The Squirrels In Our Family Tree

When I was a little girl, my grandmother wrote a book about the whack jobs in my family. The title of the book was 'The Squirrels In Our Family Tree'. Keeping up with this rich history, I went on to marry a man whose last name literally translates into "nut tree".

In the usual chaos that composes my morning, my very favorite story about the horrid little man that was my Great Grandfather made it's way into the forefront of my mind. Moe was little, drunk and mean. He was a scrappy, spiteful man with a wicked back hand who was as bitter as the day is long.

Moe and his wife, Dotty, were raising my Grandmother in St. Louis, back in the days when you could send your kid down the street with a bucket and she'd come home with it filled with beer. I imagine that was handy. Mostly because Moe was a painter and like most every painter I've ever met he was a drinker.

Moe had been contracted to paint the interior of the neighborhood funeral parlor. On this day, he had been instructed to paint a particular room and in the middle of that room was the body of a dead man on a slab. Evidently, the funeral director didn't feel it was necessary to move the body or to instruct my intoxicated Great Grandfather on what to do with the body.

Undaunted, Moe set about his work, giving the room a fresh coat of white paint. As the day wore on and the room was finished, he then turned to look at the body in the middle of the refreshed room. Noticing that he has splattered the poor, dead, African-American man with white paint, he did the only thing that seemed logical to him...

He painted the man white.

His entire body got a nice coat of interior paint.

I never did hear what became of that man, but I can only imagine the looks on the faces of his family when they showed up to view his body.

Burn Dust!

This past, long, holiday weekend was full of good moments, bad moments, weird moments, scary weird, therapy inducing moments and well, just moments.

First, let me start off by saying that, yes, we did have a house guest this weekend. The house guest being Jason's father. And for everyone who has ever spent extended time in their own home with in-law's they know it's just weird. It's weird because suddenly you find yourself sharing your home with someone who is your "family" only they aren't your family because you just married their son but now they are like your father or something weird and here you are lying in bed, listening to them pee in the middle of the night like 5 different times. Yeah, it's weird but you know your spouse is enjoying the time with their family so you're all like, well, cool.

Here's the thing about spending time with my in-laws, I get these scary, clear insights into my husband. Because he's had strained relationships with his parents for extremely good reasons, I didn't get the usual look at my future in-laws that a lot of girls would before marrying. All I knew was he was a kid who deserved to be loved and it didn't seem that a very good job had been done of that and I knew I could do better. So when I saw my father-in-law's face when my sister's fiance smeared whipped cream on his own nose to entertain my daughter or when he expressed his annoyance of a toy that played music and made my son put his hand on his hip, stick out his lips and do his best 18-month old Mick Jagger impression, I couldn't wait for him to leave the room so that I could loudly whisper to my husband "Man! Your childhood must have sucked!" To which he nodded and said, "now you know."

And that is the extent of how deep I'm even able to make my thoughts today due to the fact that Jason and I capped off the whole weekend by having some ungodly, flu-like thing that made us wretch and double over in pain for an entire 12-hours yesterday. There is no way to drop those added Thanksgiving pounds like an angry stomach/angrier bowel induced day long fast.

Really. You'll want to trust me on this one and not check it out for yourself. But if by some chance you don't listen to me because you're just a willful creep (and really, I like people with some "stick-to") like that then you too will find yourself laying around, in your own stink, three day hair, haphazardly shoved around on your head with a headband pretending to hold it in place, willing your stomach to please shut up and quit clenching into a double-windsor knot every time your 18-month old desperately needs the cracker he just dropped in the dog's water bowl.

It was this same day of eating nothing but water and crackers for 24-hours that made me just walk into my local sub shop and shout, "I want the best sandwich in the world!"

Thanksgiving day itself is just a faint memory at this point. I did the majority of cooking and baking the night before leaving me with nothing but time on my hands to pace around the house looking for things to do before the family sailed in for the turkey goodness. I vaguely remember the meal as being good, having too much pie and then the fact that my grandmother said these words:

"And he was arrested for banging his girlfriend on the hood of his car at a drive-in"

Forget the fact that she just announced that the person she is talking about in that reference was her supposed step-brother but she was positive he was really her half-brother.

Yeah, wanna take a look at my family tree?

