Memories

The fifth anniversary of this humble blog passed by with nary a whisper. All the way back in August. I hadn't noticed it until now. I sat down to write a post about my purple hair (forthcoming) and realized I had passed that Holy shit, this bitch is five years old and I didn't get her a present! moment a couple of months back.

Talk about your belated birthdays.

As I age, my usual death and dismemberment anxieties get worse. Before my children, I had a list (written on purple legal pad paper, natch) of personal belongings that would be passed out among my family and friends. Now, of course, all those things would go to my children. But here's the thing.

I don't want Miss-Miss to remember me via a necklace. Bubba won't care about my scuba gear if I'm not in it, diving with him, and I'm sure J-man would prefer me over some Anne Rice first editions. I know this because I miss my father. Terribly. And the one thing that has meaning for me was a letter he wrote to me before his death. His very presence, spirit is in that letter and I miss him so very much. He taught me how to tie my shoes, was there for every marching band performance, clapped the loudest and praised the highest whenever I did right and scowled the most when I did wrong. He would be such a balm for my soul right now as I struggle to raise these three kids. And granted, it's not a struggle in the traditional sense, because I am damned lucky to be where I am, to be a stay-at-home-mom, but I struggle because I'm a perfectionist and I expect to be perfect knowing I never can be. Dad would be there to tell me to calm down. He would be the base to the acid of my thoughts that whisper poison to me everyday when I, yet again, fail to reach the high standard I stupidly set out for myself. He is the voice I'm missing from my life. Sadly, I can't really remember the sound of his voice and his face is frozen, unmoving, in my mind because his multi-dimensional self has been replaced with old family photos and one measly letter.

I want my three babies to remember me. ME. Not some random memory of me or another person's perception of me through their fuzzy memories. They need to remember me through my own words and actions. This is why I've decided to turn my blog into a book. I'm currently in the process of copying all 720 posts (now, 721) into a book that can sit on a shelf, a book full of words and pictures that will give my three bundles of joy and heartaches a full picture of who their mother is and was. I want them to truly see me.

In doing this, I'm reading posts that I haven't seen in several years. Several. Wow.

I don't write as often as I used to. I've slowed down. But I still want to write here because this is who I am. A writer.

I am a writer.

I'm finally admitting this fact in front of all of you. And it feels good.

In Memoriam

Hard to believe it's been five years. Always remembering you Puppy Monster. Much love for you, Dawg!

Wow. It's Really Dusty Around Here.

August 17th. That was the date of my last post.

Is anyone even subscribed to this damned feed any more?

*Wiping off the cobwebs*

Who. The. HELL? Picked out this pattern? Oh, yeah. Me.

For the last year, I've been a mama who has been trying to take care of myself physically. When my doctor put me back on my insulin-controlling meds last year, I knew that I also had to start exercising. And run I did. I've logged quite a few miles and become intimately acquainted with a 4-mile bike trail that kicks my running rear end. I've also been lifting weights and Zumba-ing all over most of Woodstock. I'm not saying I'm at the gym hours upon hours every day, but just that 30 to 60 minutes each morning slays me.

Physically, I'm at the top of my game.

Mentally, I'm the equivalent of that dead toad Ty-man peeled off the driveway yesterday morning.

But, hey, my insulin is again my bitch.

Dear Pancreas,
Suck it.
Love, Me

(BTW, if this post makes no sense? It's because Ty-man turned on Thor. How is a girl like me supposed to write a sensible post when a boy like Chris Hemsworth is bulging all over my TV screen? *Sigh*)

I miss the old snarky, writing me. I'll drive the kids to school and think Oh! Oh! I've got to write this down. Or I'll be at the grocery store and I'm all DANG! My head is so FUNNEH! By the time I'm home, the funny has frittered away to nothing. I look out at my blogging friends and think, She's traveling the country, he's working on his stand-up comedy, he's collecting money for charity, she's educating the masses about being an American Muslim, he's helped create this awesome magazine and they're all writing.

And I'm here. Watching re-runs of Big Bang Theory and thinking about writing.

So, I'll write. I've got a book of writing prompts and I've got stupid things that I think are funny and if any of you are still out there, I'll write for you. If you're all gone, well, that's OK too. I'll write it anyway.

Reboot of my brain in 3... 2...

Coal Miner's Granddaughter, Copyright

Dear Kate Middleton,

Quit hornin' in on my action!

Have I knocked on your door, demanding wear-time on that sapphire ring? NO!

Have I asked to kissy-face with your Prince? NO!

Then quit thinking you can be a Coal Miner's Granddaughter. You're actually a coal miner's great-granddaughter. How do I know this? Because I'm a nosy little shit and I like to know when people are Googling my boring-ass life. And lately? When people Google "Coal Miner's Granddaughter"? They come up with newspaper articles about you and your grandma. Your grandma who was a coal miner's daughter.

I mean, HELLO?, I'm not trying to bust in on your princess-to-be-someday-queen action. You don't see me walking around, posing with guys named William Wales, changing my name to Kate, professing a love of big blue rings and afternoon tea, so don't even go there. Do you think you can handle the awesomeness of being me? No, you can't. Case in point:


(Yes, Exposay.com, this is a photo of yours, pasted onto mine. Apologies.)

