with me? These people are genuinely nice people, but I just don't bond with them at all. Worse of all, I feel they have all bonded somehow and I'm the odd woman out. It makes me sad to not have many friends, but at the same time I don't find many of the people around me lately very interesting at all.

I need deep conversation. I want to talk to people about politics, philosophy, art, and life in all it's gritty details. I want to be able swear here and there without feeling like I'm going to melt off ears. I want to have people over and not worry that the walls of my apartment aren't plastered in stupid decals that say "Family" "Laugh" "Love" and that kind of vinyl manufactured affection.

I guess I should just go hang out at AA meetings. Those people are interesting.

Ameriphobia: The New Face of Prejudice

2010-09-02T20:14:00.000-07:00

Do you cringe at baseball games when the “Star Spangled Banner” is sung? Are you afraid of small government and individual freedom? Does the sight of US Presidents on your currency cause your hands to become clammy? Do Tea Parties give you facial ticks? If you answered “yes” to any of the above questions, you could be an Ameriphobic.

Ameriphobia is generally defined as: An irrational fear or hostility of America, Americans, and the individual freedom America provides her citizens. Negative feelings or attitudes towards patriotic behavior, the United States Constitution, and American citizens, can lead to Ameriphobic behavior. Ameriphobia is the root of the discrimination experienced by America, as a country, and her millions of proud American citizens. Ameriphobia manifests itself in different forms, for example: jokes about Americans, political attacks, media misrepresentation, organic t-shirts with sarcastic phrases, judgmental bumper stickers, NPR, and exclusion at Sunday afternoon drum circles are just to name a few.

There are many factors that can cause a person to be Ameriphobic. Research has shown that prejudice against Americans and patriotism can be linked to several factors:

 Resentment towards the superiority of The United States of America
 Having strong political beliefs or ideologies that discriminate against Americans
 Having little or no contact with proud Americans
 Attending public schools or public universities
 Belonging to a liberal/progressive political party
 Having been raised by communists, socialists, fascists, or theocratic dictators
 Living on the East Coast, or California

There are a variety of ways Americans experience Ameriphobia, including: name-calling, dirty looks, assaults by shrill Code Pink members, discrimination at local co-op java shops, and airplane attacks on tall buildings. All forms of Ameriphobia are destructive, not just for people living openly as proud Americans, but for the free world as a whole.

Living in an Ameriphobic environment forces many proud American (PA) people to conceal their patriotism, for fear of the negative reactions and consequences of coming out. For people who have been brought up to believe that American exceptionalism is wrong, the realization that they might be a PA can cause feelings of independence and liberty, leading to pride in one’s country. The dilemma of whether to ‘come out’ as a PA or not can cause a great deal of personal distress.

Jason, a resident of Santa Monica, CA, shares his coming out experience:

I remember the first time I displayed my patriotism in public. It was the 4th of July and I decided to put an American flag up in my yard. Sadly, the flag waved on its pole for about a day before it was stolen. Soon after that, I started receiving disturbing calls from people telling me to, “Go back to Texas!” I assume they were referring to Texas’ reputation for being PA-friendly. Word spread quickly about me being a PA. I got anti-PA pamphlets in the mail from Moveon.org and ACORN. It even got so bad that KCRW revoked my membership without any reason. That really hurt because I love “Morning Becomes Eclectic”, and the no nonsense reporting of “All Things Considered.”

Unfortunately, John is just one of the many people who have been led to believe they should feel guilty for being American. Sarah, a student at NYU said,

“I was thinking of getting a “Join or Die” tattoo on my wrist, but I was afraid of what some of my school instructors would think—so I got it on my shoulder where nobody but my close friends would ever see it. Now that I’ve come out as a PA, I wish I had put the tat on my wrist in the first place so everyone could see I was American and proud!” So sad.

