No! Wire! Hangers!

No! Wire! Hangers!


All parent/child relationships hold a certain level of dysfunction. Some, much more than others. And my relationship with my mother falls in the latter category.

Most people don’t understand it.They don’t get how someone cam speak ill against their mother. “She’s still your mother!”, is something I hear pretty often. And they’re correct. She is still my mother. But not all mothers always play the part. Breeding doesn’t automatically promote you to sainthood. And just because you give birth to a human being, doesn’t mean you get a free pass when you fuck up.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love my mother. We love each other. But we have the most toxic relationship in either of our lives. The simple fact of the matter is that we just do not get along and never have, not even when I was a child. As much as she is to blame, though, so am I. We both play crucial roles in our relationship together. For a long time, I didn’t understand that. I made her out to be this villain in my head and myself the victim. And for a time, I truly hated her. But after a little growing up and realizing that I was just as much to blame, that stopped.

Like the story I told yesterday of how I called her from school to ask if she would bring me in a tampon and instead of pulling me out of class to give me one, she put the whole box on my desk for everyone to see and laugh at. What I didn’t mention is how I made her leave work, which wasn’t an easy thing to do for her at the time, even though I could have just gone to the school nurse and gotten one myself but was too embarrassed.

Then there’s the story I always rub in her face of when she was driving me to work when I was 16 and she literally pushed me out of the car and left me on the curb to walk the rest of the 7 or so miles in the heart of the summer during a heat wave making me late to work because I put a Tori Amos CD on. But, in all honesty, she turned off the CD at least 4 times and warned me if I put it on again, she was making me walk. So, what did I do? I laughed in her face and pushed play. And so, I walked.

My punishments were always pretty severe. I was confined to my room and not allowed to have anything, and I mean anything other than my bed, sheets, furniture, clothing, and school books. No TV, no phone, no CD’s, no radio. And forget going out. I wasn’t even allowed to keep posters on my walls. Nothing. Many times, I didn’t deserve all that, like when I would get a C on my report card. But many times I did, like when I stole her car and drove 3 of my friends to the Jersey shore with no license.

There are endless stories I could tell which would give someone only one conclusion and that is of her being completely, 100% Crazy. But, there are plenty of stories she could tell the world of the hell I put her through as a teenager, as well. We have a love/hate relationship, equally. We know that and it’s how we choose to proceed.

To me, there is nothing worse than someone who makes themselves out to be a victim. Please. Fucking spare me the melodrama. Everyone is a victim once in a while. But when drama is constantly following you around, chances are, it’s not everyone around you and, in fact, you. It’s the common denominator, simple math. The relationship with my mother is just that. We are both to blame. She is Crazy and I am the product of Crazy.

Still, I will continue to push her buttons and she will continue to needle at me. I will continue to tell people who ask what she looks like that she has horns growing out of the top of her head , a red tail, and carries a pitchfork or that she wears cold cream on her face, a navy blue robe, and carries a wire hanger. And she will continue to be overly critical of my parenting, rely on her “selective memory” (funny how many factual things she completely “doesn’t remember”), and feed on my insecurities.

But, she is my mother. I could call her up right now and tell her that I needed help and she would be here. She’d be giving me a 45 minute lecture on how at 26 years old, I shouldn’t need help, and this is because I dyed my hair so many fluorescent colors, and she told me so! I should have graduated college, and while she’s on the subject, I owe her $17K for the education I completely pissed away just to become a T-Shirt making blogger, for the love of God!…

But, she’d still be here.

That’s how we roll.

“Feeling lucky punk? Oh, good!” *

“Feeling lucky punk? Oh, good!” *

I received a bunch of emails yesterday from people asking me to recommend some music to them (new or old) so they can update their iPods. And so, since I suck at responding to emails, I’m going to post a few (and I stress a few, since posting everything I think you should own would make for the world’s longest entry ever) albums that I love. Most of you know I’m pretty biased to music of the punk persuasion, but I really don’t feel like you have to be into punk to appreciate any of them. And they’re not all punk, anyway. So, there. If you don’t already have these, trust me, you’re totally missing out.

1.) The Clash – London Calling: Viva La Clash. Like you didn’t see this one coming. The Clash has been called “The only band that mattered” and while even I think that might be a bit of a stretch, I am in full agreement that the Clash is one of the most important bands ever. In fact, I’m not just recommending London Calling. I’m recommending all their albums. Even Give ‘Em Enough Rope and Black Market Clash. So, there.