I am Coal Miner's Granddaughter. Not you. Got it?

Besides. You know if William even gets glimpse of this, he'll be all "Kate, who?":


(Sorry, Alastair Grant - WPA Pool/Getty, for making your awesome picture a nightmare.)

Now that we've got that cleared up... where's my damned invite?!?

Tell Harry to give me a call, 'kay?

Toodles!
Heather

Um... So, Yeah

It's been over a month.

Wow.

For the last month, I've mainly sat here at my computer, scared shitless. For some reason, blogging has become hard. Reading, writing, commenting, all of it has become the most difficult part of my life. Hanging with my kids? Easy. Rolling my eyes at the Real Housewives franchise? Easy. Playing my dulcimer? Easy.

But you guys? All of you? Putting my boring-ass life out here for you to read and for me to share? Da-umn. It has become really hard for me. Why? It's a combination of being tired (working out and trying to keep this body healthy is kicking my ass, people!), being busy (driving to the kids' school three times a day for drop-offs and pick-ups, plus swim lessons, plus making sure the kids don't kill themselves while they play outside, plus Mama! Can I have a drink of water/my Barbie? Mama! Where's my Hot Wheels/gray kitty/crayons?), and wondering if anyone out here really gives two shits about my little life.

I'm not trying to say that IRL is more important than this blog because truly, this blog is part of my IRL. It's all the same thing. This place, this purple slice of blog heaven is my corner of the blogverse and the place where I can cut loose. I talked about this with dear, sweet, wonderful Becky and she reminded me that yes, you guys do want to read my boring-ass shit. For the last month, it's been a table for one. Previously, it's been a table reserved for me and all of you, but I've closed it off. Too busy snarfing down all the bread and butter, I suppose. But I'm opening it back up, dang it. I'm pulling up some more chairs and rolling out the fancy china Chinet. I'm determined to get back into the swing of things. I used to blog here every. damned. day. I don't think I'm ready for that again, but I'll get there.

Because this blog is all about my life and me sharing it with you. So, let's share, OK?

Singularity

singularity (sɪŋɡjʊˈlærɪtɪ)
— n , pl -ties
1. the state, fact, or quality of being singular
2. in astronomy, a hypothetical point in space-time at which matter is infinitely compressed to infinitesimal volume. See also: black hole

Yeah, it's been almost two months since I've been here. My excuse? Well, I'd like to tell you that I've been held hostage by a bunch of Caribbean Reef Squid in Bonaire who are refusing my release until calamari is outlawed, worldwide, by the U.N., but alas that's not the real reason why my online presence has been dim as of late.

Since our two-week internet connection outage in early December, I lost the urge to post or write. Since Christmas, my motivation to do anything has plummeted. Do I want to vacuum/put away toys/make beds/fold laundry/wash dishes? No, but that's expected. That's the stuff nobody wants to do. But do I want to cross-stitch/stitch blackwork/scrapbook/blog/practice my dulcimer? Nope. Don't want to do any of it. I have been working out. That, at least, is something I've managed to do. But then 3PM comes along and I'm dragging, quite literally, through the afternoon and evening. Once the kids are put to bed, my energy level is nil and I find myself more interested in the T.J. Hooker (FREEZE, PUNK!) marathon on the Universal HD channel than in anything else I normally enjoy doing.

Email? Nada. Calling people? Nope. It hurts to have a family member accuse me of cutting them out of my life when I'm not doing that at all. Hell, I can't even remember to tell Ty-man about the funny thing J-man said two days ago much less update any one else on the mundanity of my daily life. Couple that with the fact that I feel like I yell more at my kids than just talking to them, and I wake up attempting to change that particular attitude instead ending the day with me fussing over toys strewn across the family room floor. Ugh. It's the never-ending battle of parent versus kid and I'm honestly ready to throw up my hands in complete and utter defeat. You'll all find my body buried at the bottom of a pile of Legos.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I see so many changes happening, among my favorite bloggers and a few of my friends, and I feel so stagnant. Couple that with a two-week Christmas school vacation and the kids home for five more days on top of that thanks to Snowpocalypse 2011 and I think I'm staring down the barrel of a wicked case of cul-de-sac fever. I think I'm just feeling quite overwhelmed with nowhere to shove some of the extra whelm. Plus? Yesterday was the 13th anniversary of my father's death. The pain of his passing will never leave me I miss him oh, so terribly.

What has happened is that I've turned into the singularity as defined above. I've become quite focused in on myself. Bless Adam for emailing/texting/calling to make sure I'm still alive, Grant for his rip-snorting funny ecards, Linda for knocking on my Gmail door while all the way in India, and Toni and John and Ian (stationed over in Qatar) and Vonda (home alone with kids) for their numerous phone calls and texts. You guys are slowly, but surely, waking me up.

I hope to post more. Once or twice a week at first, more as I get back into the groove. Thanks for waiting patiently, guys, and reminding me you're all here. It has helped more than you'll ever know.

The Kids Chewed Through Our Internet Cable

OR

WEIRD SHIT BLOGGERS SAY TO EACH OTHER VIA EMAIL

From: Discombobulatingrant
To: Coal Miner's Granddaughter
Subject: Bad Blogger!

