My Daughter Is Home And Praying For The Eternal Salvation of Her Mother's Soul

A not so widely known fact about me is that I was baptized as a Lutheran. I was raised by a Catholic and an atheist.

What I am is not important to this story. Because what I am is the mother of a dead child who struggles most days to understand what His purpose is with that little nugget of fantastic pain that I was dealt.

Tonight what I was though, was a haggard and tired woman in a Buddha t-shirt and scrub pants, standing in the middle of her kitchen, fighting with her toddler on whether or not she was loading dirty dishes into the dishwasher. He was mostly unloading. As he screamed "no mama!" my tween approached.

"Here mom this is for you."

"Oh, thanks Boo, this is very nice. Did you do this at church camp?" I only saw the glimpse of the cross and was mostly expecting handmade birthday wishes as doomsday is fast approaching. I looked at my daughter who just got home less than 24 hours ago from a summer with my ex-in-laws.

"Yes, mom. They told me to give it to someone who doesn't go to church."

As my youngest stood clinging to my leg and screaming bloody murder, I peered down at the religious propaganda I held in my hand. Beautifully decorated by my daughter, with the word Mom carefully written on the front, I looked back into her blue eyes.

"Oh gee, thanks kid."

And that's when she stood there and proselytized in the middle of her brother's tantrum.

"Hey babe, let me stop you right there, I don't go to church because I'm 32 years old and I don't have to anymore, okay?"

"Yeah, but do you believe?"

"Seriously, are we standing on the street corner in NYC right now? Take this dollar and go on, Boo. I get where you are coming from and would love to have a religious discussion with you, but you should know, people are not cool with random questions about their religious affiliations. You know, just between you and me."

And I could tell, she was already praying in her head.

She already believed I was burning in Hell, but the question was, could she, as the daughter of such a heathen, be saved?

My standard answer to the question of "do you believe" is "suck it, none of your business, bub." But today,I had to be more delicate.

As she walked off to her room, as my kid stood still clinging and screaming, as I realized I was still holding the primary colored religious materials, as I looked down at the Buddha on my chest, I sighed and I looked up. "You are up there, aren't you? Some kind of sense of humor you've got, huh?"

The Dude gets Hasseled by the Hoff

For some reason my son is absolutely, mortally terrified of David Hasselhoff:

In The Last Week, My Kid Has Become A Total Clutz. Or, How My Kid Preps For The X Games

My kid is a walking bruise. I'm starting to think that his sudden growth spurt has thrown him completely off his game. Either that, or perhaps I should cut off his happy hour consumption. But you know, the kid has things and issues he has to deal with so hitting on chicks at the local hole is all he's got. I mean have you seen the economy, his stocks are shit.

Wait! Before you run off to nominate me for yet ANOTHER parenting award, I mean seriously, my mantle can't take anymore, let me tell you what I'm talking about.

At this very moment, that little slumbering wino angel has a huge scrape down his back, a bruised cheek, a healing bloody nose and a scrape on his knee. Now you may run off to cast that ballot but he was only in my care during ONE of those incidents.

The scrape on his back we are assuming that he got himself stuck in the little ol' picnic table he was playing on at lunch on Friday at daycare. I mean a kid has to practice sleeping on picnic benches for his obvious future of hobodom.

The cheek happened when Jason was playing around with him and he smacked his face right into my knee. For the record? Totally my UFC knee so you know, he's got a belt coming his way and some deal pushing burgers and TapOut wear.

Let's see here. Oh, right, the bloody nose. Well you see, he was standing on a cow, while playing with his little buddies and totally took a header. I heard he made a full 8 seconds though, so you know PBR (not Pabst Blue Ribbon, ya'll) here he comes. Yee haw.

And, then he scored himself some mild road rash while heading out to check the mail with his dad. This? From the kid who was beggging me to buy him a skate board while he jumped in circles around the house while watching Bucky Lasek and Danny Way this weekend. He yelled "DAKE BOARD" and then would ollie off the couch.

Evidently, when little boys are issued, they need to come with some sort of warning. Because while I'm telling him to, "rub some dirt on it", my heart is breaking into a million pieces.


PS. When you are watching the X Games in 16 years and you see some crazy blonde woman, who is so young enough to still have blond hair, scraping her kid off the ramp, you can say you remember when.

