Too Bizarre For a Title!

Remember when I told you that there was a strange smell in Chicken's bedroom that smelled like pee?
As it turns out, that's because it is pee.

See, what happened was:
Husband got new costumes for his music group, Spacemen and I was trying to get everything organized for the show last night so I put the old costumes & helmets in her room on Wednesday. Thursday morning, the room reeked. I thought it must have been the costumes but I repeatedly asked Chicken if she had an accident which she insisted she did not.
Fast forward to Friday (yesterday), I took the costumes out of the room and the smell didn't follow. She slept at Grammy's and when she came home, it was still a-stankin'! I asked again, she said she did not have an accident. Then she blurted this out: "I peed in a pink tin."

Come again?

Yeah. Apparently, my daughter, always the curious, decided she wanted to see what it would be like to pee in a pink tin (which about the size of a shoe box) so she did. And the pee has been rotting away for just over a week.

One day, when she is dating or perhaps even married, I will tell this strange story of when she peed in a pink tin.

Until then, we're all still peeing in pink tins from laughter of the situation. But we still can't figure out why.

T-Minus 24 Hours & Counting

Tomorrow night, Husband has a VERY! IMPORTANT! SHOW! locally of which I have some VERY! SERIOUS! RESPONSIBILITIES! that I'm not really looking forward to.
And I have a gazillion things to finish tonight before I return to silly monkey job tomorrow. Instead of doing those things, I'm writing. Because it makes me feel better. And I've had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day (like Alexander).
In tune with my procrastination, I will list all of the things I still need to do. I like lists, they make me feel in control. In fact, every Saturday morning, I sit down and make a list of all of the productive things I'm going to do this weekend. Never mind that most of the time, the list is lost, thrown away, folded into a million pieces, used as scrap for Olivia or hidden in the couch cushions.

Here we go:
-Clean the filthy bathroom (total emphasis on "filthy")
-Vacuum half the floor (because I already did one half)
-Mop kitchen
-Finish laundry (one load in the dryer, 4 more to go!)
-Figure out where the pee/fish smell is coming from in Chicken's room (she swears she didn't have an accident. Hrmm.)
-Pack Chicken's clothes (for she will be staying with the Grammy. Don't forget sunscreen.)
-Make a list of things to pack for Chicken
-Iron my vast selection of outfits for tomorrow night (there are 5 different "looks" in the running)
-Fluff pillows (because I like to)

That entire list adds up to a gazillion in my head, ok?

In the spirit of creative writing, I'll tell you a little bit about today. But only a little because you know who's a-lurkin' around here.
I performed stage 2 of a big argument with Husband about nothing, really (we're over it now, in case you were worried). Then I went to work and realized that I continue to surround myself by stupid, useless men and wondered why I stay at a job that I usually find highly unfulfilled. While in a heated debate with myself over that very subject, I remembered that I have dream hours, excellent pay, generous benefits, freedom and flexibility at that silly monkey job and talked myself down the window sill. (It's a good thing, too, I was really going to jump. Except I work in a 1 story building. But I could have scratched myself on the rose bush below.) I proceeded home only to enter into a bigger mess than when I left. So I stormed out to meet my nail appointment. Then I bought two new pairs of shoes. And now I'm happy.

So I shall go do one of those a-gazillion things I keep talking about.

PS-I know I didn't do Wunnerful Word Wednesday but I'm going to, I promise.

It Could Happen To You!

Wouldn't it be funny if:

Your husband had major surgery which nearly killed him 5 years ago?
And left a actual, visible hole in his stomach for 2 years?
Then he had the hole repaired,
And the doctor's office told you insurance never paid for the original surgery?
So you do the right thing and battle with said insurance company for months to get the doctor paid?
Then you don't hear from the doctor's office for 2 more years and naturally assume the bill has been paid,
Until you receive a final collection notice on behalf of the doctor's office threatening to steal then sell your blood unless you pay them $8,000.00?
And when you dispute the collections notice, the collectors call you a deadbeat and hang up?
This all happens when you're about to buy a new house and have spent a year cleaning up your credit?

My Journey

Money cannot buy me happiness.

But money can buy me things.

And I like things.

Interview Meme

Another blog I regularly read is Solo Mom. Go read her. Now. She's funny.
In the meantime, she kindly sent me this interview meme. Enjoy!

If you'd like me to interview you, do this:
1. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me."
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Now onto the good stuff.

1. George W Bush, Demon or Demigod? Why?
It's my opinion that he is too stupid to be a demon, he's a puppet in the "Cheney Show". How we ever elected a president that cannot put two words together is beyond me. (Don't look at me. I didn't vote for him!) I believe we are in a (losing) war that is beyond illegal for money with complete disregard to the thousands (over 3 thousand Americans) of young people who've died for nothing. (I support the troops, just not the people who sent them there.) I could write an entire essay of how this Administration has gone wrong but I wont. At least not today.