You're not posting, and that makes the Internet sad. Is it because you have too many kids? I think if you leave one by the curb on trash day, the city workers will pick it up and re-distribute it to childless couples. (note - I think it's good parenting not to assign roles to them when they're young, so that's why I use the more proper "it") Besides, if you have too many cats then you'll get labeled "crazy cat lady", so I'm assuming the same is true for children. Surely you don't want to be called crazy mom lady? Also, I may be starting my very own religion, and you can use the saved money otherwise wasted on food and clothing to donate.

- Yours in Booflakken,

Grant

P.S. return the youngest one. Odds are you couldn't have gotten that attached in so few years.

From: Coal Miner's Granddaughter
To: Discombobulatingrant
Subject: Re: Bad Blogger!

Actually, on the advice of my 12-year-old, cranky-ass cat who vomits entirely too much, I've dropped the kids off at a no-kill shelter. They should be placed in good homes unless the not being housebroken or still needing to be spayed and neutered is an issue. If that's the case, then they'll probably remain in those dog-sized crates with occasional outings to the dog-run until their 18th birthdays. At that point, they'll be turned loose on an unsuspecting society and state-sponsored welfare system.

Ah, the joys of parenthood.

P.S. My Internet has been down until today. Have no fear, there will be a post tomorrow consisting of this email pasted into my blog. I'll give you a byline. Pinky-swear.

A Long Time Ago...

... in a galaxy far..

Galaxy? Whatev. Try state.

OK! Fine! I'll start over. A long time ago, in a state far, far away, there...

Far, far away? Girlfriend lives in Florida and you live in Georgia. What are you smoking?

SHUT IT! If you interrupt me one more time, so help me... Ahem. A long time ago, in a state not-so-far away, there was a woman of beauty and wisdom named Faiqa.

Beauty and wisdom? Aren't you supposed to be her nemesis? Which means you should be talkin' smack right now.

HEY! Simmer down. Even the nemeses in a superhero battle realize and acknowledge the talents of their adversaries. Anyway, the beautiful and wise Faiqa pronounced me to be her nemesis because, after all, a person's true nemesis is someone equal to them in intelligence, capability, looks, and weapons.

Yes, we are some smart, kick-ass, beautiful women! With lightsabers from Toys 'R Us! Fear us!

Think about all the great hero/nemesis pairings throughout history:

• Luke Skywalker/Darth Vader
• Churchill/Hitler
• Frodo/Sauron
• the English language/George W.
• Aslan/Jadis
• Chocolate/Peanut Butter

After months of stewing on how to properly acknowledge my status as Faiqa's nemesis, I have decided to create superhero identities for us both. Behold:


Faiqa, Master Jedi, Lady Liberal, Defender of the Faith



Heather, Darth Chocolate of the Sith and the Princess of Pi

You both have lightsabers?!? What a couple of dorks.

That's because we're also geeks and members of the First Temple of George Lucas. Get over it.

The great thing about being someone's nemesis, though, is that deep down, both adversaries realize that in times of need, a bond can be formed against a common enemy. Honestly, people, when the shit starts to fly and the aliens come out of the sky to steal our water and turn us into lizard food, then Faiqa's just the girl I want to have at my back.

Until then, let's get this Force battle ON.

Do You Want To Go On A Paranormal Investigation?

After the fun of HeatHer '10 and wanting a blogger get-together that is real and not virtual, and knowing all of you are interested in my ghost hunting career, I thought...

Hm. Why not combine the two?

I'm asking you, my readers (all 180 of you, according to FeedBurner) to please answer the following questions:

1) Would you be interested in participating in a paranormal investigation with my team, Everyday Paranormal Georgia, sometime in August/September, 2011?

2) Would you be interested in, the day after the investigation, going over the raw audio and video footage with my team (interspersed with food, drink, and many laughs) and helping to prepare the final report?

3) Do you want the full experience from a Friday night investigation, Saturday evidence review, Sunday report preparation/good-byes?

Now, I'm not guaranteeing that this will happen. My team has never put anything together like this and we could get part-way into setting this up and scream "HOLY CRAP! THE COST! THE LIABILITY! NOOOOOO!!!!!" We're currently looking at three venues: Gaither Plantation, Sloss Furnace, or Waverly Hills Sanatorium. All three locations will charge us for our investigation so everyone will have to pitch in (Waverly charges $1,000 for a night of investigating, minimum 10 people. Sloss Furnaces charges $300 for 20 people.) Whatever the cost of renting the location for the night, we would evenly divide between all attendees. Based on how many of you eventually commit to this investigation, I would attempt to secure group rates at a hotel near the investigation site. We would also set up a meeting room at the hotel for evidence review. We would share our EPGA equipment with those of you who attend and if any of you have equipment of your own, you'd be welcome to bring it with you.

So, you guys in or what? Start saving your pennies and investigating flights because I'm serious. I want a HeatHer '11/paranormal investigation and I want my blogging friends to be here in person to do it with me and my amazing team!

HeatHer '10: Days 2 and 3

I have to say, HeatHer 2010 was an AWESOME time! What started out as a random text to Avitable turned into a fun weekend of tweeting and a welcome distraction from that other thing going on up in the Northeastern US.

For us, day 2 of HeatHer '10 started out with a "Dora/Diego" breakout session. As the conference attendees watched, I wondered - who really did explore it better? Dora, Diego, Lewis, or Clark?