BoomTube, Episode Three, Unfortunately, We Were Not Able To Get Tony Toni Tone On The Soundtrack, But We Did Get World Famous Jason Kidd

This week's BoomTube is the "It's Our Anniversary" edition.



My husband may have made a comment about the carhop at Sonic, what he fails to tell you is that I too, would put a hurting on some roller skates.

And that's okay, we are all special snowflakes. I'm just curvier than most.

He's Got A Face That Only A Mother, The Camera And The World Could Love

This was the best thing that happened this weekend:



He will insist that we keep clicking, over and over and over again:



When the camera comes out, he will give you hours of good face:




Other than the steak tacos that Jason made to cure my craving, the rest of the weekend was pretty much crap and I'd kind of like to crawl back into bed and sleep the sucker off.

Oh and if I don't stop eating things, you know things, I'm going to end up on TLC or the BBC. And they will be using a wench to get me out of my bed, or better yet, off the couch. The good news is we will find the remote that has been under me for months, the bad? We'll find Cheetos and lint too.

And pudding. We'll probably find pudding. But I don't really like pudding, it's just that ice cream melts, so we wouldn't actually find any ice cream, just the ice cream stain.

Is It Still Called My Happy Place If There Are Shivs and Shin Kicking Gnomes Involved?

This week has found me saying "a-hole" more than the average amount. Whether it was in the rain-soaked traffic or muttering it under my breath, just out of ear shot of my almost two-year old as he threw his 800th fit of the day. Yes, I called my adorable son an asshole. Because he was. Being an asshole that is.

What I'm saying is I've had it with all you assholes out there. And, I don't know if that means you, but if you think that it might then just stop being an asshole and we'll all be okay.

Monday started the week in fine form with layoffs in my office. We all sat around waiting to see if we could kiss our asses good-bye, so by the time they got around to telling you what percentage your pay was going to be cut, you were dancing for fucking joy that you still had a paycheck. It was only later that you stopped and thought about it and went, "Hey! I just got screwed!"

After wading through the mounds of COBRA paperwork and making sure I was all up on the new COBRA stuff (which would be more fun if I could be all hip hop and singing, "I'm all up in your cobra stuff"), I sat around with shaking hands for the rest of the day to drive home to Young Wheezy and his full-on fuck you attitude.

And then? The rest of the week went like this:

* The kid stayed sick and wheezy and grumpy and just schmucky and junior douchey in general. This morning he laid on the floor, face down and screamed for an undetermined amount of time.

Undetermined because by that point, I ceased to care about whatever it was that he completely invented on the spot to get pissy about.

* Jason went into Monk's room with a box of trash bags and went to town. Now our garage is filled with bags and bags of all things pink, glittery, fluffy and girly until she goes through it all and decides what it is that she can't possibly even think about going on living without. And, because "the puberty" is imminent she's been a joy to be around.

* Proofreading multiple replacement window brochures, multiple times. Who knew you could write 20 pages on windows? Well I know, I also know that degrees MUST be spelled out and for the love of all things zombie, why the fuck can you not stop hyphenating that fucking word? I circled it over 100 times already.

* Ants, fucking ants. Why? Because the people in my office drop things like pecans on the floor and then just leave them there. Simply so they can come up to my desk and whine about all the fucking ants in the kitchen.

* And apparently eating all those fucking pecans makes them stop up the toilets which then again, becomes my problem because evidently no one can wield a plunger except for me.

* Speaking of toilets, it's common courtesy to put the toilet seat down in shared bathrooms. I mean unless you're a hobo. And if you're a hobo then go piss in the alley where all the hobos take our trash out of the dumpsters and just leave it there so we can hand pick it all up. I don't want to touch the toilet seat every time I take a whiz. Seriously, it's just a little like touching every ass in this office and I'm not down. Especially because it seems you are hobos, dirty, hobos. Besides, there is trash in the alley I have to go pick up now. Scooping up old spaghetti and used tissues is just my idea of a righteous time.

If all of that wasn't enough, then my red, swelling, itchy eye and my also swelling fat ass should be. Because as it turns out, I also eat when I'm stressed out. Which meant that, yet again, this morning as I went to put on my jeans all they did was groan and say "fuck you, lard-o". Being curvy isn't always grand. Actually, it's mostly not grand. Also? I didn't know that denim could actually groan and creak, but look at that, it just did.

