Addressing Envelopes - It's Like Rocket Science, Only Harder

The fact that "a" should be "an" is not
lost on me. But I liked the message
here, so I went with it. Don't hate.

I just realized that the oldest spawn does NOT know how to address an envelope. That's right. I was in the middle of sitting down to start addressing envelopes for her graduation announcements and I'm all like, fuck this shit - when I graduated high school, my mom made me address the envelopes and lick to seal each and every one.

Lick to seal. Heh. That's what he said!

Anyway... so, I printed out a mailing list and gave a stack of envelopes to the spawn...

Me: Here. You get to have the honor of addressing these envelopes.

Spawn: Addressing? What do you mean?

Me: Uhm. What I mean, is that you need to WRITE ADDRESSES on these mofos so we can put them in the mail.

Spawn: Can't we just print them?

Me: No. I looked up proper graduation announcement etiquette on google... and all those goody-too-shoo beyotches say you have to hand write them.  So, get on it.  You want gifts?  Then you gotta do it right...Because I don't give a shit.

Spawn: Ok. Fine.

* 2 minutes later *

Spawn: Moooooom!

Me: There's no way you're done already.

Spawn: Where does the address go?

Me: You're kidding, right?

Spawn: Uhm. No.  It goes right here, right? <pointing to top left corner where the fucking RETURN address goes>

Me: No. That's where YOUR address goes.

Spawn: I have to put MY address on these? I thought I was going by your list??

Me: Am I on candid camera again? <looking around the room very sure that Hubber hid a camera somewhere>

Spawn: Moooom... I'm serious.

Me: WTF do they teach you in school?!  How do you have all A's?!  You are the epitome of everything that is wrong with our education system!

Spawn: We don't MAIL letters at school, Mom. We E-MAIL. And, text. Duh.

Me: Shoot me, now.

Then, I proceeded to tell her the City, State and zip go on the third line after she ruined the first envelope. AND there's a comma after the CITY!  For safe measure, I went ahead and printed return address labels. It was either that or punch Hubber in the throat.

Hubber: Why do you want to punch ME in the throat? I'm not in charge of etiquette up in here. As a matter of fact, I am probably the LEAST qualified etiquette expert in this family.

Me: My point exactly! I can't do everything!  Your children should know how to address envelopes!  What about all those thank-you cards I've made her write throughout the years?

Hubber: Well, in her defense, YOU always address all the envelopes.

Me: So, it's MY fault your kids are dumb?!

Hubber: Uhm. I'll be right back... gotta pee <he says as he's shutting and LOCKING the bathroom door>

Then, the sounds of machine guns can be heard through the door.

Me: You're not peeing! You're playing games in there!

Anyway... so, if you're one of the lucky people on our mailing list and your address looks all jacked up on the envelope, THIS is why.

And, on a totally related note - feel free to send money for my booze fund.  It's dwindling.

The Crazy Cat Lady Dream

The youngest spawn is always asking me what I want to be when I grown up.  As if a) I'm not already grown; and b) she doesn't think I'm anything in particular already. We have discussed the possibility of my being an opera singer, an artist, and/or an airline pilot (so she can FINALLY get to ride on a plane - she's so deprived, y'all)... but all that stuff requires years of training, dedication and skill.  None of which I currently have nor have energy left to gain.

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a lawyer, so I went to a high school that catered to preparing students for careers in law enforcement and criminal justice.  As it turned out, lawyer-ing didn't quite interest me.  So, I turned to law enforcement and thought maybe I'd like to be a crime scene investigator... but when I discovered that all the physical shit required of police officers was far beyond my capabilities, I nixed that idea, too.

So, I went to college for a bazillion and sixty-three years and changed my career path at least once a year before I settled on an english major - mechanical engineering (NO)... psychology (NO)... fine arts (NO)... teaching (NO)... business (NO),,, criminal justice again (still NO).... and I can't remember what else.

But here I am, still floundering without a clear path to who I'm going to be when I finally grow up.  I'll be forty years old in a few months, so I figure I'm pretty much screwed.  There is only one obvious path left for me to take:

Me: I think I'll be a "Crazy Cat Lady" when I grow up.
...complete with moo-moos, wiry hair, and lots 'n lots o' cats!