2.) Ramones – Ramones: Gabba Gabba Hey, motherfucker. No further explanation needed.

3.) Blondie – Parallel Lines: I heart Blondie. And this is a really, really good album. I hate, and I mean DESPISE, One Way Or Another and Call Me but I heart almost every other Blondie song. A little RSM trivia: Heart Of Glass is the ringtone on my cell, but only because they didn’t have Dreaming (Eat To The Beat album) or Denis (Plastic Letters album) available. And I sing Denis in the shower every single day..

4.) Sigur Ros – Untitled Album: INCREDIBLE fucking band. Untitled #8 (Popplagio) gives me chills every time I hear it.

5.) Pixies – Doolittle: It’s hard to pick an essential Pixies album. But if I have to? This is the one. Hey, Debaser, Monkey Gone To Heaven, La La Love You… seriously, there’s not a bad song on this album.

6.) Pink Floyd – Dark Side: I almost didn’t put this on here because I’m quite convinced there’s no one on earth that doesn’t NOT own this album. Right? … RIGHT?!?!!!

7.) Fleetwood Mac – Rumours: Okay, I take SO MUCH SHIT from almost everyone I know for this. But I DO NOT CARE! This is an incredible album and Stevie Nicks was so unmatched at the time of it’s release. Rhiannon? Gold Dust Woman? Are you kidding me?! Mic Fleetwood is such an intense drummer and Lindsey Buckingham HAS to be one of the single best finger pickers ever. Everything about this album rules. So shut up!

8.) Elvis Costello – My Aim Is True: You have to love Elvis. Just have to. Don’t argue.

9.) Metallica – Kill ‘Em All: Oh my God, tesco is gonna give me so much shit for this but, again, I DON’T CARE! THIS album is probably the single best metal album ever. Anything after Master Of Puppets is PURE SHIT, don’t even bother listening, or you’ll make Cliff Burton roll over in his grave. And you don’t fuck with Cliff Burton. (PS – Fuck you, Lars. YOU should have been the one that died, you big-mouthed pansy rich-bitch.)

10.) Sex Pistols – Nevermind The Bullocks: Duh. You can’t be into punk and not like this album; it’s just impossible.

Okay, that’s 10. And 10 is a good, even number, so I’m stopping there even though there are dozens more I want to add. Feel free to share whatever music you like that you think everyone else is missing out on if they don’t already own.

[Sidenote: I don’t consider these ‘favorites’, I consider them ‘essentials’. And yes, there is a huge difference. And they are my preference, and since I was asked my preference, I’m sharing. So save the unintelligible ‘you’re a white trash asshole fool for hating the stupid fucking Chili Peppers comments’ for someone who cares about the worthless CRAP you listen to… Now, go forth and seek good music.]

*Joe Strummer


I quit smoking… kind of

I quit smoking… kind of

So some of you may recall from my new years resolution post that one of my new years resolutions was to give up smoking using ecigarettes. Having tried sprays, gum and patches in the past only to turn into a narky bitch once my nicotine cravings got bad, I decided there must be a better way. My brother in law gave up smoking in 2014 using an ecigarette and has been preaching about how great they are ever since. When he was over out our house for the holidays I finally cracked and decided that 2015 was going to be the year I quit smoking. The reason I decided to try ecigarettes is that first of all they are 95% safer than regular cigarettes according to the UK government and also because you can slowly taper down the amount of nicotine you get until you are just smoking vapor.

My journey into the world of vaping would be a lot more overwhelming than I could have expected. There are so many options and abbreviations that the first time I started reading about ecigarettes my head started hurting. An ecigarette is made up of three main components: the battery, the atomizer and the tank. It sounds simple but the number of options and variations is insane. For me I wanted to have a vape that could hold the most ejuice (I’ll explain below), had the best battery life and was the least maintenance. Let’s start with the battery:

Batteries for ecigarettes come in a number of different sizes but by far the most popular sizes are the 18650 and the 26650. This is what I mean when I said it was overwhelming for a beginner! These numbers refer to Milliamp Hour or mAh. For people like you and me, all you need to know is that the bigger the number the more charge the battery can hold. From what I could gather around the web, ego make the best vaping batteries on the market.