I clearly remember choking on my pie and asking, "banging or BANGING?" Grandma looked at me wide-eyed and said "BANGING! He was doing her on the car!"

After much discussion, Grandma finally announced her departure with the phrase "now that I'm leaving you guys can let the conversation get raunchy"...

Ahem.

Sometimes there are no words.

Other than that? I read an entire book and partook in some movie marathons. A self-imposed "Christmas Vacation" marathon and a Fox Movie Channel imposed "Planet of the Apes" marathon that had me walking around the house shouting things at my husband like, "Get your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty ape!" and "eat my rubber!"

Happy Holidays.

The Best Of CMJ

As some of you may know but a lot of you don't, I had another blog called Crazy Man Jones. CMJ was my first blog and it reeked of mommy blogging goodness.

There are things that I really love about that blog and so I thought I would revisit some of my favorite things. Mostly, I was either too verbose or too damn happy around there. Trust me, you're not missing much, but I had my moments.

So today, for your reading pleasure, I give you 'A Good Pair Of Pants' from Crazy Man Jones.

A GOOD PAIR OF PANTS

Last night was the talent show at my daughter's elementary school. The word talent was printed at the top of the program and that was the last traces of talent we saw for the rest of the painfully, dentist drilling your tooth, long evening.

Holy hell.

With a numb ass, because evidently my days of sitting on bleachers should have ended when I was 16 and not 30 and overly curvy, I sat bleary-eyed and watched the endless parade of trained monkeys and do-it-yourself choreographers.

Look, let me pause right here for a moment and say this. I love my kids and I tolerate other people's kids. I don't like to pick on children but seriously? After that rather large chunk of my life was lost to the monotonous production of bullshit that I was subjected to last night, I think I have a right to be bitter. Really. Mostly because I enjoy being bitter, and need an excuse, but it's their parents that are to blame.

Let's start with my daughter's act. She and her friend worked for over a month at recess every day putting together their best Hannah Montana routine. Complete with my daughter's grand finale of pulling off her jacket and throwing it at the audience. It was cute, they worked hard and there were 10 other acts just like them. 10 other acts of little girls, being little girls, and dressing like little girls.

To be entirely honest, those were the more entertaining acts to watch. So now let me get to the painful.

I'm all for enriching our children's lives and providing them with after school activities. But when your child is walking around in an outfit that I'm fairly certain is sold right next to fuzzy butt floss, buzzy buddies and clear-heeled hooker hoofs there is a problem.

While you're working hard at keeping them busy and away from drugs and partying what you're really doing is training them to be tiny little strippers. I'm assuming the school just doesn't provide brass poles along with the microphones, piano and boom box since there weren't any present last night.

Little girl after little girl paraded out wearing sequins, wigs and fringe. The only break we got from the hoochies-in-training were the obvious future pageant queens and their warbling of sappy country tunes or songs from the 80's by bands that I'm arrogantly positive thought they were entirely punk rock back in the day. At least I thought I was when I was listening to them.

There was an awesome group of kids from the neighborhood Tae Kwon Do class that broke boards and did a kick-ass demonstration. Hello and welcome to how to keep kids off the streets, people. Because if they do end up on the streets they are liable to give the local pimp a major beat down.

I'm not surprised by our future hustlers, pimps and ho's because the school is obviously run by complete con artists. After 2-hours of Star Search on Crack, these providers of saccharine enemas totally suckered us into sitting through a PTA meeting before handing out the prizes. Which, ironically, were cash prizes bringing my theory of strippers in a full circle. Dancing for Dollars.

I'm not saying dance class isn't awesome. Because it is. There were two acts that were adorable, sweet and as wholesome as children should be. What I'm saying is for the love of God people, cover your kids asses up if your going to have them shaking them and doing poorly timed pelvic grinds.

There's nothing wrong with a good pair of pants. Trust me. I wouldn't steer you wrong.

And just so you know that I'm not a complete asshole - I never wanted to kidnap a kid as much as I did the kid who was supposed to lip-sync a Queen song. He was so damned cute that I wanted to run out there and hug him as he stood nearly frozen, didn't move his mouth and randomly skipped two steps here and there. His parents should probably try to help the kid avoid future humiliation, but he was adorable.

All in all I say I didn't witness anything that years of therapy and a new wardrobe couldn't fix. Oh and maybe some rhythm.