Hubber: A crazy cat lady, huh?

Me: Yep.  Finally!  I have something to aspire to!

Hubber: I would say you've been well on your way to CRAZY for the last 10 years. At least. Now, all you need is for me to die so you can get a shit ton of cats.

Me: Why do you have to die first?

Hubber: First of all, I hate cats. Second of all, Crazy Cat Ladies live ALONE with their cats. So, unless you plan on giving all THIS up <pointing to his body parts and all around the house>, you'll have to wait until I die and your children move out.

Me: Well, shit.  You really know how to bust a girl's aspiration bubble, don't you?

Hubber: It's my goal in life.

Me: But, it's my life's calling!  How could you take that away from me?!

Hubber: If you'd like, I'll just move out into the Minnie Winnie and you three girls can be crazy cat ladies all together!

Youngest Spawn:  YES!  I wanna be a cat lady!!  I love cats!! I want a bazillion kitties!

Ugh.

So much for MY dreams.

Bed Sheets and Spiders

It really is a mystery how Hubber and I have been able to sleep in the same bed for the past 13 years given the fact that we are not compatible sleepmates. He likes his bed made like a military drill sergeant - and he likes to sleep in it that way, too; with all the corners and edges tucked in under the damn mattress, he'll stuff himself into bed like a sardine.  I, on the other hand, like FLUFF and disorder.  I like pillows everywhere, and blankets and sheets untucked so that that my feet can breathe and whatnot.

Me: NORMAL people only tuck in the fitted sheet, Hubber...because that's what it's meant for... fitting to the mattress.  The flat sheet isn't supposed to be tucked under the mattress! It's supposed to lay FLAT on top!

Hubber: How do YOU know what NORMAL people do?

Me: I'm being serious right now. DO NOT tuck my side of the bed in where my feet go.  They can't breathe when you do that!  They'll suffocate! Why do you insist on torturing me this way!?

Hubber: First of all, feet don't breathe.  Second of all, if you're so interested in NOT suffocating, why do you sleep with your damn nose under the blankets?  All I see is the top of your head.  It's creepy.

Me: I leave airholes up around my nose.

Hubber: That's the dumbest thing you've said all day.

We've had this argument at least 10 times a month over the course of our marriage.  It varies in that sometimes I'm the one calling HIM dumb. But really, we've never really found common ground where the placement of bedding is concerned.  When he's feeling extra nice, though, he'll just tuck in his side of the bed and leave mine alone.  I feel extra love for the man when he does that. But, last night was NOT one of those nights.

There I was, 2 hours into REM sleep, dreaming about unicorns, beaches and hunky football boys when the bedroom light is switched on.

Me: WHAT THE F-....!?

Hubber: <angrily shoving the sheets under the mattress> You untucked my sheets with all your tossing around!

Me: So you turn on the fucking light? While I'm dead asleep?

Hubber: Yes.

Me: Have you lost your damn mind?!

Hubber: I can't sleep without my feet tucked in! What if spiders crawl in from under the bed?!

Me: <stupified> I hate you right now.

Hubber: Not more than I hate you, you spider loving wench!

The man clearly has issues.

Since when is Women's Size XXL equivalent to a fucking US Size 10?

I never used to have a problem shopping for clothes online - that is until the sizing charts got all fucked up.  Take for instance this cute top from Rosegal.com:

...only size available is Large.  Darn.  Although I'm mostly wearing XL or XXL in regular size clothes... sometimes I can fit into a Large if it's made just right.  Sometimes.  So, I check out the sizing chart, and I find this:

First of all, let's dissect the "Product Info" size chart.  After getting pissed off that I had to do math to understand what the fuck any of it means, I finally succeeded in converting that shit into inches and measuring my "bust" to realize, that the the XL would probably fit if they had one in stock. Which they do not. Of course.

Then, I couldn't help but see they've provided their "Women's Wear" sizing chart for all their other products on this page.  I can only assume that they've put it here to confuse the shit out of shoppers who can't figure out what size they are and why this chart is different from the "Product Info" chart.  And, since when is an XXL equivalent to a fucking US Size 10?  Don't we have enough insecure women in the world already? Do we really need for size-10-women to start thinking they are extra EXTRA large?!  What the fuck is wrong with these retailers?!

