Because I'm Mature Now. Or Something.

Everybody take a number, and you can all get your chance to whip me with a wet noodle, or the noodle of your choice. I haven't blogged since I was a mere babe, and I deserve to be punished. There is no excuse, people, but I think the zoloft sucked out all my funny along with the angst. Except that it left enough angst for me to be too ashamed to face my blog or anyone else's, because I judge everything I say/write and then berate myself for it for the rest of eternity. Like the other day when my vet tech friend came over to pull a giant tick off my dog, and then she gave him a bone and he ran over to the doormat to eat it and I innocently told her its because my dog is a wicked carpet-snacker. Which might not have been so heinous if my friend didn't happen to be a lesbian, and so everytime I think of it I want to punch myself in the face repeatedly. Blogging does that to me too. I have remorse for basically everything I do. I probably need more Zoloft.

I've had endless streams of emails, (READ: three), wondering where the hell I have been and when am I coming back and whatnot, and that's when I learned the problem with disappearing off the face of the internet is that you can't come back without a missing limb or stories of rescuing orphans from mountain tops. Because simply saying "Oh, hi. I'm a lazy person with not a lot to say," doesn't quite cut it. But here's to hoping a slightly relevant video of my hand playing ukulele will trick people into forgetting what an internet-abandoning asshole I am. Why the hand? Because my hand doesn't need to put a bra on and brush its hair in order to be video taped.

If only I could send my hand to the bank and grocery store. My hand needs to start pulling its weight around here.

I turned 30, and the huz did what he could with 4 days notice, (because I lied through my teeth about my real age),  and threw me a party.  The man got up at 3 am to decorate so I would be surprised when I woke up.  I was so appreciative of that, but then I wanted to stab him because for all the years I've known him, he has feigned decorating ignorance and his job has always been to remove the children from the house and leave everything up to me.  That bastard was hiding his superior decorating skills all these years.  Now his official title is Balloon-Inflating-Streamer-Hanger-Upper.  It is not Cake-Picker-Outter though, since the I Hope You Die cake.  In case you can't see it, this is a cake topped with the grim reaper holding a hatchet, and watching over a freshly dug grave, that is meant for me.  Internets, this was an option at a bakery somewhere.  Under the category: birthday.

Because nothing says "Happy Birthday" like a shallow grave.

 Later on this happened, because shockingly, everybody I know brought me wine.  And shockingly, I tried to drink all of it.

So it didn't surprise anyone when this happened shortly thereafter.

You'd think he'd have learned by now to watch his back.

 My mom says that since I'm 30 I need to be more mature and keep my house clean,(though I'm not sure it counts if my mom is still wagging her finger at me to get me to do it). Even so, I've been trying to keep on top of dishes and laundry heaps and the piles of crap that seem to have a magnetic pull to my kitchen island.   I can say that here because you can't see through the screen to the hot mess that is actually happening up in this piece.  Count your blessings, internets.  Mackenzie turned 5 in September, and Tinkerbell and birthday banners are still dominating the walls.  There is no excuse for probably anything I have done in the last two months.  Maturity is overrated after all.

The Last Post Of My Youth

I remember the first moment I knew I was getting old.  I was in a Strawberries record store, reminiscing about the Garbage Pail Kids to the teenager behind the counter, who snapped her gum at me and said these words:


"Uh, that was before my time."

I let her live, but talk crap about her every time I re-tell that story.  I think she ruined all teenagers for me, because now when I see teenagers I think they should go put on a belt and get off my lawn. I did particularly enjoy the teenagers in my old neighborhood, who thought they were invisible when ten of them hid from the passing cars.  Behind, like, three trees.

Nothing says "I climbed out my window to smoke pot with my friends" like removing all doubt of guilt by doing this as soon as you see headlights.

I was all set to be 29 again this year, so when the huz starting throwing around the talk of thirty, I feigned an insulted gasp, and then berated him for not knowing my age. My plan worked perfectly until he caught up with my BFF, who set him straight because, "she does not get to get out of turning thirty."   So now I have to wax my eyebrows and put a bra on, and hide my laundry piles for a party tomorrow.

And this morning I woke up to this:

I feel some gray hairs growing as we speak.

Owls Inappropriately Harming Children And Other Things To Never Say

My last post was two manic Mondays ago, but rest assured the universe punished me for you.  It's been a long-ass week, Internets.  The awesomest part was being Goat Thing Of The Day over at Nanny Goats In Panties.  For obvious reasons, and because its proof that when I promise you handmade thank-you cards for being a faithful reader I'm not just blowing smoke up your ass.
 
Another fun thing was throwing  a Christmas party for the kids.  Summer be damned!