I Couldn't Make This Up

Yesterday afternoon I was sitting on my back deck with my mom while Monkeygirl played in the yard with the neighbor kids, Sam and Seth.

Mom noted that Seth reminded her of the 'Deliverance' kids. Shortly after her observation the following conversation took place:

Seth: Hey Betsey, you know what?

Me: What?

S: I went to a Vegetable (festival) yesterday and got my face painted and it was a dinosaur, it was cool.

Me: That is cool. (turn to my mother, spit out half a sentence)

S: Hey Betsey, you know what?

Me: What, Seth?

S: I was at your house last night watching movies and Jason teased me a lot. He does that all the time and I play along with him.

Me: That's true, he does.

S: Yeah. Hey Betsey, you know what?

Me: What?

S: I got a black shirt with a silver soccer ball on it and some other stuff, it's really cool.

Me: That is cool. (Look at my mother who is laughing, I start to speak)

S: Hey Betsey, you know what?

Me: What, Seth?

S: My dog is almost two, but still acts like a pup. Yup, she sure does have a lot of pup in her, but you know what?

Me: What?

S: We used to have another dog but she got sick and died. It was really sad... And she was bleeding and everything. You wanna know where she was bleeding at?

Me: (to my mom, Oh God) To Seth: Um, sure buddy, where was she bleeding?

S: In her cracker and you know what? It was even spurting too. All over the place.

My mother is laughing and snorting uncontrollably...

Me: Um Seth, we're going to go inside now.

S: Okay, bye Betsey.

Me: Bye Seth.

Making Second Base Bigger

It astonishes me how my boobs bring the comments out in droves.

I guess I really shouldn't be surprised given what our society's most popular sex symbols look like, eh? We are a week and a half out and I'm just getting more excited. I did wake up in the middle of a panic attack last night but I couldn't begin to tell you what that should be attributed to.

This weekend when my dad dropped my daughter off after having her spend the night, he sat down at our table to chat for a bit and when the subject was brought up you could tell he was DYING to discuss it. And in true "my dad" form he said "whatever makes you happy, hon." Because that's what he does.

When I was a teenager, one time I told my dad (who is my step dad) that I wanted to be a stand up comedian. He said "You can do it! I'll be your manager."

And then another time I told him I wanted to be a boxer. He said, "You can do it, I'll be your manager." But then told me I was too pretty to box and because I bruise so easily I would always look like I lost.

Even when I didn't.

And still another time, when I was in high school this really stupid boy, who obviously didn't have a clue, dumped me. I cried and cried and the next morning as I was walking my swollen, tear streaked face out the door my dad stopped me. He said, "I don't know what happened but he's obviously missing out. And you can do anything you want in life. You don't need any boy to make you who you are and I know you could be a CEO or a brain surgeon if that's what you wanted, kid."

I know I looked confused when he said it but I thanked him and never forgot that moment.

Of course my friend also always talks about the time in the 8th grade when my dad sat the two of down and asked if we knew the rules of baseball. We looked at each other, sighed and looked at him as he explained to us that no boy should ever get past first base. We laughed for years about that.

So I guess it's only fitting that my dad gave his blessing to me enlarging the size of second base.

I haven't told him that my husband has already hit a home run or two but given the time our nightstand drawer slid open while we were moving and my dad saw all it contents, I'd have to say he knows. I walked out to the garage to see my red faced dad saying that he could have lived the rest of his life without that.

I was pregnant at the time, so I'm sure he knew about the home runs. He just doesn't want the commentary.

Which Way Will It Go?

Here it is a Wednesday morning. Not unlike any other Wednesday morning except that it was supposed to be my Friday morning. Until yesterday I was pretty sure that this was the last week Crazyman went to his current baby sitter. With all the information that Jason had given me it seemed that it was. When we spoke to the new sitter we spoke in terms of the other's last week and how her first week would fall in after that. Never mentioning the date because we all knew the date.

Right?

Wrong.

So I had taken a few days off this week to spend with Crazyman before he made the big change. When I told her yesterday that today would be the last day she looked crestfallen. When she asked why and I explained she told me and then it was my turn to be entirely turned inside out with disappointment.

I'd have to work a full week.