So how, as a society, do we combat Ameriphobia? Below are a few ideas:

 Ameriphobes should begin by practicing tolerance. Just because you’re ashamed to be an American doesn’t mean others have to be.
 If you know someone who is a PA, talk to them openly about their proud American lifestyle and ask questions. It may be uncomfortable at first, but the more an Ameriphobe learns about a PA, the more likely he/she will get to know them for who they are—not for the negative stereotypes that have been created about them.
 Education. Many people are Ameriphobes just because they are misinformed. Did you know some people think that you can become a PA just by crossing the U.S. border? The fact is, for most people, the only way to become PA-positive is through the U.S. citizenship process*.
 Read about the American founders and what they wanted to achieve by establishing the United States of America. Study up on the Civil War, Revolutionary War, and WWII. Learn what it is that makes millions of people so proud to be American, they are willing to risk their lives. Talk to an immigrant who went through the citizenship process. All of these things will give you perspective as to why many people choose to be PAs instead of Ameriphobes.
 Play a game of baseball. Eat an apple pie. Start a small business. Buy a gun. Speak freely. Vote in an election. Practice the religion of your choice. These are some of the many things PAs enjoy—and if you try, you might find out you do too.

Ameriphobia can be conquered. If you have an open mind, are willing to educate yourself and explore the world of patriotism, who knows—maybe one day you may even come out as a PA. After all, it is a free country.

*Once given citizenship, many have been known to quickly contract patriotism and become a PA.

This One's for the Pelicans

2010-06-16T10:53:00.000-07:00

My sister and I often obsess about current events. Right now, not unlike many people, our brains have been hyper-focused on the oil spill in the Gulf. If you don't know what I'm referring to, please crawl back in to the catacombs from whence you came. Seriously, I'm not even going to hyperlink to a news source for you.

Anyway, yesterday on the news they flashed some footage of a bunch of oil covered pelicans that had been rounded up I'm assuming to be cleaned. They were pelicans, but they were mud brown and looked terribly sad. I know it sounds funny to refer to a pelican as looking sad because on a pelican's best day it usually only manages to look slightly amused, but nevertheless, these pelicans looked sad. I imagine that it must suck to have your feathers weighed down with heavy, toxic sludge. I would be sad too...

No, wait. I wouldn't be sad--I would be freaking pissed off! I would be so pissed off that I would be jumping up and down, squawking and flapping my sludge covered pelican wings. I would probably also conspire with my fellow crude covered cohorts, and eventually formulate a plan to crash all the clean-up sites and have a Dawn drenched clean-up orgy.

But that's just me. And I'm not a pelican (at least last time I checked).

Anyway, I'm thinking of taking up donations so my sister and I can fly to Louisiana, eat some shrimp, drink mint juleps, and clean those pelicans that are too sad to be pissed. You can donate to me via PayPal.

I'll let you know if I make it there before Obama and BP have gotten the spill under control. (Harharharharharhar!)

Soccer on This

2010-06-12T12:53:00.000-07:00

So, the World Cup is on right now in the other room. Yeah, I think it's really cool that South Africa was able to get the Cup there, and football is pretty hip...I'm just really not that big in to sports which is why I'm sitting here in the other room blipping a blog.

Question: What's with the horn blowing at soccer games? It sounds like what I imagine Jericho sounded like right before the walls went down. Here's the thing, if I were at the game, I would so totally want one of those horns. But, since I'm at home, the sound is just flipping annoying. I guess it's sort of like secondhand smoke; I would rather smoke a cigarette myself than sit next to someone and inhale their secondhand smoke. I'm not a smoker, so that tells you how much I hate secondhand smoke. Well, okay, that's not totally true. I like catching whiffs of secondhand smoke when I walk past someone on the street because it gives me pleasant memories of my misspent youth. I also like smelling it faintly in Vegas casinos. Other than that, I hate it.

Anyway, in addition to secondhand smoke, I'm not fond of secondhand horn blowing.

That is all. Over and out. Go USA!

Saturday's Warrior? (Circa--2009, sometime)

2010-06-03T21:25:00.000-07:00

It's one of those mornings. You know, one of those mornings where one of your 11-year-old sons is hassling you for the back-allowance you owe him from last week, the other one is trying to fib his way out of a been-caught-cussing incident, and the baby just came home with a fever and a runny nose after an all-nighter at Disneyland. You know, we all go through these days sometimes, right?

To make matters so much better, DH is conveniently needed at work until late tonight. The phrase "it's busy season" is a get out of jail free card for the guy. I mean, who wouldn't want to head to the quiet sanctity of an office with a view right now? And did I mention he has all the Mountain Dew he can drink there? I would call him a lucky bastard, but his parents were happily married when they conceived him.