I am now sitting here, fashioning plunger handles and pecans into shivs. Pointy-ass shivs. I've gone on to create a hobo assembly line, with all those dirty, drunken hobos just a whittling away. Because if you're going to do it, you do that shit right.

I Now Present You With The Raging Chad...

I didn't have any puca shells so he's not complete. But I can assure you, he was being really douchey in this shot.



His little popped collar sends chills down my spine.

You Can Take The Boy Out Of Texas, But You Better Keep Frying His Food

Spending the last two days at home with the dude, now known as "Young Wheezy, gave me the opportunity to do something I don't get to do very often.

Make dinner.

I know. I'll be the first to tell you that in this arena I am one spoiled princess like girl. Not only does Jason cook daily, but he is a fantastic cook. Always coming up with new ideas, everything is always tasty and in no way pushes the lame envelope.

And, I used to be a great cook. I can still whip up some sauce that is high on the rad scale and and some mean, mushroom cloud laying enchiladas, but the thing is, I'm completely out of practice from being Mrs. Booms. And chubbier, I'm decidedly chubbier from being Mrs. Booms too.

Looking back on yesterday, I should have stuck with that box of stroganoff I almost put the hamburger slam on. Instead? I opted for lemon pepper talapia, pasta in a creamy Parmesan sauce and steamed green beans. Chances are this meal would have been pleasing to anyone else. Well anyone not from the state of Texas:

Me: What is that look on your face about?

Jason: (carefully not letting his tongue actually touch the fish) Nuffin'.

Me: Really? Could have fooled me, you hate it right?

Jason: (finally gulping it down his throat) Um, no. I mean, yeah. No.

Me: Oh hon, you are a red meat guy. I'm sorry.

Jason: It's okay, I just don't think I'm a "fish" guy.

Me: Really? What if it was fried and oh, I don't know, called catfish?

Jason: Good point, you can fry anything and I'd eat it.

Me: Well how about those turkey corn dogs with the multi-grain coating?

Jason: I'm not touching those.

And that's fine by me, I like to eat them and pretend I'm a drunken hepatitis ridden carnie that runs a dangerous ride that's never been inspected.

I'm just a dreamer like that.

Scenes From Our Sick Day, With Snot

Light On The Vulnerability, Please

Climbing into bed last night, it felt like one of those nights where I would lay there awake, tossing and turning. But, as I laid my head on the pillow, it felt like the events of the day were piled on my chest, dragging me down into sleep.

The day had been wrought with lay offs and pay cuts, and when someone tells you that you're pay is getting cut and you don't have a choice about it... you suddenly realize just how vulnerable you and your life actually are. You realize you're happy just to have the job and the pay cut seems suddenly like a bonus.

Granted I work in a place where the owners took the largest pay cuts, it still stung As the emails from my co-workers who were let go on Friday came rolling in, I suddenly realized that my job, the job that I love so very much could be ripped away from me. I don't "belong" there, I just work there.

I came home and watched my son struggle to breathe. Vulnerability is like an albatross around my neck today. Sitting on my back, watching my struggle with the realization that my life is not made of steel and brick, it is flimsily constructed of paper and strings. Creatively wound in the form of a soft hammock that cradles me, but that may just tip and drop me to the hard, rocky Earth below at any moment.

Also? If you're my neighbors, that flashing light wasn't code for 'please fucking help us we are being murdered', not that you offered. It was my kid and I fighting over which position the light switch would be in while he fitfully slept.

He won. Light on.

My Neighbor Kid Is An Asshole

And, just wasting my energy on this little tweentard mental ninja of Jedi, fuck with my daughter's mind tricks is pissing me off.

Here's the thing. The kid made my kid cry and now she's going to pay.

She's run a steady show of bitchiness that we have tolerated up to this point. My soft spoken, kindhearted daughter typically shrugs it off and goes on her way. But, she's fucked with her brother and now Monkey is not happy.

Monkey takes very good care of her brother, because as she said, "He's the only one I have now and I want to protect him." So when the neighbor kid got pissed at Monkey for paying attention to her brother and not to her she blurted out, "He's only your HALF brother anyway." She just tossed that in her non-stop stream of snotty, bitch face comments.

I just realized I'm too mad to even do this right now.

My kid sat, curled up against my side, sobbing last night.

