Memoir Monday: Talladega Nights...and Days - Part 2

Yippee!  It's Memoir Monday! 

What you've not heard of Memoir Monday?  It's only the most talked about bloggy prompt EV-ER!  It was created by the most famous Oklahoman since Timothy McVeigh, Trav-O at I Like to Fish...  If you want to be among the cool and fashionable, you must go check him out!

This is part two of my Talladega Adventure.  To read the first edition, check it out here. 

After getting my new, totally ridiculous tramp stamp, we headed back to Hazel's to shower before hitting the club.  For a little hole in the wall in the middle of nowhere, the place was packed.  It seems there was some race thingy going on that weekend.  Nascar?  Dale Earnhardt?  Never heard of 'em.

The night was a blur of beer drinking, tattoo sporting, and honey creeping.  Period.  Same song, same dance, different city.  The night ended the same as many before it with me shacked up (no shagging, though; I do have some dignity) with a stranger in a place I couldn't find again if my life depended on it.  HELL-O?  Natalee Holloway?  Are you nuts, LB?  But that's how I rolled back in the day.  Luckily, he was a decent enough guy who even asked me to go to the race.

What race?  Oh, yea...the NASCAR Talladega 500!  I had to feign interest which was quite difficult.  My impression of NASCAR was not good up to this point.  Having gone to an actual race, it hasn't changed much either.  Picture Hillbilly Heaven and you have the Talladega 500.

I knew the day was going to be hilarious and memorable when dude pulled up with about 20 friends, 25 coolers full of beer, and a barbecue grill secured to the bed of his truck.  I'm taking you to the infield, girl!

*blink*  The infield?  *blink*

So the 20 friends all pitched in to pay the 50 gazillion dollars for admission.  Apparently, the infield is big time.  Who knew?  I was totally clueless, and I still had no idea what or where the infield was.  I soon learned, though, that the infield is that area inside the race track.  It is filled with RVs, tents, pick ups, rebel flags, and some things, frankly, that can only be appreciated in person.

Far too many of these guys...

The ever-popular Visqueen swimming pools...

 

The official beer of Nascar...

Live sex acts Mud wrestlin'...

It was like Mardi Gras for the inbreeding community!  On race day, the churches and the Klan meetings are canceled.  Everyone puts on their Dale Earnhardt (the original, not Dale Jr.) paraphernalia and hits the track.  Numbered flags are flown high on every front porch leading to the track. 

Although we headed out early in the morning, we waited in the infield line for what seemed like hours.We finally got in and found a good spot on Turn 2.  Like me fluent Nascar lingo?

 

It was 185 degrees.  At ten in the morning.  The redneck swimming pools were everywhere.  I know why country boys prefer trucks.  Not only can they haul stuff in the back and ride through muddy terrain with the greatest of ease, they can also create an impromptu wading pool with a sheet of visqueen and a water hose.  If they weren't relaxing in their Z-71 pools, they were slipping and sliding.  That visqueen is pretty versatile stuff, ya know.

I can't just rag on the dudes, though.  The girls were just as, well, entertaining.  Though I'm pretty sure mall hair went out in the late 80s, the fashion police hadn't quite made it to Talladega, Alabama, yet.  I saw more camel toes, muffin tops, back fat, and barms than I ever wanted to see.  Cut offs with a bikini top was the standard uniform regardless of the size or amount of coverage.  Bottom line?  Lots of skanks!

I spent most of the day in dude's truck with the A/C turned on, though.  I was too hung over and too tired for such mayhem.  The best part of the day?  As we were rolled out of the infield after the race, Dude's dad fired up the grill.  In the back of the truck.  As we sat in traffic.  I was wondering why they had that thing secured so tightly.  A new twist on the tailgate party, if you will.

All in all, it was probably one of my better first dates.

Public Service Announcement: Bad Tattoos Are on the Rise

Disclaimer:  I am sarcastic (Du-uh! Thus the blog address), and I tend to exaggerate for effect.  I'm a people-watcher; I observe, report, and add my own commentary.  Nothing I write should be used as a factual reference due to my tendency to over-exaggerate.  While I hate to admit it (and probably won't again), I do NOT know everything.  The opinions stated here are mine, and mean absolutely NOTHING to anyone else in the world but a few close friends.  If my statements offend you, I'm sorry for that but this is my blog.  I call it like I see it!  Real Talk.

I may need to seek professional counsel for my latest obsession.  It consumes me when out in public.  I find myself going to great lengths just to catch a glimpse.  I'm speechless and dumbfounded by what I see, yet I want to see more.  It's like a bad car accident.  I shudder at the gruesomeness, but I want to get all up in the Kool-Aid.

People, people, people...  Please, please, please...  Let's be a bit more discriminating about the "art" we have permanently placed on our bodies!  K? 