So, being the glutton for punishment that I am, I also decided to tell the boys that the Xbox needs to go off for the afternoon so they can go outside and play for a few hours. You would have sworn I had just forcibly converted them to Judaism, sent them back in a time machine to 1944, and given them a one way train ticket to Buchenwald. Can we say meltdown city? Sometimes it worries me how emotional kids can get over a white box with a small green button on it.

I guess I just don't understand video games. Yes, I spent a little time on the Nintendo when it first came out, but mostly my video game experience has been limited to me sitting on the couch watching my older brothers play Zelda or Kid Icarus. There were only two game controllers, and I had three older brothers so, you do the math. It was seldom that I played video games. Personally, I don't feel like I'm missing out on anything. I mean, what value is there in sitting in front of a screen pushing little buttons for hours and hours on end? [...she typed on to her computer screen.]

I don't know how, but sometime between the boys wailing about their forcible outdoor time and putting the hung-over baby down for a nap--it got quiet. Too quiet.

Ah, shi*. I shouldn't have typed that. The baby just woke up and the boys came in from outside.

Next time I'll just keep my big blog shut.

Grumblings (Circa 2009)

2010-06-03T21:23:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I don't feel like making dinner. Tonight is one of those nights I don't feel like making dinner. Maybe one of the reasons I don't feel like it is because I'm not hungry--I just ate a whole bowl of mini frosted wheat squares. Well, almost all of the bowl. Some of the little wheats and milk spilled onto the couch and on my jeans when Carter decided he wanted to mosh with my evening snack. Or, maybe he was just bitter that I had a whole bowl of cereal and milk to myself while he was left to forrage for leftover veggie chips that he threw off of his high chair earlier this morning. I don't blame him if he's bitter, I would be too if my mother cared more about what Bill O'Reilly's "Word of the Day" was than my nutritional needs.

Snap, Crackle...Not.

2010-06-03T21:08:00.000-07:00

Some evenings I get motivated and bake treats for the kids--all housewifey and shi*. Well, tonight I decided would be one of those nights. Since it was later in the evening, I decided I would make something simple--your ordinary, everyday, all-around-loved cereal snack, rice krispy treats.

While I was gathering up my ingredients, Colton came in the kitchen and told me he wanted to make brownies. When I told him what I was making instead he replied, "Rice crispy treats suck!"

What. The. Eff?

Was I hearing correctly? A child that didn't enjoy the sticky sweet seduction of a square made from just three simple ingredients? My mind reeled, and I got a little dizzy. I somehow managed to walk out of the kitchen without throwing the large blue box of ricey goodness at my child's sweet, 13-year-old noggin. Lucky for him, because those boxes have sharp corners!

After I gave myself a minute or two to settle down, and I was thinking rationally again, I realized Colton's reply was a good thing. Follow me here...all kids love rice crispy treats, right? And Colton seems to think rice crispy treats "suck". Being the intelligent mother I am, I realize what this means. It means that Colton officially isn't a kid. He's an adult and it happened so fast I wasn't aware of it. Well sir, I am aware now.

So, after I type this up I'm going to go in to Colton's room to help him pack his stuff. Hopefully tomorrow he can find a place to live, get a job, and once he's all settled in to his new life--he can even make his own brownies!

Rambling

2009-11-10T09:24:00.000-08:00

I got off on the wrong foot a few years ago
Never got back on the right one
(whichever that was)

Now limping along
comes natural to me

I'm not the kind of girl
that looks pretty when she cries
I do it anyway
Sometimes it feels good
to feel bad inside

I inflate myself in my head
(I'm so great)
But then I wonder how you see me...
Do you even see me?

I know, you don't see me
I have no reflection in your eyes

I think I left a piece of my soul
a few years ago
Under some sage, in the shade
out of the way of the burning sun
I wonder if it's still there?

Walk a Mile in My Lambskin

2009-11-09T13:00:00.000-08:00

This morning after I dropped the boys off to school, I decided to take Carter to the park to shake some of his lead out. Ha! Yeah, right. That kid has no lead in him whatsoever. He pretty much wakes up going warp speed.

