Hayden's Holiday Philospohy

Christmas Day, 2008. Hayden and Skylar are playing the WI, Ryan is doing a puzzle and I am making soup. Hayden says, "Mom, do you know what Christmas is REALLY about? Candy." 

Skylar says, "Hayden, what about family? And spending time together."

I add, tongue in cheek to the child that asks if God has a brother, then proclaims that HE is God's brother, "Hayden, what about Jesus?"

"Well Mom, I like candy more than Jesus."

Hayden, i am gonna have to agree with you on that one.

Shoe shopping for Hayden and baby quotes

Skylar, Hayden and I went shopping for shoes today. The quotes were endless. It began in Kohls with

"Skylar, if you were large, I would call you Skylarge."

Two ladies in the slipper department overheard and tittered. (and by overheard, I meant anyone in the store could hear him bellowing)

Next, it was "Mom, do you know that if you mix two babies together, it makes pie?"

Leaving Ross, the kids asked to run along the cement bridge that runs between Old Navy and Ross. It's about 3 feet high, and Hayden is hesitant to walk on it, instead choosing to crawl. They play on it for a few minutes, and Skylar becomes a human beatbox, balancing on one leg and chanting her trademark nightclub bass beat, which sounds something like "boo-tsy boo-tsy boo-tsy." A dad brings his toddler girl over and holds her and while she waddles on the wall.

"Ack! I'm allergic to babies!" Hayden cries. "He didn't mean it to be mean!" Skylar yells over her shoulder to the parents, who crack up.

On the way to the car, Hayden clarifies that he's only allergic to babies if he eats them. What a relief!

We head to Mimi's for dinner. Our waiter, Alberto, is a young Latino with a well groomed faux hawk and carefully shaped soul patch-goatee project. Hayden remarks that he "looks nice" but wonders if he is actually as nice as he looks. After examining the menu, Hayden announces that "Back in the 80's, they used to make that." When Alberto is nearly done taking our order, Hayden says to me "Can I tell you something after he leaves?" upon which he whispers in my ear, " I think babies are fat. Do you?"

Skylar, who is Hayden's biggest fan, is laughing hysterically  the entire time. I tell Hayden he is on a roll tonight, to which he replies, "Good times, bayba, good times."

Oh, and he never got any new shoes, but Skylar and I did :)

Snapshot

A snapshot in time, captured. I am laying in Skylar's bed, the farthest from the kids, in the quietest room in the house. I am reading my newest book, "Confessions of A Mommy Handler" which is about a gay man working in a prep school, managing the Mean Mommies who are the bane of his closeted existence. I've got the winter blues already, and it's not even Thanksgiving yet. My thoughts today have consisted of "What is the point" and "Why bother" and other uplifting gems. And then, out the window, I see my dear friend Jason pull up. And then I see Hayden, in his Batman underwear, run outside, up the steep slope of our driveway, to greet Jason with enthusiasm he reserves for the only male adult who is purely here to play with him. It is 55 degrees outside. I laugh, and get up to greet him, remembering, this is the point. This is why I bother. My friends and family are the reason. Good thing I took a nap :)

What 12 hours of sleep, a neti pot, and Tylenol Daytime Cold will do for you

So, it's 2 am, and I am wide, wide awake. I have been suffering for the last week from some nasty allergies that simulate a cold. I actually went to the natural foods store yesterday and bought a neti pot, which I have renamed the snot pot. Apparently,  congested yogis since the ancient times have been using this bad boy to cleanse the sinuses, and baffle Westerners, because who pours water UP their nose on purpose? I had heard from many  that this was the way to beat congestion, allergies and general sinus malaise. Having been suffering for almost a week, I decided it was time to take the plunge, literally. I took the adorable petite teapot and shoved the spout up my left nostril, humming "I'm a little teapot" all the while. The lady in the diagram looked ecstatic as water dripped in a steady stream out of her opposing nostril, so I did my best to breathe and smile as the lukewarm saline water filled my sinus cavity and slowly made its way out the other side.