Seriously, folks.  Not everything in life is worthy of a tattoo.  I know you love your boyfriend, but do you really need his name, birth date, and social security number stamped across your entire back?  Yes, I know you love turtles; I do too!  However, must you wear that love on your upper thigh?

Mr. #24 should be very, very, VERY afraid!

What the hell was she thinking?

Some of the most hideous tattoos I've observed were on women.  I do not understand why a beautiful woman would want to deface her beautiful body with the likes of Tweety Bird and Captain Jack Sparrow.  Don't get me wrong; I think Johnny Depp is pretty hot myself.  But after a few years of sun and weight changes, Captain Jack starts to look more like the Crypt Keeper.

Eff'n Bob Barker?  Really??

Speaking of the Crypt Keeper, he's really not a good muse.  Just say "NO" to Freddy Krueger, the Tasmanian Devil, Satan, and the Grim Reaper.  Oh, and the Insane Clown Posse.  They're just plain creepy!  One day you will have children (yes you will) who will be completely traumatized.

Do you really want this to be the last thing your son sees before going to bed???

You will also probably have a real job one day so keep your tatts on the DL.  The initials of your BFF on the back of your neck may work against you in the interview process.  You can't really sport that tarantula crawling up your leg wearing a dress.  The Man kinda frowns on skankiness, or anything that may be misconstrued for skankiness, in the work place.

I have a tattoo.  A ridiculous tattoo.  One that would definitely cause me to tank an interview.  Luckily, God was on my side that day because I got it on my hip vs. the ankle where I'd really wanted it.  Some fifteen or so years later, my Mickey looks like an old, dead rat.  I'd love to have it removed, but it serves a purpose.  It is a constant reminder of the dumb things I'm capable of doing when severely under the influence.  No AA meetings necessary!

Lord, I hope this ain't your grandma...

*These are not people in my real life. All photos are compliments of Google Images.

Sparing Spouses

My head is on the verge of spontaneous combustion.  Well, not so spontaneous since I can feel my blood rushing to the top causing the aforementioned explosion.  Nonetheless, I'm 'bout to go off on somebody!

I got up at 5:00 a.m. this morning just so I could go to the gym before Satan had to report to work.  I put up with Rounds 1, 2, and 3 of the incessant fighting between my kids, washed the bedding after my son got pissed and literally pissed everywhere, did two time outs in two separate locations at the same time, got the kids dressed so I could strap them in their car seats away from one another we could go to the library, then headed off to the Children's Museum for some air-conditioned entertainment. 

I finally rolled into the drive at around 5:00 p.m.  What do you think were the first words out of Satan's mouth???  Yep, you guessed it...

"What's for supper?!?!"

Of course, this question came as I entered the door with two screaming kids and an arm full of crap acquired during the day.  As if that wasn't enough, Satan's spawn, Curly Q, was in the midst of a meltdown because she wanted to run down the road after the neighbors on bikes.  Being the pushover he is, Satan was promising diamonds, pearls, and a Hawaii vacation to Curly Q if she'd just stop screaming. 

"Where exactly were the neighbors when you saw them riding on the road?"

As if I'd felt like giving him GPS coordinates for those little hellions.  I went off!  And he had the nerve to retaliate with his typical, yet deadly, fighting words, "If you don't like it, you can just leave."

WTF?  Seriously?!?!  How's a girl supposed to respond to that one???  He knows it totally pisses me off because I have nothing!  Sure, I could come back with, fine, I'll leave! but how dumb is that shit?  I'm a lot of things, but dumb is not one of them.

I want to say, FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU!  Maybe if I weren't playing the Silent Treatment right now, I would do exactly that. 

Oh, he is soooo sleeping on the couch tonight!

The Y Just Ain't My Scene

I am such a freakin' brat!  I've grown up quite a bit over the years, but I can feel Hollywood Bitch trying to express herself these days.  I call my bratty side Hollywood Bitch because that was my nickname growing up.  Well, my cousins called me "Hollywood," but I know what they meant.  Omarosa ain't got shit on LB!  I put the D, the I, the V, and the A in DIVA.

Anysnottybitch, I have been nagging my husband to death for a pool.  I want my own damn pool in my own backyard!  Our kids are getting older and fight too much love to swim.  We need some recreation around this junk!  What better way to survive the sweltering summers of West Tennessee, right? 

Think of Hell with a bonfire going at all times.  That's a Midsouth summer. One hundred gazillion degrees.  In the shade.  All day long, I'm sweating like a whore in church.  Ain't no way on God's green earth are you getting me outdoors from June 1st to September 1st.  That is, unless there is some nice, refreshing, cool water close by.  I. WANT. A. POOL. AND. I. WANT. IT. NOW! *insert clinched fists and foot stomping here*

Mr. OCD-I-pay-the-bills-and-we-are-broke says, "no."  He's such a party pooper!  I wasn't happy, but figured I'd compromise.  Here's the deal...If I'll wait another year, I just may see a sparkling oasis in my very own backyard.  I have to wait, though, something I've never been very good at.