Tanks which can also be referred to as clearomizers are what hold the eliquid/ejuice. eliquid or ejuice is liquid you put into the tank. This liquid is usually flavored and often contains nicotine, however you can also buy eliquid without nicotine. This is where ecigarettes make quitting smoking easy as you can buy ejuice with different strengths of nicotine so that over time you can taper off. For me I wanted a tank that could hold the most amount of eliquid so that I could carry it around without having to worry about needing to refill the tank. There is a subculture within the vaping community where people carry around their bottles of eliquid and drip a few drops onto the wick of their atomizer (I’ll explain this below) which gives them about 3 puffs before they have to drip again. This craziness is called drippng and as far as I’m concerned “ain’t nobody got time for that”. I asked a lot of people for advice and most people pointed me to this article on the best vape tank and I ultimately decided to go for a tank called the “Aspire Nautilus mini” which I’m told is the most noob friendly tank.

The atomizer is where things really start to get complicated. An atomizer contains a coil that gets heated by the battery. This coil is then surrounded by some kind of wick, usually made from Japanese cotton. The eliquid is dripped onto the wick by the vaper (drpping) or the tank feeds the eliquid onto the wick. The heat from the coil heats up the liquid and this creates the vapor, hence the name ‘vaping’. The number of different coil designs is massive and there is even an entire subreddit detailing all the different coil builds. This is for people interested in dripping though which as a beginner is something you can completely forget about. Most beginner friendly tanks have an atomizer built in with a prebuilt coil so that all the hard work is already done for you.

So did I actually manage to give up? The answer is kind of. I haven’t smoked a regular cigarette since I got my ecigarette in January. I successfully bought a lower strength of ejuice every month to the point where I no longer believe I have a nicotine addiction. I guess the only ‘problem’ for me now is that I’m in love with the thousands of different eliquid flavors available. Cookies, ice cream, pizza, you name it, they have it! I’m telling myself that I’m vaping just for the flavor now but I do think it’s because smoking was a good way to fill the time when waiting for the bus or for my kids to get out of school. Over the next few months I’m going to work on breaking these habits, but overall I would say that my adventure so far has been a success. Even though I still vape regularly, it’s still much much safer than traditional cigarettes.

Life. Not the cereal.

Life. Not the cereal.

Yesterday was a day. You know – a Never Gonna End day. A day that involved juggling two dozen things at once with only two hands (contrary to any other given day when I have more than two hands…) while fifty or so pounds of all things Life related kept weighing me down. A day where you just lean against the shower wall as the water runs down your back and think to yourself, This is the rest of my life. This is as good as it’s ever gonna get.

Of course, it’s not as good as it gets. But when you’re being pulled in every which direction, when everyone keeps asking and expecting things of you , when the girl throws herself down in the middle of the grocery store kicking and screaming because she can’t have a bag of Halloween candy for breakfast and the entire store is glaring at you with that look of ‘God, can’t you control that kid?’ and the boy is screaming because he doesn’t want to stay in the cart but you can’t let him down to walk or else he’ll tear open every bag of potato chips with his teeth, when all you need is more time and it feels like all you get is less and less, when it feels like every time you try to do the right thing it blows up in your face, it just feels that way.

By the end of dinner last night, my brain felt like it had swollen three times it’s normal size and all I wanted was to lay down in bed, put a pillow over my head, fall asleep, and not wake up until Saturday afternoon. Of course, I couldn’t because there were dishes the be done, children to be bathed and dressed – children who wouldn’t stop smacking and ripping out each other’s hair and then screaming as if they had their flesh ripped from their bones, Halloween decorations that had been pulled out that needed to be put away, invoices that had to be done, 3 piles of unfolded laundry just sitting on my couch laughing at me, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

Finally, I just snapped and spent the rest of the night yelling and snapping at everyone because, Jesus! Five minutes!! Just five minutes where I don’t have to listen to a blood curling shriek or dig play dough out of my carpet!! FIVE FUCKING MINUTES?! WHY IS THAT SO MUCH TO ASK FOR?!?

Of course, you snap, and then everyone looks at you like, Jeeze. Take a deep breath and a shot of Thorazine, woman. And then you feel like a total shit.