So here I sit in a dress that rivals pajamas in it's comfort and professional appearance. I just got done responding to an email from my mom telling me that she has to work the weekend of a wedding I barely want to attend anyway. But that she and my dad would take the kids to dinner and then my sister would be over to watch the kids.

Who could argue with that? I told her as much and then finished up the email with a quick and brief paragraph informing her of my impending boob job.

I have no expectations on the reaction. It could go either way. In the end, it affects me little except for the level of eye rolling I have to perform when relaying the story to my husband and sister. I'm an expert eye roller and was once even fired for the offense. You just have to know I'm rolling my eyes even as I write that. It turns out that I gesture with my eyes. You know how some people hack the air with their hands when they speak? I happen to have overly developed eye muscles from the amount of gesturing I do with my eyes.

So it goes.

Finally today I tell you that my husband in a desperate flight went to Walgreen's to get my meds over the weekend. Luckily, I can only assume for him, it isn't one that takes weeks to go into effect. The days following his trek to the drugstore have been rivaling blissful. The sense of calm I feel is shocking and I no longer threaten to rip faces off. Truly, I would have hated for all of you to see me on the national news when they tragically reported of the crazed blonde PMS'r in KC that went on a facing tearing off rampage.

It would have been ugly for all. And seeing my blood soaked nightgown-dress would have been news worthy enough without the camera man capturing my crazy, eye-rolling antics happening just above the neckline as I shouted about how Wednesday is supposed to be the new Friday.

I'm here, working the whole week, calm, comfortable and awaiting an email from my mom which will have content in it that won't change anything I'm going to do but still the neurotic teenager in me that always wanted her approval wonders which way it will go.

What It Is

A quarter to five this morning my eyes popped open. My head was heavy with the dull thud of realizing it feels like my life is falling apart. It's not. I just feel that way because my son's whole life is going to be changing.

As I laid there, stressing beyond what should be considered reasonable I remembered, for no relevant reason this little girl I played with as a child. In my memory she looks very much like Rudy from the Cosby Show. At the time we lived on a very busy street. Our house had a large front porch that I can remember playing on and watching the cars go by. From across that busy street this little girl suddenly appeared and asked if I could play. I remembered begging my mom to let her play.

She did.

And you know what? That kid was a total shit head. My mom had just bought me an awesome tube of bubblegum that looked like a toothpaste tube (how I miss the 80's) and this little bitch told me she'd tell my mom something bad if I didn't give it to her. I remembered thinking that my mom would never believe her but always wanting to avoid conflict I let her have it anyway.

And then?

I watched as she chewed a huge gob of it for a while, then pull that gob out of her mouth and shove it back into the tube to save it for later.

Bubble gum stealing buttface.

I was digusted and when I told my mom she was mad and asked why I did that? I had no good reason and then my mom said she was a jerk.

This has nothing to do with anything other than the insanity that permeates my mind as I lay awake.

When I got Crazyman to his sitter this morning. I got some great news. His friend Trey, who is exactly 20 days older than Crazyman - his mother is going to start her own in home daycare and is willing to take his current sitter's clientele. This means we wouldn't have to split up Crazyman, Trey and Braydon - AND? Trey lives in the same neighborhood as we do and as Braydon does and pretty much directly in between both of our houses. We all live about 3-4 blocks from each other.

I hesitate to celebrate this because it seems too awesome.

And in retrospect I guess the memory of the bubble gum stealing buttface came to my mind because I was feeling so screwed over.

If I had it to do over? I would have shoved her off my porch and taken my gum back. And then promptly thrown it in the trash because, dude? That shit is nasty.

How Much Of A Lazy Fat Ass Am I?

One of my best friends in the entire world informed me that her doctor said that the difference between a fit person and an overweight person is about 2000 steps a day. I argued that Big Mac's, thyroid conditions and genetics might break that theory but I had to let it go. My husband says I'm much too argumentative anyway.

My super smart friend then told me that 2000 steps is about equal to 30-minutes of walking at a decent pace. Again? I could not argue... She has a pedometer and has lost roughly 70 pounds. That makes her slightly more the authori-TAY than my happy ass.

If you've been here for a while you probably know, I have a fat ass. Not only do I have a fat ass but I have the largest thighs you've probably ever seen on a girl that appears to be as relatively thin as I do.

Let's take a moment to thank my mother for her wonderful additon of "thunder thighs" to my genetic milkshake. My sister and I do this often. I also have the double blessing of my paternal grandmother's giant hips.