Fine, then.  I'll just join the Y!  The kids and I can go to the pool every day!  Besides, they have babysitters...um, I mean...lifeguards!

I was almost giddy just thinking about it.  I could workout while they stayed in the childcare room.  Then we could hit the pool!  It actually sounded better than I'd expected.  Until this morning.

First, it took me like an hour to get our shit gear together!  I packed swimsuits.  Check.  I packed sunscreen.  Check.  Floats, goggles, towels.  Check, check, check.  Since it's a bit of a drive, I packed lunches and snacks and water.  By the time I was finished with that, I was exhausted.  Not to mention, the kids fought the entire time.

Finally, we got to the Y.  I checked the kids into the nursery then hit the gym.  Disappointment.  At my other gym, there are little TVs on all the cardio equipment.  This equipment was in a large room with several TVs turned to various channels with subtitles.  I was bummed, but found a bright spot in the magazine selection.  It was nice to read a chick magazine, something I only do when getting a pedicure or waiting in line at the grocery store.  Before I knew it, I'd done 30 minutes on the elliptical and learned about a few "super foods" at the same time.

I thought, okay, this is not my ideal gym setting but I'll manage.

Afterwards, the kids and I hit the pool area.  With lifeguards (yippee!!!). 

I know why they need lifeguards now, though.  There were forty thousand kids in the damn pool!  Seriously, they were all over the place.  Not a single cubic inch of the pool was vacant.  Made me a freakin' wreck!

Not this bad, but you get the idea...

In addition to all the screeching kids, there was a "Mommies Club" to contend with.  Great, I thought.  I hate playing nice in an effort to fit in. 

All the mommies sat poolside with their chairs lined up together.  They all wore similar black tankinis and had similar looking children with nice little tans.  The moms wore big floppy hats and nibbled on Triscuits.  The kids grazed on apple slices and drank from little juice boxes.  I was in Stepford Hell.  I was in no mood to "play" so I found a nice chair in a corner away from them.

Of course, Stepford Hell was a far better place than the Redneck Riviera on the other side of the deck area.  The moms on that side of the pool weighed in the rotund range.  As the swimsuits they sported weren't bad enough, a few were tatted up with the most heinous of all tattoo art.  One woman actually had what looked like a portrait of the Insane Clown Posse on her left leg.  I saw barcodes on the neck, homemade monograms on the shoulders, crosses and religious memoriams on the back.  It made me long for the Mommies Club Rush parties.

Who'd put this on their leg?!?! Her kids are probably serial killers in training!

No commentary needed here...

The Y just ain't my scene.  I may have to pull out my sex trick arsenal.  Daily blow jobs for the rest of the year???  I dunno, but Mama really, really, REALLY needs a swimming pool!

Fed-Up-and-Don't-Give-a-Shit-itis

Ever want to just throw in the towel?  Just say screw it; no more swimming upstream? 

That's how I'm feeling today.  I am officially sick and tired.  I'm sick and tired of eating right (which is still DIETING to me) and exercising all the time.  I'm sick and tired of taking care of kids.  I'm sick and tired of laundry and groceries and personal hygiene.

I'd love to just veg on my couch and eat powdered donuts all day.  Maybe get me a big bag of M&M's and a large real cherry limeade to wash it all down.  I could nap off and on all day while stuffing myself full of junk as I watch reruns of Jersey Shore.  Seriously...I'm sick and tired of fighting the fight against age, obesity, disease, filth, stupidity. 

Why can't we just be born PERFECT and stay that way forever?  Why can't I be PERFECT?  And skinny?  And beautiful? 

I guess the real question is why can't I be happy with what I've got?  Is this what the experts call depression?  Maybe, but I call it Fed-Up-and-Don't-Give-a-Shit-itis. 

NICE! Wish I could take credit for this; Lucian Freud is my new favorite artist.

Fuck!  I'm off to the gym. AGAIN.

Talladega Nights...and Days - Part 1

I was saving this for Trav-O at I Like to Fish, but apparently the Memoir Monday has become just another memoir.  Remember back in the day when we'd write down a story about ourselves, steal Trav-O's button, drink a beer, and call it all a win??? 

Anystabmeintheheartandmakemefeellikealoser, I'm sharing my damn memoir today.  No button, though; it's Thursday, not Monday.  It's been on ice long enough, boys and girls!

Talladega, Alabama.  April, 1994.  One of the infamous Three White Bitches (what we were known as by some of our college party boys), Hazel, moved there with her boyfriend shortly after graduation.  Because she was quite home sick and living in the armpit of hell, Hazel begged me to come for a visit.  While I wasn't all that interested in going to Alabama, and had no earthly idea where to find Talladega on the map, the offer of "free beer" sparked my interest.  See, Hazel's boyfriend ran a bar, and Hazel was his bartender.  Cha-ching!!