THAT WAS COOL. Like, the weirdest, yet not unpleasant feeling. Like laughing and snorting milk up your nose without the burn. It made me want to climb up inside my nose and watch how this miracle occurred. And then, I blew my nose. Aside from being lightheaded, it wasn't too impressive, but I was pretty sure it was helping. Last night I slept pretty well, and my head was less stuffy til morning, when I tried to repeat the nose douche. I learned that if you are totally stuffed up, it is NOT pleasant. You can actually fill your sinuses with a cup of water without anything coming back out. It was like my head was a fishbowl. I could feel the water behind my eyes and inside my ears, like swimmer's ear in reverse. What the hell did the yogis do when they were too congested for an olfactory enema? This question was left unanswered, for the time being.

 About 4 pm I broke down and took Tylenol Daytime Cold medicine. This plus my ever present 800 Motrin began to make me feel human right about sunset. The combination of having spent the greater part of today dizzy and sleeping (with a 7 hour kid interval in the middle) and the drugs reviving me prompted me to paint the bathroom ceiling and trim  from 10:30 pm to 12:30 am. Crazy but true. At 12:30 I attacked Ryan, which took another hour, and as usual, he fell immediately into a coma.  I settled into the task of finishing the Chelsea Handler book. (Good sex always makes me wired, and I am usually resigned to read to wind down) Allow me to set the scene: I am sitting up in the bed, which has been moved from its previous position against the wall to a rather unique position up against the sliding glass window.  This is  because the wall the bed used to be against has been torn apart for the fireplace construction occurring on the other side, in the living room. The curtain is drawn so I can prop up my pillows for reading. My awesome Wal-Mart clip on lamp, which was previously attached to the headboard, is clinging onto Ryan's soccer cleat, placed some 10 inches from my head on the nightstand/dresser drawer that contains all of Ryan's underwear and socks.

(I have concluded that all men have a dresser such as this that they have had since childhood, and are greatly attached to. It was usually constructed by a family member, previously teamed with a waterbed, and it is the man's last vestige of his childhood furniture.)

I am not sure how my head ended up by his dresser, which is now piled with his shoes, since we currently have no closet ( the closet space is now the fireplace area, hence the wall issues) However, I made the most of it and since the soccer cleats have been unused for some time, seemed like the safest place to attach my very necessary lamp.

Anyway, I am reading the last chapter of the book, which is quite funny, but something else keeps popping in my head. It is, of course, something Hayden said after soccer practice tonight. Hayden frequently has comfort issues with the velcro straps of his shin guards, and they are a source of great contention. He spends a good deal of energy adjusting them and freaking out if they shift. Tonight, I  suggested he wear them outside his socks, eliminating the dreaded skin/velcro contact. 

"Hayden, do you want to try wearing your shinguard ON TOP of your socks?  I  saw one of your team mates wearing his like that."

"Who was it?"

"I don't know."

"Was it Shrivka?"

"I don't know. I was looking at his legs."

"Did he have a small head?"

I start laughing.

Chelsea Handler is describing the agony of traveling to Costa Rica with her 75 year old father, whom she calls "Bitch Tits," and I am laughing because Hayden identifies his teammate Shrivka by the minute size of his melon. This, somehow, is funnier. I am laughing out loud, which of course does not wake Ryan because of his ability to skip REM sleep and dive immediately into deep sleep. I only know he is alive because of his soft snore, which would take an entire blog to imitate. 

This train of thought continues to the other funny things Hayden said tonight, when I was giving Skylar her practice spelling test. These words are included in sentences I create like:

"WRING." " I am going to wring your neck if you don't be quiet while I am giving your sister her practice test."

To which Hayden replies, with the exact same enunciation and emphasis as I used, "CHINESE. My mom speaks Chinese when she's happy."

"CROUCH." Do not crouch on the couch." (me)

"Crotch. I will kick you in the crotch when you are happy."(Hayden)

And that is why i had to get up at 2 am, and write this down, because in the morning, after my 3 and a half hours of sleep, not only will I have forgotten all of this, I will be so goddamned tired it won't seem funny.

I had to get up and pee, anyway.

Renovate or Separate (or, who the hell comes up with paint names?)

The title of this blog is courtesy of our good friend "Obamaman." I have yet to clear "Obamaman's" permission to use his real name in my blog, so, until I do so, he shall be known as such. Anywho, Obamaman came up with the idea that Ryan and I need a reality show to document the hilarity and drama that occurs daily on our homestead. The hilarity is mostly due to my quick wit and iron fist, Ryan's compulsion to placate me, and the roadrunner-like activities of our children. (meep meep) The drama is due to the economy, basilisks, and the exes, also known as "frexemies."Frexemies is a word I created to describe our baby-mamas and baby-daddies, due to their ever-changing status of exes, friends, and enemies. Sienna the cat is also responsible for a great deal of the events of this household, as she secretly controls the entire scenario.