Thanks for nothing, Grandma.

*I* am not overweight. My thighs are overweight. I have an awesome pear shape. And by awesome I mean it totally blows goats and I've been hating my ass-half since it started to curve outwardly when I was a teenager.

Since birthing the third one, I have not just 'snapped back' into shape and it pisses me off to no end. I'm entirely not okay with this.

Not in the slightest.

My husband once told me that I will never be overweight because I would never allow myself to be. Let me stop right here and say that I do have a family history of weight issues. My mother struggled after my kid brother was born and her mother went through a bout with it as well.

I've been blessed with height which neither of those fine ladies has. My mother is 5'2" and my grandmother is 5'. Having this much height means it pretty much just settles in my ass. I know that. That makes it a fact.

Okay, so I won't allow myself to be overweight - but guess what? My body, much like a teenage girl - doesn't give two shits about what I will or will not "allow". I'm going to have to work for this shit obviously.

Last night I got home, loaded Crazyman into his stroller and off we went. We zoomed around the neighborhood and I counted my steps for the first bit until I could guess by my pace how many I was taking. I took a detour through the school parking lot to allow extra steps and I hefted myself up the hilly stretch like it was my job.

When I got home I was winded and I was sweaty.

A 30-minute walk kicked my ass. Is that the saddest thing you've ever heard? I'd like to blame the sweatiness on the fact that it was 90+ degrees but really? Let's face it.

I'm horrifically out of shape.

But I did it!

And then I celebrated with a few beers and fried mozzarella sticks.

Tonight? Two thousand FIVE HUNDRED steps.

Seriously.

Part II

Jason and I continued on from the gas station, driving another hour in the rain and then we reached our destination. Promptly after pulling off on our exit, Jason missed our turn. Logically and much like a woman I assumed he would take the next turn and backtrack to our missed street.

Um, no, that's a big negatory, good buddy.

He decided he could totally navigate this town that he hasn't lived in since he was a little boy. It could make a girl nervous, but my hubs has a fantastic track record of navigating around towns he's been to a few times. For instance? He got us all around Denver and Boulder three years ago when we went to see Depeche Mode. He remembered the way from the times he had traveled there to spin records. I was pretty sure that we couldn't get lost in a town this small and told him as much. It seemed nearly impossible.

As we drove down little streets, some of them paved in bricks, he pointed out familar sights - the park he played at as a kid, the stadium where his uncle and dad broke records (which in a town that size, seemed more inevitable than impressive) the porch his kid brother fell off of, the houses they had lived in.

Traveling down memory lane with my husband made me feel closer to him than I already did. I pictured him as a little boy, climbing the jungle gyms and pumping his little legs to make the swings go higher and higher. Sharing in those happy moments with him was awesome. There is nothing more I want for my husband than for him to be a happy little boy. I know those happy moments were few for him.

As we wound our way closer to the church the sadness came back into his voice. As we pulled into the parking lot he started remembering being at that very church. He couldn't remember why and then his voice dropped and he said "government cheese - we came here for government cheese." He looked at me and said that I didn't know anything about that, did I? I told him that I did not. But I remembered the kids who had to use the free cheese boxes to keep their crayons together in school. In that moment he looked like the sad little boy he was remembering being and asked "Why would my dad let that happen? Why would he accept that? I would NEVER do that." As he looked at me my heart confirmed what he was saying. My husband would never do that. Pride aside, my husband works so very hard to take care of his family.

With that he stepped out of the car and moved quickly to get his little boy's stuff together so we could rush him in without rain touching his precious, blonde head. As Jason looked at Ian I could see the pride return to him.

Next:

Entring the Church.

Being A Popular Dork

I have never been successful at the popularity game. Mostly because I have the random day (more often than not) where giving a shit seems too much like a chore. And I hate chores. My whole life I've hung out on the fringe. I know the popular kids, I even hang out with them. I also know the weird kids, the artistic kids and the weird, artistic kids that still manage to be popular.

I like everyone. Well, let me edit myself by saying I like everyone except the super popular, bitchy chick that picks on people. Yeah, I've always given her a smack down. A few times in my life the second that chick opens her mouth to bully someone, I'm down her throat before she can even know what's going on. Like the girl I went to school with that I oinked at in the lunch room. She wasn't overweight by any means. But she was mean and terribly evil and even then I had a big enough interest in the human mind to know that even the skinniest teenage girl will not appreciate and more than likely require therapy, over getting oinked at while waiting in line for her Manager's Choice with white milk.