2. Who was your very first teen idol crush?
Promise not to laugh? I loved New Kids on the Block, which I know everyone did but I daydreamed about Jonathan Knight (he was known as the ugly one). Something about him was very charming-especially when I had his face plastered on several of my Bedazzled tshirts (complete with MC Hammer pants!!).

3. What is your earliest memory?
I can remember things as early as 2 years old but I see them in my head as snapshots, not as motion memories. I can remember being 2 1/2 years old, living in a seedy apartment in downtown Lake Worth with my mother; she just started dating my step dad when my biological father came over in a rage and kicked in the new TV set. I see that one moving through my head like a still picture show. My first actual, vivid memory is of my 4th birthday party (Strawberry Shortcake themed) and my biological father came from New York to celebrate at my party and he made chocolate cupcakes with white frosting and a sliced strawberries. When I discovered that I would not, in fact, be able to open my presents as they arrived, I threw myself under the bar and graced my guests with one of my famous temper tantrums. And the song that was playing in my head? "It's my party & I'll cry if I want to, cryyy if I want to, cryyy if I want to. You would cry too if it happened to youuuuu." (Seriously)

4. What do you want to be when you grow up?
A mom, always. I'm pretty much living the life I always dreamed of and for that I feel very lucky. During Middle & High school, I wanted to be a lawyer. Mostly because my teachers told me I should be - because I had a big mouth, an argument for everything and I was (am?) very stubborn. I think they used lawyer as code word for "freakin' psycho bitch student". I'm not sure, though.

5. If you could only do one or the other, would you choose to read blogs or write your own?
Great question. I think I'd chose to read blogs because 1) I'm not that narcissistic (oh, who am I kidding-yes I am) and 2) I get so much from reading other's writing and I could always write blogs in my head for myself (I pretty much do that most of the time, anyway). The humor and good sense I receive from other people's blogs is irreplaceable.

My Erin Brockovich Moment

Chicken attends a very small charter school here, which houses just under 150 students in a tiny facility. Our library is shared with the kitchen, faculty bathroom, Dean's office and planning office. We're small but tight; there for one purpose: a better education.
Since 2002, our school has been trying to get the Town to approve site plans for a NEW! BIG! school which will house 18 classrooms, a cafenasium (cafeteria/gymnasium/assembly hall), real library, sports field and many other amenities that we've given up in exchange for higher education (trust me, it's proven well worth it). Last night was the final Town Hall meeting where the Mayor & his peeps would make a decision. Notices were posted all over school this week: "Please support our new school!" "Vote YES to the expansion!", etc. Everyone was given notice but we all knew who would actually show up, many of us were called by the principal, specifically asking us to speak. I was one of them. "Many parents are too intimidated to speak, I knew you wouldn't be. Please talk at the Town meeting on behalf of all the parents." she asked me. I thought, that's a pretty tall order. I'm loud, I'm opinionated and sometimes, well spoken but I can't go in front of the entire municipality, on local TV and beg them to give us the opportunity to build a new school.
Luckily, I had dinner plans. But my dinner plans were cancelled and I participated in an event that is a metamorphosis in my life.
The meeting began at exactly 6:30pm, we arrived in strong numbers, 50+ parents, many of us with our children. We're last on the long agenda. Short, stout with big frizzy hair, a former councilwoman said to us "If you're here for the charter school, you won't be heard until at least 10pm." "Well," we thought, "we have important people here. Lawyers, engineers, architects and investors. Surely, they'll see our children and let us go early." They did not. By 9pm, our number were less by more than half.
At 10:20, they called our item: 4.23 on the agenda. The lawyers spoke, the architect spoke, our principal spoke and I spoke (along with a few other parents). I made direct eye contact with the Mayor and our district councilwoman and told them I live, work, play and my daughter goes to school right here in Town. I told them the story of Chicken's early reading skills and how our puny school took her in, accommodated her skill and how she's flourished. I spoke eloquently, my voice didn't quiver (shockingly) and towards the end, I cried a little.
The Mayor voted against us, the council people voted for us and we won. Like in Erin Brockovich, we jumped out of our seats, sleeping babies and all, with screams and endless hugs.
In 5 years, my daughter will be one of the first students to enter our huge, 2 story, several acre school as a middle-school student.
And I will forever remember this day, this feeling and our powerful victory.