After work that day, my roommate, Erica, and I packed our bags and hit the road.  Now this was back in the pre-Google days, so not knowing in which direction to steer your vehicle was a pretty big deal.  We were living in Memphis at the time so we knew that we needed to head south.  That was about all we had.  Since I was the responsible one of the group (hehehe, it still makes me laugh just thinking about it), I stopped at a gas station (yes, those still existed too) and bought a map.  I drove while Erica navigated and manned the cooler.  Stocked with cold ones for our road trip.  I still can't believe I never got a DUI.  Another indication that me and the Big G are tight.

After only a few detours and 7 hours of a 4-hour trip, we finally reached Talladega.  I'm pretty sure it was pre-cell phone days, too, so we stopped at a little Mexican restaurant to call Hazel.  And to drink a few margaritas.  From this point until we reached the tattoo shop, things are a little fuzzy.  I guess all that partying did actually kill a few brain cells.  I do recall, however, that some sort of bet transpired between Erica and me.  She won, and we headed off in search of a new tattoo.

Erica had been wanting a tattoo for quite some time, but never could muster up the nerve to go through with it.  She needed a partner in crime.  I, on the otherhand, wasn't has keen on the idea.  Not that I didn't like them, but I was a chicken shit!  When I discovered that an actual needle was involved, I wanted no part of it.  With a little liquid courage, though, all things are possible.

When we arrived at the tattoo place, neither of us had a design in mind.  Let me rephrase that, Erica did not have a picture of her actual design while I had no idea.  I looked through book after book, but just didn't see anything.  Meanwhile, Erica was on the table having some cute little flower put on her hip. 

It was finally my turn.  I just picked one!  As if being a drunk girl getting a tattoo on her hip isn't silly enough, the tattoo chosen was ridiculous.  Thank God it's on my hip!  Every time I look at it, I am reminded of the dangers of drinking and tattooing.  Why didn't anyone stop me??  Oh, because they were drunk and thought it was a good idea too!!!

When I got on the table, I handed Mr. Tattoo Guy (why are they always big biker-looking dudes?) my design.  It was a Mickey Mouse.  Red pants.  Yellow shoes.  Stop laughing.

Not me.  Apparently, I'm not the only person in America who got drunk and tatted up.

No wonder they don't let drunk folks get tattoos anymore.  It has absolutely NOTHING to do with alcohol causing the blood to thin.  It is to prevent lawsuits!  Can you imagine a drunk guy getting Mickey put on his back???  He'd get the shit beat out of him!

The moral to the story?  Don't drink and drive.  To Talladega.  For a tattoo.  No wonder my son is obsessed with everything Mickey.  I've got to stop letting him see me nekked.

Stay tuned next week for my Nascar observations.  Remember...I was there for an entire weekend!

Remembering Draffy

Today I was sadly reminded that my babies are growing up.  My son woke up and came downstairs to my room as always.  With one MAJOR exception.  He didn't have Draffy!  When I asked of Draffy's whereabouts, my son responded, "I don't know, Mom.  I'm a big boy now, and big boys sleep by themselves." 

*GASP* 

*sniff, sniff*  Tito, give me a tissue.

Mama nearly cried.  I, personally, am not ready to give up Draffy!  It's too soon.  I don't think I can bare to leave this phase.  I'm not ready to have a farting, stupid joke-telling, smelly, annoying boy.  I have no choice, though.  It suppose it was inevitable.  Sooner or later my baby boy would be transformed.  I just didn't realize it would happen so quickly and without some sort of notice or warning. 

As I wallow in melancholy, the memories come flooding back.  I feel the need to honor the best friend a boy and his mama could have.  Without Draffy, our family would not have survived the last five years.  Mama would have dabbled in the poison Kool-Aid long before now if it weren't for him.  I've made complete U-turns 50 miles into a trip to retrieve Draffy.  We've scoured every crevice of our home (usually at 2 am) at one time or another Desperately Seeking Draffy.  Were it not for his soft mane, chewy antler (or is that a horn?), and squeaky hands, the big E would probably still be getting up every two hours at night.

The best part of Draffy -- his antler/horn/thingamajig on top of his head!

When E was sick or down in the dumps, Draffy could make him smile.

A sweet boy and his best friend...

Even a baby sister couldn't come between a boy and his Draffy.

Draffy's been to Disney World more times than any other toy in the Continental U.S.

A lonely Draffy today...

Mr. Draffy has been a friend through thick and thin.  He's been peed on and puked on and covered with chocolate pudding.  He's been through the washer, the dryer, the microwave, and the freezer.  There have been days where Draffy smelled so bad even the dog wouldn't lay with him.  His right antler or horn or thingamajig is gone.  Chewed off by his best bud, E.  His hands are now covered with gloves (compliments of my Big Mama maternity drawers) as those satin paws were worn down to threads.  Yes, Mr. Draffy has seen better days.