Also, I normally buy XXL clothing... and if I hadn't carefully reviewed this totally asshole-y size chart prior to purchasing, I woulda flipped my shit when my XXL blouse came in and it didn't fucking fit!  I'd be all like: well, shit, I guess I'm really NOT extra EXTRA large... I guess I must be a fucking whale!

Bitches.

But, the fun doesn't stop there, y'all.  Oh, no.  There's much more assholery going on in the retail world.  Take, for instance, those condescending bitches at Chicos.com (where the old ladies shop).  I found this skirt that I thought I had to have:

It's got crocheted accents... it's cute, flowy, and best of all... has an elastic waist band!  So, I clicked around searching for the size chart because they like to confuse the old women who shop there with fancy low numbered sizes.  But, I will not be taken by this tom-foolery.

C'mon, now.  Did they really think that by calling a size 18 a "3.5" or "L" instead, it would really make me feel skinnier?  Do they really think it's helpful for old ladies' self esteem to only have size options between 000-4.5?  Or, maybe they think the older women get, the stupider they get and can't possibly remember what their REAL fucking size is?

That's probably it.

Anyway -- needless to say, I got myself all worked up in my quest for fair sizing charts that I didn't end up buying shit.

This Summer Was a Bust!

As this summer draws to a close and I cheer that school will be back in session soon, I realize that we didn't really do shit this summer.  Usually we take a "family vacation" to somewhere.  Disney. Destin. Colorado. Somewhere!  But, nada this year.

No pina coloadas pool side.  No running around with mouse ear hats.  No trekking up mountainsides. No zipping down roller-coasters. Nothing.

Instead, we worked.  And, I chauffeured.  A lot.  I blame myself, though. It started with my constant nagging to the oldest spawn.  Nag, nag, nag.  I was all about "get your ass out there and find work!" and, "hell no, I'm not buying you those expensive ass jeans!" and, "how can you sleep until noon?!" and, "if you're not going to get a job that PAYS money, you will work for ME for FREE!"

It's that last nag that did me in, I guess. Because, what did she do? She got two damn jobs.  And, she has no car and no driver's license. (She failed driver's education.)

So, there's that.

Then, there's the youngest spawn.  That heifer is up in my face on a daily basis.  From the moment she was conceived, she's given me grief.  Horrible pregnancy, death-defying child birth, terrible 2's, 3's and 4's, not to mention the constant jabbering.  The girl cannot keep her mouth shut to save her life.

Littlest Spawn:  I've got a lot on my mind, Momma... I've got to get it out!

Me: No you don't.  Keep that shit in and save it for your Dad!

But, no matter what I tell her, she can't be quiet.  Even when she's alone and there's no one to talk to, she's busy running her mouth - singing songs, talking to people on the tv and whatnot.

So, when the opportunity to ship her off for a week presented itself, we were all over that shit!  She was invited to spend a week in Florida with one of her friends.  We let her go under one condition: that she call/text home at least 3 times a day.  She agreed.  So, we bought the little heifer a phone (after vowing that she wouldn't get one for another 2 years), loaded her up with swimsuits, sunscreen, bug spray and toothpaste, and sent her on her way!

Day 1 - she texted twice and called once.
Day 2 - I texted her three times and she replied with one-word answers:

• My Text: Hi, babycakes...what's shakin'?
• Her Text: nuthin
• My Text: How's it going?  What are you doing?
• Her Text: good. having fun. gotta go.

It was enough to want to rip my eyes out.  My kid is thousands of miles away and she doesn't even miss us?! WTF?!  Turns out, I missed the little monster.  Whodda thunk?

Day 3 - she called once, after not replying to 2 of my text messages.
Day 4 - I called and texted her all fucking day and she didn't reply until that evening with a "good night" phone call.
Day 5 - I called her.. I called her friend... I called her friend's mother... none of them were responding.  Where was my baby?  Was she ok?  Did something happen?  Something must have happened! I'm on the verge of sending Hubber down there to pick that lil heifer up and bring her home when my phone rings.