Anywhoo, while at the park I spied something in the sand, a little ways away by the swings. It was a blue wrapper. From where I was standing, I couldn't read the wrapper, but my instincts told me it was something icky. Usually when I spy trash littering the park, I try to make sure to pick it up--you know, cause' I'm community-minded like that. To be honest with you, I'm not really that community-minded, I just don't want my kid playing at a dirty park--so I do my part for my kid. Well, as I get closer my icky instincts were confirmed. Laying like a thin, square serpent in wait was an opened Lifestyles® condom wrapper.

Now, I know unsavory things happen at parks after dark--that was how Carter was conceived. Just kidding! Seriously though, I'm not an idiot. Me knows what darkness lies in the hearts of awkward, hormonally charged teenagers. Believe it or not, I was once one myself, but that is a blog that will forever remain unwritten. I digress. Back to the wrapper.

Obviously, I wasn't about to pick up that wrapper, I mean who knows how much H1N1 was crawling on that thing--not to mention STDs and scabies! So, I discreetly, with my tennis-shoe-covered foot, covered the condom wrapper with sand. I know! It will probably unearth itself at some later time scarring some child forever, but at least for the time we were at the park it was out of sight.

Anyway, if there are any teens, creepy doped-out prostitutes, or kinky married couples out there reading this (OMG--I hope more than anything that I'm attracting that type of reader!), all I ask is this: Please, when you are choosing a public park as your preferred place of fornication, do as any civic-minded individual would, and leave no trace. That means no condom wrappers, used condoms, needles, burnt spoons, tube socks, tighty whiteys, Pantera t-shirts, cans of whipped cream, magic markers, stretch-arm-strong dolls, tattered copies of Dante's Inferno, Mexican ponchos, jumper cables, half-eaten McRib sandwiches, empty cans of cat food, plastic Halloween masks...you understand, right? My point in all this is, don't leave anything at the park you wouldn't want your little brother or sister, baby son or daughter, picking up and sticking in their mouth.

But, kudos for using protection!

Love,
Charise

Jotting Blogs All Up In Yo' Face, etc.

2009-11-06T14:38:00.000-08:00

Well. I've got about 10 minutes before I have to wake up The Carter and pick up The Boys from school. I figured I would pound something out on the ol' interweb, for ol' tymes sake.

So what has been up in the life of me? A lot, and not much. Know what I'm saying? Here are a few things that have developed:

Carter had a fetish for breaking eggs all over for the house for a while. I figured out how to remedy the situation, and maybe I'll post that in another blog. Can't spend all my writing material on one short, lame post, now can I?
Cody had developed a passion for making small little camping stoves out of various types of cans. As I type, there is a large can of Foster's and Heineken sitting in my fridge. Just chilling, all cold and tasty. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Damn my dry life!
Colton has become passionate about WWII, air soft guns, and politics. What a combination, right?
I have not become obsessed with anything, except I have developed a nasty habit of checking Facebook several times a day. It's like an involuntary tick or something, I don't want to do it, but it just happens. I'm working on it.
We went on a cruise to Mexico. It was super swell. When they tell you don't drink the water, folks, that includes the ice as well!

Okay, five more minutes left. I should probably use the bathroom before I leave as I have a bad habit of drinking a lot of water right before I go somewhere that doesn't have restrooms. This is not a good thing when you have a two-year-old that takes close to 10 minutes just to get out of his car seat. I'm sure my neighbors have seen me many a day doing the pee-pee dance besides the Jeep while coaxing Carter to put down the coins in the car's coin tray. Oh yeah, Carter has also developed an obsession with coins. He calls them all "pennies".

Well, I'm off to the ladies room, then off to wake Carter up, then off to pick up the boys.

Love,

Charise

Mic Check

2009-10-21T12:59:00.001-07:00

Is this thing still on?

Recession Tip for Today

2009-04-01T14:45:00.000-07:00

As many of you who watch cable news channels know, we are in a recession. How bad of a recession we are in varies depending on who you talk to. On a recent trip to Pasadena's Old Town, I was talking to my 11-year old about how we were in a recession and needed to be a little more conservative with our money. Colton, looking around at the bustling shoppers, lunchers, and Pinkberry-ers, paused, then exclaimed, "Yeah, the best recession ever!" On a personal level, I agree with him. Our family isn't suffering. We're cutting back, but that doesn't really hurt. I just get a dull ache somewhere in my soul (I can't really pinpoint where) when I walk through Banana Republic and come out empty handed. Don't worry, I'll get through it.

