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?"

Becoming Mrs. Booms, Act One

It was early Autumn, 1996. I had just crossed over into that great beyond that lies past childhood. I wasn't quite an adult. I could no longer live with my parents simply because bitch slapping those who gave you life is considered insulting or just down right rude.

I was stumbling around in the world, trying to find my place. Trying to act like a big person, mostly just clinging onto that youth that I never really had to begin with. I had been forced to grow up way too fast and now I just didn't want to be a grown up at all.

I had already forsaken college and had moved on to cosmetology school, which with just one short month in, I already knew it was a big mistake. Just like nursing, this wasn't my field. Mostly because touching other people was, to put it simply, for other people to do. Not me.

That leap, that jump to this school was going to be the thing that changed my entire life. I would only spend roughly three months there, but my life would never be the same. The thing about "beauty school" is that unless you've got a wide gap between it and your high school years, there isn't a lot of difference. Except this time? Your entire class is just. bitchy. girls.

That's it. We had one dude. One, lonely yet lucky, lucky dude. I spent the first two-weeks hanging with the only girl who pushed the nerdy envelope in the class. And, to put it mildly, she was dull. So very dull. I actually concentrated on braiding hair in that time. Which, by the way, I can't do worth a shit. It was the worst way to start the schooling. However, when we got to updo's, guess who won every class competition.

Me, bitches, me. Now, shut up or I'll stab you with a hair pin.

During those quiet two weeks, if I had known, if only I had known, I would have slept more.

Soon, the mean, rough girls that were loud and obnoxious could no longer be avoided. They were going to drag me into their world and there was not a damn thing I could do about it. The truth of the matter was, they had no idea what they were doing. Inviting me into their little world, would only invite them out.

The three of us were trouble. Their names were Summer and Shay. Summer and Shay had never, ever been mistaken for nice girls in their entire lives. I was still commonly mistaken for one in those days. Okay, the jig is up, I still am... ssssh.

After the first glitter covered club night with those two, I don't remember one more thing about school. But, as you might have guessed, not one of the three of us ended up licensed.

Class time was spent giggling and doodling. Playing with hair and whispering about things we had done the night before. It was a giant slumber party that my parents were paying for. My hair changed colors more than I changed my underwear, you know, when I wore it.

Shay had a steady that wasn't so steady and Summer was already on her second boyfriend since I'd met her. Little did I know at the time, that both of Summer's men would play a part in my life. The first one, RJ, didn't last long. But let me put this out there for you to ponder. RJ was in the Army. At the time, he of course, had a roomie. That roomie would later become my ex-husband. And later? RJ would share a house with my current husband. And yet? He had nothing to do with my meeting them, because you see. I never met, as my daughter calls him, Uncle RJ when he was dating Summer.

Summer then started dating someone new. Someone different.

Every day she'd come into class with a story about her new beau. How cute he was, how great he was. Our evenings were spent in her parent's basement, which honestly, was bigger than any of the houses I had ever lived in. We put in her new boyfriend's mix tape and giggle some more and dance. And she would get very serious and say, "If he knew I was letting you listen to this, he'd be so mad." Why would be mad? Probably because he was just a fledgling DJ. Spinning records on his friend's deck, in his one room basement apartment.

When I listened to those tapes, I listened. I mean, I really, really, listened. I don't know why. I still don't know why I hung on her every word when she talked about him. But I did. And with every word, with every song, with every beat I fell in love.

I had never seen his face. I had never heard his voice. I had never touched his hand.

Then it happened.

Summer and I had spent the afternoon shopping (her mostly lifting) and getting ready to head out for what would be the very first party in a warehouse I would ever attend. I was going to a rave, kids. First stop, however, was to pick him up.

We drove her convertible Mustang down to the part of town that I lived in when my mom was a single mother and roaches were our roommates. We parked behind the building, walked through the crumbled lot, through the basement door that didn't close all the way, we passed the washers and dryers and knocked on his door.

It opened. She said, "This is Jason".

I kid you not, this is what really happened.

My eyes met his.

And, my heart dropped into my stomach, and my stomach dropped into my shoes.

The she said, "And this is Mike." I tore my gaze away from those blue eyes to meet more blue eyes, in a heavily freckled face.

I hated Mike. HATED. HIM. So what did I do? I ended up dating him. So not worth your time. Or mine for that matter. All the way to the party, in the backseat of that Mustang, Mike annoyed the holy living hell out of me.

