Emo

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My soon to be 11 year old daughter has turned into a turd.

One minute she is preaching how she is a “pre-teen” and how I am infringing on her “pre-teen” rights. The next she is bawling like a three year old because she has scraped her knee.

It is driving me crazy.

The hormonal tidal wave we are on is rival to Hurricane Katrina. It has a wide path of destruction and deadly consequences.

Today she announced that she was going “Emo” which my husband misunderstood as “Elmo”.

When he inquired as why “Elmo” would be wearing black gloves instead of red, she rolled her eyes and yelled, “GRRRRR” which is the new code for my parents are a bunch of dumb asses.

Next, she proceeded to go through the entire house looking for gloves leaving it ramsacked. She wanted to cut the fingers off of 5 pairs of gloves. When my husband stated “no” and that it would defeat the whole purpose of having the gloves to keep your fingers warm, she rolled her eyes and growled, “GRRRRR.”

Then came out all the mini-skirts, black leggings, and black t-shirts…never mind that is 85 degrees here today.

Apparently “Emo” girls are inpenetrable to the sun and heat…I guess that’s why they are all pasty white.

I figure the only way I can get her out of this phase is to rain on her parade. I decided to go “Emo” myself. I got me some fingerless gloves and am gonna start wearing them around the house and in front of her friends.

When she asks me a question, I’m only gonna answer, “GRRRRRR.”

I will look so killer mopping the kitchen floor in my mini-skirt and leggings.

Is killer even an “Emo” word? Like, Valley Girl was SOOOO much easier.

We should be on to our next phase in a couple of days.

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Summer Heels and Southern Grace

My husband informed me today that I need to go out and buy some of those new strappy heels that ALL the gals are wearing. Since I wasn’t so sure what kind of heels he had in mind, I ask him to get online to give me an idea.

After a few minutes, he came up with this..

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Oh, really? I guess all the women of Hooterville are now wearing glass heels to the local IGA. 

I think I will pass on these…at least out in public.

I did find these for Rico…

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 I think he will approve.

I will use these with caution as I was wearing kitten heels this week to a funeral and fell right out into the floor in the Cafe Bonin. AND to top it off, I was wearing a dress…and a thong. Rico did not mention that the whole restaurant saw my poochie poochie until after we left…and then he laughed.

He is still sleeping with one eye open.

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It’s just that simple

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Well, I’m back.

Sorta.

I know my writing has been sporadic for the past few weeks… 

However, Rico gave me some blogging fodder this past week that I can no longer keep under wraps.

We were milling around the house and I mentioned to him that my side was cramping and he assumed I was getting ready to start my period.

Since having a partial hysterectomy in August, it’s rarely crossed my mind and I can honestly say I don’t miss it one damn bit. I do still have my ovaries, therefore, the hormones rage once a month and I become a little more…ahem, “spirited” than usual.

Rico then states that he read an article in GQ or Maxim or some other men’s magazine filled with 18 year old, zero body fat, stupid whores that there was an email service that would notify men as to when their wives Aunt Flo would be coming for a visit.

I was perplexed. Why would he want an email reminder of when I’m having my period? It’s not like I’m gonna get pregnant nor am I more psychotic than usual during this time of the month.

He replied, “It’s so men can be reminded not to do anything stupid that week.”

“Well, that’s a great idea,” I say, “Do you think you can just get them to send you an email every freakin’ morning and that would eliminate all our damn problems?

He’s checking on it.

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Clearly someone was overpaid

I went to my doctor the other day to try to find a new treatment plan to get my Crohn’s disease under some type of manageable situation. They decided I needed to try this new medication and seeing as I see no other alternative, I said O.K.

We talked about how the new drug would be administered and the potential side effects. They gave me this nice little binder with all kinds of pertinent information for me to read at my leisure.

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When I got home I got out the said binder to find out more about this new treatment. I started finding out how I was more at risk for all types side effects like multiple sclerosis, lymphoma, deadly infections…hell, I’d be surprised if I didn’t grow a third nipple. Wouldn’t that make Rico a happy man.

Upon more investigation into said binder, I discovered a card. And the discovery of this card makes me wonder what kind of moron gets paid to develop this kind of nonsense.

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Because seriously, if I have to use the bathroom that bad…do you honestly think I am gonna have time to fish that thing out of my purse and have time for a person to read it?