You will be missed, dear friend, but you will never be replaced.  

Psst...  Hey, Draffy!  Relax, you're going to a very special place.  I've got a nice keepsake box especially for you.  I bet one day Mr. E will need your company again. 

He Wants Advice from Me??!!?!

Who are those people talking on my my phone?!?  I barely recognize them with all that laughter.  And he's asking her for advice?  Wow! 

Just got off the phone with my dad.  For him, yes, I'll answer.  It's weird how relationships change and evolve over the years. 

My dad and I were never close when I was growing up.  In fact, at times I considered him my mortal enemy.  Seriously, the man was anything but friendly towards me.  I don't think he liked me very much.  We could sit in the same room for hours and never utter a single word to one another.  There was no "hello," no "how was your day?", no "kiss my ass"...nothing.  We just co-existed in the same dwelling.

I do have a few "warm" memories of my dad, though.  I remember him taking us fishing and crabbing off the Howard Avenue pier.  When we were little, he'd wake us up in the middle of the night for snow!  Once when I was about nine, he cleverly pretended that our bathroom was a princess suite so that I'd voluntarily, and with great excitement, take the first bath.  Then there was the time when he bought me a car and taught me to drive.  He even chased down a would-be sexual predator who harrassed me as I walked home from school.  Yes, we did have a few father-daughter moments that are as vividly etched in my memory as the birth of my first child.

Unfortunately, however, there were far too many days filled with hatred and indifference.  Hatred on my part; indifference on his.  We fought about everything from my short shorts to the color of our carpet.  And when there was no fighting, there was nothing.  Just the deafening sound of silence.  I was never more uncomfortable around a person than I was my dad.  I can't pinpoint one pivotal moment in our relationship that led us to those most miserable of days.  All I know is I could not wait to get out of his house.

At 18, that was exactly what I did.  I turned 18 in April, graduated in early June, and moved into a tiny apartment with my crazy psycho loser boyfriend in July.  (Yall remember Scotty from my story about getting choked out at a Mardi Gras parade and going to jail?  Gotta love the young and dumb.)  For the most part, I never went back.  The road has been long and bumpy.  I'm hard-headed; all lessons are learned the...um...severe way.  

Now that I have my own little demons, those troubling days appear much different from how I originally remembered them.  No wonder he didn't talk to me!  I was a drama queen, bitch from hell!  While I never really got into too much trouble like my siblings, I was a very difficult teen.  I required so much energy.  The tension in our house was ruled by Her Royal Diva-ness, moi!  If my hair didn't curl right or I couldn't find my shoes, it was going to be a miserable day.  For everyone.  My mother was a martyr who felt it her duty to put up with me.  But my dad was a saint for not killing me!

Today, my dad and I are different.  We've seen some tumultuous years filled with heartache and family tragedies, but we're cool now.  I like it.  We actually talk to one another.  We laugh and cut up just like...well, just like we should.  I always thought I was a lot like my mom, but I was sooo very wrong.  She was too nice, too patient, too trusting. 

Nope, I'm my dad's daughter.  Tough, yet loving.  I keep my circle small, but I'm very loyal.  I'm not afraid to laugh at myself or others (sorry...).  I get through life's tough spots by looking for the humor.  So does he.  The man is a freakin' hoot.  You should hear him tell a story!

Here's a recent pic of Daddy & the kids.  They ADORE him!

Happy Father's Day, Dad!  I know you probably won't read this because, although you've had one for twenty years, you don't know how to work a computer.  That's okay.  I'm pretty sure you know how I feel any way. 

I love you, Daddy!

Excuse Me, But Do Those Prison Stripes Come in His Size??

My son needs help.  Serious help.  I've never seen anything like it.  For such a sweet, charismatic, smart, and extremely adorable five year old, he has a dark side that is starting to bother me.  I've kinda tried to ignore.  Until now.

I'm afraid an intervention, or an exorcism, may be necessary.

My son is a five-year-old stuffaholic.  He's a certifiable treasure box junkie!  He is obsessed with acquiring junk!  I don't want to call it greed because I'm not convinced that's it.  He'll gladly give to others.  In fact, he is always wrapping up his toys to give to his friends as presents.  But he is even happier to be on the receiving end.  In fact, he got pissed when he didn't get a parting gift at a recent birthday party.  

At his preschool graduation, his teachers gave out funny, special awards to all of the kids.  He got "Most Likely to Bring a Toy to School Every Day."  WTH???  It's true, though.  He would always stick some little figurine or car in his backpack before leaving for school each morning.  My son, Mr. Materialistic. 

At his sister's softball games, he'd get $2 to spend on whatever.  He'd make 40 trips to the concession stand spending a quarter at a time.  (Don't check my math.  I'm close, though.)  He'd give me the loot to hold while he merely enjoyed the transactions.  I've seen him throw a box of tampons into the grocery cart just before check out to ensure that he got "something." 