Jason and I tagged team the kid at the bus stop this morning. First, he pulled up next to her and said, "Before you come over and play again, I'm having a talk with your mother." Without knowing this, I pulled up next to her:

Me: You know, you really hurt Monk's feelings last night?

It: How?

Me: By telling her that her brother was only her half brother...

It: I didn't mean...

Me: I don't care what you meant. Are you aware that her brother died?

It: Yes I am.

Me: Well then have a little consideration for her feelings about her brother. He is the only one she has and she loves him. You need be a little bit nicer to my daughter, young lady.


Yeah, I busted out a young lady.

Whatever.

This is stupid.

That kid sucks.

I'm Right There In The Dork Hole With You

Hold on for a minute while I dork out on you. If you know Jason and I in real life, then you know what amazing dorks we really are. We take dorking out to a new level. The really good news in my life is that my husband and I have souls that are wrapped firmly around the same tune. Our insides move to the same beat. We are dorks of a feather.

While we wait with anxious hearts for the new Depeche Mode to come out, ignoring that it has leaked all over the world, we planted ourselves firmly in the Joy Division camp.

We have a nearly nightly viewing of 'Control', where we sit and point out all the intricacies that only dorks would know. We discuss and debate. We toss about theories and suggestions.

In essence we are total freaking dorks. We own our dorktitude.

Last night, I watched and I talked. I pointed out what I'd not noticed before and what I had just read about to Jason. And then I looked at him and said, "I know, shut up, right?" He smiled and said, "No baby, I'm right there in the hole with you."

And indeed he is.

And indeed our son is as well.

Yes, we are the dorks who named our son after the lead singer of a band. A man who was weak and took his own life. That man was a poet though. And the tragic part about being such an artist and having the beauty of pain flow through your whole being is that how long can you truly live like that and deal with that? How lonely must that be?

Our almost two-year old asks for this song every day, over and over again. He sings it and he dances along to it.

Why?

Because he's got fucking dorks for parents.

Let me know if it does a thing for you.

I'm entirely captivated.

UPDATED: Also? I'm using the word 'nards' as much as possible today. It's getting weird. No one will join me.

This Is Being Written By My Left Lung, Which Has Developed A Mind Of Its Own

The plague has fully set into my chest now. I fear that this may be my last transmission from this desolate place. (Except for my guest post over at Rassles that will be up tomorrow).

"The Carrier", the original infector, is climbing all over my still partially animated remains, with his off-kilter equilibrium.

If you don't hear from us again, please send the CDC and that crew from E.T. that was lead by Peter Coyote. You know, the one in the awesome suits that tented the house and scared the hell out of everyone. Oh, send Reese's Pieces too.

The plague has started to set into our mental capacities. The Carrier is repeatedly hitting the dog over the head with a pillow and screaming like a tiny manshee. I fear it's only a matter of time before we are completely lost.

Warn the others.

The end is near.

The apocalypse came in the form of a really cute, blonde-haired, blue-eyed toddler.

Of course it did.

PS - The Carrier is super cuddly and still managing to find books for me to read over and over again even though I swear I hid every single one of them. Also? He is playing with cat balls and we don't even have a cat. Which reminds me, at the doctor's office we read a book about a bear that draws and his berries and I don't even think that "berries" was supposed to be code for his balls or anything. I now have to go and watch Yo Gabba Gabba or freaking AFV for the 800th time.

Basically My Kid Is Tormenting Me By Messing Himself Up As Much As Possible

On top of having like infected lungs and weird mutant viruses that only bad little girls who don't belong to me would carry, my kid is tormenting me. I'm even typing this with one hand. Mostly, because my lap is the only seat in the house to watch Nemo from and he even tried to rip off my right tit while climbing up into my lap.

I didn't really need it anyway, because I think he has also infected me with his mutant germs which are going to cause my right lung to swell and it then can take the place of my boob that he just ripped off without a second thought.

So I'm coughing and administering breathing treatments to "the carrier" and he's doing things like making me read this asinine book about brown bears with blue balls and he's seriously wiping out like every two seconds. He completely crash landed in our hallway giving himself a goose egg and a bloody nose. So now he has snotty blood all over his face which makes me feel just horrible for him. And then he does things like hits me in the face with the moose book again so that I will read it to him for the 80th time. Seriously.