After a long, hot shower, a handful of Excedrin, and an hour of the kids being sound asleep in bed, I was feeling mostly better and went in their room to tuck them in. I sat in there for over an hour just watching them sleep, watching their chests rise up and down, wondering what they were dreaming about. Then I realized that someday not too long from now, I won’t be able to do that. Someday, they won’t be here to pierce my eardrums, to throw Legos at my head, to drive me so completely batshit insane that I start to understand why people run their vehicles over bridges. I thought about how much I will miss them, how a home will never be the same without them. And that’s when I realized… this really is as good as it gets.

Baby Steps

Baby Steps

What? Who wrote that last entry trying to make the world believe that I actually like my family once in a while? It surely couldn’t have been me. But, it was. I was having a moment, you know? But I promise never to let it happen again.

I’ve received a ton of emails from people congratulating me and my husband for getting through our rough patch and some others from people asking me how we did it. The truth is, I still wouldn’t say we’ve made it completely through. But, things are considerably better than they were a few months ago.

When I started talking about having issues in our marriage, I kind of blew it off to everyone as a “bad but not dire” situation. I assured everyone that asked that divorce was not in the cards and that I was positive we would make it through it. But I was pretty full of shit. The truth is, I thought about getting a divorce every single minute of every single day for a while. I was sleeping on the sofa bed in my office. I spent most of my evenings on the back deck with my laptop so that I didn’t have to be inside the house, suffocating. While out there, I would look around our yard at all of the kids toys and I would get a lump in my throat thinking about what an impact a divorce would have on them, how much their lives would change. I felt like an asshole and a failure because I felt like I just couldn’t hang in there any longer. It wasn’t selfishness – I couldn’t hang in there because of the children. I never wanted them to know the truth. I did not want them subjected to the nightmare that had become our household any longer. But I knew they would never understand that and that I would always be, to them, the one that just gave up and broke up our family. That feeling damn near killed me.

I never really talked about what happened with us and probably never really will. But because of that, I received a lot of feedback from people, through emails and in person, telling me that I was just a spoiled, selfish brat that needed to suck it up and realize that it’s life, not a movie, and that there never really are any “happy endings”. I took that feedback just as seriously as I did everything else because they were right. I wondered if I was just expecting too much, as I tend to do that in all aspects of my life, and if I was, in the end, really just shadowboxing my way into divorce.

But I decided that I wasn’t. And I still 100% believe that.

FACT: I am selfish.
FACT: I am and always have been a spoiled brat.
FACT: These are not the reasons why my marriage almost ended.

I’m only writing this because he says he is okay with it and I think it’s a crucial piece to the puzzle: Ty is an alcoholic. He was long before I met him. In fact, when I met him, he was sober. He started drinking again a short while after we were together and, because I never knew him the other way, I didn’t consider it to be a big deal. He was fine in the beginning. Then, just like that, he wasn’t. And the chain of events that followed because of this is what almost killed our marriage.

Sure, this isn’t the only problem and I would be a lying fool if I said that I am not responsible for part of the blame. But every other problem in our marriage is just your average marital bullshit that almost every other couple faces. They are just road blocks. They are manageable. His drinking, however, is not.

I do a whole lot of Ty bashing on this site in the name of humor. But the truth is, he’s a really good guy. He is an amazing father and has probably the strongest work ethic out of anyone I’ve ever known in my entire life. He loves me and would do just about anything for me, despite all of my quirks and ridiculous neuroses’ – which is really saying a lot. A LOT. But, he has a temper on him and when he drinks it is magnified 10 fold. I hate to say it because it really is so cliche, but it really is like watching Dr. Jekyll turn into Mr. Hyde. When he drinks, he turns from the man that I married into a complete stranger.

He has been sober for two months now, as of yesterday. Everyone has their demons. God only knows that I do. This is his and he is fighting it. It took me packing his shit up and throwing it at him on our back deck for him to fight it, but he is fighting it and that’s as much as I can ask for right now.

This is why I refuse to jump the gun and say that we’re in the clear, all good. Since the day he quit drinking, life has been a million times better. I feel like I finally have the man that I married back. But, I worry every single day about what is going to happen next. And so, I just try to focus on right now.

And right now, life is good.

(Oh my God, back to the funny tomorrow, I promise.)

Rage Against The Olsen Machine

Rage Against The Olsen Machine

It’s no secret to anyone, especially my husband and our checking account, that I kind of love shopping. What can I say, though? It’s the estrogen. It makes me do it.