Not as in Pretty Hot And Tempting (PHAT)

It used to be the fatter I got, the skinner I felt. When I revisit photos of myself from 5 years ago, I relish in my skinniness, it's amazing that 10 years ago, at a size 7, I thought I was fat. Oh, how I wish.
I used to say that God makes me stay fat because if I were skinny, I'd dress like a skank-ass hoe (Not to be confused with "nappy-headed ho". Please don't fire me.), wildly inappropriate to show all my skinniness.
When I pass a mirror, door or large framed picture and see my own, ever expanding figure, I think "Who IS that person?". Not along ago, I had the confidence that screamed "I may LOOK like Carnie Wilson (pre-surgery, of course) but I feel like Jessica Biel! I don't feel like that anymore. I don't want to be the fat girl married to that amazing guy from Spacemen anymore, I want to be able to shop with the rest of the people my age, in all that cuteness. It is not fashionable to be fat, no matter how much he tells me I look beautiful. I still feel like a fat girl trying to dress like a skinny one.
So today is the day!
Ok, maybe not today because I've already got dinner plans to make lasagna for my very beautiful and trendy friend. You can't have a special dinner without special dessert (which is to be determined).
Today isn't the day. But tomorrow is the day! No more chocolate cake for breakfast! No more Kit Kats for lunch! I'll eat salad! I'll eat half portions! I will work out (almost) everyday until I lose 50lbs.
This means, of course, that I'll have to give up the full fat mayonnaise and ice cream, which is very sad (although Hagan-Daas makes a really good S'mores ice cream in 1/3 fat). And I love McDonald's greasy fries, especially when they're hot.
On the bright side, if I loose weight, I won't look pregnant anymore and perhaps will actually get pregnant!

Wunnderful Word Wednesday

I read lots of other mom's blogs but my favorite is wouldashouldacoulda, Mir is insightful, funny and very bright. She features "Love Thursdays" where she posts something obscenely mushy and quickly puts you in a good mood with all of her love.
In honor of Love Thursdays (in honor of or just stealing the idea? You decide.), I'm going to start a weekly feature, too!
Wunnerful Word Wednesdays!
I realized that while my vocabulary is quite large, expanding it wouldn't hurt. So every Wednesday, I'll pick a new (to me), interesting word and use it in my post! (Plus, it'll guarantee a new post every Wednesday!)

How does one know that they're about to fall off the edge? Perhaps, for me, it is wearing fuzzy, pink bedroom slippers to work on accident (or subconsciously on purpose) two days in a row. Maybe the 4 hour nap I took yesterday was a big warning sign.
There is a looming, vapid feeling my life this week. A feeling that I just cannot shake or pin point, it's just there. The tragic events on Monday at VA Tech, I hope, has contributed but I keep feeling like there is something else. Is something missing?
I thought for sure this month would be the month I discovered I'm pregnant but sadly, awoke yesterday to discover it is not, in fact, the month.
On the surface I'm able to foster a quasi-smile but anyone who knows me is aware that this cannot last long. Soon the quasi-smile will transgress and I will just be sad. I can only fake myself through this life for so long.
I sense a whole lot of guilt these days. Guilt for taking that 4 hour nap, leaving Husband with Chicken, guilt for not getting the laundry out of the dryer before it wrinkled, Chicken-imposed guilt for forgetting to pack her a drink in her lunchbox last week (she's still bitching about it) and guilt for not having a funny, positive blog post for days.
Tonight, we have dinner guests, people that we adore and are great fun (and hopefully, a distraction). I will make lasagna and drink lots of wine and laugh a million laughs.
Lets just hope my quasi-smile doesn't expire before then.

Vapid (vap-id); adjective - lacking or having lost life, sharpness or flavor

Just Can't. Not Today.

I had a couple of ideas rolling around in my head yesterday, a long laundry list of things I wanted to write about. Yesterday, around 11am, I sat down at my work desk to write (it's slow, what can I tell ya?). I opened the Internet to find "Breaking News". I am sorry that I clicked because it would be the start of a possibly endless feeling of sorrow and sadness.
Everyone, everywhere in the country is talking about the tragedy at VA Tech University. My favorite morning radio show dj's are discussing it and one is completely outraged by the apparent lack of communication by the school to students.
Today is going to be one day that I'll not state my own opinions. I'm not sure what my opinions are, I haven't been able to take it that far.
I know this: I'm feeling completely empty, shocked and devastated. My heart feels so full that I cannot cry, much like it did when I was a rebellious teenager with no one to confide in.
With no control over the situation, no way to reach out and touch the lives of the wounded and families of the dead. By helping them, I can comfort myself?

Until I can make my own sense and come to terms with what happened yesterday, I'm going to pray that I'll finally cry and hold my baby tight.

Pixie Power!

Chicken got all A's & 1's on her 3rd quarter report card. "What would you like to do for your reward?" I said, beaming with pride. "I want my haircut short!" she gleefully answered.