Littlest Spawn: Hi, Momma!  I had a great day!  We went to the beach and to the pool and I met a lot of new friends!
Me: Why didn't you get in touch with me all day? We had a deal. THREE times a day!
Littlest Spawn: Sorry!  I forgot!  But, I'm fine.  I'll do better tomorrow.  I promise.
Me: Fine.

But, she didn't do any better.  Day 6 and 7 were the same.  My stomach was in knots the entire week.  And, I'm pretty sure I pulled most the hair out on the right side of my head.  My sanity was worse off during that one week that she was gone than in all the other 12 weeks of summer combined!

The moral of the story is this:

Even though your kid gets on your last nerves with all their yammering, begging , whining, and simply just being... you will miss their snotty nosed asses when they're gone.

So, although my summer was a bust, I learned an important lesson: If my kids are going to have a fun summer vacation, it's going to be with me. We will either all go, or none of us will go and we will all suffer through a non-vacation together.

Being Absent

**Caution: this entry will NOT make you laugh.  Don't read if seriousness ain't your thang.**

I've been absent for months now.  Absent in mind.  Absent in spirit.  That's why I've been absent from my blog.  I miss it, yes.  But, I don't have anything to say.  Or maybe I do.

Or...

Maybe I don't.

You know that commercial about depression?  The one that talks about how "depression hurts".  That ain't a lie, y'all.  It hurts your brain.  It hurts your body.  But more than anything, it breaks your spirit.  And, it catches you off guard.

For me, it comes in waves.  One morning, I get out of bed feeling refreshed and ready to start my day - the next morning, I feel a heavy weight pushing against me as I struggle to swing my legs over the side of the bed and push myself upright.  If it weren't for my obligations as a mother and wife, I may not have been able to make it out of bed on those bad days.

Gotta make sure the girls get off to school.
Gotta make sure the dog goes out.
Gotta make sure there's dinner.
Gotta make sure there's gas in the car.
Gotta go to work.
Gotta return calls.
Gotta get the girls to dance class... to troop meetings... to work.

It's all normal, everyday stuff, I understand.  I'm smart, I know this... but I'm also a little mental.

It's not every day that I feel blue... but when it strikes, it's hard to snap out of it.

And, there's no trigger for the sadness.  It could be that my pants are too tight.... it could be that we ran out of milk... it could be a song on the radio... it could be the youngest spawn's high-water pants... it could be just as simple as having to step outside.  Or, it could be nothing at all.

The solution is easy, they say.  Go to the doctor.  Get some exercise.  Change your diet.  Blah blah blah.  But, it's not easy in my brain.  My brain says it's easier to deal with the waves.  It's easier to try to ignore it.  It's easier to just be left alone.  It's easier to put on a face for the sake of others.  It's easier to force myself to navigate through a "normal" day.

But it's not easier. It's just what I do.  It's just what I tell myself.

Given this mental crap that's consumed me lately... I will say that my family have been troopers!  Hubber gives me my space...he loves me unconditionally all the time.  The littlest spawn continues to baffle me with her charm and wit... she keeps me on the ball.  The oldest spawn melts my heart with her smile...she encourages me with her own strengths and youthfulness. They are my world, and I am theirs.  And, as Mother's Day approaches, I am thankful for them and for what they unknowingly do every day to keep me sane and present - especially on those days when I feel most absent.

Being Merry and Gay - It's Not Just For People With Holiday Spirit!

I try my best to avoid uncomfortable conversations with my kids.  I used to have a knack for changing the subject -- like pointing and shouting "LOOK, there's a monkey wearing pink pajamas over there!"  But, here lately, my brain doesn't seem to churn as quickly as it used to. 

Tiny Spawn: Momma, what does "gay" mean?

Me: Uhm.  Why?

Tiny Spawn: Just tell me.  I'm 7, I can handle it. 

Tiny Spawn: It depends on how it's used.  If you heard it in a Christmas song, it probably means "happy" or "joyful".

Tiny Spawn: At school, Devon said " you know there's a bad word for 'wife'?  and Jay said, "oh yeah, you mean 'gay'?"  and Kenny said, "yeah, Devon is gay!".... and we all laughed because Devon isn't even a girl... how can he be a wife?  But if "gay" means happy, then why is it a bad word?

<Hubber makes a bee-line to the bathroom>

Me: Well, it's NOT a bad word.  And, I think all of y'all are confused and don't know what the heck y'all are talking about!

