Letter to the Other Parents at Dance Class

Dear Dance Moms,

Please accept my sincerest apologies.  I really, really, REALLY am not a snotty bi-otch.  Well, maybe sometimes...  Honestly, though, I'm just not good at small talk with people I don't know.  Unless I'm drunk.  Then I'll talk your ears off about everything from bad fashion to Brad Pitt's penis.  I digress; where was I?

Oh, right.  I'm not a snob; I'm just completely over the whole conversation thing.  As a teacher, I spend my entire day screaming at pleading with talking to folks.  In the afternoons, I'm done.  I need peace.  And quiet.  This hour between 4 and 5 p.m. in the studio is my time to rejuvenate before facing Mr. OCD, supper, bath time, homework time, etc.  For one hour, I just want to play my mindless little video game in the corner and unwind from a rather hectic day with some overly coddled, narcissistic teenagers.  Consider my anti-social behavior really a form of Transcendental Meditation.

Consequently, I implore you to understand my need for alone time.  Please don't talk about how unfriendly I am when I leave the room.  K?  Right now, I just want to kill these. damn. balls on Zuma's Revenge.  Crap; I'm dead!

Thank you so much for your support.

Sincerely,

G's Mom who ignores you at dance class
 

With a daughter this cute, it's understandable that they'd think I'm a bit snobbish.

Oops, I Did It Again

"Oops!  I Did It Again"

by Britney Spears

Adaptation by LB

Britney Spears - Oops, I Did It..  download at emp3

LB as a brunette...this week

yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah

I think I did it again
I must believe I'm a beautician
Oh baby
I know it's just hair, but that doesn't mean
It's not serious
To lose all my senses
That is just so typically me
Oh baby, baby

[CHORUS]
Oops!...I did it again
I dyed my own hair, a repeat offense
Oh baby, baby
Oops!...You think I'm a nut
I should be locked up
But I'm sick of paying for it!

You see my problem is this

The cost is insane

Takes free time that doesn't exist
I cried, roots 4 inches deep
Can't you see I'm a fool in desperate need
To lose all my senses
That is just so typically me
Baby, oh

[Repeat CHORUS]

Oops!...I did it again
I dyed my own hair, a repeat offense
Oh baby, baby
Oops!...You think I'm a nut
I should be locked up
But I'm sick of paying for it!

Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah

It's Not Really the Greatest Show on Earth

Our house is like a three-ring circus after midnight.  Seriously, when the clock strikes twelve the roof becomes a Big Top and our bedrooms become three rings.

The main attraction is my bedroom.  Everything starts out there.  Every night a pair of little feet trample down the stairs.  Or if it's my son, two butt cheeks slide down like a raft on a water slide.  Regardless, every night.  Same show.

Typically, the switch is stealth-like.  My son quietly sneaks into my bed and kicks his daddy out.  Daddy then heads up the stairs to our son's room.  Pillow in tow.  He's barely settled in when our daughter comes into the room after being awakened by the butt contact with the stairs.  (My son is a big, clumsy boy; everything he does is a bit loud and off-kilter, God love him.)

She needs him.  He's the monkey; she's the trainer.  Fetch some chocolate milk and a fruit roll up.  Pronto.  Oh, and when she's finished her snack, she'll need a back rub in order to fall back asleep.  K?  Thanks.

Ladies and Gents, may we have your attention back at the center ring?

Before you start to feel bad for Daddy, let me explain what's going on in my bedroom.  True, they do not wake me up.  First of all, they know I'll tell them to go back to their own damn beds.  Second, I am NOT a hotel clerk and will NOT be providing room service.  We're not talking about infant children here - one is 6 years old, the other is nearly 5.

However, I do become painfully aware of the Big Top circus show later on when things have settled down.  Just as I'm starting to really get into my dream about Brad Pitt, I am awakened by a forceful kick in the back.  Startled, I attempt to roll over.  Nothing happening.  I'm stuck on less than six inches of mattress with my son's entire body slightly wedged under me.  Not completely, for Christ's Sake, but just enough to make him warm and comfortable while fully immobilizing me.  Ta-da! An elephant pyramid.

Shit!  Not again!  Dammit to Hell!  (I love to curse in my head at moments like this.) 

By now, though, it's about 2 or 3 in the morning.  Too late to enforce my rule about sleeping in your own bed.  Too early to get up and get dressed.  Instead, I lay there.  Uncomfortable.  Ill as a hornet knowing that I will not get my requisite nine hours of uninterrupted sleep.  The morning forecast for my high school students is cranky with a possibility of lethargic.

My BFF Is Gone

My BFF is gone )-8

No, she's not dead!  Today was her last day of work.  She's moving to Piggott, Arkansas.  Population 3,800.  Home of the Hemingway-Pfeiffer Museum.

She's been my bestie for the past 3 years.  I remember the day she moved into the classroom across the hall from me.  Out the corner of my eye, I see this beautiful woman carrying boxes of loot.  She gave me an obligatory half smile/half smirk and went about moving into her room.

Oh great, I thought.  They've moved a Prima Donna into the room across the hall.

This bothered me because I tend to be a Prima Donna.  How would TWO divas co-exist on this hallway?!?  Plus, she was younger and prettier - a total triple threat. 

The first day of school rolls around and there we stand.  Doing hallway duty.  Across the hall from one another.  Face to face.  Hell, I couldn't help but smile at her.