The latest development in the renovating of "The House on Ry's Hill" (also coined by Obamaman) is the attempted selection of a color to paint the entry to the kitchen from the garage, and the main entry and hall. The consensus was a "warm-cool brown" as defined by Ryan, supported by his explicit knowledge of the color wheel, complementary colors, and his Prismatic pencil set that was used as evidence that there are warm grays and cool grays, and apparently brown is a warm gray. Uh Hum. So, my job was to go forth to Blowes, Homey D's, and Osh Kosh B'Gosh hardware stores to find the perfect shade of tan.

The first  gallon can was called "New Penny." Unfortunately, it should have been called "Tan in the store, pink at home." The next try, I got smart and purchased one quart each of "Rolling Hills" and "Old Cedar." On the wall, these were identified as "Diarrhea" and "Explosive Diarrhea." Not exactly the best color for the walls between the bathroom and kitchen. My quest to find the color that I sought  led me to create my own paint names. "Skidmark," Turkey Dung," and "Shower Mildew" references only caused confusion and smirks from paint center employees, proving to me that those who can actually identify paint colors are surely not those who name them.

Because when you see my kitchen, do you see "Caramel Dream," or "Construction Zone Ahead?"

Luckily, we like bright orange, and this is only the beginning of the journey we are undertaking to make this space our sanctuary. So, honestly,  either name applies.

Peanut Butter Jelly Time, or, an oldie but goodie

My unsupervised time, or, why it is a good thing I don't live alone

I am eating chocolate cake and strawberries for dinner, because no one is home and I can do whatever the Hay-ell I want.  

Ryan is at his yearly hot wheel convention (yes, there are enough collectors to fill an entire convention center and hotel!) Being the loving wife that I am, and knowing he had to blow his carefully saved  hot wheel money on a speeding ticket and new tires, I slipped a hundred in his wallet before he left. This gift was accompanied by a note that said "Know how I know you're gay? You go to hot wheel conventions and share hotel beds with 5 other hairy men." I was going to stop at "you go to hot wheel conventions" but I have it on good authority that gay men wouldn't be caught dead there.  Thank you 40 year old virgin. 

Some women are afraid to be home alone. I truly enjoy it. I think I used up all my fear as a child, when the Green Goo would attack me in the car, the monsters under the bed would attempt to grab me unless I leaped from the doorway to the bed, and something living in the toilet was going to attack my butt. I have my bevy of critters who stay within a 13.5 inch radius of me at all times. 

I am simultaneously banking, myspacing, facebooking, illegally downloading music, and eating a quesadilla. Who knew Christina Aguilera and Cake makes a pretty cool mash-up? I have hat hair from wearing my Disneyland elf cap earlier to Skylar's game, and the bangs are too short, my bad. Kind of a Scott Baio look.  However,  the back looks cute. My stylist told me the back of the A-line style is called a stack. I said, "So I'm stacked in the front AND back? Sweet!"

My wild single night ended at 10:30 pm (yawn) and I popped out of bed at 7:30 am, knowing that if I went back to sleep, I could kiss goodbye any productivity today. Besides, this means I can nap as early as 10 am! The new Beck cd and a cup of coffee keep me company. Yesterday at Trader's I found some healthy looking creamer boasting creamy vanilla flavor, no trans or hydrogenated fats, no hormones, blah blah. Turns out, it tastes like non fat milk with sugar! Sucker. I should have stuck to the creamer otherwise known as crack. Vanilla coffee mate, if it weren't for you, I wouldn't even drink coffee. This shit should be classified as an addictive controlled substance. Even Ryan, who drank his coffee black with sugar before he met me  and my morning meth, refuses to drink his coffee without it. (Apparently coffee that wasn't black was girly. Seriously, he thought this was a  man card violation. Need I  mention his other violations?) And coffee is not like sex, where even bad sex is better than none. If you've recently had coffee with vanilla crack in it, trust me, you'd rather do without than drink the shit I am forcing down.