Tiny Spawn:  That's why I'm asking you what "gay" means.  Duh.

Me: Ugh.  Well, sometimes gay means that instead of falling in love with someone opposite of you, you fall in love with someone who is the same as you -- like two women fall in love and get married, or two men fall in love and get married -- instead of a man and woman getting married.

Tiny Spawn: Oh!  Well, I guess I'm not gay then, because I'm gonna marry a RICH MAN when I grown up!

Me: Right on, sista. 

This kid makes me so proud.  Just when I think a conversation with her is going to hell and that the dreaded "sex talk" is eminent, she pulls some really smart shit outta her hat and impresses me.  She's gonna "marry a rich man"??  That's enough to bring a tear to any momma's eye.

Pigs are really super cute... but they're also yummy!

I've been a large gal most of my life.  And, y'all know at least once a year I go on my "this-is-it-I'ma-get-skinny-no-more-bullshitting" kicks where I go on diets (or stupid "lifestyle changes") and preach about how THIS time I'ma be SERIOUS about this shit.  Sure, I might lose weight... but then I quit because all that dieting shit is just too fucking hard to keep up with while maintaining a sane and happy disposition.

I think everyone prefers me sane and happy.

That being said, I've tried lots of different diets, y'all.  But never once have I gone on a diet that didn't allow me to eat meat.  Ever.  Why? Because, I'm a carnivore, people!  I need to feed my face with meat even if I know it might sit undigested in my belly for weeks.  I don't give a damn.  That's what they make detoxes and shit for.

Turns out, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree (duh).

This is the conversation that went down the other day as the littlest spawn was chowing down on some leftover Thanksgiving ham...

Spawn:  Momma... I forgot to tell you that the other day at school, we learned about how all the meat we eat used to be real live animals.

Me: That's right.

Spawn: When Cinna (that's actually some kid's name) found out that her burger used to be a cow she freaked out and said she was going to become a vegetarian.

Me: She's a weirdo.

Spawn:  I know, right? I love hamburgers!  Turns out cows taste great.  By the way, guess what I'm eating right now?

Me:  A piggie?

Spawn: Yeah!  Pigs are really super cute, but they're also yummy.  I just have to eat 'em all up!

Me: Amen, sista.

I mean, seriously, y'all... it's the circle of life.  Didn't grass have to die to feed the cows?  Didn't truffles have to die to feed the pigs?  You think that shit doesn't have feelings just because it has no face.  I can tell you right now that plants have feelings.  I know this because plants hate my sister.  Anytime a plant is anywhere near her, it keels over and dies so it doesn't have to breathe the same air she breathes.  If THAT ain't proof of plant feelings, I don't know what is!

We Can't All Be Angels

I'm really not sure how I get myself entwined in social circles that are either: 1) way out of my league, 2) full of batshit crazy douchebags, 3) lesbionic, 4) secret swingers mingling clubs, or 5) all of the above.  But, I do.  And, to my defense, I usually just stumble upon 'em accidentally as I do with much of the shit I write about here.  I can't make this shit up, y'all.  I'm not THAT clever.

So, I've given you a glimpse into what it's like for me in the waiting room at the the littlest spawn's new dance class, right?  Well, come to find out, there's more than just the one church lady in that group of moms.  There are four, to be exact.  (I sure miss the old class...where all the moms were just as fucked up and fabulous as I am.)  The other waiting moms, like me, just sit around and try not to listen to those righteous bitches yammer on about potlucks, homeschooling and bible studies.  I like to catch up on my reading, while the other "normal-ish" type moms like to talk on their phones, pretend to be busy checking emails/texts or plaster their noses up against the window into the dance studio.

But, you can't NOT hear what the church ladies are talking about... no matter how hard you try.  I even wore earbuds one day, blasting Dirty Heads, in an effort NOT to hear whatever the fuck they were saying. But, guess what... I still heard most of it.

Anyway... last week they were all excited about what their kids were going to be for Halloween (or All  Soul's Day, as one of them corrected).  From what I can remember, here were some of the costumes planned:

• Mother Teresa
• St. Francis of Assisi
• Laura Ingels (from Little House on the Prairie)
• St. Christopher
• a shepherd
• a vegetable from Veggie Tales

There were others I can't remember now, because my ears started bleeding as I tried not to listen.  Here's what my kid was for Halloween:

Hey.  If we're going to hell anyway, we might as well go down in style!  Amiright? 