Later, we slummed it with a non-blogger and enjoyed the "Lunch with Locals" during which everyone asks if your kids are triplets or if the boys are twins. You know, the usual nonsense:


Day 2 ended on a fun note with an interactive "Silly Faces" session:


Which, as you can see, was quickly followed by the "Clean up this mess!" session.

Day Three dawned waaaay too early. At HeatHer, the attendees aren't hung over, but they are woken up with little elbows to the throat as small children climb into bed with you and proceed to steal your mattress space! But that's OK, because this attendee took a drive in a 'Vette!


Don't tell Ty-man, but we sped on some back roads just a little. OK, maybe a lot! After the test drive, it was time for the "I'm Gonna Wash That Gray Right Outta My Hair" session.


By far, saying good-bye to the old-lady-gray was the best session of HeatHer '10!

It was an awesome time and I hope next year's HeatHer '11 will be even better! Maybe some of you could make it down to the Deep South for some craziness in person? Mmmmm?

HeatHer '10: Day 1

The first day of HeatHer '10* was awesome! Three people used the #HeatHer10** hashtag on Twitter! Those three people were me, MrsRobbieD (who, by the way, has the trippiest Twitter homepage background), and Dave, and since I don't really count that means two other people participated! Woo hoo! You, my commenters, promised the following to make our conference awesome:

• Other HeatHer said she'd bring the margarita mix.
• Cissa Fireheart guaranteed some fire ants, sand, and napkins. The fire ants, of course, were saved for the HOA Bully's front yard.
  
• Lisa brought the poker chips and cards. Blackjack!
• Finn supplied half a Sephora store. HALF! I'll take the nail polish half, please!
• And Ms. Sybil Law? Well, she's hauled down the Clinique swag! Woo hoo!

In the wake of all that cool stuff, our conference went fairly well. Here's a breakdown of our happenings. To properly prepare for the awesomeness, I had to put on my Twitter bling:


Miss-Miss led a breakout session on how to properly color Dora the Explorer as a mermaid and the proper proportions of a starfish:


During this session, Dave decided to get creative with his crayons...



Later, Bubba hosted our first HeatHer '10 lunch. It was a poolside theme!


After lunch, J-man gave a keynote speech on snuggling and why we all need to do it more:


And Andy insisted on leading a session entitled Quadripeds: Why they need blogs, too!


Of course, we closed out the day with dinner. And at HeatHer '10? Breakfast is what's for dinner!


We've had a great first-day and hope you can all make it for Day 2 at THE MOST awesome blogging conference EVAH!

*Yes, I realize this is all a sad attempt to make it easier to swallow my voluntary absence from BlogHer '10. But, hey, anything to make the day fun, right? RIGHT?!?

** It's pronounced Heather, remember? It's not Heat-Her. Aw, forget it. ;)

HeatHer '10!

Since BlogHer '10 starts Friday (even though NYC has been inundated with my fellow estrogen-filled constantly-tweeting bandwidth hogs since Tuesday) and I'm not there, I thought I would have my own little conference right here in northwest suburban Atlanta.

Welcome to HeatHer '10!*

(Like that? It's the official HeatHer '10 conference badge. If I had any.)

Here at HeatHer '10, we keep things simple (and we refer to ourselves in the third person):

• Want drink tickets? Are none. If you want a drink, the coconut rum and Coke is in the fridge. Beer's in the door. Help yourself.
  

• Need swag? I think the kids can put some toys in a garbage bag for you to take home. I'll even throw in leftover scrapbook paper. Some old college physics books?
  

• Want to try out free products? I'll let you borrow one of my fifty Old Navy t-shirts. I'll even share my deodorant. Pinky-swear.
  

• Didn't RSVP a party? We'll be down at the neighborhood pool with a sandwich bag of Goldfish. Now THAT'S a party! And you don't even have to agonize over the perfect BlogHer party outfit!
  

• Lunches? Peanut butter and jelly. And there won't be any political bloggers to sneer at your political party choice when you happen to sit at their table because all the other tables are full. (Yes, that happened to me last year at BlogHer '09. By the way, LIBERTARIANS ARE NOT ANARCHISTS, THANKYOUVERYMUCHLIBERALBLOGGERWITHATTITUDE! *Pant, pant*) Just three kids who will stare at you and ask endlessly why you're here.
  

• Peanut allergy? The sub sandwiches at the local Publix are pretty good. It isn't a 24 hour NYC deli, but it's cheaper!
  

• Keynote speaker? Uh, that'd be me hollering at the kids about why it's bad to hit/steal toys/yell. Just sit back and soak up the knowledge I'll convey via a raised voice and bits of spittle. No microphone or stage here!
  

So, check out my Twitter happenings for the next few days, because I'll be hashtagging the heck out of #HeatHer10 with hour-by-hour whenever-I-feel-like-it updates of the exciting, crazy blogging conference that will be going on at Casa CofaCMGD. You'll probably see stuff like:









So let's make HeatHer '10 a huge success! That way, I can justify a badge for HeatHer '11. Heh.

*NOTE: Don't pronounce it "heat her" like it's two separate words. It's Heather! My name! But with a second capital H, because I'm trying to compete with BlogHer and... oh, never mind.

Scumbag!