When we got to the party, Summer said "This is James."

Six months later, Mike would cheat on me.

A year after that, James and I would be married.

Jason? Well...

All I can say is that I must have been emitting some toxic pheromones that night.

To be continued...

BoomTube, Episode Four, I don't remember the links at this point...

So I don't remember all the links I promised at this point but I will watch and THEN remember, because I'm mostly awesome like that.

Also? The audio in this video might not be safe for mixed company such as your young children or your cubicle neighbor. Uh, or your mother in law.

Or Ms. Manners.



So uh, the links.

Let's try this.

And the other link I will put up when we launch the design and prepare for the design giveaway.

I hate giveaways, but this IS my own business, so you know.

Anything else I promised in the video, I'll post tomorrow. When I am sober.

Love,
Betsey

Look at me, I'm pimping myself out. But I've been mouthy so now I have to go take care of business and bitch slap myself.

I mean, not that I promote violence of any kind, but seriously? Have you ever had to deal with me?

Perhaps you've noticed that I haven't been around as much lately. My posts are fewer and my comments are even worse off. Or, perhaps you haven't because you never really cared about me to begin with and have simply been toying with my emotions.

In which case, you are a little hussy, aren't you?

I'll forgive you, just buy me something nice.

Oh, wow, looks like I've lead you right up to the point where we discuss buying nice things. And, where I tell you what I've been up to.

About two weeks ago, I contacted another blogger because I totally loved her blog and as Mr. Booms said, "it was big time". And, then he told me that I needed a big time looking blog design too. When I asked if she could help me out, she let me know that she kind of rigged her own blog but didn't feel comfy rigging others.

I frowned, I was sad. I totally understood. And, my normal blog designer is so busy now, not to mention pulling in the big bucks, so I didn't feel right asking her, nor do I have a budget for such things. So I set off on a journey to make myself over.

And I did. A couple different times already.

And then, once I did that, I thought, you know, that wasn't so very hard but that's because I know like some caveman level code, but I know a lot of other people don't. So then, I did this. She just let me pimp her blog out, pretty much anyway my heart desired within her tastes. When that was so well received, I did this. He wanted dark and blasphemous.

Those were simple, free blog templates that I just remixed a little to suit the blogger's personality and wants. Then I expanded and I did this. She wanted hockey and girly.

Again, totally well received. So I went on and did this. She didn't know what she wanted, but I think this is pretty awesome.

Those were not free templates. While they were composed of free elements, I basically scrapped and remixed their blogs for them.

The awesome part? I love doing this.

I know custom designs are big bucks these days. I know code isn't the easiest of puzzles to figure out.

So if you need a little help with yours for an extremely low price, please just let me know. You can email me at BetseyboomsAtGmailDOTcom. I'll be happy to give you quote for a customized blog design of your own.

Come on, you know you wanna.

Subtlety Was Never My Strong Suit And Do I Have Excess Spit Or What?

As I promised, here is video of me awkward talking. Things you might notice in this video:
1) You can see the really cool combination of flat and fuzzy that my hair takes on when I've been standing out in the misty rain because my car wouldn't start.

2) I seem to have some kind of a salivating problem because I swallow an awful lot.

3) I just said swallow an awful lot.

4) I'm obviously NOT a hipster. Mostly, because I drive a foreign four-door sedan and then because there is a car seat in the back seat. Also? I only drink PBR when it's a dollar at the local bar. Oh and I hate righteous microbrews and look horrible in skinny pants. I do wear Chuck Taylors but I've done that since I was 14. My hair is never artfully messy and if I look glazed over it's because I might not be very bright. Bleach has evidently done something to my brains and made my insides a dark, dark place. And that's okay.

It's okay because I don't act righteous and then go around getting all up in everyone's face and making comments about how hateful people below the Mason Dixon line are. I love my Southern buddies. Also? I don't go around telling people how awesome I am and exactly why they should pay me, nor do I keep everyone else to a standard I can't seem to maintain myself. Oh and I talk about finger banging so you know, it's got to be interesting at least.

It's Not Hobo Humping, It's Flank Steak, Subs and Naked Time

For some unexplained reason, my husband wanted to eat a sub sandwich naked today. Actually, I can totally explain, so excuse my lying ways. He wanted to have sex while eating a sub sandwich.