Hm. Haircut? Before we go into detail, let me bring you back. Way back.

My grandmother, overwhelmed with 4 children and a military husband, kept her only daughter's (that would be my mother) hair very. very. short. This was scarring to my poor mother who had beautiful, bright blond hair that many New Englanders envied (even during the dark winter months). I believe my grandmother forced this "hair style" (I use the quotes on style seriously) on my mother for at least 12 or 13 years.

Remember this story when I tell you what happened 15 years later.

After a long struggle to get pregnant by my father (even though they were no longer in any kind of relationship. Hm. No wonder why I'm so screwed up!), I was finally born in 1981. And I was a girl! I didn't have beautiful blond hair that would forever link me to the Snell gene but I had thick black hair and that was good enough!

So began the 16 year battle my mother and I would have over hair. She kept my hair very. very. long. When I was 7, my mom thought it would be a GREAT! idea if I had a perm (hey, it was 1988, everyone did it, don't make fun!) and clearly did not follow the beautician's advise NOT to perm my hair (she took my mother's $40 and did it anyway). I distinctly remember the beautician telling my mother that she should wait until I was 10 to treat my hair since at the ripe age of 7, I still had "baby hair" (you can imagine my horror) and the chemicals may not "take". I remember the smell of the potion clearly (a cross between ammonia and burning follicles). The perm didn't take (surely because I had "baby hair". Ugh) and I was left with a luxurious head of long, dirty blond hair so thick that you couldn't wrap a single hand around it all.

I wonder if this was the point where my mother decided she would live vicariously through my head? Because for the next 10 years, I was forbidden to do anything to my hair. Especially cut it! I vividly remember arguments (visualize hands flying very fast but no sound) that I lost every time. "When you're 18 and not living in my house, you can do what you want. Until then, you may not ever. touch. your. hair!" "But it's MY hair!" was my argument every time. (Hard to believe I didn't win with that, eh?) When I was 14, I dyed my hair blonder because my dirty blond was not bright enough! Surprisingly, she was ok with this (remember her own, very proud head of very bright blond hair) but I was reminded that I could. not. cut. my. hair!

On my 16 birthday, I realized something: "I have a car. I have a job. I can do whatever I want!" And so I drove to Kool Cuts (why the K for cool, no K for cuts? I'll never know.), Home of the $7 haircut (seriously), gave the nice lady my $7 and asked her to cut my waist-long hair to my shoulders. She tied it in a pony tail and with one swift cut, gone was my hair. She put the pony tail in a brown paper bag (in case I wanted to reattach it?) and I brought it home to my mother. She cried. And she threw things. And she cursed me. And she saved that brown bag with my hair (creepily, she still has it).

When my own daughter came to me, wanting her hair cut, I had traumatic flash backs to all of those wasted battles against my mother. I decided (against Husband's opinion-what does he know?) that she was old enough to decide how she wanted her hair to look.

After all, it is HER hair.

Sometimes, I'm not at all funny

I really wanted this blog to be light-hearted and funny. Like me! So I must apologize in advance to all my old (and new) readers who came here looking for comedy relief only to find political speak. I promise to get back in the hilarious swing of things very soon.

In the meantime, I'd like to take this time to welcome everyone to my new writing haven! I'm so excited about this and have a running list of things I can't wait to write about in addition to stories about my funny life. Hopefully, you'll find me interesting and readable, I often write how I talk: fast, long-winded and in circles.

Until I can sit down and write a proper description and introduction (very soon! Like, tonight!), please browse through my archives and see for yourself how funny, smart (and pretty) I am!

Don Imus

Caution: This post may be found offensive by some readers. My opinions reflect me and only me. Besides, it's my blog and I can write about whatever I want to. SO THERE!

In case you've been off on a space tourist mission launching from Katzastan with specially created astronaut meals created by my woman-lover, Martha Stewart, you're probably well aware of the controversy surrounding Nationally syndicated CBS morning talk show host, Mr. Don Imus this week. He referred to a mostly black, women's college basketball team as "nappy-headed hoes".

Please let the record show: I do not support Mr. Imus' comments.