Morons.

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Why I’m so much fun

Because I have Crohn’s disease, I have to have a colonoscopy every two years and sometimes sooner. Most people think colonoscopy’s are horrible but they really aren’t that bad. It’s the 24 to 48 hours prior to the procedure that are unpleasant. And by unpleasant I mean drinking horrible tasting concoctions and crapping yourself to death enough to rival dysentery.

The procedure, however, is a piece of cake. You get a new pair of tread socks, a open in the back hospital gown to flash other patients, a warm blanket and a plethora of pharmaceuticals to make you feel like you’ve drank a whole magnum of Dom Perignon.

I highly recommend it.

The down side to these pharmaceuticals is that they make you forget everything…even things that happened 5 seconds ago. You also lose all filters on your mouth which means that the diarrhea you had 24 hours ago now becomes diarrhea of the mouth.

A couple of years ago my mom took me for a colonoscopy. The procedure was late in the day and I had only had clear liquids the day before. All I could think about was food. Mass quantities of food. Burrito’s…White Castle…Wendy’s Double Cheeseburgers…Pizza. I was so hungry.

Before the test I gave my mother explicit details on finding food ASAP. I didn’t care what it was as long as it was grease and it was quick.

So, the procedure went off with a hitch except that due to the large amount of inflammation in my bowel they had to give me a couple extra doses of anesthesia…which meant that I was higher than a Georgia pine when I woke up. Mom managed to get me dressed and I somehow I acted sane enough for them to release me to go home. We made it to the car and all I can do is harp about how hungry I was and how if I didn’t eat fast I was sure to die of the rickets.

Mom dutifully finds the quickest fast food she can find. A truck stop gas station with a Taco Bell inside.

I walk into the Bell and order two Burrito Supremes and a Nacho Bellgrande and tell the lady to make it fast. The place was loaded with truck drivers, numerous interstate travelers and a host of truck stop hookers. Mom and I stood out like a turd in the punch bowl.

Now seeing as the medicine they gave me left me with a good case of amnesia, I had to be redirected like a two year old every five seconds. The lady at the counter gave me an empty cup for the self serv drink machine, told me where to go and I walk five steps to then turn around and hold the cup up in the air and say loudly, “What the hell am I supposed to do with this empty cup?”

Mom is starting to get embarrassed. People are starting to look at me like I’m some kind of mental case out for a day trip.

I went along my business as I couldn’t remember 5 seconds ago…my poor mother.

Then, just as the place was getting crowded to incapacity, I turn and yell to my mother,

“WHO PUT MY CLOTHES ON? I WAS NAKED…WHO PUT MY CLOTHES ON?

My mother then sheepishly made me get my burritos and go home. I still can’t remember what the hell I did with the hot sauce.

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Leave it to a friend

Yesterday I spent the day drinking two quarts of Gatorade mixed with two bottles of Miralax. On top of that, I threw in four Dulcolax tablets just for the hell of it.

You can imagine how that ended.

We can send a man to the moon but we can’t invent a better way to prep the bowel for a colonoscopy.

Needless to say, I didn’t leave the house.

My partner in crime, Farm Chick sent me this article to make sure I stayed safe.

TAIPEI (Reuters) – A Taiwanese man became a sitting target for a snake, which bit his penis as sat on the toilet at his rural home, local media reported on Monday.

“As soon as he sat down, he suddenly felt a knife-like pain and reacted instinctively by standing up,” the China Times said. “When he looked down, he saw the big snake.”

The 51-year-old man, from Nantou County, was under medical care with minor injuries, a director at Puli Christian Hospital said.

“As soon as he has passed the risk of infection, he can go,” the director, who declined to be named, said. “A snake’s mouth isn’t always clean.”

Local television images showed the black and yellow reptile, reportedly a species of rat snake, being uncoiled and plucked slowly from the toilet bowl.

Snakes regularly enter rural homes in Taiwan and other sub-tropical regions of Asia.

(Reporting by Ralph Jennings; Editing by Nick Macfie and Miral Fahmy)

Seriously, like I’m not paranoid enough about snakes? I spent the next 12 hours sitting on the toilet, constantly looking in the bowl for some poisonous snake to crawl up my pipes…

Thank you Farm Chick for making my day just a little more pleasant.