It didn't take long before we started talking.  She was new and needed to know what to do with the student handbooks.  She didn't have enough reduced lunch forms.  Who gets what???  When?  The first day of school is stressful to even the most seasoned professional.

Before long, we were talking about this and that and the other.  When she mentioned the bad hair and visible cankles of a coworker, I knew we'd be the best of friends. We were both bona fide smart asses with a penchant for fashion.  The Clinton and Stacy of Podunk High School. 

Over the years, our bond grew stronger.  She kept me in the gym and away from the cake.  I kept her from losing her freakin' mind with those bad ass kids in her classroom.


I keep reminding myself that an hour and a half is not that far away, but I know me.  And I know her.  Hell, we didn't visit when we lived 10 minutes from one another. 

All I can say is Praise Jesus, for unlimited text messaging and roll over minutes. 

My Family Tree is Full of Crazy

This is my ADD brain...

This is my ADD brain on a soapbox...

Why are people so effin' crazy??!!??  And why are all the effin' crazy people related to me?!?  

There is nothing I hate worse in the world than a deadbeat parent; yet, my family tree is full of them.  And they just keep fornicating and procreating like it's nobody's business only to have more effin' kids with effin' loser parents and no chance in the world of ever becoming "normal" effin' people!!!

Deadbeat parents are not the only pet-peeves that seem to flourish among our branches.  How about refusing to be accountable or responsible for one's own action?  Even worse, what about playing the victim where everyone else is to blame for what happens?  The old "Yes, I did it, but it's her fault" syndrome.  I just want to rip out someone's eyeballs when I hear shit like that.

Yes, Officer.  I did drive through the red light, but it was the car in front of mine's fault.  If she would have been a little faster, I could have gotten through the intersection on yellow. 

Blah, blah, blah.  Well, if my aunt had a penis, she'd be my uncle!  And if Jesus Christ himself were hear, He'd strike your ass down with a bolt of lightning!

Life is what it is.  Accept it and try to make the best of it.  Do right by the people in your life.  If you have a family, take care of them.  News flash...  Life is not about YOU!  Hello?!?!  Heard of Sodom and Gomorrah?  I repeat.  This life AIN'T about YOU!

When you bring kids into the world, you better make damn sure that you put their needs and best interest FIRST.  A real parent sticks out the tough times for those kids.  When money is tight and things are hard, a real parent works 2 or 3 or even 4 jobs to provide for those kids.  Food and diapers come before BEER and smokes.  We'd all love to live on the beach with the sand between our toes and the wind in our hair and not a care in the world.  And one day, that just might be possible.  But for now, there's a mortgage to be paid, kids to feed, and a family to keep whole.

Marriage is hard.  Parenting is even harder.

Love is not that feeling in the pit of your stomach.  That's called I-want-to-rip-your-clothes-off-and-knock-some-boots!!!

Love is holding your hand as you bury your parent.  And paying for the burial without so much as a single word about it.  Love is cleaning the toilets and bathing the kids at night while your partner cooks dinner and washes clothes.  Love is leaving work to deliver lunch money.  Love is family game night and late night tippy toes into your bedroom.  Love sees beauty through love handles, cellulite, and wrinkles. 

Love is also admitting when you're wrong and saying you're sorry.  Love is not giving up when you really, really want to.  Love doesn't run away.  Love is mature and responsible and sometimes a little boring.

Love is not a feeling; it's a damn commitment.  A commitment to do right.  For better or worse.  Sicker or poorer.  Married or not, if you have kids the same rules apply and should be bound by law.  You play house and bring kids into the world, you gotta play by house rules.


Boring is good.  Normal and drama-free is good. 
 
If you are reading this and you are related to me, this may be hurtful.  For that, I'm sorry.  Honestly.  But sometimes the damn truth has to be told and sometimes it hurts like hell!  How about you straighten your asses up?!?!  Maybe then I'd keep my two cents to myself.  But when you act like idiots and perpetuate your idiocy with more ignorant behavior, I just can't take it!  I swear if we weren't kin, I'd delete you from my cell phone.

Ya gotta grow up.  It's an unfortunate side effect of the aging process.

Now, put on your big girl panties or your big boy drawers, and fix. Your. SHIT!  It damn sure ain't going away just because you run away.

And people wonder why I live in Boringsville, USA, six hours away from my relatives...

If You Want Optimism, Watch Oprah

I started out this morning thinking, God, I hate new years' resolutions; I always feel like such a failure. 

I rarely stick with anything.  My one success?!?  I quit smoking, and that wasn't even a new year's resolution.  That was an I-don't-want-to-die-from-mouth-cancer-after-a-dental-checkup-nightmare.  Hypochondria and biopsies under general anesthesia don't exactly go well together. 

Turns out, this isn't the first time I've pondered the thought of my resolution failures.  Apparently, this is an annual thing for me.  Been there, done that, yet I keep misplacing the t-shirt.  My disdain for new years' resolutions continues.  I'm an obvious glutton for punishment.  Click on the link and see for yourself.

In order to kick off the year like everyone else with a head full of dreams (but with zilch motivation), here's what I've got:

1. I will not eat liver.  Of any kind.  It's the poop filter, folks!  Need I say more?

Oh, were you looking for more?  Please, it took all I had to come up with that one.  Feel free to borrow it if you'd like.  You're welcome.