Three weeks ago, I was commiserating with Rob, my scuba diving mentor and my kids' swim teacher.

Rob: Jim (fellow scuba buddy and co-owner of Atlanta Scuba & Swim Centers) is in the Caymans.

Rob and Me, simultaneously: Scumbag.

Me: When does he get back?

Rob: Sunday.

Me: Total scumbag.

Rob: Yep.

Doesn't matter if I had been scheduled to fly to the Great Barrier Reef the day after the above conversation, Jim was still a scumbag and I, of course, would have shared the title the next day. The week before, nextdoorneighbor Jodi's teen son was diving in the Keys. Yep. Scumbag.

Where am I going with this? I'll tell you. Even though this has nothing to do with scuba diving and even though I chose not to attend BlogHer and instead decided to thumb my nose at the whole thing from the comfort of my suburban-Atlanta home? You're all scumbags. (You, too!)

In a loving, caring sort of way, of course! HEY! It's tradition!

And when I go scuba diving in Curaçao in October, you may all scream SCUMBAG! in my Inbox. Pinky-swear.

Old School

I downloaded the Hipstamatic app on my iPhone yesterday and I can't stop taking pictures.



We went out, at the last-minute, to a local Mexican restaurant. Yeah. We're masochists that way. Fellow HOA-survivor Jodi and her family accompanied us and after consuming a small margarita (that knocked me on my ass), I was loopy and picture-happy.



The Hipstamatic app adds textures to your iPhone photos to give them that nostalgic look. Thirty years ago we were bitching about our shitty, washed-out pictures and now, suddenly, it's cool!



Personally, I love it. I think it adds depth and meaning to my photos. It's not just a quick phone camera photo of Ty-man and J-man, it's a photograph of a father and his son, spending a moment cuddling amidst the madness of a "everybody-in-this-neighborhood-is-plastered-and-entirely-too-loud" Cinqo de Mayo party. It's like the difference between visiting Paris for the weekend or backpacking through the French countryside. I love the nostalgia of it all.



Hell, even Andy got in on the action, complacently mugging for his own shot.

I guess, at the end of the day, I just like pictures. Period. They tell a story, show others our souls and the beauty beheld in our eyes. It's probably a bit contrived, but be prepared to see more of these retro photos on my blog, because I'm in love with a $2 app.

The Official "Stephen Hawking Doesn't Give A Shit So Neither Do I" Post

Saw this article in the news a couple of days ago. Go ahead, take a gander at it. I'll wait.
.
.
.
Seriously. Go read it. You need to in order to get the gist of this post. GO!!!!

Back? Awesome.

No, this post isn't about time travel (Don't I wish!). It's about the fact that Stephen Hawking just doesn't give a rat's ass what you think about him or his ideas. He's 68, he's in a state-of-the-air wheelchair that probably has hidden rocket launchers, his computer voice could kick your ass, and he played poker with Data, Einstein, and Sir Isaac Newton.

If he doesn't care what you think about his ideas? Then neither should I. Here you go:

• I only care about three neighbors in my 169-home subdivision. After the divisiveness of the HOA last year, I have no love for the people living around me. If the whole place caught fire? I'd break out the marshmallows and watch it burn.
• I don't think Heaven is a place. I think it's a furthering of our existences. I think we are all little pieces of God, placed here on Earth (or other planets/galaxies/whatever) to experience corporeal life. When we die, unless we end up staying on Earth attached to our loved ones for one reason or another, we merge back into God. Yep, go ahead and say it. BLASPHEMER!
  
• I wasn't too pleased with the election of our current President. Hell, I didn't even want the other guy to be elected (ah, the joy of affiliating with a third party). But, I was willing to give President Obama the benefit of the doubt and respect his decisions because he's the duly-elected leader of our country. But seriously? You fucking killed the Orion space program and kicked NASA in the balls after they've already been ball-busted for over 30 years with budget cuts. Mr. President, we're done. You lost me.
  
• I watch all of the Real Housewives... shows. I admit it. I watch them because they make me feel superior.
• Throughout most of my life, I've tried too hard. I've always tried to insinuate myself into social groups and I always (I think) failed. I constantly felt I was on the outside looking in. Now, I think I've finally figured it out. I'm just me and I sit back and watch and interject when I have something to say, not just howling to get attention. Thirty-eight years and I'm finally comfortable in social situations. Friggin' took me long enough.
• Sometimes? I wish I could disappear. Completely.
• I don't think I'm very smart. I honestly don't. I also don't think I'm very good at the few things I do. I'm very hard on myself and as far as I'm concerned, I'm pretty much a failure every day.
• Our government didn't mandate to the oil companies to stop using tankers for oil transport after the Exxon Valdez oil spill. I don't believe putting a stop to all off-shore drilling is the answer to the recent BP oil rig accident.
• And for the lightning round... I think homosexuals should be allowed in the military. I think women should be allowed in combat positions. I think abortion should be legalized and condoms placed in middle and high school restrooms. I believe capital punishment is sanctioned state murder. I think immigration laws should be strictly enforced and I don't think English should be declared our country's official language. I think the burning of the American flag should be allowed in our country and I think the Westboro Baptist Church should be blown off the face of the Earth. I think homosexual couples should be allowed to marry and adopt children and I think single parents should be allowed to adopt as well.