Seriously though, I know many people are really having a difficult time with job losses, pension losses, and election losses, so I don't mean to make light of true hardship. This is why I am offering up today's recession tip. And, as an added bonus, this is a Motherhussy Tried & Tested Recession Tip©.

Have you ever been to Target? Yes? Great! Then you know how hard it is to go in there with a list and only come out with what was on your list. You know, you go in for toilet paper, bleach, Children's Tylenol, and Market Pantry fruit snacks and you come out with:

toilet paper
bleach
Children's Tylenol
Market Pantry fruit snacks
silver hoop earrings
a really cute set of stationary made on recycle paper
Archer Farms pasta kit
melamine plates with monsters on them
AAA batteries
Baby Wordsworth DVD
new pillowcases
three Mossimo tank tops
silver mesh pencil cup
two packs of pink Marshmallow Peeps
squeezable Mayonnaise
black fishnet tights...

Okay, your list might not look exactly like this--but don't lie your face off, you know what I'm talking about. When it comes to Target you're like a porn addict at Adultcon. You can't control yourself. You go in with money and feeling pretty good about yourself, and you come out sweaty, broke and feeling like you need a shower. Not that I would know.

Anyway, I digress. To solve this consumer conundrum, follow these simple steps:

1. Write your list

2. 20 minutes before you head out to Target, drink 1 liter of water, or your beverage of choice*.

3. Find a barefoot child between the ages of 14 months and 3 years. This part was easy for me because I have my own child of preferable age. If you are without child, borrow one. Make sure you get permission from the parent(s) first before borrowing said barefoot child, as getting arrested for kidnapping on your way to Target would defeat the whole purpose of today's recession tip. Now I know you're wondering, why must the child be barefoot? Wait for it...wait for it. It will all make sense.

4. Head to Target with list, full bladder, and barefoot child.

Now, pay close attention, because here is where it all comes together...

By the time you pull in to the Target, your bladder should feel uncomfortably full, but not quite unbearable. Put the barefoot child in the cart, don't forget to strap him/her in--a little cracked noggin is not part of this equation. Start your shopping.

About five minutes into your shopping trip, you should feel the tingly sensation of your bladder saying, "Hey there, you might want to stop in the restroom before you hit the lawn furniture." Ignore your bladder and continue shopping.

About 10 minutes into your shopping, your bladder will begin feeling a little like it's at the top of your throat and it will be shouting, "Hey stupid, get your ass away from the soy candles and into the restroom!" Ignore your whiny bladder and continue shopping.

Okay, now you're 15 minutes into your shopping and your bladder is so full you feel that if you blink too hard you will be the reason for the "Clean up on Aisle P!" announcement on the overhead speaker. Your bladder is screaming in tongues now, and you really are thinking this was a stupid idea so you decide to listen to your bladder and head for the restroom.

As you're heading for the restroom, you start to realize that you have to take the small child in with you. Well now, you can't take the cart in because there's that sign on the door, you know, the one that says, "No Merchandise Allowed in Restrooms." That one. So what are you to do? Take the child in with you? Well, this would be fine except the child is shoeless. Since you're a decent, God-fearing, germ-resenting individual, you can't possibly take a child into a public restroom without shoes. So there you are, full bladder, full cart, and shoeless child. What to do? I'll tell you what to do, make like Flo Jo to the check out, grit your teeth, and get the hell out of there!

Once you've checked out, got you, your purchases, and the barefoot child back into the car, head home and reward your soldier strong bladder with a much needed release. While you're seated, look over your receipt. Not too shabby, eh? See, I told you my method worked. You purchased what is on your list, and you may have even gotten out of Target so fast you forgot to buy some things. You know what they say, a purchase forgotten is a dollar found--or something like that. What? One of the items you forgot to buy was toilet paper and you were out before you left? Well, that's where the receipt comes in handy, now doesn't it?

See, I've got this recession thing all figured out.

Love,

MH-Dos

*If your beverage of choice is Vodka, please skip the rest of the steps and head straight to the E.R. to get your stomach pumped.

Sorry, What Did You Just Say?