I bully the bully. I always have. I always will.

So here I am. This pseudo popular, weird, kind of artistic girl who gets along with everyone. In high school I hung with the jocks, the kids with the garage band, the jocks who smoked pot with the garage band and even the theatre kids. Okay, I lie, I didn't like the theatre kids. They were really, really nerdy. Even when the theatre coach asked me to try out for plays, I knew my delicate social standing couldn't handle that kind of jolt. Most of my life I've been eager to please. I've spent a good amount of time trying to figure out what is the happy medium so that everyone thinks I'm cool. Really, time has taught me there is no happy medium so you have to shit or get off the pot, which is truly a lovely saying. Can you say that and still appear to be a lady at all? I didn't think so but my lady status was revoked long ago. So as it goes you have to pick a thing and commit. Commit bitch.

Um yeah.

So at the ripe old age of 30 (I have a whole month of being 30 left, stop laughing), I've committed to who I am and refuse to do things to please anyone. Well except maybe my husband because he, you know, loves me and my bosses because they, you know, pay me. Oh and let's not forget the kids. I mean, I should please them. I gave them life, I better make it worth living. At random points through my blogging life (which has not yet reached a year) I have had brief flings with popularity. I know a few of the popular blog kids. I've talked to them and exchanged a few emails. And trust me, there is a reason they are popular. And it has nothing to do with what they do in the car behind the school.

There have been moments where I've been uber excited because, holy shit, I got more than 20 comments. Which by the way, they do not make 'I got more than 20 comments' plates, cups and napkins unless you special order them. My party was a success anyway. But here's the thing. I can't commit to it. I can't commit to trying to be popular in my blog existence. I tend towards being brash, bold and a little off-putting, but not brash enough to be cool about it. I can't even commit to being an asshole.

When it comes to my peeps, I'm totally committed. When it comes to me? Yeah, um no. Here's what I'm saying, I know it's been a rough road getting here. I've only now just gotten to the point where I kind of like who I am. That falls far behind on the cool threshold and I don't know who to blame for the fact that I've felt realitively uncommitted to being me my whole life. And doesn't blame always need to be laid somewhere?

Yes, yes it does.

So while I figure out who to blame for my "not-likey-me-ness" and stop muttering under my breath about how much some people absolutely love themselves beyond all reason, I'm going to wish all you cool kids going to Blogher a safe and happy trip. Oh and dream of getting over 30 comments on one posting. Because seriously? I know they have to make cups and plates for that shit. Which only points out how rad cupcakes are. They can be made to say whatever the hell I want.

Freedom Is Fleeting

Because life is just a series of precious little moments, scattered randomly thoughout your days...
Because no matter how much you assure yourself that you will never forget that moment...
Because Monkeygirl just turned 9 and as her brother does things I try desperately to remember that moment with her...
And...
Because I mostly fail at remembering the exact moment...

This morning Crazyman sat on my bed, gripping the remote tightly in his hot, little, chubby hand. Backyardigans had just come to a completion. He was sweetly, yet tunelessly, singing them out when his index digit discovered the channel button. Up and down he cruised the channels as I worked feverishly on my hair.

To no avail. Flat by noon.

Ahem - through the channels he continued to cruise until I walked over to stop him. Right as I approached the edge of the bed, I realized he had stopped and was clapping and laughing like a loon.

Common occurrance, really.

But he sat enthralled and then engaged and then participatively (?). Jason and I both looked at each other as the retro, memory inducing strains of Sesame Street came flooding into our room. Crazyman looked at us like fellow junkies that had been holding out on the one thing that could fix his jones for merriment.

It should be said that both Jason and I drove to work singing a seemingly random song about writing your name the entire way.

Damn you Sesame Street - damn you.

Just when I thought I was out, they dragged me back in.

Unsympathetic

Who gives a shit?

I find myself saying this so many times a day, I'm starting to think I have a weird syndrome. And perhaps I do. It's called being unsympathetic.

I have had to stop caring what other people think of me. I've spent the majority of my life always trying to live up to changing standards. I turned 30 and said enough already.