And that's just a little of what I think/feel/believe.

Ah, I feel so much better. Thanks Professor Hawking!

Hello Haha Narf Is Teh Awesome

In this crazy ol' blogverse, meeting people can be... interesting. I guess it's a bit like online dating. You read the person's blog/comments on other blogs, follow them on Twitter/Crackbook, start bantering back and forth online, and make each other snort various liquids out of your noses. You memorize their avatar and you can tell immediately when they're available on IM. It's like a disturbance in the Force. You decide that during a layover/family vacation/business trip to hook up and meet in person. You pick out your nicest clothes, put on some lipstick and eyeshadow, and squirt some Jean Naté in the pits and then, you take a deep breath.

Prior to last June, I had only met four bloggers in person. ConFab, Baby would be my first time meeting a large group of bloggers. In person. All at once. So many I had been itching to meet and others I didn't even know who they were. One lady in particular blew me away.



Becky is this awesome, optimistic, excited-about-everything, happy, beautiful woman. I hadn't read her blog in-depth, but her comments cracked me up. Every time. And after watching her cheer the Penguins to Stanley Cup victory and then sing crazy, drunken karaoke, I knew she was a blog friend to count as special. Especially when she blogged about her love of dandelions. I love someone who cheers the underdog, considering I spend most of my time mistaking myself for one of those said dogs.


Four months later, we reconnected at Invaded and had a most awesome time. She informed me that she would be in Atlanta, in April, on business, and we'd better hang. Dammit.

Hang, we did.

When I picked her up (after schlepping to the wrong Hilton - DOH!), we navigated the scary-confusing streets of Atlanta to find ourselves at The Varsity. It was crazy-crowded:


But we slowly made our way forward. After trying on the hats:


And listening to the cashiers yell "What'll ya have?!" we were in grease-dog heaven:


I am proud to say that I convinced Becky to try a chili-slaw dog. She liked it. I loved watching her reactions to the flavors and her surroundings. I later told Ty-man that that was the most fun I've EVER had at The Varsity. Hands down.

We then headed north to the CMGD household to play with kids and just relax.

(No pictures. I know. I'm a bad blogger. But the kids eventually lost their shyness and we made foam flower leis. Becky even got hugs before she left. The kids want her back. So do I.)

The Ty-man then played the part of Jeeves and drove us east to Roswell, the home of Greenwoods On Green Street, my most favorite Atlanta restaurant. We hooked up with the ever-cool, fellow college alumna, Copasetic Beth. There, we embarked on a most-delicious Southern meal and four hours of awesome conversation (during which we never once embarrassed Ty-man numerous times). Yes, Becky did turn off the dining rooms lights during our hilarious discussion and yes, she did blame Yoda.


Naughty Jedi Master.

Becky, I loved every second of your too-brief visit. I'm glad I got you for a few hours, I'm glad we got to know each other even better, and I'm glad to call you friend.


Ya'll come back soon, y'hear?

Missing In Action

OR

WHY IT TOOK AN "ARE YOU OK?" EMAIL FROM ADAM TO GET ME TO POST

Yeah. Life around here? Crazy.

I'm a fairly busy person (Hello? SAHM of three on line four? Yeah, you sound a bit frazzled. HEY! LADY! PUT DOWN THE CHOCOLATE ICING AND NO ONE WILL GET HURT! Geez. Somebody call the cops.) and what do fairly busy people do when they're, you know, fairly busy?

Well, yeah, nap. DUH. What else?

Said people take on a job.

No kidding.

Do you remember that proposal the Ty-man had to write? The proposal that took over two months and much gnashing of teeth? Yeah. We should be hearing from the customer aaaaaaany second now. What's interesting about this contract is that if and when (Must. Think. Positive!) we are awarded it, we have to be able to hit the ground running with twelve new employees. These people have to be hired with the knowledge that, yeah, this is a six year contract (Woo hoo!) that we don't yet have and if we don't get it (Grrrr...), well hey, you got paid for two whole weeks, what's your beef?

Fun.

Ty-man came home from work two weeks ago fuming. It's gonna cost me $90,000 for a head-hunting service to post these jobs and pre-screen the applicants! And what if we don't get the contract?!? That $90,000 our company wouldn't have to spare!

I blinked a few times and half-jokingly noted, Heh. I work for cheap. Pay me Montessori pre-school tuition for three kids and I'm your Girl Friday!

Ty-man took that half-joking statement, slept on it, and hired me.

Wow. It does pay to be cheap.

So, not to worry. I didn't run off to Bonaire (yet) or get arrested (yet). I'm just a working girl with not much time on her hands. And the moral of this story?

Don't work for cheap unless you're bored. Or insane.

Ba-dum-dum-cccchhhhhhh!

Hey, Ty-man? About that raise...

Post Re-Visit 1

Yeah, we're still on vacation. You got three original posts, pre-written, this week and I'm all out of creative juices here. For me, it's Friday night, the night before we leave, and I'm all Holy Frak! I've got laundry! And kids to bathe! And dishes to wash! And scuba gear to pack! And it's 9 PM! GAH! So, I give you one of my all-time favorite blog posts. Originally posted last year on January 12th, it makes me snort every time. Enjoy!