Shopping is always a bit of a challenge for me, though (which is probably exactly why I love it). Long gone are the days when I wore nothing but baby doll dresses with Doc Martens. As well are the days where I wore nothing but plaid, zippered bondage pants and fishnet shirts (I’d show you pictures, but I’m pretty sure my mother burnt them all). I like good clothes. I like good labels. But I don’t like looking boring, either. (And, let’s face it, once you go from bondage pants and fishnet shirts, it’s all pretty much boring.) So, it’s not uncommon for me to be seen in a Calvin Klein dress and striped knee highs.

So for that reason, my three favorite stores are Bloomingdales, Urban Outfitters, and Anthropologie. You can never, ever go wrong with anything from Bloomingdales, but it’s pretty easy to look cookie-cutter and boring if you do nothing but shop there. Urban and Anthropologie are great for some trendier/funkier pieces and they’re still really well made. So, it usually works out well for me.

But dude. Seriously. What the fuck is going on lately? I mean, have you been shopping AT ALL? Have you SEEN some of the bullshit that these stores are trying to pass off as fashion? I mean, it’s borderline offensive now.

Let’s take Urban Outfitters, for instance. This:

urbn plaid.jpg
It has to be a joke, right? If it was the only thing that was that hideous, I would think maybe it was just me. But, I’m really thinking that someone is playing a big joke on everybody:

urbn ugly sweaterurbn denim dressurbn ugly dress
I mean…Right?! Someone out there is so sure that the public is so easily persuaded into believing something looks good just because it’s marketed as being in style, that they can get everyone to walk around in this shit in public as they sit back and have a good laugh. I’m convinced.

Anthropologie always has some pretty bizarre pieces. That’s nothing new. But, ummmm, can I please ask what’s with the Mormon-Wear?

anthr mormon dressanth mormon skirtanth mormon shirt
I’d feel like I was supposed to be birthing a dozen kids while sharing Bill Paxton’s bare ass with my other sister wives. But I mean, hey, if that’s you’re thing…

The maternity ward called. They want their Mu-Mu’s back.

Please, I’m begging you guys, DO NOT FALL FOR IT! I’m all for diversity and wearing what makes you feel good no matter what the label or the trend. Fashion really is all about personality. BUT THIS!!! This is all just a big ploy to try to make you look like a clown. And I’m convinced that these freaks are the evil behind it all:


Things I only wish I was kidding about

Things I only wish I was kidding about


I was serious. No V key. And I still have yet to receive an explanation of what happened. All I get was “I have no idea”. From a 33 year old man. “I have no idea.” And somehow, he’s still alive.

There are four things in this house that are MINE and that everyone knows to keep their grubby little hands off: My guitars & equipment, my camera, my peanut butter granola bars, and my laptop. Everything else I own gets destryoed by the clueless husband or the monkey-like children or the smelly dog and I rarely complain. But, he breaks my laptop while I’m out and then tells me he has no idea what happened. He didn’t even have enough sense to blame it on the dog. (Has he learned NOTHING?!)

And if you don’t think that’s enough to justify killing him, please, just take a look at my dining room table:


People! There are 37 bags and 4 boxes of Utz potato chips on my dining room table. Just sitting there. Making a mess. Making us look like disgusting, gluttonous pigs. Making us look like we’re collecting welfare.

So, my husband comes in with some chips in his hands. He says, “While I was working, the Utz guy was unloading these and asked if I wanted some.” Ummm, okay, whatever. Then he goes outside and brings in some more. Then he goes back outside and brings in even more. 4 more trips later, this is what my dining room table looks like. It took me 15 minutes just to be able to form the words to ask him “WHY!?!” because I was so perplexed at the fact that there are 40 bags of chips in my dining room.

His answer, “Well, he was just going to throw them away!”
My response, “Well, WE are just going to throw them away! So what’s the difference?”

I’ve mentioned before that Ty is one of 12 children in his family. He grew up pretty poor and learned to be resourceful and, lucky me!, not waste any food. So, I guess in his head it was somehow wrong to let the Potato Chip Man throw away 40 bags of chips. But, ummmm, dude. DUDE! We do not have 12 children! We are not poor! We don’t even really eat chips! I mean, we’ll have a handful with a sandwich or something, but when I buy a bag, I usually end up throwing it away a third full because they’ve gone stale. And, if in the off chance that one of us decides that we would like some chips and we don’t have any chips, I think it’s safe to say that we can afford to go out and buy a bag. We’re crazy like that!