Old, new, clean, dirty...he doesn't care.  He just likes getting "stuff."  Every time we go somewhere the first thing out of his mouth is "Can I get a toy?"  He is a retailer's dream come true!

Today, after lunch I took him and his sister to McDonald's for ice cream and to play.  I know, bad move.  But hell, it's 187 degrees outside!  I thought it would be a win-win.  Win, because I get to hang out in the A/C.  Win, they get to play and enjoy some ice cream in the A/C.  As soon as we get into the place, my son starts in about the freakin' Shrek watches that he doesn't have yet. 

Whatever...  You got a Shrek watch two days ago.  I'm sure before they are all gone, you will have acquired the rest of them.

Don't judge.  I know that Happy Meals are crap full of fat and grease.  Give me a break, please.  I do give them a multi-vitamin every day, for crying out loud.

Anywonderwhyshe'safatass, he started pouting.  My gut was telling me to turn around and walk out of the door, but lazy mom, my alter-ego, was saying "You've got 3 more hours to kill before Daddy gets home."  Lazy mom won! 

We went to the play area.  Shortly after removing his shoes, E came to me with a big, I-got-something-and-you-don't grin on his face.  I knew something was up.  Sure enough, behind his back was an effn' Puss-in-Boots watch.  He said he "found" it.  I told him to put it back.  He sulked away.

Instead of putting it back, however, he put it in his pocket!  He hid behind the slide, looked around to make sure I wasn't watching, then slid the damn watch in his freakin' pocket!  Of course I was watching as was some nosey old man sitting next to us.  "He put it in his pocket, Ma'am." 

Thanks, Mr. None of Your Business.  Oh, I didn't say it, but I wanted to.  Sorry, I still have the pissies, and I just wasn't in the mood. 

The highly coveted watch that led to his felonious offense...

OMG!  Where did he learn that???  I was freaking out.  See, this was not the first time I'd caught him stealing.  Once at the zoo he tried to steal a tiger ball because I told him he could only have one toy!  Needless to say, he got NOTHING but a severe cussin' a lecture about going to jail and a time out.

The toy at McDonald's was actually just left in the play area.  It didn't belong to anyone in the play area.  I checked.  But I gave it to the McDonald's worker because he was NOT getting it.  He cried the entire way home.

None of my parenting books address larceny.  I'm stumped.  Moms in Blogland, what would you do?  My first instinct is to take him for a visit to Juvy.  Give him a little "Scared Straight" therapy.  Do they make prison jumpsuits to fit five year olds???

A Poem: Ode to Pissy Cheeri-Os

I've got the flu,
The funk, if you will.
Or I'm dying of some crazy ears-nose-throat disease.
Any way you look at it,
I'm feeling pretty ill. 

I'm fat,
More specifically, I'm fatter.
I gained three pounds on vacation,
Hell, I'm dying any way,
So it doesn't really matter.

I haven't been to the gym in a week,
I feel like a blubbery slug.
The good news is, though,
A slow, painful death just might make me skinny as a mug.

To make matters worse,
Mother Nature's gift arrived.
Our fridge is finally dead,
But me?  I'm still alive.

Who pissed in my Cheeri-Os????

I HATE Hate

I feel like death on a cracker.  Literally.  I've been unable to sleep for the past two nights because my throat is freakin' KILLING me!  I've considered cutting off my head to stop the pain, but I'm afraid of dying.  I've got kids to corrupt rear; now is just not a good time for me.  K?

I guess that's why I'm so damn irritable.  I've got my panties in a wad today.  My feathers are ruffled.  Still, I am able to find some humor.  I try to never take myself too seriously.  I learned that the hard way.  As soon as you start to think you are all that and a bag of chips, you will walk out of the bathroom with your skirt tucked into your pantyhose.  Been there; done that.  I've got the t-shirt.

Now why can't the rest of you do the same????!!!???  Dammit, Man!  Quit hating!

Sorry, I'm not talking about you.  I'm only referring to Mr. Negativity and his girlfriend, Ms. Tight-Ass.  Honestly, why do some folks find it necessary to rant and rave about every freakin' thing?!?  Furthermore, how can they be so angry and full of hatred towards folks they do not even know?

For instance, I just saw someone on Facebook make a comment about how they hated the CEO of BP.  REALLY?!?  I'm as pissed as anyone about the oil spill in the Gulf.  Biloxi is my home.  The fishing and shrimping industries have always been vital to the economy down there.  That oil spill is effn' with the livelihood of some good, hard-working folks.  That really, really, REALLY sucks! 

But I don't hate Mr. CEO.  I really don't think when he heard of the explosion, he said, "Aw, screw it!  Those men who died can easily be replaced.  That oil spilling out into the Gulf is just a minor inconvenience.  I'm rich so I don't care.  Hell, I don't eat seafood any way."