Snatch

Oh, yeah. You read that title right. But, you see, it's actually a double-entendre. One of my favorite bloggers, Functionally ReTodded, wrote a post a few days ago about how difficult it is to have a penis, how things dribble and can shift and that having a penis is not a guarantee of getting laid. Waaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh! Poor pitiful male me!!! Pity me! Boo. Hoo.

What a baby.

So, I'm "snatch"ing my comments from his post and creating a post of my own. Here are the ten reasons why I believe it's more difficult to have a 'gina than it is to have a penis.

OK. Maybe it's more like 12 reasons. And maybe it's more like "Twelve Reasons Why It's More Difficult to Have a 'Gina/Uterus/Ovaries Than It Is to Have a Penis."

Heh-hem.

NOTE TO MY SENSITIVE READERS: Yeah. I'm all "boobs-to-the-wall" on this post. I tend to cut loose more in my comments on others' blogs. So, I figured I might as well go commando here and just let 'em hang out. You have been warned.

1) Todd stated it is difficult for us ladies to get our groceries (my favorite genitalia euphemism) caught in a zipper. But when you’re eight months pregnant? And attempting to trim up the, you know, pubes (It's all downhill from here, people.) before the big day so the OB doesn’t have to hack his way through the sprawling rainforest Wookie-bush? You have a pretty good chance of ending up in the ER with a nicked clam-bake. Speaking from experience.

2) Shifting underpants may cause men to suddenly have to pee? Poor sweeties. Try a nine-month-old human standing on your bladder! Yeah. And then there's my personal favorite, Oh wait, gotta sneeze! Ker-chew! Aaaaaaaaand, now I'll go change my granny-panties. Gotch there, hon!

3) Todd was going on and on about "pee, yadda, yadda, shake it off, blah, blah, mouse (?), dribble on the khakis or down the leg." Um, yeah. All I’ve got to say about this is that when girls pee? We pee ALL over ourselves. Like, you have to wipe your back AND front sides. And the insides of the legs. And before you even sit down, you have to get half-naked and wipe the previous 15 ladies' pee off the seat because they all do the "squat and dribble" maneuver. It's never a straight stream. And it's never a dry moment.

4) Oh, please. The next time I hear some man-child whine about standing at the board in math class with a boner? I will LOSE IT! It is a known fact amongst womankind that every fracking time you wear white shorts or pants as a teen girl, you are guaran-fracking-teed to start your period. That day. No matter if you just had your period last week. Oh, yeah, big red stains on the crotch of your white capris is SUCH a popularity booster. That and cutting a big one (THAT ECHOED) while trying to hit a softball in sophomore gym class.

Repeat that last sentence to anyone? And I will cut you. Yeah, you.

5) When it comes to calming crying kids in the middle of the night and Daddy's Big Jim decides to take a peak at said kid? Us gals have the whole crooked tank top and nipplage issue. I'm just sayin'.

6) Todd says there's no guarantee of sex if one has a penis but if you have a vagina? You've got it in the bag. Did you people not read #4?!? Farting and visible menstruation does not a come-hither-gal make.

7) OK, seriously. Todd was just going on and on and on about how he has to concentrate on yaw, pitch, trajectory, WHATEVER, while he's peeing in the middle of the night. Think about trying to aim your flat ass for the toilet seat in the middle of the night. We chick-a-dees have to think about yaw, pitch, velocity, gravity and such. But if you miss? It's far less painful than my half-asleep ass trying to sit down on the john and hitting the floor instead. Broken tailbone? Anyone? Cussing that wakes up the entire house? Anyone?

8) Todd claims that no one complains if they are ever bumped in to by a rock hard vagina. I would never complain, but I would certainly call the CDC because that? Is a medical oddity right there.

9) According to Todd, his kids laugh and point at the Frank and Beans. Mine don’t laugh. But they do stare. At the previously mentioned, you know, overgrown lawn. That I don't have time to, you know, mow. And hiring a landscaping company would just be, you know, embarrassing.

10) And finally, Todd feels that a publicly masturbating man would be stopped, immediately, if caught. And that a woman? Would be invited to continue. Actually? I wouldn’t stop either one. Male or female. I would blush the deepest of reds and run, RUN! away, I tell you.

And here's where I add two more...

11) Guy is in a bad mood? People blame it on his team losing. Woman is in a bad mood? People blame it on her reproductive system. God, Heather! You're such a bitch today! Are you on the rag?!? No. Are you about to die from asphyxiation while I slowly choke you to death? I thought so.

12) Men go through male menopause? Meaning, their testosterone levels go down? They go out, buy Corvettes and cases of Just For Men, and marry women half their age. Women go through menopause? We're told it's like an illness that must be treated with hormones or supplements and then everything gets hot, then cold, then reeaaallly reeeaaaalllly hot, then cold, then CENTER OF THE SUN! and then you will just shrivel up, SHRIVEL I TELL YOU! and, oh, by the by, the hormones will make you feel better but will probably kill you with breast cancer so you get the hormones and the cancer and you have a double mastectomy so you still have the hormones but you have no boobs, your male-menopause husband is out flirting with girls in his sports car with his freshly dyed hair and you're at home with your 50-11 cats and your flat chest.*

How YOU doin'?

OK. I am now going to go and hide.