Look, I'm not saying anything here he didn't already allude to on Twitter.

The thing is, I'm all about eating a sandwich while getting it on. You know how people are always all, "strawberries and whip cream"? I've always been more of the, "throw a steak on his chest and let's get this thing done!" kind of girl. Which seems maybe just a little weird, but I'm married to a man who wants to do it with a 6 inch on wheat in his hand. So your opinion of weird might not jive with mine.

I met him at the sub place for lunch and because I wasn't wearing a skirt today and we were in broad daylight, I couldn't swing the naked time. Not even partially naked but as we sat down to eat, I took my first bite and said, with my mouth full, "This? Would be sooo much better with your penis in me."

He was completely not amused.

And then? We went and bought flank steak.

And then? He almost hit a professional baseball player with his car while yelling at him out the window.

It was close to the best lunch ever.

Oh, and I have to go the whole weekend without making even one hobo joke. I feel myself getting ready to explode already.


PS - Now I have a post it on my monitor that just says "MEAT" on it so I don't forget to take home the meat. People are looking at me weird in my office.

PPS - Weirder than usual.

I'm Pretty Sure The Only Reason I Still Have A Job Is Because I Change Light Bulbs

I have this tendency to send emails out to my office where I say pretty much everything in the subject line and then finish in the body of the email. And then when I'm going back through my emails I start to think I'm nuts because I'm just looking at the body of the email and not the subject line.

I read things like (And I swear, I really sent all of these out company wide):

"Head over!"

"There is a huge, bubbling difference between dishwasher soap and dish soap."

"He is running late this morning and will be in shortly. Shortly and probably angry.
He’s like that."

"This guy looks like a total tool. I’m easily amused"

"Thanks, all my fresh-breathed homies"

"Dig in and smear away."

"Really, corn is delicious and kind of nutritious, but splendid?"

"For those of you who have not done this yet? I know who you are, I will hunt you down. Or throw something at you. I swear I will, don’t make me."

I'm not really sure why I still have a job. Mostly, I think it's because I say shit like this. However, if my emails are ever part of the review process I'm totally fucked.

Updated: I've Been Laying Low

I don't post for days and then I do and when I do, I cover you all in my roller coaster of emotions that is me.

As most of you know, I am the mother to two beautiful, healthy children. I am also the mother of a dead child.

With the recent deaths of babies circulating around the blogosphere, I haven't said a word. Mostly because I didn't realize just how raw my insides still were until it happened. I read the first sentence of any post lately and I burst into tears.

I can't equate the pain of losing a child to anything else. When it happened to me I felt like my insides and been yanked out and shoved back in, but not in the right places and I was just supposed to wake up the next morning with all of this weird, twisted madness inside me and make it all work.

And it didn't. It didn't work.

And I felt selfish for being so eaten alive about someone who held such a short window in my whole life. But it was my whole life.

If you read nothing else today besides this mess, then you are missing out on the best thing I've read in a very long time.

Simply put...

Thank you, Maggie.

Thanks for remembering for me.


**Update: I just wanted to take a moment to thank all of you from the bottom of my bruised soul for the amazing comments and emails I've received. I am a huge wuss. I know this. I know how selfish I've been with trying so desperately to ignore the current atmosphere of Twitter and blogville. I know this too. I like to imagine these things don't happen to other people. I like to pretend it's only Jason and I that shoulder these horrid things. Unfortunately, it's just not true. I also know that the support you are lending to these families is going a long way in the weird combination of dark and bright days that will be their recovery. Thank you.

Now if you don't mind, all of this "feeling" is killing me and I need to go on calling people douchebags again before I remember how fragile and almost human I am.

I Don't Know, Why Did I Call You A Douche? Opening Day Part 2

Beer in hand, Jason looked at me with a glimmer in his eye. I see the same glimmer in my son's eye, usually right before he guns his ball into my face. I shook my head at Jason. Don't you dare, just don't even.

He looked at me, looked at his beer, looked at Jeter. I think I saw fear in the eyes of our Yankee seat neighbors. Jason conceded. Jeter missed the Bud Light blood bath. Settling into our seats, Jason started yelling at Andy Pettite instead. "Cheater! You're a cheater!" Our mild mannered, Nebraska born seat mates looked shocked. I apologized again.