Basically, what I'm saying here is that we are just going to sit around all bruised, bloodied and hacking until it's time to go to the doctor again.

Because the co-pay wants to tell me to suck it just one more time before this is all over.

Updated! - My Kid Just Coughed Up Something That Looks Like Joaquin Phoenix

Crazyman Jones has been sick for days now. Shortly after I discovered that he had coughed until he threw up a half-crazed, bearded actor this morning and started calling himself "Young Wheezy", I too developed a hacking cough. Jason spent the better part of the morning in and out of the doctor's office and then the hospital when it was decided that the wheeze wasn't just an affectation that Crazyman developed to set himself apart from other toddlers and sky rocket his career to stardom.

Nope, it's just a case of bronchiolitis and possibly hairballs. And that knowledge dashed my dreams of Casey Affleck following my son around with a video camera while he launched his rapping career and beat down hecklers. Which is a shame, because my kid is mad awesome at beating down hecklers.

Instead? I just get to hook my kid up to a nebulizer everyday, but already I'm working on getting him to say, "Luke, I am your father." It sounds just a little like, "Wuke, amabada fawda."

Close enough.

All of this might explain why my kid had taken to calling me Mandy all weekend long.

Or maybe not.


*** Just realized, this does not explain why his dad called me Mandy all weekend.

So the lab just called and RSVP'd and I was all, "The hell, I didn't even invite you and besides, I never expect anyone to actually RSVP because I never do, I'm THAT person." As it turns out, they weren't RSVPing at all. They didn't even want to come over for a beer. Jerkoids. Instead? They were telling us that Crazyman has RSV. Which is not nearly as much fun as an RSVP - not even close. It's mostly just a virus he got from kissing some kid at his daycare. That kid's mother, never took her to the doctor. Oh and yeah? All the kids have been sent home for the same thing we were just the first to take our kid to the doctor, and a hospital, oh and a lab too. See the cool part about being responsible is you get to find out the really bad news before anyone else and when you think it means that you are throwing an awesome party that you forgot about, it's even more disappointing.

I'm Pretty Sure Billy Idol Knows Who I Am And Probably Thinks I'm Awesome

Sometimes when you profess your love for air-punching gods you get noticed. My righteousness is now a part of Billy Idol's history.

Billy? I'll be expecting a phone call.

And a signed picture.

Oh and lessons in air-punching.

I know this isn't a real post, but I'm sitting at home with a sick kid, watching the other guy who calls me his muse, Bruce Campbell, waiting for Joaquin Phoenix to call and tell me that he wrote the best hip-hop song that a hairy white-guy who has no business even saying the words hip and hop in the same breath has ever written and it is about me. And probably buying whole foods in bulk and firing his housekeeper because what else would he write about? Except maybe being a train jumping, breakdancing hobo. He's totally got that going for him.

My musiness knows no bounds.

Also? My kid has wiped his nose on every flat surface of the house this morning. So you know, I have that going for me.

Satan Speaks, I Listen

Last night, Crazyman's daycare provider sent home the monthly newsletter. I have now dubbed this newsletter "Satan Speaks."

This month's issue tells us all about how this week is Dr. Seuss week and that he will need to wear his crazy socks on Wednesday and bring his favorite stuffed animal on Friday.

The she tells us about the freaking two weeks she will be taking off this summer with one of them being paid. Paid by us. Fantastic. No really, that was one of my favorite parts. I get it, everyone needs a vacation, but two weeks back to back. Oh the convenience of that is unspeakable! (Bartender - another round please, this is a red letter day!)

But that wasn't my ultimate favorite part. No, the part that I will be highlighting, reading, re-reading, making a collage out of, printing on t-shirts, taking out billboards and carefully cutting out, gluing to a little doily heart with glitter, oh so much glitter and putting under my pillow at night so I can have sweet dreams about those fun little words - is the part where, even though she admits it won't be popular, the kids are no longer allowed to bring personal objects and toys.

I get it. I really do. But do you know who does not get it? Who is not at all reasonable about it? Who would actually prefer to tear off my face, rather than hear the very rational words I'm uttering, words that sound very much like, "you cannot take the ball with you today"?

The first attempt at explaining the new policy this morning resulted in him not brushing his teeth. I saw the logic there. Perhaps if he just handed me the toothbrush back then he could take the ball.

Makes total sense. (Yes, I'll have a Bud Light, please.)