A national uproar has stemmed from these statements, especially from the black community (and rightfully so). Prestigious figures and companies are criticizing, boycotting and calling for the firing of Mr. Imus. MSNBC (who televises his radio broadcast daily) has already dropped his show, saying "It was the only decision we could come to." I am all for boycotting and speaking out against him; it's the American way. African-Americans protested the public transportation system and won. That's a great example of how speaking out and withholding your money (equals power) will send shock waves throughout. However, I am hurt by the MSNBC firing and the possibility of CBS letting Mr. Imus go.
Where did our constitutional right of Freedom of Speech go?
In my opinion, Mr. Imus made a bad joke in very poor taste. That's what he does, he's part shock jock, part commentator. If you review just a few of his decades-long transcripts, you'll find he's said far harsher words. It's his shtick to be offensive and he's an equal opportunity basher. Think Howard Stern with less sex and more politics. It's his job (which he's been very successful) to be shocking and perverse. Don did not go on a drunken hate tirade. He did not respond to hecklers in an angry, racist rant. He said a joke. A very bad joke. I don't believe it was with hateful intentions; he thought he was funny (he wasn't and quickly realized it).
With Freedom of Speech comes the responsibility to be held accountable for your words so criticizing and boycotting him is the American way. It's how we should respond when we're offended. Now that we've got the thought police intruding on opinions, jokes and conversations, I believe we're in severe danger.
Aside from my opinions on Freedom of Speech and this situation, I feel sorry for Mr. Imus.
He's simply the victim of "the art of distraction". Because this administration thinks they're so much smarter than the American public, they blind us with useless news. In case no one has noticed, we're in the middle of a (n illegal) war. Thousands of people, OUR people, have died for oil and contract money. Where is the outrage for that? Sure, plenty of people are protesting but no major news network is reporting any of it. Instead, we're consumed by Anna Nicole's death and Brangelina's next adoption. Do not be fooled by Freedom of Press. The current administration is controlling all of what we see and hear.
How many of you have heard or read about the awful conditions of William Reed Hospital in Washington DC? Where our troops are coming back from Iraq without limbs and being cared for in dire and disgusting conditions. How many of you have heard or read about the terminal illnesses the first responders of 9/11 are suffering from? They will soon be dying at alarming rates from all of the debris and disease they inhaled on that day. Why isn't that breaking news? Because it's not glamorous and pretty? I refuse to buy into that. We, the American people, cannot be that shallow and petty. If you read or watch any news outlets outside of America (such as BBC America), you'll see the actual news and the tragedy our forces are suffering daily (not to mention the suffering of the innocent in Iraq).
I am saddened by the future of our country. We are headed for bad times unless people start standing up and speaking out for themselves, our Constitution and what's really important.

Busted - Part Deux

Remember when I told you my story of being busted by a school bus full of kids while dancing?
Well, it's happened again. Only this time it wasn't a school bus full of kids. It was a Honda Civic with 4 teenagers inside.
And it was during the same. damn. song!
To celebrate this, here are the lyrics to the song I love so much. You can also find the video on youtube. Maybe now I'll get over it and quit dancing like a fool in the street.

Jagged Edge Let's Get Married (reception Remix) Lyrics

JD: This here Is a remarkable
So-so def...remix
J.E. y'all
Run-DMC
To the beat y'all
A-ha...A-ha
And me...y'all know my name
C'mon

Jagged Edge:
See first of all (Yeah)
I know these so-called playa'z wouldn't tell you this (What?)
But I'm go be real and say what's on my mind (Yeah)
Let's take this chance and make this love feel relevant
Didn't you know I loved you from the start? (Yo)
Yeah.....
When I think about (Uh-huh, huh)
All these years we put in this relationship (Yeah)
Who'll knew we'd make it this far? Then I think about (Uh-huh)
Where would I be if we were just to fall apart?
And I can't stand the thought of leaving you...

Meet me at the altar in your white dress(Uh-huh)
We ain't gettin' no younger we might as well do it
I been feeling you all the while girl i must confess girl
let's just get married I just wanna get married
Meet me at the altar in your white dress
We ain't gettin' no younger we might as well do it
Been feeling you all the while girl I must confess girl
Let's get married i just wanna get married

Said I done it all but frankly girl I'm tired of this emptiness
I wanna come home to you and only you{Why?}
Cause making love to anyone ain't happenin' I just gotta be with you
I think about
Us finishin' somethin' we started so long ago?
I wanna give you my heart
Do you think about maybe us having some babies? C'mon won't you be my lady?
Forever girl....