*Actually, the Ty-man will be out in his Corvette, with his Just For Men still fresh on his head, scoping out the toy stores for the latest Star Wars Extra-Special Most-Bestest Favoritest This-Time-the-Death-Star-Blows-Up-With-Screaming-Voice-Effects-Added action figures. While I? Will be at home with the cats and the Sean Connery and the Godiva. And the hormones. But still. It ain't right.

I'm In Ur 'Puter! Feedin' Ur Reads!

Um, yeah. I'm back.

Allow the Force ripples to make their way down your spine. I'll wait.

Wow. My nails are beyond bad. Maybe I need a manicure. Or maybe I just need to rip those fuc...

Oh, hai. You're back. Cool.

Yup, this joint has quite a few cobwebs. Allow me to dust a few things off and give you a brief run down of my life these past 20-ish days.

• The proposal the Ty-man is writing for his main customer was originally due back to the customer today. After totally crapping on Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, and the J-man's first day of school with this proposal request, said customer decided that wasn't enough. OH NOES! Let's change 80% of said request, one week before Christmas, and change the due date to January 19th, thereby ripping the holidays AND our trip to Mexico to shreds.
  
  Bitter? Nah, not at all. But if you see me on the 11 o'clock news vandalizing the property of said customer, don't be surprised. Just quietly raise bail and hide me away somewhere in Disney World.

• On the upside, the Ty-man has given me an island for my birthday. Well, he didn't give me an island, but he did nod his head when the travel agent said BONAIRE?!? My favorite place on Earth is the tiny island of Bonaire and from February 6-13, I'll be there, underwater, communing with the fish, floating my troubles away while the Ty-man sips Amstel Bright on the beach. I suppose that now I can't spray paint pornographic graffiti on the Ty-man's customer's property. But I still feel totally justified in mooning them.
  

• Hickory Farms, people. Hickory-frakking-Farms! This is why my waistline resembles the shape of a beef stick during the holidays. Cookies-schmookies. Give me some beef parts, crackers, mustard, and questionable cheese any day. Now, THAT'S Christmas! Oy, why do I feel so bloated?
  

• Did I mention that after a five-year break from pounding the pavement, I'm going to start running again? Yeah. If you see a beef stick-shaped woman in her running shoes, red-faced, panting and thumbing a ride, take pity.
  

• J-man starts school today.* TODAY! You read me right. To-fucking-day. He's six days shy of being two years and eight months old and that means he's old enough for Montessori pre-school. As you read this, I've dressed him in his khakis and blue shirt, handed him his lunch box, and dropped him off with his siblings for a day of learning, discovery, fun, self-... aw, who the hell am I kidding? Kid has probably spent four hours screaming and crying his head off. He freaks if I go upstairs to fold laundry. This? Is not going to be pretty. I'll miss him like crazy, but I don't envy his teachers at all.

• Did you know that the Southeastern Railway Museum has train engines and cars on display outdoors and indoors? And that the indoors section is not heated? And that train-loving toddlers aren't really interested in just walking around old trains that sit there? That they want the trains to move? And that when it's 27^oF out, said toddlers who are already pissed that the trains aren't moving are doubly upset because they now have snotcicles forming on their noses and mouths? And that my tolerance level for toddler whining is set to zero when I'm shivering in my cowboy boots? Yeah, me neither. Looks like we'll be taking a trip on Amtrak this spring.

• I am now obsessed with Julia Quinn's books. That is all.
  

• I had to call the cops on the HOA bully, one week before Christmas. I won't go into detail here because I don't want him to be able to find me via Google, but suffice it to say that he came out of it looking like an idiot and no one got hurt. Want the 411? E-mail me.

And that's about it. What's up with you?

*Pictures and post to follow on the morrow.

Sticks and Stones

Words rule my life, as they do all our lives. We speak to one another, we text, we blog, write, Twitter, all of it. Whether misspelled, misshapen, misspoken, they are there, thrown, hurtled, and passed gently as whispers. They assail me everyday and yet I find that my personal dictionary is dried-up, my larynx closed, my frontal lobe quiet. We're talking parched Earth here, people.

In the past seven months, I've used my words as weapons. Yes, the keyboard is mightier than the sword. Words have been flung at me with the force of a machine gun and I've weathered the assault with biting, cutting verbiage of my own. Oh, yeah, I've driven down that road and left a dusty wake of nastiness behind me and here at the end, I find myself unable to utter a simple declarative sentence.

In the past four years, I've used my words to teach, correct, yell, tell stories, and soothe hurt feelings. My children constantly call for Mama, they jabber about their days and holler when wronged. They expect me to have the answers to all of their questions and I just don't have them right now. It's too much, to be responsible for teaching them everything. I'm wrung out. I don't have it in me to give out one more Say 'Excuse me!' when you burp. or Apologize to your sister. or I love you.

I speak only when spoken to. I don't respond to e-mails or comments. My answers are short and sweet and my questions stay unspoken. I just can't find the words to express how I'm feeling. I read, I absorb, I listen and watch, but my language centers have hit pause and I'm not quite sure how to get back to the beginning when the words flowed without a jumble.

I need quiet, rest, no one depending on me or any decisions I have to make. I dream of being still, of answering to no one. But all of that is impossible.

So I guess I'll just wait for the words to come.