But soon, Johnny Damon was up to bat. I jumped up out of my seat, "How does it feel to shave your face for the devil, Johnny?" At that, the Yankees fans laughed at me and looked proud that Yankees have to be clean cut. I looked proud about my taunt.

The seat neighbors to the other side of us got up to head over to the party deck. We called my sister and told them to head over to the seats. More beer and jalapeno laden nachos magically appeared. My sister and I scrambled for the jalapenos and took huge scoops of something they claim is cheese. I say it's delicious. When the peno's and most of the cheese was gone, we passed them back to the guys.

Before we knew it, the party deck goers came back. So we decided to roam the stadium. We checked out the kid's park, with their mini-soft pretzels. We marveled at the carousel and then jumped up and down on the soft material surrounding the jungle gym.

Soon we found our way to the outside of the new bar. But how to get in? Simply enough, I ducked under the rope. I was still half dangle-crouching under the rope when the cop grabbed my arm. He insisted we had to use the front entrance. However, he had a back and he had to turn it towards me eventually. When he did, I made my move, right in front of the bar employee, my sister and I swooped under the rope. Of course, my sister and her fiance know someone at the bar, right? Then Jason made his way under the rope. The only person left was Kurt, my future-bro-inlaw. Being over 6'5", it wasn't so easy to get him past the cop's backside.

A little finagling and the promise of phone numbers that belong to eighteen year old cheerleaders my sister coaches and soon the 19-year old bar employee was releasing the rope for Kurt.

We are all standing around, loud, drinking, being hilarious and suddenly these words are leaving my mouth, "that guy looks like a complete douche." Next thing I know the douche as has turned around and asked, "What did she just say?"

*This is where I have to stop and tell you this. We are obviously serious fans. When girls come to the games wearing mini-skirts, halters and stilettos, my sister and I laugh, hard. Because have you seen those girls navigate the stands? Right. They look at the games as magical husband finding land. The guy who just walked near me? Looking for those girls. I saw his hair before.... on Simon LeBon in 1986. His pink polo shirt and it's popped collar peeked out from beneath a brown blazer. No one had told this guy, he was at a baseball game.*

He looks at Jason and DanTim, who we had just met, "Did she just call me a douche?" Jason replies, "Why yes sir, I think she did!" He looks at me, "Why did you call me that?" I cannot help it, I laugh, "I don't know, why would I do that?" I look at my beer (you asshole beer). The guy still looks shocked, "No, really, why?" "Uh, actually I was talking to your shirt." He looks at Jason, "What?" "I think she's saying, your pink shirt and brown jacket belong to some douche that is at a baseball game." DanTim steps behind Jason, ready to back him up and defend him against douche shirt and Simon LeBon's hair. Simon Douche looks at Jason, looks at me, shrugs and moves on.

I don't think he knew. Good thing I told him.

At this point? I could regale you with the names of local sports celebrities that we came in contact with, but it would mean nothing if you don't live in KC. We watched the post game show, doing our best to distract the on-camera talent. And we did. Taking pictures with every part of the stadium that would stand still, we soon realized we were the last people in the stadium that didn't work there. On our way out, I realized I didn't have my camera. Back to the outfield side we raced, Jason coercing our way back into the bar, no cop to dodge this time, I made my staggering way to the bathroom to find my camera, that was no doubt, sitting on the counter. All of our Yankee hating memories sitting within that camera.



Out of the bathroom I came, camera in hand (because who would want to lose this gem?). Jason asked if it was in the bathroom, "Sure" I nodded. Out to the car we went to head to the neighborhood bar for beers and a Nacho pulling competition.

It was on the way to the bar that I revealed the camera had been in my pocket the whole time.

It's probably best to end it by telling you that I passed out talking to my mom at our kitchen table and got up to a doggy bag of nachos for breakfast and salsa all over the second jersey I wore that comprised my 6 layers of shirts for game day.

I'm An Asshole And It ACTUALLY Is News To Me

A little over a week ago I swore I would never guest post again. And I meant that. Because it's done not much more than bite me in my fat ass. But, then I was asked and of course I did.

I was asked to do another blog review and here's the thing about those reviews. They tear me up inside. Evidently, I'm way too kind of a person to love tearing someone a new asshole.

This time around, I wanted to love the blog. And when I clicked over and saw that the reviewee was sarcastic and funny I thought I went to freaking heaven.