I did it for the children!

Tried to teach the girl child to ride her bike.  To no avail.  The horn and the bell definitely work, though.  I assure you.

Then this, and shockingly, nothing bad happened.

It is hot out there, people!

Something bad happened later though, when I splashed hot grease across my arm while cooking, and tried to soothe the burn by teabagging myself.

By applying actual tea bags to my arm, sickos.  And no, it didn't work any better than the time i tried to catch flies with an actual bowl of honey.  Cliches are big fat lies.

My lovely mother took both my kids for an afternoon and Mackenzie for a sleepover.  I wasted the first hour of no kids hanging out at my mom's house with my kids, but then I came to my senses and went home to refuse housework and productivity, and instead eat ice-cream on the couch and watch season three of Arrested Development.   It was awesome.

Bedtime rolled around and it was time for my mom to return my son, because he ruined the chances of future sleepovers for himself last time by sleeping across my mother's head and causing her "the worst night's sleep she had ever had in her life."  I totally feel her pain because he has caused the worst two years' sleep of my life.

 My mother was walking to the car with Jack when an owl hooted, commencing an irrational fear of owls for Jack, which he complained about the whole way home, by relentlessly repeating "Ow-woos scare me," and pointing at every passing car screaming "HE NOT AN OW-WOO!"  It didn't make sense to me either, but the face he makes when he says owl is hilarious, and so for the past two days I have been harassing him to say it.

ME:  Hey, Jack, do you like owls?
JACK:  No.  Ow-woos scare me.
ME:  They do?  How come?
JACK:  Ow-woos say "HOOOOOO HOOOOO." (Makes perfect O with his mouth and is adorable.)
ME:  Thats scary?
JACK: Yes.  Ow-woos hurt my penis.*

That is when I realized that my son had removed his diaper and had a sudden change of focus.  And also when I stopped trying to get him to say owl.

But I still think its funny.

At some point during the week my tiny ear holes nearly earned me a psych evaluation at the ER.  This is how I learned that when you are calling your doctors office to report weird side effects from your new happy pills, you should never use the phrases "...it sounds like her voice is inside my head," "it is driving me crazy," or "maddening" to describe your sudden changes in hearing no matter how non-insane it seems to you.  Trust.  It might not actually be a medication side effect, and might be more of a tiny ear hole being blocked.  This is not coincidentally how I also learned that it is horrifying to hear your mother tell you "you have the tightest, tiniest, slit of a hole I have ever seen",  no matter what context it is spoken in.  Even if she happens to be bending your neck at an inconceivable angle to shine a flashlight into your ear at the time.

Also this week I decided its time to go back on Weight Watchers.  Because nothing says "inspiration" like wearing your mother's fat clothes after she loses a bunch of weight.

Bite it, Owl.

*He also mentioned that a crab hurt his thumb, and that it was swimming in the toilet. For what its worth.

Just Another Manic Monday

Although I don't wish it were Sunday, because tonight Secret Life Of The American Teenager is on.  I realize this means that I have just pissed away whatever cool points survived after my last post, but truth be told, I haven't missed an episode.  The acting is bad, the content is totally unrealistic, and the character development is non-existant, but I can't stop watching.   Honestly, I don't care for any of the characters except for Adrienne and Ricky, and of course Amy's mom who is played by Molly Ringwald.  I should probably quit right here, and accept the fact that there is not another adult on this planet who watches that show, and probably very few teenagers.   But it is what it is, and until Grey's Anatomy reclaims its place as my TV love of the week, SLOTAT it is. 

In other news, in spite of my dwindling cool points,  some people still publicly profess their love for me on their blogs, which is akin to saving me a seat with the popular kids in a high school cafeteria.  If I went to highschool, otherwise that would be really creepy.  I'm really screwing this post up.  And my head hurts.  I blame this guy.

But I digress.

The talented, and nice-ass having EricKa, over at Alabaster Cow has named me Alabastard of the Week, which is a great honor, and maybe moved my coolness back up a notch.  You should check her blog out if you haven't already, because she will make throaty, laughy sounds come out of you.
 

Also, my bloggity friend Drama Mama over at The Scoop On Poop has bumped my coolness up one more time with a new blog award, and she has also passed along The Duct Tape Award For Bloggy Goodness, and The Chupacabra Award For Excellence, and people are pretending to be excited about them, and that gives me a fuzzy feeling inside, and thus i chuckle.  If you haven't visited her yet, you're missing out, Yo.   Plus, everytime someone visits her, a unicorn is born.  I would imagine.