Who the fuck needs 40 bags of chips? And what the hell am I going to do with them?

I mean, I guess I could take them to a homeless shelter or something like that, where they might actually get eaten. But, hey, thanks honey! Thank you for volunteering me to do charity work! (OMG!!!1 You selfish wh0Re, how can y0u c0mPlain aBouT doiNg ChaRity?!!?!1)(That’s not it, people, it’s the PRINCIPLE.)

I could just be lazy and throw them out. But, I’ve mentioned here before that you actually have to PAY to put your trash out in my township. (No, I’m not kidding.) That means, I’m PAYING to get rid of the FREE chips that my husband so brilliantly decided to bring home.

Are you understanding yet why it’s so amazing that he is still alive?

Stop! Minivan Time! (See? It doesn’t work)

Stop! Minivan Time! (See? It doesn’t work)

The time is coming, my friends: Minivan time. Which is nothing at all like Hammer Time and can’t be danced to – please don’t try.

I’ve written about it here before a few times but I’ve been able to successfully keep putting it off. But it’s getting more and more difficult to do so. When we have Ty’s kids, we have more children than we do seating in the Jeep. 5 passenger seating with 6 passengers, two of whom require clunky car seats = someone getting strapped to the roof. We’ve been able to put it off this long because of the fact that Ty’s pickup has room for 6 passengers, but it is so cramped that even after a 10 minute car ride, we all end up hating each other – more so than usual.

So my options are either a 7 passenger SUV or a minivan. Both are so stereotypically Suburban-Mom, it makes me want to gouge my eyeballs out. Nothing against anyone with a minivan or anything – most of them are really nice and they’re practical and spacious as all hell, I totally understand why anyone, even with 2 kids, has one – it just personally makes me feel… old… or something. Plus, for some reason, it’s really hard for me to part with the Jeep (and I really don’t like the 7 passenger Jeeps at all). It’s the first thing I actually bought all by myself, besides my guitars, and that I’ve had since before Ty and the kids. Memories and nostalgia and all that. I’m sure that it’s mostly just me not wanting to accept the fact that I really am a fucking grown up now. But, I mean, I’ve got to face reality at some point or another, right? And it’s better this than to start wearing light up holiday-themed sweatshirts, right? Right. Smack me for even putting a question mark after that last one.

But, you know, the thing is over 6 years old now and, eventually, driving around with a kid strapped to the roof is going to get me in some hot water. And so, the time is coming. I’m not saying it’s here yet. I’ve got to get myself used to it for a while (another 6 months maybe? a year? 5 years? Hell, if I wait another four years, the oldest will be in college and there will be no need for 6 passenger seating anymore. Hmmm….) . But it is coming.

If have or know of a vehicle with the seating I need that you think might change my mind, feel free to tell me.

A woman named Robin (holla!) emailed me this morning to ask how I like my Jeep. She just got one and said she’s having a hard time adjusting to the size, having driven smaller cars all her life. That’s not my problem at all. In fact, I hate getting in smaller cars now because I feel like I’m riding around in a dune buggy. That being said, if I were to purchase a vehicle right now without having to take the seating thing into consideration, it would be an orange, convertable MINI Cooper, for sure. (I know, Racheal, your retinas are burning out of your skull…)

Think if I write a letter, they’ll manufacture a 6 passenger Mini Cooper?

The resoluting of all the fruitless resolutions

The resoluting of all the fruitless resolutions

Like most people, I find New Year’s Resolutions to be total crap. But, like most people, I make them every year -crap and all- even though every year I tell myself that I won’t buy into it. After all, who the hell does New Year’s think he is? And what, exactly, is the issue here that would require an annual use of the word RESOLUTE. Resolute, after all, is a pretty strong word. One that implies that something or many things need … resoluting. And, quite frankly, I don’t need this shit. Not from you, New Year’s. You can’t change me, I’ll have you know. YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME! The three year old? She’s the boss of me. But you? Not so much.