Not so much.

In the course of reading every single post on her blog I discovered that not only did she liken Democrats to child molesters, but she nary went a day without making fun of overweight people.

She was coarse and shallow. She's spoiled and rotten.

And fuck!

I liked her.

Do I truly like her? No, probably not. I just don't give a big enough shit about how I look, what I wear or what anyone around me is wearing. I don't think calling people fat is a fucking riot nor am I concerned when said fatty wears a bikini.

I don't think that making fun of your Asian manicurist's grasp on the English language is funny because, hell, can you speak her language? Like at all? No? Right, she speaks two languages and you are making fun of her.

You are an ass.

So, at first I was torn up because I laid into her and called her a spoiled twat.

Which I stand by.

Wholeheartedly.

But then? Then I kept reading and reading and reading. I read the whole fucking thing.

And I liked her.

And that tore me up inside even more.

I would have a beer with this broad.

Because, evidently, I'm an asshole.

And Then Just Like That, 22 Years Vanished

As I turned to look into our dining room, I saw him sitting there. The radio on. Like a little old man he listened.

Slightly hunched over, his pen went to work, scribbling stats and scores. I laughed as I looked and I saw what he would be in 30 years.

Then? Then he tipped the bill of his hat back and scratched the top of his head in that way. That way that makes my heart melt. The way that is only second to the move where he rubs his eyes when he's tired.

In that moment, 22 years shed away and my heart nearly split in two as I saw him as a little boy. A little boy listening to baseball. A little boy writing down swings and hits. A little boy doing what he loved.

And then he picked up his beer and took a drink and I was propelled back to the here and now.

With that? I turned back to my zombie movie and my own beer.

Time travel wreaks havoc on my heart.

My Best Review Yet...

Posted anonymously, G. has this to say:

Yes god please die. Your value doesn't even amount to a urinal filled with drunk's piss. If life was fair, you would simply hang yourself from the nearest lamp post instead of blogging, you inbred banjo-pickin' hillbilly.

In the meantime keep typing. Maybe, someday, you'll randomly type something semi-intelligent.

Was this post a conclusion or simply the place where you got tired of thinking? Well, you're certainly thoughtless; I just wish that you were keyboard-less, too.


Fantastic! I hope you got the attention you wanted. Thanks for your well thought out and crafted note.

I'll cherish it always.

PS - If by chance you get one from me? Uh, it wasn't from me, we've got a hack in the works.

Please Joaquin, Don't Hurt 'Em!

Sometimes people don't listen when you warn through awesome artwork.


But I said it and he ignored it:



And then this happened.

All I can say is that I'm a little psychic. Also? Where was his shiv?

UPDATED! My Car and Wednesday Conspired Against Me - Jerkoids!

Last night my husband came upstairs and said, "You know you are going to end up on one of those shows on the I.D. channel because you killed me, right?"




PS - Last night at the end of my work day, I sat in my car, put the key in the ignition and all I got was the middle finger and a heavily Japanese accented voice that said, "Fuck You!"

I yelled back, "This wouldn't happen if you were a fucking robot."

Jason picked up my prescription on his way home.





PPS - Seriously - I've been told this might not be entirely clear. Let me clarify:

My husband thinks I should kill him. Or that I'm going to, I'm not sure which. He yelled something else about life insurance.

My car wouldn't start. I'm not sure how that wasn't clear when I said it gave me the finger and talked to me.

If it was a robot it might do the same things but it would take me where I wanted to go. It's a car robot, it has too.

Meds people. The crying, they help the crying.

Why do I feel like I will have to explain this again?

Robots And Why They Are Awesome

Awesome Disclaimer: I am going to abuse the word awesome today like Sean Penn abuses the cool asshole stereotype. I will use the word awesome so many times you will never want to read the word awesome or excitable variations like kickass or even just good again, you will however, want a freaking badass robot and you will never question just why a robot MIGHT be cool. Swear it.

Oh and I might be exaggerating.


Today is going to be a breathtaking 78 degrees. I love March in the Midwest. With the words of, gasp, sunshine and warm air still clinging to my local meteorologists lips, I sprung into action.

Crazyman was going to rock his mega kickass robot shirt and plaid shorts today. When I pointed out what was on his shirt, he screamed "Bot!" with glee and off he toddled to show his dad, who was in the shower, his awesome Bot-wear.