My current method of brainstorming consists of this: write down every stupid thing I do, think or say that I think is funny, in no particular order. Edit, edit, edit. Remove cat from desk. Get yogurt. Listen to recorded messages I left myself on cell phone of things that seemed so funny I might forget them if they weren't documented immediately. Erase all but one. Protect yogurt from dairy-obsessed cat. Chew fingers. Go to the bathroom. Become completely distracted by examining pores in mirror. Stay in bathroom long enough to finish Chelsea Handler book.

* Can I just say, I heart Chelsea? She is totally my new role model.* 

Realize I left yogurt defenseless on desk. Return to find cat with head stuck in Trader Joe's Organic Lowfat Strawberry container. Restart Beck cd because somehow it ended already. Pay Pg & E bill. Move plant  to other side of desk shelf so cat does not decimate it jumping from the windowsill. Take yogurt cup to sink as cat tries to trip me in an effort to acquire yogurt cup. End up letting her lick it because she is so chubby and cute. Because who can resist a cat who watches the toilet flush and actually moves her head in a circle? Wow, is that cd over already? Again? 

9:21. Naptime!

After a grueling 3 hour nap, I am awoken by Ryan's call, telling me he is heading home. I spring into action. This action consists of sitting on the couch for the next 2-3 hours watching Chelsea Lately and the Colbert report.  Eventually I realize I am in great danger of pissing the entire day away, and go shower. This is followed by: more examining of pores,  blowdrying my hair upside down just to see what it looks like, (think:upsidedown Scott Baio in the front, party in the back) trying on bras I never wear and checking myself out, and realizing I'm hungry.

God, I love Sundays!

Dilemma, or, honesty and skull f*cking

I sit here at my desk, alternating lunges, chatting with Ryan, deer watching and   frequent 

potty breaks due to my massive coffee consumption. What can I say, I have a short attention span.

Before I attempted anything productive today (interpret that any way you want) I felt it was necessary to change my default myspace photo. I vacillated between a picture of my 4 kids in their soccer uniforms and a great X Ray of a skull fuck I found a few weeks ago (that story to be explained later). This was provoked by a desire to impress one of my favorite authors, Jen Lancaster, when I left a comment on her myspace blog. I had taken a few pictures of  stacks of books I have read, aspire to read, and am in the middle of, that I intended to put as my default picture until I realized how boring that was. I got distracted uploading those and decided to add the aforementioned two pics.

Unfortunately the skull fuck picture was not in a format known to myspace, and I was too lazy to reformat it, so I chose the soccer pic. Then it occurred to me how representational this situation is of my writing dilemma. I have yet to decide what persona to expose in my writing. Like the Chelsea Handler book " My Horizontal Life" that is currently my bathroom reading, I can be vulgar, honest, lewd, and mean. I love to tease and mock others behind their backs. No one, including spouse, children, and strangers, are safe. On the other hand, I  am a mom who is terrified my children will read what I write, be ashamed of me, furious because I have published the funny things they do and say ( I asked them both if that would be ok...Skylar said NO and Hayden said, yeah, baby! Typical)

Part of my hesitation to write about my life is wondering if total honesty would be more harmful than fictionalizing my life. I have dirt on people that would cause them not only to alienate me, but possibly put a hit out on me as well. Parents, siblings, exes, and kids- my urge to utilize their lives for my entertainment and hopefully profit seems to be a bad idea as I examine it further. So, my options are these:

 

A)Write a memoir that mostly reveals  only MY OWN personal follies (and Ryan's, he has no shame, naturally, look who he married) with vague references to family and friends. This is the safest approach. However, this would cut out approximately 90% of my funny material. 89% of which  can be attributed to things Hayden says and does.

* I am serious. I could write an entire book of his quotes, dances and songs, including " I am God's brother" and the hit song "Chubby boobs, chubby boobs, I want to ride your chubby boobs". This book would be entitled "Was Your Penis Made in Heaven?"

I do not want to be responsible for  his future institutionalization for which he would undoubtedly blame on me.*

 

B) Fictionalize my life and use aliases, which would fool no one. Everyone would know which character was theirs and hold that against me. 

C) Write a complete work of fiction, using bits and pieces of my life as thinly disguised filler. Readers would  not know what is drawn from my life and what I fabricate. Denial that the work is about the people in my life would be a reasonable defense, like singers that write about cheating and then tell their spouses, " It's just a song!"

So that is what I currently ponder.