And now, five random things about me that you didn't know you needed to know until just now, mainly because I was supposed to do this several awards ago:

1.  I was hit by a car at my best friend's birthday party when I was a kid, and was mad about it ruining   our sleepover plans.

2.  I named my daughter Mackenzie, because it sounds pretty, and also because it means "child of the wise leader."

3. When I was pregnant,  I was afraid my son's name translated to "satanic cult leader," but thankfully my mom assured me it meant "dark haired little one," and she forwarded to me the three specific sources I cried for.  (Jack is blonde.  Just sayin'.)

4. I pretty much suck at making lists like this.

5.  Pumpernickle is german for "devil's fart."  (See 4.)

Enjoy those morsels of bloggy randomness, Internets.  And maybe next time get that turkey club on rye.

Oh Yeah, My Infants Were Bloggers Too

As you may or may not know my mom, at Dawn's Daybreak, made me start this blog.   If there is an award for dorkiest blogger, I'm pretty sure I won it right there.  But its true.  Blogging is a family affair.  Before I blogged, Mackenzie tappa tappa tappa'd at the keyboard all the live long day.  Her blog was called The Kenzie Chronicles, and not only was she a gifted little one year old prodigy, but she was frickin' adorable.  I just read some of her posts, and chuckled and cried a little because now that wee baybeh is almost five years old.  Read all about her pleas for psychiatric medication, and that time we went on a field trip that was almost the last field trip ever taken.

That mohawk finally toppled over around 5 months.

Later, not about to be outdone by his older sister, Jack began the Jack Journals.  I would give you specific examples of his work, but that would be redundant since his blog is only a page long.  Once he learned to move, he gave up his internet career, and followed his dream of getting into stuff, and  laughing in the face of childproofing.









*guess what's awesome? I just hit publish by accident before I was done.*

*Ahem*

Word.
Here we go!
Okay now!
Yadda, yadda, yadda and then my mom sort of insisted that I start a blog too, and keep up with the family tradition of word play on first names and dude. Do you have any idea how many inappropriate things rhyme with Britt? No, I'm gonna give you a second... So, that's why Britt was out, and Brittainy it was, and what the heck else rhymes with Brittainy but litany? There you have it, three generations of blogging up in this piece.

This was supposed to be a post for True Story Tuesday. The one time I ever write a blog post in advance and something bad happens. I may have fooled some of you into thinking that I know what I'm doing, but no. I have no idea how to recover from publishing a half finished post by accident, and all that frantic editing made me thirsty.  *Clink*
So peace out.
Until next time, Internets.

*uncomfortable pause*

*backing slowly away*

*waving awkwardly*

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand scene.

It's Funny Because It Didn't Happen To Me (This will offend at least half of you.)

There are certain things that will always make me laugh. Jack making his funny face, ( It is funny. Take my word), any random episode of Scrubs, and someone getting hit in the nuts. I'm serious, if you have balls and something bad happens to them in my bubble of observation, I will laugh at you. Then I will think about it later and laugh again.  Jack swung a lightsaber into my brother's danger zone, and dropped him to the ground, and I guffawed even though it was a little sad because my brother is only 12.  But its the nature of the beast, internets. I can't help it. And you can't either, that's why America's Funniest Videos has been running for a hundred years. That crap is funny.

My son has grown to be just the height where all his swings, punches, and head butts are balls level to a grown man. This has provided me with ample snickering and snorting opportunities. So many, that I can distinguish a balls injury scream from a regular old stubbed toe, or finger smashing scream. And in those times I don't even have to see it to chuckle, and later when I want to relive it and chuckle again I get to mentally change the circumstances to fit my mood. Its like Mad Libs of the balls. And it brings a smile to my face when even Zoloft can't.

There are those of you who might say: Scoff! You shouldn't laugh at such things, Woman! Our balls are sacred! You don't know pain like ball pain!

And to those I say this:  Dude.  I gave birth to a ten pound baby.  After 17 hours of labor.  Cut your balls in half, drive a truck through them, then staple them to your ass, and get back at me with your kicked in the nuts whines.  Because I win.  Granted I puked and cried the whole time, but still, I win.
And then another time, someone cut me open and took a human being out of me.  Check mate, Balls-owners.

But that's not what I came here to say.

You know those moments when you are trying to convince someone that they are wrong and you are right, (bonus points for being obnoxious and arrogant about it), and just as you play your best card, the proof of your wrongness occurs? That sucks. Unless it happens to the other person, and then its awesome?


That just happened.