Still, every year I cave and make up a short list of what I’d like to see happen or accomplish over the next year. It’s not so much of a list than rather a very loose outline of basic, general ideas. Hopeful guidelines, if you will. Basic, general, hopeful guidelines that may or may not be impeccably outline and Roman Numeraled so intensely that it goes from VI. to sub A. to sub 1. to sub a to sub 1a to sub aa.and suddenly you’re all, OHMYGOD! THE ROMAN NUMERAL MADNESS! WHEN WILL IT EVER END?! IT’S LIKE A MATHEMATICAL RUSSIAN DOLL HELL THAT I CAN NOT ESCAPE! THEY JUST KEEP GETTING SMALLER AND SMALLER AND NO MATTER HOW DESPERATELY I LONG TO STOP, I CAN’T BECAUSE I NEED TO SEE HOW MUCH SMALLER THEY CAN GO! DAMN YOU, ROMANS!! NO WONDER YOUR EMPIRE FELL, YOU SADISTIC BASTARDS!! But hey, thanks for inventing that whole plumbing thing. One of the top two requirements of a house in which I will be living is that the toilet must flush and I must be able to bathe with running water (call me picky). So, thanks. That one worked out well for me. Oh! And salami! Who doesn’t love a good salami? But the Roman Numeral system… You’re a sick, cruel people.

Ummmm ? Where? Oh, right. Resoluting. But wait. The Roman Numeral thing. I can’t move on yet. Let me give you an idea of what I’m talking about:

2015 Resolution, V. Stop saying FUCK.
A. Also: Any variation and any form of FUCK: verb, noun, adjective, etc.
1. Fuck, this is going to be hard.
a. See what I mean?
1a. Ehhh, fuck it. Why give up what might be the world’s most perfect word?
a1. Fuck you, you motherfucking fuck.
1aa. See? I feel better already.

I could go on with this all day, really. But I think you get it.

So, the resolutions. I was clearing out some files in Word and I found my New Year’s Resolution List, which was pretty much a dead file by January 3rd, and realized that I have yet to accomplish anything on it. (I’ll save you all the sub categories. You’re welcome.)

I. Stop being so neurotic about cleaning. Haha. I tried. I swear I tried. For all of about an hour. Then I saw a dust bunny under my dining room table and started hyperventilation and, well, yeah. So much for that.
II. Be more patient with my kids. Well, I have moments of patientness. They’re just peppered with aggravating, disgruntling, deranged, holy-shit-I-belong-in-a-rubber-room-wearing-a-straight-jacket moments. So, in my opinion, this one cancels itself out. (Hey, whatever. I make the list? I can make the rules.)
III. Lose the last of the baby weight. Did that. Then I was all, hey, you know, I kind of miss it. Maybe I’ll gain a few back. Then I’ll just stop working out so that it’s extra special irritating-like when I complain about my thighs jiggling.
IV. Stop biting my nails. This one comes and goes. Well, it used to go. But that’s when stress used to come and go. Stress has been a pretty permanent fixture around here these days, so the nail-biting stays.
V. That whole FUCK thing. See above. No need for copy and pasting.
VI. Get more sleep. I average about 3-4 hours a night, if I’m lucky, and have since as long as I can remember. I went to my doctor about it in the beginning of the year and told her, “I’m pretty tired, can you help me out?” and she was all, “You have two kids, right?” and I was all, “Yeah, you want to buy them? I’ll sell ’em to you. Cheap.” and she was all “Join the Tired Mom’s Club and get over it. Now, where’s my Co-Pay?”
VII. Write more. (Blog not included.) Ummmmmm…..
VIII. Be nicer to people. Bwahahahahahaha!
IX. Stop being so hard on myself. Wow. These just get increasingly more unrealistic. You can tell I was totally reaching by this point.
X. Stop romanticizing ways that I could successfully murder my husband and get away with it. This lasted for all of about 4 and a half minutes, when he tracked mud across the freshly scrubbed kitchen floor, looked down and said, “Shit. Sorry. Can you get that?” and kept walking. Yeah, he’s been dead ever since that day. I’ve just been pulling a Weekend At Bernie’s ever since. Haha. Suckers.
XI. Give up Smoking. I have tried to quit smoking more times than I care to remember, but this time I think I may have found a way to effectively quit? What is this magical way you ask? The answer (at least I hope it is) is electronic cigarette or what all the cool kids are calling vaping. You can apprently taper down the nicotine over time until you are just smoking water vapor. I plan on doing a full post about this in May so I can tell you about how well or badly I have done.

So, yeah. This long ass entry has all just been to say that I haven’t stuck to a single resolution this year. Seeing as though it is September and I still have three months to turn everything around, I guess it’s not too late. But, whatever. I’m tired. Fuck it.