Oh, the skull fuck thing...that was pretty awesome. It began after we got notice from our car insurance that Ryan's Camry had been deleted from the policy. WHAT THE FUCK. I called them, and the nice lady on the phone informed me that because he had added his company as additional insured, and answered a few questions like "Do you occasionally carry product in your car, or transport clients?" To which he INCORRECTLY answered "Occasionally" (never admit anything to your insurance company EVER!) he was now told he needed commercial insurance to the tune of 2 grand a year. After going round and round with the lady, her calling Ryan, and him calling HR and telling them thanks a lot for fucking up my car insurance and I'll be goddamned before I pay for commercial insurance, he finally got it straightened out. I wasted 3 hours that morning between Geico and Ryan and we were both enraged and freaked out. I declared that I was going to head over to their office and skull fuck them all. This lead to an internet image  search for skull fuck, which resulted in a rather graphic, albeit doctored photo that greatly entertained me. 

The skull fucking theme was continued in a recent conversation we had about the weasly guy at the fireplace store. The fireplace was installed last week, but the blower and doors were missing. I went to the shop to pay for the fireplace and inquire as to when they would be installed. The weasly guy, let's call him Dick, said to call them when we had done the finish work on the fireplace and then they would come out and install the blower. 

I said, "Since my husband has to hook up the electrical for the blower, and this is located behind the fireplace, don't we need the blower before we enclose and sheet rock the area?"

Dick replied," Well, that way it will be all nice and neat." 

I looked at him with puzzlement and said, "I don't see how that is possible. *Clearly you are an idiot.* Just tell them to install it as soon as they can."

"Ok" said Dick, *looking dazed because I had just bitched slapped him.* 

This is how I relayed the conversation to Ryan, who is a pro at distinguishing what actually happens and what I want to do or say, but don't because I am clearly a lady.

Then Ryan tentatively asked, "Did you skull fuck him?"

To which I laughed my ass off and said "Of course!'

ps. look! I wrote dialogue! One of my obstacles... sorry about the indent even after the dialogue. The blog format won't let me go back to regular spacing. More learning to do...

Roadkill

Went to SF with Mom and Mija today and saw  the Frida Kahlo exhibit. Mom drove and played a live reading by Billy Collins,  poet laureate. 

 

Inspired by Billy Collins, who writes simple yet clever poems about everyday observations. His poem "The Revenant" follows mine, to give you an idea of his style.

PS it's ok to laugh at this. It's off the cuff :P

 

“Roadkill”

Part of country life

Is dodging roadkill.

A lump of fur

Followed by red asphalt.

Squirrels, skunks,  raccoons

For every deer I see on the road,

Four visit my yard each day to see what greenery

Creeps out of its prison to be sampled.

They stare at me, coal black noses glistening

Ribs showing like Frida’s tiny dogs

Just a yard from my window

And I think, you want fries with that?

Bring your spotted baby for a drink from my pond

But I draw the line when you eat my water lilies.

 

The road claims the occasional dog or cat.

It’s the cats that really affect me.

I think

Of my sweet silly girls

The ginger one

Chews plastic and mews like her heart is broken

The sienna one

Grabs my arm to lick it hungrily and lovingly

Then thunders off 

Throwing a clattering necklace in the air

 Like a pudgy monkey.

When I see a cat

I think

Of how

She must have rubbed on her person’s leg that morning

Before mewing to be let out.

So far

I’ve hit a bird (so sorry)

A rattler (not sorry)

I saw a deer with no head today

Maybe I don’t have to get a pet mountain lion after all.

I bet my guru from Iowa

Sees the squirrels and thinks of his childhood hunts

A wasted meal, instead of a tragedy.

The Revenant  by Billy Collins

I am the dog you put to sleep,
as you like to call the needle of oblivion,
come back to tell you this simple thing:
I never liked you--not one bit.

When I licked your face,
I thought of biting off your nose.
When I watched you toweling yourself dry,
I wanted to leap and unman you with a snap.

I resented the way you moved,
your lack of animal grace,
the way you would sit in a chair and eat,
a napkin on your lap, knife in your hand.

I would have run away,
but I was too weak, a trick you taught me
while I was learning to sit and heel,
and--greatest of insults--shake hands without a hand.

I admit the sight of the leash
would excite me
but only because it meant I was about
to smell things you had never touched.