The huz and I were in the basement, and I was trying to chase the sound of a cricket around. Jay insisted it was outside the door, under the bulkhead. Then we debated about whether or not a cricket could fit its bastard little body under the door, and Jay was all, there is NO WAY a cricket could get under that door. (He built that door.) Its not possible. He waved a dismissive hand and spun away from me as a gesture of righteousness, only deliver himself directly into the path of the cricket, which he murdered by punching it into the cement floor. I'm telling you, Internets, the man is a damned neanderthal. But the sweet pleasure of reveling in the win? I could eat it with a spoon.

Well, do ya?

And Not Because You Are Sticky Or Terrifying

Recently a few things have happened.
Firstly, a few of my blogging buddies have publicly bestowed upon me some awards.  Many thanks to Teri at The Biopolar Diva,  Mungee's Ma at Mungee And Me, Drama Mama at The Scoop On Poop, and Melanie at Read It In 7 Days.  I will Proudly wear this Versatile Blogger Award from this day forth.

Another award I received comes from Adrienne at No Points For Style.

Adrienne explains the guidelines for the award like this:

The No Points for Style Bad Ass Blogger Award is given for just one thing: bloggish bad-assery. If you read my blog, you know how highly I value honesty – the kind where a blogger spills her or his guts in such a way that we all remember that we’re never, ever alone in the world. This award is for bloggers who write posts that cut right to the heart of the human experience. It doesn’t have to be tragic or devastating or earth-shattering (though it may be); it just has to be real.

I earned the privilege of wearing this badge with this post about the heinous PPD experience I had after the birth of my son. My guts are still hanging out all over the place from that post, and I'm proud to be "Bad Ass." So, thanks again Adrienne. No Points For Style is a highly recommended read for anybody who is affected by a child with mental illness, or anyone who wants to understand mental illness from an honest and raw inside perspective that is beautifully, poignantly written.

If you haven't visited these lovely ladies, you are missing out. You should definitely check them out.   Go ahead, I'll wait...

You back?  Pretty great mamas, eh? You're welcome.
Now check this out.

I've made some blog awards of my own.  Partly because I keep seeing the same ones floating around the blogosphere, but mostly because I'm off my meds.  These were made up on a whim, (which will explain a few things once you scroll down),  and specifically designed so I wouldn't find out later that I had stolen the image/likeness/idea of someone else would would want to sue me or throw tomatoes at my house, or whatever the punishment is for being an unintentional copycat.  If these exist already, I appologize.  And I'll give you the number of my psychiatrist.  Now without further ado I bring you:

The Chupacabra Award For Excellence

No chupacabras were harmed in the making of this award.

and

The Duct Tape Award For Bloggy Goodness

Extra bonus for me? I fulfilled both blog fodder, and quality time with the kids requirements by coloring these. Yay, Crayola!

Today I am offering awards to the following bloggers, for being awesome in one way or another, or various ways at the same time. Around here we call that multitasking. The recipients may choose the award they would like to receive, because I'm too lazy to choose for them.  I'm positive that I have not included a boatload of people who I love, love, love, and I blame the little children who crowd around me with their wants and needs, and have caused this post to take a day and a half to write.  I will be throwing out another round of awards in the near future, as I know these are more coveted than the Nobel Peace Prize, and other prestigious prizes that I can't think of right now.
And the winners are, in no particular order:
Katie at No Missed Opportunities
Alexandra at Good Day, Regular People
Cheeseboy at The Blog O' Cheese
Drama Mama at The Scoop On Poop
Teri at The Bipolar Diva
Adrienne at No Points For Style
Wombat Central at Postcards From Oblivion
Joanne at Laundry Hurts My Feelings
Mungee's Ma at Mungee and Me
Melanie at Read It In 7 Days
Ericka at Alabaster Cow
Midwestern Mama at Are You Serious?
Ratz at What Can I Say
An Imperfect Mama at Really? I'm A Mom?
Maxabella at Maxabella Loves
Kate at Help! I'm Surrounded By Penises!
Kristy at Pampers And Pinot
Dawn at Dawn's Daybreak  (and not just 'cause she's my mom.)
Margaret at Nanny Goats In Panties

Another thing? There are no rules for accepting these awards. You can gift them to 40 of your blogger friends, or you can hoard them for yourself. You can blog about 9 little known random facts about you or not. You can print them out and give them to Grandma for Christmas, or you can glue them in an anonymous ransom letter, the possibilities are endless! Just wear it with pride, and leave a comment telling me which one you picked.  To appease my curiosity.

Also, I'm thinking of big changes around this here blog.  I'm looking for a new design, and probably a new name.  Possibly a new server, who knows.  Suggestions are welcome.  Because I have no idea.

P.S.
Spell check is arguing with me about "Chupacabra." It gives me only the option to ignore.  No such luck, Spell check.  Wishful thinking will get you nowhere.