Front Butts and Twatties

Four years ago when the littlest spawn was about 3, she walked in on Hubber in his birthday suit.  After he freaked the fuck out and pushed her out of the restroom and locked the door behind her, she scurried on over to me with wide eyes and said, "Daddy's front butt looks like an elephant trunk!"

And so was born the term, "front butt". 

Contrary to popular urban dictionary definitions of "front butt", here it's used to replace the word vajayjay or pooch-pie, or peepeepie or girly junk.  In my home, we embraced the term and learned quickly to throw it around in conversation like it's the most natural thing in the world.  Front butt this... front butt that... front butt wedgies.... you get the gist. 

So, a few days ago when the littlest spawn was talking to her friend about how front butts should be wiped from front to back, she learned something fantastic about front butts.

Littlest Spawn:  Momma, did you know that some people NAME their front butts?

Me: I'm afraid to ask where you're going with this.

Littlest Spawn:  Seriously!  Jackie named hers "Twatty."  Cute, huh?

Me:  Did you just say TWATTY?

Littlest Spawn:  Yeah!  But, that's a baby-ish name.  I think I'll call mine Samantha!

Me:  Oh, no you will not!  We do not name our body parts!  Our body parts are not toys!

Hubber:  <to me> Yours are.  They're my toys.

Me: You're not helping.

Littlest Spawn:  Excuse me, Samantha needs to pee...

If I Had a Nickel...

...for every time someone confused me with someone they actually know WHO IS NOT ME, I'd be a rich ass mofo.

Yesterday one of the new snooty moms at the littlest spawn's dance class kept staring at me, so I smiled and said, "HI!" Although what I really wanted to say was: "What the fuck are you staring at, heifer?  Do I have a zit on my nose?  A booger on my cheek? What?!"

Snooty Mom:  Hi... do I know you from somewhere?

Me:  Hmmm... No, I don't think so.

Snooty Mom:  Yeah, I think I do... what school does your daughter go to?

Me:  Moore... but I'm rarely ever there... so, that can't be it.

Snooty Mom:  Did you go to Baylor?

Me:   Ha!  Nope.  You don't know me.  I just have a familiar face.  I hear it all the time.

Snooty Mom:  Wait!  I know!  You're on the church festival committee!  Or choir?  At Prince of Peace?

Me:  Nope.

Snooty Mom:  But you do go to church?

Me: This feels like an interrogation.  Are you a cop?  I didn't do it! I swear.

This is how many encounters with strangers go for me.  Do I go to church??  HA!  But, being confused for a church lady ain't shit, y'all.  People are always thinking they know me from somewhere. I've been confused for a flight attendant, a circus performer (shut the fuck up), and even a Walmart employee (which isn't all that hard to believe).

Sometimes, my friends even spot one of my evil twins in odd places.  I'll randomly get a text from a friend that reads something like: Are you sitting at a bar in Miami right now? when I'm in bed blowing my nose and reading a trashy novel.  Sometimes I have to check my surroundings to make sure that I am NOT indeed in Miami... or in an airport... or at a blackjack table in Vegas... or wind surfing in Hawaii.  My evil twins get a lot more perks than I do.

And, one time, I had this very old lady walk right up to me, tilt her head and stare holes into my retinas, "you look just like my son's wife - she died of cancer two years ago."  Then, she just walked off.  All I could think was that THAT BITCH JUST GAVE ME OJO!  (for those of you who did not grow up around  Santeria and Mexican voodoo, ojo is the ultimate "evil-eye staring curse" you give people to jinx them for life... it can only be countered by being touched by the person doing the staring)... and that old hag didn't lay one finger on me.  She musta hated her dead daughter-in-law and she is now taking that shit out on innocent look-alikes!

To get that shit overturned, I had to pay $20 to a shady bruja who made me drink chicken blood and sleep with raw eggs in a jar of vinegar under my bed for 3 days.

What if it didn't work? Maybe that pain in the back of my head really IS a tumor!