Instead, I think his morning thoughts went more like this,  "HOLY SHIT!!!" 

I seriously doubt that he caused that explosion for kicks.  I'm going to go even further by saying that I don't believe he ever expected that their initial efforts at stopping the leak would fail.  Do I think he's done all he can to rectify the situation?  Hell, I don't know.  Maybe.  Maybe not.  He's probably done as much as most of us could do as individuals.  I don't have his job nor do I want it.  That oil spill is much bigger than one man.  Or one company, for that matter. 

Then I saw another comment that put me in a tizzy.  One person was talking about how much she HATES Obama.  I think her exact words were, "I hate Obama even more than I hated Bill Clinton!"  Really?!?  I didn't even know you were acquainted with either men.  Hmmm...  Did Obama's dog poop on your lawn or something?  Did Bill refuse to leave his DNA on your blue dress???  Or maybe he killed your first born with an ice pick? 

Before you start hating, let me add that I AM. NOT. A DEMOCRAT.  I'm not a Republican either.  I'm an economist who tries to base my vote on my assessment of the current economic health of the nation.  (Shut up.  I'm serious.)  Sometimes I'm right; sometimes I'm wrong.  NEVER, EVER do I vote for one because I HATE another.  How freakin' silly!  Oooh, don't vote for him.  He's got beady eyes and refuses to sing "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" during the 7th inning stretch.  Antichrist!!

Please, give me a break.  I'm sick of folks spewing hatred towards others for no apparent reason other than they have miserable lives and love to spread their misery.  Don't hate Mr. CEO because he has a 7 figure income.  Don't hate Obama because he's biracial and has non-Christian DNA in his body. *insert MORTIFIED GASP here* 

It is okay to dislike Mr. CEO's tactics or Mr. Obama's policies.  It is not okay to HATE them.  Neither of them have personally done anything to you!

That, my dear friends, is why I love blogging.  I can say what I want to say without being interrupted.  You may now proceed with your LB-bashing.  Just don't hate me because I'm beautiful!  Unless, of course, I let my dog poop on your lawn...

Uuuggghhh, I'm ill!  I'm totally reconsidering that beheading... 

Vacation Observations

We're on vacation on the Gulf of Mexico.  Unfortunately, my kids haven't allowed me much time for blogging.  It's been up at dawn and down at dusk with a bunch of screaming, fighting, and crying in between.  Yesterday, my daughter literally held onto my leg crying while I check my email!  Dammit, you are seriously affecting my blogosphere!

Because I don't want a repeat of yesterday, I will have to make it quick.  I just wanted to jot down a few thoughts regarding some of the things I observed while stalking people-watching at the beach.

• Teenage girls are much fatter than I remember.
• Moms of teenage girls are much thinner.
• Just because they make bikinis in XXXL, doesn't mean you should wear one.
• If the string of your string bikini is buried somewhere between your waist and the top of your thigh, wear a muu muu instead.
• Some folks are racist.
• Teeth are not luxury items and should never be optional.
• That pool must be full of pee because I haven't seen a single kid go to the potty.
• If you want to avoid an embarrassing injury, be sure to lift your butt when going down the water slide.
• People are more tolerant of those who are polite.
• One day, she will regret getting that tattoo of the Eiffel Tower down the side of her entire leg.
• Dragons and daggers (or Mickey Mouse, for that matter) are not good examples of tattoo art. 
• I wish the makers of body wax would include men in their target market.  Back hair is gross!
• Put on some sunscreen; you'll fry out here!
• Those pina coladas from the Tiki bar are pretty strong.
• Be kind and wait your turn.
• Restaurant food, regardless of the cost, does not taste better than home-cooking.
• Cellulite of every color is an eyesore.  Please cover up!
• Tweens or teens caught wrestling in the baby pool/play area should be shot on sight!
• Parties of 15 or more people are obnoxious.
• The muffin top should be banned.  (Not the one found on a tasty pastry; the one created by tight, low-rise pants and a massive midsection.)
• Ice cream should be calorie-free so I can eat it every day.
• Build-a-Bear is for the children of the rich and famous.
• MarmaDuke is very funny.
• Yellow Box flip flops are still just flip flops.
• I just don't get Guy Harvey.  I'm more of a Claude Monet girl.
• Sleeping 4 to a bed is never, ever comfortable!

And I still have four more days!  Now, if my kids will only allow me a few moments to report back...

Nice!!!  Saw her at the water park yesterday. 

My Absolutely, Positively Will Not Do List

OK, so I totally stole this from LiLu at Live It, Luv It but I'm sure she won't mind.  She got it from someone who got it from someone who got it directly from Oprah!  With all her miracle networks, book clubs, and life-saving missions to Ethiopia, who knew O still found time to be a diva of gargantuan proportions?!?  Only Steadman, I guess...