Poking his head out of the shower, Jason looks at me frankly and then uttered six words I NEVER thought I would hear, "What is so cool about robots?"

I actually gagged. He did not just say that. No way in hell. Oh but he did. I was all, "seriously, did you not grow up in the 80's?" And this conversation should have ended with, "Mork and Mindy totally did a robot episode and that = awesome. End of discussion."

And really it would have because he would just look a me like, "how did I not notice you getting drunk this early in the day?" But I was deeply disturbed by this sudden awareness of how NOT AWESOME my husband thought robots were.

I started to explain how when we were kids we completely thought robots would be ruling the world right now. We would just be able to be all, "Robot Jeeves, do my laundry. Rosie, make my breakfast. R2D2 make me a drink!" Robots would alert us to "Danger, Danger!" Our cars would be robots and we could just sit and listen to the entire 'Violator' CD on our way to work while sipping some drink from the future we don't even know about yet and it would all be good. And when things happened, like that Mustang that didn't see that traffic was entirely stopped and put the skid on his brakes so scary hard that the car in front of him had to move to the shoulder to avoid getting his ass end handed to him, that would not be my problem. It would be Rhonda the Honda's problem.

It's all so obvious right?

Jason just looked at me, shut the shower door and said, "I'm a robot." And that's when I said, "You totally would be a robot, they are devoid of all emotion. Oh except anger. They feel anger and then turn on the humans and REALLY take over the world in awesome hateful ways. Hello Matrix, right? Terminator??? " And I may have been wrong on that, but ssssshhhhh. It doesn't matter.

In the end, unless a robot has a vagina he totally doesn't care. Or boobs. Robot boobs.

I'm Totally Freakhogging Out Over Here

My sister just texted me to find out exactly what it is about her niece that prompted my "Oh Gawd, Not Puberty!" freak out.

And in texting back my response I T9'd the word 'freaking'.

My response was this:

I am freaking out. And why was freakhog a word in my phone but freaking was not?

She had the same issue and my English teacher sister told me she was not even aware that freakhog is a word. Are we the last people to realize that freaking isn't a word but FREAKHOG is? Apparently so, because the Urban Dictionary totally has already worked it's magic and made it real. The first definition looking very much like one my sister and I may or may not have created.

1.	freakhog
	Perhaps the finest word ever invented by a cell phone. While trying to write freaking on my phone in its t9word mode, I was blessed with this fine nugget. There were no options, just freakhog. Sorry I didn't call you earlier, I've been so freakhog busy.
2.	freakhog
	verb, noun. 1. to throw a major tantrum, usually unjustified. To spazz out in anger without violence, but with verbal aggression. 2. someone who is "freakhogging" can also be referred to as a "freakhog". Dad, don't freakhog on me. I apologize; my father is being a freakhog.

Which is ironic because I was being a complete spazzmatic freakhog about puberty. Monkey could be all, "My mom is such a freakhog." I also would have called it a "wolf nugget" and not a "fine nugget", but whatever.

My sharpie and drawing hand are getting an itchy trigger finger. I feel "The Adventures of Freakhog" coming on. Please know Freakhog will have some other weapon other than my tired-ass shiv. He may or may not be on a mission for the church of LL Cool Jesus. You have to wait to find out. Just when I thought I was uninspired, in stepped FREAKHOG!

Also? I think that Joaquin's name may be changed to J.F.H. Phoenix. That's what I picture a freakhog to look like.

Illustrations to come.

When Mr. T's Unhappy Customers' Wrath Falls Like a Hammer, What Will You Do?

PS, I just realized that they probably won't scratch out George Foreman's face as much as they will photo shop a mohawk and gold chains onto him.

I bet no one will buy it though. I mean come on, George Foreman can't even say "I pity the fool that doesn't buy my grill" with a straight face. And this from a man who named all his kids George.

Who are you to judge Mr. T, George? Just who do you think you are?

This Isn't The Best Post In The World, It's Just The Tribute

In a flash of brilliance I opened my eyes. The most amazingly funny post was soaring around inside my mind.

It swept and swooped and wound itself into an afghan blanket of creativity, humor and heart. When I typed it, flames would shoot from my fingertips and angels would sing.

I would be the Black Sabbath of the blogging world. I would rock blogging arenas like The Rolling Stones or U2.