Run-DMC:
What's goin' on across the sea?
It ain't nuthin', I ain't frontin'
Shorty coming wit' me
Now I done already gave you the keys to the Range
And your last name 'bout to change
Now you Mrs. Simmons
Got a better livin'
What a dif-rence Rev Run made
I use to be the snake type
Hangin' out late night Girl you done made me change my life
Ever since you met me Keys to the Bentley
Now they call you the preacher's wife
I'm the type of guy that
Take you out and buy that Ring with the rock that'll break your arm
Playaz won't try that
Now you can't deny that
Triple dub Rev to the Run dot com

Jagged Edge:

Meet me at the altar in your white dress(Uh-huh)
We ain't gettin' no younger we might as well do it
I been feeling you all the while girl i must confess girl
let's just get married I just wanna get married
Meet me at the altar in your white dress
We ain't gettin' no younger we might as well do it
Been feeling you all the while girl I must confess girl
Let's get married I just wanna get married

Spotlight 25 & Domestication

Since these two subjects are slightly related (ok, really, the only thing they have in common is me), I'm going to condense two blogs into one. Besides, some of my last few posts have been about other people. I need some time to talk about me. Because I like me. I am freaking awesome.Here we go...
I watched a Lifetime special called "Spotlight 25". The premise of the show was to infiltrate the lives and minds of women my age; 25 years old. I was really looking forward to watching this special mostly because I wanted to see myself in comparison to my generation. As many know, I've never quite "fit in" with my age. For as long as I can remember, I've been attracted to people older than myself. Lots of people chalk this up to being "mature, wise beyond years", etc. That's probably true but it's always been a little difficult, not ever feeling "normal" within my age group and a little lost in my own head. The special was interesting regardless but personally, I was frustrated because out of 12 women, only 2 had children. And the two with children were very career oriented, climbing-the-corporate-ladder types. I'm nothing like that. There were no women featured like me; young moms/wives who's life focus is on their families and nothing else. Needless to say, it was deflating to see that once again, I did not fit in with others my exact age. It was bizarre watching women on TV that are "supposed" to be just like me. On one hand, I felt much wiser and perhaps slightly superior than most of the panel. On the other hand, I felt inferior. I do not, like many of these 12 women, have a college education or a high powered career. I do, however, have experience where they have education. And I have love which most of these women were still searching for. It's a strange feeling to be both disappointed and proud of yourself in 1 hour's time.Lifetime is supposed to be running a special where the spotlight is on 30 year olds. I'm tuning into that with hopes that I will feel satisfied by this age group. Or maybe I will never fit in with any group. Perhaps I have the best of both worlds, a young age number with older opinions, experience and lifestyle. This way, I get away with a little more. On the plus side, I always win those "guess your age" games at the fair.
Before you read this next part, please go back and read my most recent post about "How Wild Women Stay Thin".
Did you read it? Ok good. Moving on...
As you know (since you were specifically asked to read the article!), the article (which was written by a man. UGH!) makes the observation that women who are "domesticated", i.e., wives, mothers, caregivers, etc, are fat because they don't get a chance to express their wildly desires so therefore, they turn to comfort foods. I have severely mixed feelings about this article. I'm offended first, because it was written by a man. What the hell does a man know about being domesticated and the feelings of oppression one may have? Even if the oppression is self-imposed. Second, the article insinuates women cannot be both domesticated AND "wild". I'm not sure they can either but that's neither here nor there. Lastly, are "domesticated" women feeling SO sorry for themselves that they're turning to comfort foods and making themselves fat and ugly? I hope not.With that said, I tend to agree with this doctor. In order to express WHY I agree, I'm going to talk about myself. (Remember? This blog is all about me because I am great!)I feel a lot of oppression. Not from anyone but myself, it's completely self inflicted oppression. I oppress myself because of a huge responsibility I have to my family. I oppress in order to be superior to those I openly criticize. Thanks to the WWoMS (this would be: The Wunnerful World of MySpace), I've reunited with lots of old friends. And they all say the same thing to me; "I cannot believe how much you've changed!" and "I would have never pinned you as a wife and mother!" I was wild. I was loud and outgoing, slightly crazy. I was angry, passionate and maybe showed some bi-polar tendencies. I would try just about anything once and jumped on every dare. I've been like that since the age of about 7. Then something shifted. I had a baby, got married. I cannot credit (or blame) my transformation on Chicken or my husband, Husband, because the process began years after both of them came into my life. I wish I could pinpoint the exact time in my life where I changed but I cannot recall. Probably because it didn't happen that fast (although it truly feels like it did). It was more of a gradual change starting when I was approximately 17 years old. Since then, I've learned and grown so much. My priorities were modified and I needed to give my child a life that I never had but always dreamed of. I wanted to be the perfect wife. Those dreams are still strong in my mind but over the years they've faded and have too, changed. I'm not the perfect wife and I'm far from the ideal mother but my focus is 100% on my family. I'm no longer wild, I'm not dangerous and much more contained. Although, I'm still loud. On my journey to be "normal", I've oppressed my own desires. But here's the thing; I don't feel like being "wild" is a particular desire that I have. Of course, I crave a girls night out like everyone else but my idea of a perfect girls night out is a bottle of wine and an art project. Or going bowling and drinking cheap beer. Maybe I'm different because I sewed my wild oats long ago. I know what's out there and I know it's not always pretty. Or maybe I've oppressed myself to the point that I don't even KNOW what my true desires are anymore!With regards to the comfort food issue, I'm not sure it's true for me. I've certainly gained plenty of weight over the years but is it because I've turned to comfort food as a form of feeling sorry for myself since I'm no longer considered a "wild girl"? I hope not. I always thought I gained so much weight over the years first as a way of comfort after my dad passed away but later because I was happy. Not because I am sad. Besides, I've seen plenty of fat party girls.