Though my charity resume pales in comparison, my diva-ishness does not.  I do have my limits, people!  Here are just a few of the things I absolutely, positively will NOT do: 

• Meat without the FDA or USDA stamp of approval.
• Housework, yard work, or any other kind of work for which I receive no compensation (including bedroom work).
• Bra-less.
• Speed limits.
• Thongs.
• Bikini waxes.
• Secrets.  (If you don't want anyone else to know, do NOT tell me.)
• Yard sales, thrift stores, or discount department stores like T.J. Maxx.  (I need organized.  My ADD will have me in a place like that for hours. touching everything.  Why am I here again???)
• Non-alcoholic cocktails.  I drink for one reason only, and it's not the taste. 
• Mushy, lovey-dovey, he's-hot-she's-not chick flicks.  *barf*
• Sex in the City, Desperate Housewives, Biggest Loser, American Idol, Extreme Makeover, or Dancing with the Stars.  *double barf* (1) Girls can't be that tight without being catty; 2) pathetic, pathetic, pathetic; 3) fat people and poor folks get all the luck; 4) I don't even listen to the radio; 5) how about someone give me five gazillion dollars to fix up my house; and 6) those washed up stars should have done a better job managing their money so it wouldn't be necessary to resort to such despicable means for exposure!)
• Small talk or chit-chat with folks I don't know.
• Rapists, pedophiles, serial killers, or meth cookers.
• Road trips lasting longer than 5-6 hours.
• 4 a.m. workouts (or any other thing at 4 a.m.).

Well, that was fun and liberating!  And here I was thinking I would do just about anything.  Apparently not!  Call me a diva, a tight ass, a bi-otch, a snob...just don't call me Mom!  I hear enough of that already...

What about you?  What's your list include???  With my circle of friends, I know I'm not the only diva in the bunch. 

'Fess up, sisters!

No, I'm Not Sick; I Lost My Voice Yelling at the Kids!

Day two of our "official" summer break, and I'm reminded why I am NOT a stay-at-home mother.  Phew, I love my kids.  I love them much more, though, when they spend about 8 hours of each day at school and/or daycare.  We have such a great time together when our together time is only 5 or so hours each afternoon.  Even are weekends are fun because there are two of us to corral the herd!  My husband and I have no choice but to be a team.  If not, those two preschoolers would eat us ALIVE!

Waaaa, Mama!  G pinched me!
What did you do to her?
I punched her in the head.
Well, then, you deserved it.  Stop crying and LEAVE! HER! ALONE!

G, stop pestering the dog.
But Mommy..I'm trying to get him dressed for the tea party.
Bubba is old and cranky.  He doesn't like dresses.
Then can he wear pants??

E, get out of the water.
I'm washing my cars, Mama.
Your cars don't need washing.  Turn off the water!
But, but, but...blah, blah, blah.
TURN!  OFF!  THE WATER!

G, let come here so Mama can brush your hair.
*giggle*
*the sound of G crawling under my bed*
Come on now, G.  We're going to be late.
*giggle*
G!  GET!  IN!  HERE!  RIGHT NOW!
*giggle*

Mommy, can I go to Walmart for a new toy?
No, you have plenty of toys.
Please!  It's Mario Day!
Memorial Day.  No toys!
Waaahh, I want a new toy!
Take a time out, Mister!
Waaahh!  Then I'm not giving you your favorite treat -- a hug and a kiss!

E, give that to me right now.
But it's mine!
No, it's mines! (ebonics compliments of our Section 8 daycare)
Mine!
*Push*
Mines!
*Pinch*
Waaaa, Mama!  G pinched me!

Lucky for me (and them) laughter is the best medicine for all that ails you.

*Me staring at my buck nekked 5 year old in the backyard*
E, put your clothes back on right now!
But Mom, I'm going swimming.
We don't strip off our clothes in the yard, Mister.
Will you bring me my swimming soup then? 

*E hears music at the members party at the zoo* 
Wait!  Stop!  It's Miley Jackson! 
*dancing and doing his best rendition of Michael Jackson's "Thriller"*
Friller, friller na,
na, na, na, bah, bah, BAAHH!

Please, please, please, Mommy!  Will you make some pants for my little mouse? 
(We're talking a teeny, tiny mouse figurine from the Cinderella set at the Disney Store.)
I don't think I can.  He's very, very small!
Please, Mama! *with extreme desperation in her voice* 
He doesn't have any pants!

Mama, can we go to Party City?
Why do you want to go to Party City, E?
Because they bring a party to life!(The kid watches entirely too much TV.)

Looking out my window as I blog, I see a beautiful, hilarious sight -- my son and his crack on the Slip-n-Slide!  Ok, so my summers are a bit more stressful...but the memories (and blogger fodder) are totally worth it!  (-;

Notice the neighbor who never goes home.  She doesn't have a swimming "soup."  That's a whole 'nother blog...