Until he threw himself on the floor and ended up in his bed until I was done getting ready. Somewhere in that mix he managed to half undress himself as well.

Then he came down the hall, ready to go, with a baseball glove and not one ball, but two. Sensing the challenge I manned up and actually got him to put the glove and the ball in the toy box.

The BALL, not BALLS. (Yeah, just leave the bottle, there's a big tip in it for you.)

At this point, I actually see no sense in going any further. All I'm going to say is that the results were AMAZING and complete with my kid tossing himself into a snowbank, sans coat, minus hat and the newly created policy being repealed JUST FOR HIM.

I compensated for the whole thing with ironic music selections for the drive into the office. I let Dave Gahan's voice swirl around me and encourage me to Enjoy The Silence. And then? I went straight into this.

Because it truly is a fine day.


UPDATED: Do you ever do something stupid and with little thought and THAT is the thing you get noticed for?

All the time.

Rosebetsey's Baby

Lately you may have noticed that I've been going off on tangents that involve zombies, shivs, Teen Wolf, air-punching, air-punching while watching Teen Wolf and so on.

For those of you who have read Rosemary's Baby or at least seen the movie, then you will understand why I've gone insane and have almost, just almost started eating raw, red meat and drinking a "shake" every morning.

Because when you give birth to the most adorable version of Satan's seed you go ape shit crazy.

And if you don't believe that Satan's seed part, I beg of you to lay your eyes on this grandiosity of magnificently, adorable freaking ornery:



Yeah! That tore it's way out of me like the Alien! And no, Peter Coyote was no where around when it happened.

I Do Parties

First, let me start off by saying thank you to all of you who showed concern or shared your thoughts regarding the hand print on my sons chubby-ass face.

I'm totally going with my gut on this one. When I talked to her this morning she started to cry, again and Crazyman laughed and smiled at her and went to her with a big hug.

As it turns out, I may have just been jealous that I didn't get to slap him in the face and come up with a really good excuse myself. AND THAT IS FREAKING SARCASM PEOPLE. Don't file any reports or anything. I don't want to hit my kids, I just want to give them cookies until they are quiet and that is why our prison systems are chock full o' mama's boys. I love my kids, they are masters of all things rock.

And because blogging has like all this etiquette and stuff that just like everything else in life, I'm woefully lousy at, I didn't get a picture of the hand print so I decided to do an artist's rendering and you will note that I use the term "artist" loosely. Also? My phone is ringing off the hook this morning and I have all this proof-reading and editing to do (which is ridiculous considering the state of my blog) so I took all of 5 seconds to do this. It took me longer to get the cap off the marker than it did to draw it.

And because I'm like 95% of all other Americans I felt bad about his face and then felt bad about feeling bad and then decided to drink a beer or 7 and eat really bad tacos and have long detailed conversations with really nice bloggers that may or may not have called me out unfollowing them on Twitter. So here is a portrayal of my night last night as a whole.

You're very welcome.

Feel free to click on them to see them enlarged. I don't suggest it. And yes, I'm so available for parties.








Oh, you know it's a total curse being this talented.


Edited: Oh and I have no idea why my husband appears to have lost his ears overnight.


EDITED AGAIN: To tell you about the coolest hackers, EVER! I want them to come to my house for dinner. As long as they don't eat brains or me.

Crazyman Jones Gets Slapped In The Face... Heartache Ensues

Today my son came home from daycare with a big handprint on his face. And I knew he would.

I got an email at 3:00 in the afternoon saying that the accident happened. And in my heart, I truly know it was an accident. I know that truly she was playing airplane with the kids and that my son, without looking, ran into her hand. I know this.

I know this because when I speak with this woman I connect with her. I see her beautiful son and daughter and I know she is kind and not angry. I can sense her spirit. I know how happy my son is to go there every single day. He loves being there, he never cries when I drop him off. She welcomes me to come by at any time and with today's incident she filled out a report that she is filing with the state.

I went to school with her husband and most of the other parents that take their kids there. Her house is meticulous and clean. She bakes cookies for the holidays and serves my son homemade food every day. He is loved there and cared for.

But I ask you, if you picked up your child from daycare and he had a handprint on his face. What feelings would course through your body?

Because I can tell you... Regardless of what I know in my heart, my foot thought long and hard about meeting with her ass.