6 Comments so far

Motherhood

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It’s the day after Mother’s Day.

The flowers are starting to die. The cards are thrown all over the living room floor with the juice cups and Pop Tart crumbs. We are back to running the daily grind of Motherhood for another 365 days until our next day of praise.

When I decided to become a mother 10 years ago, the life I have now is certainly not the life I had pictured. No one really prepares you for the reality of it. I mean, it is wonderful at times but the simple truth of it is, it sucks the majority of the time.

No one sits you down and really lays it on the line. There’s no one on one discussions about how you may not sleep an entire night for nearly three years or that your child will not be like those cookie cutter kids your friends have. You know the ones, the ones whose hair is always perfect and they never get dirty? Or the ones who never throw a temper tantrum? Or doesn’t have problems in school? Or always gets along with the other kids?

And even if they had told me all of this, would I had listened? Probably not, all I could think about was fat, dimpled baby cheeks that smelled like baby lotion. AWWWHHH!!!

I definetly wasn’t thinking of colicky babies and soured formula.

Motherhood was an adjustment for me.

I was used to doing as I pleased, when I pleased, where I pleased. I think it’s a problem a lot of women of my generation have with motherhood. We grow up, go to college, start a career, get married. Then after we have somewhat found ourselves and gotten used to our independence, we throw a baby in the mix and expect things to be the same. Well, it’s never the same. NEVER!!

My mother and her generation tended to marry and have children when they were younger, found careers after the children were older, moved the children out to college and then start lives of their own. I think that isn’t such a bad idea. How can you miss something you’ve never experienced?

Not that I regret having my children when I was older because I believe I was a lot more patient, more financially stable, more grounded. However, I will be 53 when my youngest leaves for college. I wonder will I still have anything left for me? Or will I be so exhausted by the daily grind of motherhood that I will take to the bed and sleep for the next 20 years?

I have a feeling at that point I will be so intertwined in my children’s life that I won’t be able to cut the apron strings and let them go. I’ve always said that I won’t be one of the “empty nest” mother’s but I probably will be eating those words. For one thing, Ella will more than likely still be sleeping in our bed and Rachel will refuse to move out.

Even though Motherhood literally drives me crazy on a daily basis and I question my sanity frequently, I don’t know who I am anymore without them.

Maybe that’s what Motherhood is all about.

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Scenes from Hooterville

(A new segment of Redneck Americana, Scenes of Hooterville, when a picture really is worth a thousand words.)

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Things I have learned from being a mother

1. Sandboxes and Playdough are the root of all evil.

2. Children can find a mudhole in the Sahara.

3. A clean house is an impossible feat.

4. Macaroni and cheese with a hot dog is a nutritious meal.

5. Kids who eat hot dogs and drink Kool-Aid are 99% more likely to vomit during the night.

6. Other peoples children are lovely until they pick on your children.

7. Nothing is worse than when someone intentionally hurts your child’s feelings.

8. When you are having a bad day at work, your children will make sure you have a hell of a night at home to make you realize work isn’t so bad.

9. Drying bubble gum in the dryer is not a good idea…EVER.

10. Children have the inability to keep anything secret.

11. At age 8, a child knows you’re lying when you tell them Walmart is closed for repairs and painting.

12. At age 9, a child knows you’re  breaking the law when you drive over 55 MPH.

13. 911 does not think it’s funny when your child calls them and tells them their mommy is gonna “jerk a knot in their tail.”

14. Never returning to the Dollar Store in a neighboring county after a major tantrum from a three year old is a good idea.

15. Children love their mommies unconditionally.

Thank you Rachel and Ella for being the joy’s of my life.

Mom

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Don’t send flowers yet

Wipe that smile off your face. I’m not dead yet. They had the cotton out and ready to stuff me from my rooter to my tooter but I’m holding on. Besides, the local funeral home doesn’t use MAC make-up so I have to save my demise until they get it in stock. I’ll have to look my best, “natural” as they say, cause I guarantee there will be plenty of people to show up to make sure I’m good and dead.
The IRS will definetly be there and I’m expecting a nice floral dollar sign wreath from them assholes.
I will be back at ‘em in a few days.
If not, you may send your condolences to the local funeral home.

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