I wanted to write more about other things but this is enough about me (because really, I'm not THAT awesome). For now. I've put myself out there for everyone to see and I hope I've done it well without too much confusion and contradiction. Then again, that's me; my life has always been filled with a lot of confusion and contradiction. And pretension.
That pretension, she's a bitch.

No Wonder Why My Ass Keeps Growing!

I borrowed this article from ediets.com. I find it to ring slightly true in my personal life but also found it to be highly offensive. Especially since it was written by a man. I have a lot to say about "domestication", particularly when it pertains to women my age and I'm trying to gather my thoughts to write a blog about it. Stay tuned. In the meantime, enjoy the article and let me know your thoughts on it!

How Wild Women Stay Thin
By Dr. Matthew AndersoneDiets ContributorUpdated: April 5, 2007
A life too focused on domestic duties and expectations can drain a woman of her instinctual wildness, passion and creativity. Too many women control their wildness with comfort food, and thus create extra pounds instead of aliveness.
I'm going to share the definition of "to domesticize" with you. This may make you sick, but sometimes getting sick is a healthy response to something toxic.
To Domesticize – To train, to live with and be of use to man; to tame.
This definition originally applied to animals, however, too often now, applies to women. When a woman cooperates too fully with the process of domestication, she runs the risk of losing her connection to her instinctual aliveness. Weight gain is a significant result of this subtle, but dangerous process.
Question: Have you been overly domesticated? Is your day and your life filled to the brim with domestic duties? Do you ever feel that you are a slave to your household duties, to your children's and/or husband's needs?
Question: Do you ever have the urge to be something other than, or in addition, to domestic? Does this idea seem exciting or threatening, or both?
Question: Do you ever feel the urge to live a life that is an expression of your wild energy -- more robust, inventive, creative, passionate, more wolf-like than domestic pet, unashamed, un-muzzled, animated and imaginative, confident, clear, dream-driven and ultimately fully alive?
Question: Do you use comfort food to manage your wild energy? Many weight-challenged women in America unsuccessfully attempt to domesticate their natural and instinctual energies under the guise of being good mothers, good wives and good citizens. Then they fight a daily battle with their deeper untamed selves. The most obvious symptom of this battle is fat.
You are not a family pet that needs to be tamed. I know our culture might have you think this, but you and I both know this idea is reprehensible. I am certain that there is an energy rising in you at this very moment that wants to shout an untamed, "Yes!" The question then is: What are you going to do with it? If you do not find a meaningful path of expression for this energy you will continue to have an extremely difficult time losing weight
It works like this: Your wild energy wants to find expression in your daily life. Your rules about having to be a domesticated being demand that your wildness get back into its cage. Comfort food becomes your main means for caging the energy. Since your wild energy is instinctual and basic to your existence, it will not go away. Thus, you require an endless supply of comfort food to manage it.
If you go on a diet, you have to try to manage your instinctual wildness with willpower instead of comfort food. Using willpower in an attempt to manage your instinctual wildness is like using a dog leash to handle King Kong. No wonder your diet fails!
What then is the solution? Here is a brief, but highly effective set of guidelines I have often shared with my clients and workshop participants. By the way, they work for men too.
Guidelines for Expressing Your Wildness
1. Acknowledge and accept the fact that instinctual, healthy wildness is an essential part of your being.
2. Get a journal and begin to list and describe how your wildness could be expressed. This exercise will help you moderate the anxiety that may initially arise when you approach these energies in yourself. Remember, your wildness is not inherently dangerous, but you may experience some discomfort as you begin to get to know it.
3. Read the book Women Who Run with the Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estes. Try to read it in an undomesticated way. I know you think you have to read a book front to back. Forget that. Read this book in any fashion you like. Choose a story and read it. Find a paragraph that turns you on, write it on a card and carry it around with you. Devour the book.
4. Start every day with the following question: How can I express my wildness today?
If you want more encouragement and ideas about how to express your wildness, please email me at DrA@DrAusa.com.