2009-03-27T19:42:00.000-07:00

Gym Tip for Today

2009-03-23T13:05:00.001-07:00

When heading to the gym, please make sure you brush your chompers. It is one thing to smell of body odor while you are pumping iron or running intervals on the tread mill--I mean, it would be weird if you didn't sweat at the gym. But, if the bowl of mothballs and hot steaming mug of urine you had for breakfast can be smelled by the person running next to you on the treadmill, you should be ashamed of yourself. How do you think that person feels when they take a deep breath of what they expect to be fresh air, and instead of fresh air they inhale the humid stench of your rotting gums? I'll tell you how they feel--violated! They feel as if their lungs had been raped by a group of full-time, community college students just home from their spring break in Tijuana! That's how their lungs feel! Dirty, so very dirty...

*cough*

So, anyway, the moral of this Gym Tip is:

Brush your pearly whites before heading to the gym, lest you want your fellow gym-goers to spew forth vomit in the nearest trash receptacle.

Sincerely,

MH-Dos

Seriously?

2009-03-18T20:52:00.000-07:00

While strolling about the interweb this evening I came across something, well, something odd to say the least. In an article titled YouTube 'spammed by US Congressmen', the author tells of the popular YouTube website being bombarded by videos from politicians peddling their diverse messages. Now normally, this article would have bored me pretty quickly--I mean, politicians seeking online publicity...no! However, this part of the article caught my eye:

In a minute-long video, Mrs Pelosi showed footage of her life behind the scenes in the Capitol Building through the eyes of two pet cats.
Making matters more bizarre, the minute-long film was captured to the strains of Rick Astley’s disco hit, Never Going To Give You Up.

Whaaaaaaaaaaa? Nancy Pelosi is hot for cats and Rick Astley? Stop the muthafu*kin' presses folks! Who knew that the Rubbermaid-faced, school guidance counselor-toned Speaker of the House whore was hip on the retro music scene? I for one did not know that. And she is in tune with cats as well...holy crap.

So, you ask, now that I've found out this unique information about Mrs. Speaker, do I feel a kinship to her Fakenesty? Of course not. I really only like cats from far away, and I only enjoy Rick Astley when he showcases in an "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia" episode. Even so, I am very excited to share the complete and utter idiocracy that is,

"Speaker Pelosi's Capitol Cat Cam"...

An Exchange

2009-03-10T21:44:00.000-07:00

DH: Ten people got laid off at work today.

Me: Oh, dude. That sucks!

DH: I did get to have lunch at 555, though.

Me: Aww, dude. That rocks!

Me: Carter broke two bowls today and dumped an entire bag of Doritos on the floor.

DH: I'm sorry honey.

Me: I didn't have to clean up lumpy milk vomit, though! [clicks heels together with glee]

DH: The glass is always half full, isn't it?

Me: Yes, except for the one Carter broke yesterday. It was empty.

FIN.

Me So Bad

2009-03-06T09:43:00.000-08:00

Your morality is 0% in line with that of the bible.

Damn you heathen! Your book learnin' has done warped your mind. You shall not be invited next time I sacrifice a goat.

Do You Have Biblical Morals?
Take More Quizzes

It's Friday Fun Day kids! In order to start my day off with a bang, I took an interweb quiz on how Biblically moral I am--and guess what? My morals are 0% in line with the Biz-ible.

Are you feeling spriritually lucky this blessed morning? If so, take the quiz and see if you should be smitten by the lightning rod of the Lord, or patted on the head by the gentle hand of God.

Nothing in Particular

2009-03-03T20:27:00.000-08:00

Just trying to break back into the world of internet displayed thought. I haven't written much of anything lately, and I know that the longer I keep away from writing, the harder it will be to get back into it. I don't think I'll ever not have the desire to write, but I really am not the greatest when it comes to follow-through.

My writing at this point in time reminds me of a bike I own. This bike, is sweet. It is so, so sweet. It's a vintage Schwinn beach cruiser. Candy apple red, with nice little white wall tires. Oh, a bike like this begs to be rode. It needs it. Sadly, instead of riding my little red bike, I neglected it. For some time my little beach cruiser sat on the back porch, unprotected while the ocean breeze had its way it. After the humidified humiliation, the chrome on my beach cruiser was covered in a rash of rust, and the candy apple red had been dulled down to more of a brick outhouse red. I felt guilty every time I looked at it. Luckily, my little sister volunteered to adopt my little red beach cruiser for a while. She'll take better care of it than I did, and now it won't be in the back crying "Ride me!"