When I was younger my mother often uttered the words - who gives a shit. And I would be indignant and hormonal and declare loudly that I gave a shit and I thought it was sad that she didn't.

I often wondered where in her life did she get to be so numb that she simply didn't care.

And then? It hit me. Not caring really makes me happy. You hate my hair? Great. You think I have a fat ass? Me too, what else do you have? My attitude? Yeah, it's bad, real bad.

This is all fine and maybe even dandy, but now? Now, I listen or read other people's thoughts (don't assume I mean you) and I find myself saying it.

Who gives a shit?

I don't know what it actually means to give a shit. Why would you want a shit. Is it like take a shit and it kind of means the opposite?

Now I've ventured into crude. But you know what to do. Say it.

All I'm saying is that perhaps I'm too tired, too weary. Perhaps I'm too callous, too uncaring.

It's all not true, it's not. I care about my loved ones and my friends. I want to help and protect them. What I don't want to do? Is try to understand why they sweat the small shit (another of my mom's famous lines). Who cares about the post office lines? Who cares that Wal-hell is a bitch to navigate? What is the big deal about being angry all the time? This morning I honked at a lady because she sat through the green arrow light. At the time it was a big fucking deal. In retrospect, she was a moron, I know that still, but whatever. It didn't jack my whole day.

It was nice to hear my horn though. I don't honk that sucker enough.

Maybe I'm just gliding day to day. Maybe I should be more indignant or take a bigger stand.

But at the end of my day, when I lay in my bed, bone tired all I can think is:

Today I didn't give a shit and that rocks.

And if you see some nutcase just randomly honking their horn with a big, stupid grin on her face. Pay no mind. She's not honking at you. She's me and she's just happy to hear her horn.

Or something.

This Time Of Year...

Always finds me in the dumps.

Let's all take a moment of silence to honor my husband who gets to deal with my funktification.
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That was nice.

Since I was a little girl the summer = big, fat, Betsey mess. A lot of people get the winter blues. I get the summer blues.

That really sucks. I wait all winter for it to get warm and then I get in a funk. Nice irony.

I would rather be asleep than awake.

I would rather be alone than surrounded.

I would rather eat than anything else.

I want to tear my own skin off but that would take energy and a level of caring I just don't possess.

Lately though, I've noticed a little something, thanks to blog land.

I'm not alone.

While I feel for those out there that feel this way at least I know I'm not a complete freak.

Well not for this reason anyway.

I just want out of it. I want to find my way back to the top.

Most importantly? I want to make more curtains. But I'm out of windows.

Sigh.

Enlightenment

She was born in August, 1977. The day Elvis Presley died.

Sure, it's a mimicry of the first line of a song I played the hell out of as an angsty teenager. But it's the truth. I was. And that would pretty much set the tone for the rest of my life.

You know, always showing up right as greatness is leaving. Or perhaps showing up right as perceived former greatness is lying drunken, bloated on the floor.

That's probably more like it. And knowing me, I'll try to save that mess and teach him that life is okay.

Looking back on my childhood I realize that I had a fanciful, weird-ass imagination that was in constant go-mode. Example, I remember seeing these large silver, presumably electrical boxes of some kind with doors on the front of them throughout the neighborhoods my mother and I always seemed to be driving through. I was pretty sure that they were refrigerators for the homeless.

Because you know, the huge homeless population of 80's suburbia was obviously sane, organized and respectful enough to share a public, street side fridge. Can you see the Reagan era news stories of street urchins stabbing each other over the last slice of bread?

Really.

I was much like that kid from the cartoons that would be sitting in class listening to the teacher drone on and on one moment and the next he was a fighter pilot, coursing through the air. Being an awesome hero. I was always outside the window of the classroom more than I was ever really there.

Today, I'm really much the same way. Only now I sit and stare outside the window and I really do see the homeless. And they aren't sharing food stuffs. No, they are begging me for dollars and stealing the copper coils out of our air conditioning units so it's hotter than hell in here right now.

Which really lowers their chance of getting a buck out of sweaty, crabby me.

I have no idea where I was going with this. And really does it matter? I just revealed to you all that I actually thought there were public, homeless fridges when I was a kid.

Hey, maybe I just solved all the world's problems.

Just remember, you can always say you knew me when.