The Superbowl half time show would never be the same. It would be creative readings of my blog set to marching bands and compilation rock bands that Dave Grohl would be the drummer of. The drummer for all of them, because that is what Dave Grohl does.

After all the fame hit, I'd eventually wear out and they'd have to bring in a new front blogger to take over the reigns. I would have to get hair plugs and extensions. The leather pants would never fit me the same and I would have developed a drug problem and would be in and out of rehab, sometimes not wearing underwear under my skirt, sometimes I'd simply be found naked in a wood pile in some strangers back yard.

But after years of drifting in and out of the spotlight, I'd make a glorious come back and my mind would heal, even if my body didn't and I'd be waddling around like Ozzy Osbourne. I'd have an extremely funny reality show that showed the craziness of my life but that behind all the glitz, glamour and shame I was just a person!

I'M JUST A PERSON YOU MOTHER FUCKERS!

Um, but then, my son woke up screaming at 3:35 this morning and I had visions of him covered in puke from having the same bug as his sister. I could actually see him upset and trying to clean himself, in a full blown panic.

Turns out, that wasn't the case, he had his blanket wrapped around his head and was all tangled up.

So this isn't the best post in the world, it's just a tribute because now? I can't remember that shit.

But when I think about the bits and pieces I do remember? It was stupid as hell.

I Feel Weird...

Recently I've realized that I've been feeling really strange. Some of you might call it "manic" and still some of you may have referred to the fact that I might be "cracking the fuck up."

Whatever. You guys can be so mean.

But truly, I have been feeling weird and suddenly as I was driving back to my office from lunch with Jason today, it hit me.

I was sitting behind the wheel and I was all, "Wait, what is that? Is that what I think it is? Is that happiness? Yes, Yes, I think it is."

When I laugh, I'm feeling it on the inside rather than just laughing because it's what I'm supposed to do.

Suddenly it feels like there is life inside of me again. I don't feel like the soft underbelly of a raw nerve ending.

I feel alive.

And, I haven't felt this way in nearly 4 years. Not since Jadon died.

Much to my husband's chagrin, we suddenly remembered why everyone used to say that I reminded them of Dharma or Dharma reminded them of me, and let it be said that Jason is definitely the Greg to my Dharma.

So what appears to be me cracking up, is actually the first time I've been "normal" in so very long.

To celebrate this feeling, I have put together the BEST DRAWING EVER!

That's right, I went there.



Say it with me now! TADOW!

The Measure of a Friend

So a friend of mine, who shall remain nameless, is getting married in Las Vegas this summer. And given the kind of crowd that she runs with, I then wondered, to myself and on her wedding blog, how many of her guests would leave without one/all of the following:

1) VD
2) A drinking problem
3) A gambling problem
4) A dead hooker in their suitcase

And it was at that moment that I realized the perfect gift. I would indeed, as a gift to her, take that dead whore 200 miles out in the desert and bury it as her wedding gift. Because I am that kind of friend.

You know what else I would do? I would take something totally rockin' like Teen Wolf (and Teen Wolf Too) and devote an entire year of my life to the cause if, you for some reason, recently discovered that the universe was calling to you and sending you obvious signs that this was indeed the Year of Teen Wolf.

I would also drive a made mafia boss around in the trunk of my car and when me, Robert DeNiro and Joe Pesci hear thumping in the trunk, I'll pull over so that they can stab him and shoot him repeatedly before we dig yet another hole for the body adding extra inches for his hair-do.

Additionally, I'm such a kick ass friend I would even go looking for a sunken pirate ship that was manned by a pirate named One-eyed Willy, while being chased by Joe Pantoliano because that guy is always a schumck but somehow we love him anyway. And I would even help you glue the penis on your mom's statue of David on upside down just so Josh Brolin and his sweatband could make fun of us and tell us we'd piss in our eye.

If for some reason you accidentally snorted heroin instead of coke, then I would also drive you over to Eric Stoltz's house, even when he called me an asshole and told me not to call there. I'd give you the adrenaline shot and even listen to your dumb jokes.

Also? I'd fight vampire strippers in a Mexican strip club with you. I'm down.

There are numerous movie plots I'd live out for you. Some Scorsese, some Spielberg, Tarantino and even a little Hughes that I didn't even mention.

So tell me... what is the measure of a good friend to you?