So, my writing has rusted like the little red bike. Whenever I think about all the things I could be writing, I get a tinge of guilt. It's as if I've set my creativity out to rust among all the worthless things I have been doing with my time. Well, to be fair the things I have been doing instead of writing aren't worthless for the most part. Feeding children, breaking up brawls, folding mountains of laundry--it's not worthless, but it's not creative in the least. But my writing, unlike the bike, cannot be pawned off on another to be lovingly restored. I own it. I am responsible for it forever, and if I don't get the rust off of these fingers and this brain--it's my own damn fault.

A Wipe of Gratitude

2009-02-19T23:16:00.000-08:00

Next to my sink is a bread box. On top of the bread box are a variety of things: a half-eaten bag of bagels, a lone granola bar, a loaf of bread that is probably sporting some mold, and a package of white paper napkins. I really don't use napkins all that much, so they've been sitting there a while without being given much attention--because seriously, who pays much attention to lounging paper products anyway? Well, while I was doing the dishes the other day, I happened to glance at the package of napkins. In bold, red lettering the plastic package screamed to me, BRIGHT NEW PRINTS! What? I wondered why I hadn't noticed this about my napkins before. BRIGHT NEW PRINTS on my napkins! How exciting! I could hardly contain myself with this new discovery.

Okay, you got the sarcasm. Anyway, after the initial napkin excitement wore off, my mind started wandering. I wondered, are there really people in the world that get jollies when their Brawny® comes embossed with a new, funkier diamond pattern? Are there people sitting at home, spreading out a napkin on their lap and wishing, "Gee, I really would like to see this napkin in a Warhol print." Have I passed a stranger on the street, not knowing that I was passing by an avid collector of disposable paper napkins? When was the last time you looked at a napkin and thought that it could use a little punch of color?

I guess after pondering these important questions for a little bit, I resolved to be more attentive to the aesthetics of the disposable paper products I am using. Because, I'm sure somewhere out there is a napkin designer that would like a little appreciation for the BRIGHT NEW PRINTS! they so lovingly created for Brawny®. Well Mr./Ms. napkin designer, if you're out there and reading this blog, I appreciate you, and I will think of you the next time I'm wiping smeared mustard off of my cake hole with one of your paper works of art.

Thank you napkin designer.

Love,

MHII

Scent of a Femi-man

2009-02-12T19:26:00.000-08:00

This morning as I was trying to arouse myself from a cold-medicine induced haze, Anthony came in and pimpingly proclaimed, "Watch out ladies, I'm going old school and wearing the Eternity."

Although hazy, I knew well enough that I had never bought any Eternity for Anthony, and other than a buzz cut every few weeks he sure as hell doesn't buy grooming products for himself, so I asked him what Eternity he was speaking so highly of.

"The bottle in the medicine cabinet, there's not much left--" he replied.

"Come here honey, let me smell how sexy you're going to be for the ladies," I beckoned.

Sure enough on first whiff, "top notes of grapefruit, verbena and fig" greeted my nose. Yep, that was Eternity Summer...for women. Way to get in touch with your feminine side, babe.

So to all my husband's male co-workers, you've been forewarned: hubby is going old school--old school transvestite that is! Try and keep your hands off of him, I dare you.

Enter Das Dos

2009-01-26T12:55:00.000-08:00

See how I mixed three languages into this post title? English, German, and Latino?

Anywhoo, Welcome to "Motherhussy Dos." My old blog, otherwise known as "Motherhussy," was neglected, anemic, and I think it may have been hiding an eating disorder. So, what do you do with something when it becomes too much of a hassle to take care of? Ignore it and hope that it gets the hint, right? And, since somewhere along the line I also lost administrative rights to The Original Motherhussy Blog, it's just become a pain and the last thing I need is more pain in my life. I need more pain relievers, which is why I created *MH-Dos. I'm certain that MH-Dos will be soothing to me, and if it numbs just one more person in the process--I will have done my job.

Love,

Motherhussy

*MH-Dos has not been FDA approved. Take at your own risk.