(PS: “Resoluting”. It’s scientific.)

Those Who Wore Fanny Packs Shouldn’t Throw Stones!

Those Who Wore Fanny Packs Shouldn’t Throw Stones!

Everyone knows by now that I have a liiiiiiiiitle bit of an obsessive compulsive streak and that it makes me clean a liiiiiiiiitle bit too much. But here’s something you probably don’t know: I’m an incorrigible pack rat. I just HATE getting rid of things. It kills me.

Okay, I’m kind of lying generalizing here. Let me stop lying re-phrase.

I have no problem whatsoever getting rid of MOST things. Those horrid Reeboks (yes, Reeboks) that my husband had since 1990? Goodbye. Obnoxiously loud toys that like to randomly go off in the middle of the night causing me to jump out of my skin for fear that I’m living that bedroom scene from Poltergeist? Hello, Goodwill! Clothes my kids outgrow? I’ve got just short of a billion nieces, nephews, and little cousins; there is no shortage of hand-me-down takers. But when it comes to getting rid of MY things (specifically my clothes, shoes, outerwear, and accessories), forget it; you might as well try to yank a tooth out of my head with a pair of pliers.

But now it has gotten out of control. I just have entirely too much shit with nowhere to put it all. I have a decent sized closet and yet, I’m still taking up space in my husband’s closet and in the kids room. Not to mention the endless number of shoes, belts, and cardigans that I have strewn around my office, because there is not one square inch of space left in my closet. Even I am past the point of being able to rationalize this. It now officially turned from an inconvenient mess of disorganization to the bane of my husband’s existence. My belt collection, so I’ve been told, is slowly killing him. Every single pair of jeans I own, especially the ones I never wear anymore (hello, cargo flares! I miss you!), are like sickle shaped blood cells stabbing him in the veins every time a pair falls out on top of him whenever he tries to find his sneakers.

So, I fully admitted that I have a problem. First step, check. Next, I decided to do something about it and tackle the closet(s). I knew it would be hard, but I seriously had no idea that it would be like going through prescription pill withdraw.

My problem isn’t that I hang onto things in hopes that I will wear it again. I don’t WANT to wear most of these things again (if anyone ever sees me in my baggy skater pants that I wore in ’95 again? SHOOT ME DEAD). The problem is that I’m weird and I hold a lot of nostalgia in my clothing. Like the shirt I was wearing when I got to talk to John Cusack about The Clash, and the ugly mary jane velcro strapped sneakers I had to buy on South Street Halloween night because the 6″ stilettos I wore as a part of my Rocky Horror costume (how original!) were killing me. So getting rid of these things are like getting rid of my memories.

Yes, I know how stupid it sounds. Shut up.

In the end, though, I did it. Well, I didn’t do as well as Ty had hoped, but I did make substantial progress. I have 4 garbage bags ready to be shipped off to Good Will and I can officially fit everything I own in my closet. I have gotten rid of things that I know will haunt me for a long time, like the size zero camouflaged bondage pants with the vinyl straps that I wore every single day when I was in the hospital for anorexia (yes, I realize that I said camo bondage pants, but did you realize that I said size zero? Excuse me while I go cry in my size sevens – and sometimes nines…..sob) and the pleather pants I wore the night I won $100 singing Total Eclipse Of The Heart at a karaoke contest. But, I’m happy to report that the John Cusack shirt is still in residence.

Ty: “You haven’t worn it the entire time I’ve known you, you’ll never wear it again.”
Me: “Yes, I know, but it probably has John Cusack spit on it somewhere. That means you’ll have to pry it from my cold, dead hands.”

The belt made of bullets? Gone. The Meat Is Murder T Shirt that I haven’t worn since I decided that hemp pants were not the fashion of the future and, you know, started eating meat? History. Not one but FOUR babydoll dresses that I got in 1994 to look like Courtney Love but never did because I didn’t have track marks on my face and lipstick on my teeth? Will soon be hanging on a rack of a thrift store somewhere, probably next to a Members Only jacket.

I’m so proud of myself. But Ty has let me know that he is not declaring victory until these bags are sitting in a Good Will dumpster somewhere.

As for you, you’re not allowed to laugh at me and my fashion faux pas because everyone reading this entry at least owned a pair of Hammer Pants (or the equivalent of such a crime).