The Art of Butchery

Not butchery as in a butch lesbian. Nor butchery like the handling, carving and distribution of meat. I mean butchery as in destroy, humiliate and completely destroy up the English language.
Today, while browsing houses for sale on a popular website, I came across a disturbing discovery. An owner (and I know it was an owner because it was the BUYOWNER website) boasted this: "...access to private golf coarse..." What? Are you kidding me? You want me to pay half a million dollars for your house (which looks like it's worth a quarter of that price) and you cannot distinguish the difference between coarse (as in rough) and course (as in obstacle)? NEXT!
My education is less than most people I know. Which, in my opinion, gives me the authority to be appalled by the lack of proper writing. Not just formal or creative writing but good 'ol regular letter writing, emails, even instant messages. Perhaps that's why my love for proper language has cultivated into near obsession. Almost as if I have something to prove. Something like this: "I may not have graduated with my class or walked across a stage for a diploma, but dammit, I'm smart!" We, as a generation, have damaged our reputation with regards to writing and grammar. My 6 year old is in 1st grade reading where they're learning to form proper grammar, letter writing and English language skills. I know we've come a long way since 1st grade; our brains have been filled with so much since 20 years age but try to use some of the tools taught to you during elementary education.
When I was dating (hard to remember such a time, eh?), I had very few requirements in a man. They needn't a car or a job. They needed to possess conversation skills. They needed a sense of humor and intelligence. If we reflected back to the different kinds of guys I've dated, we'd find that they had nothing in common besides basic use their brains and usually the ability to make me laugh until I peed myself. I dated wanna-be gangsters, wanna-be punk rockers, night club managers, pre-law college students and eventually married a musician (a good one, too!). They were all shapes, colors and levels of appearance. One had a face only a mother could love. I once dated a guy who was so bad for me but I didn't care because even though he had a certain exterior; inside, I knew there was a very smart kid and if only I could get him to express it more, we could get married and live happily ever after. Well, obviously, that didn't happen. I still believe he's smarter than he lets on but he's still living with his parents, doesn't have a job or a car and lives the same life as when we dated. Boy, am I glad I didn't go THAT route!
In a time where hardly anyone hand-writes letters and notes (I do) in lieu of computers and programs like Microsoft Word, it's shocking and disturbing how the English language is being butchered in such a manner. I am not, by nature or history, a spelling bee champion, nor am I a prize-winning writer. I just have a need to portray myself as well-spoken.
Even if I am a crazy bitch.
I realize now that I've probably subjected myself to extreme scrutiny with respect to my writing. I'm not saying my grammar or spelling is free of mistakes. I'm just saying I use Microsoft Word and even that only catches so many errors. And I do make typos. A lot. And I do often write exactly how I speak (like how I just used "And" at the beginning of several sentences. A big no-no!). In other words, I'm not perfect. But I'm damn close!
My friends, smart and dumb, please use the program which comes free with most computers to check the errors of your ways. You can only blame the education system for so long before it's no longer a reflection of your poor education but a reflection of your laziness and stupidity. Single women, you will attract much better men, single men, you will attract much better women. And everyone will live happily ever after.
Just like me. (haha)

Bad, Bad Girl Brown

You know. Instead of Leroy Brown. I crack myself up.
I'm a bad blogger, I know. I can go weeks (months?) without writing a single word but this is changing (at least today).
My writing process is very personal. I usually write in my head before I can actually record it onto paper (or keyboard/monitor). Then I have to mull over it, edit it, read it, rewrite it, re-edit and then (and only then!), I post. And I am unsatisfied with my own writing 90% of the time but I try to resist the urge to take it away and try again. Please.
I've wanted to write a book for a very long time, about 12 years now. Jessica and I used to talk about how we should write a book with all of our great stories and memories. I started to write a memoir once right after I had Chicken but a hungry newborn took priority. Besides, I didn't feel like I had enough "meat" to write an interesting book. As years have passed, my desire to put these stories together has really blossomed. I'm still not sure I have enough compelling stories (and who knows if my stories are interesting enough?) but I have plenty of inspiration. Those who know my background and family know the drama (Oh, you say you don't know the drama? Thank your lucky stars then). And those that have known me for a long time know all the crazy stuff that I've done and have had happen to me.
But where does one start when writing about their life? Usually, people who write successful memoirs are writing about their life as a member of an (in)famous family of some sort. My family is infamous, allright! Then there is the question of what to write and what to withhold. This would be my personal story but the details of many things could be hurtful to others, both dead and alive.
I've also considered including a compilation of stories written by my close friends and family. Kind of like lots of short stories into one 200 page book. I just don't know where to begin.
Yes I do. I'm going to start by making a list of all the memories I have that could cultivate into a great book. Then I'm going to write on those memories. A little cut and paste, BOOM! I've got a book.
Seems so easy.
Now I just have to actually write something. And then sell it to a publisher. And then beg people to buy it. Crap.