You do not want to believe this,
but I have no reason to lie.
I hated the car, the rubber toys,
disliked your friends and, worse, your relatives.

The jingling of my tags drove me mad.
You always scratched me in the wrong place.
All I ever wanted from you
was food and fresh water in my metal bowls.

While you slept, I watched you breathe
as the moon rose in the sky.
It took all my strength 
not to raise my head and howl.

Now I am free of the collar,
the yellow raincoat, monogrammed sweater,
the absurdity of your lawn,
and that is all you need to know about this place

except what you already supposed
and are glad it did not happen sooner--
that everyone here can read and write,
the dogs in poetry, the cats and the others in prose.

Top 10 reasons to write at home

10. Piles of dogs and cats at my feet, adoring me, and following me around the house.

9. Snack breaks.

8. Reading for pleasure has become "research."

7. Great benefits, employee discount, flexible hours (wait, that was if I worked for Target.     Nevermind.) Ok...flexible hours still applies.

6. Extra opportunities to tidy the house (HAHAHAHA that was funny. I said tidy!)

5. Productivity is relative. For instance, if this top 10 is all I get done in 5 hours, I can still claim to have been productive today! Because in the other 4 hours and 45 minutes, i was doing "research."

4. Saving money on gas and lunches out. So what if that means I live on cereal? I'm conserving!

3. www.icanhascheezburger.com. Priceless.

2. Taking pictures of deer in my yard while naked. Yes, I can do that in the country! (ok, so I'm in my house and they're outside, but still...)

1. Save money on psychotherapy, because writing  a memoir is the cheapest form of self analysis.

I'd get more done if I had less time...

So here we are, almost one week later. Shit, with all the notecards I've scribbled on, freelance writer's sites I've visited, craiglist  writing ads I've perused, (somehow I ended up on a page with a picture of Barack Obama on the beach juxtaposed with a picture of a kidney in  a request for tickets to his speech...explain that one!) you'd think I would have written SOMETHING by now, and possibly made some money... so not the case. Besides 2 pages of binder paper I filled during Hayden's soccer practice, I've avoided being even remotely productive. My schedule was conveniently WIDE OPEN last week, which reminded me- I am deadline motivated. That is how I made my way through college in a mere seven years! I had assignments. I had due dates. I did NOT, however, have so many distractions. Celebrity gossip websites call to me. Anti-Sarah Palin e mails beckon to me to check out their verity. Myspace and Fecebook (haha that was seriously an honest typo...I mean Facebook) prove to me that resistance is futile. How do people with desk jobs EVER get their work done? And all I want to do when I sit down here is snack. Can I write while on the treadmill? If not, I am going to have a new career as a food critic.

I have a gift. This gift comes in two parts. The first is procrastination, the ability to move about the house for hours yet accomplish nothing visible. The second is rationalization, also known as making up excuses or lying to oneself. I am frequently seven minutes late leaving the house. This is a result of screwing around until the last minute then deciding I MUST accomplish something before I leave, like doing the dishes or shaving my legs. Once I am out of the house,  I can on time, even early.  I bust out to-do lists. But  originating motivation is not my forte. Especially with a tub of really, really stale red vines to fuel me, and piles of dogs and cats at my feet. (Seriously- I'm like the Pied Piper!)

So I intend to keep up with the blog, but who am I kidding.  I found freelance copywriting  jobs available at .05 a word,  telecommuting jobs organizing material for textbooks, ( experience needed!) and what exactly is entailed in the job of Latino Divorce Blogger? Hmm. My best bet is to hunker down, write my book, harrass publishers, and get it made into a movie.  But first, let me check thesuperficial.com :)

Balls out Bitches!!

So, as some of you know, I have been making a bit of noise lately about writing a book. Why in the world would I do such a thing, you may ask. Well, simply put, my life is quite entertaining, particularly the last 4 years. MOST particularly the last year. "You should write a book" I hear all the time, mostly from friends and clients to whom I regale my adventures with husband, kids, exes, wild animals...and  finally I have admitted I should.

*stops to put on inspirational music, i.e. Fiona Apple*

My hesitations have been: who the hell would be interested in my life, I haven't written anything since college, I am a 4 fingered typist who seldom capitalizes my i's, no one will read what I write, everyone I know will read what I write and shun me...the list goes on. All valid reasons. However, as I live, I find myself actually narrating. At this point I know it is time to document. Fuck my fears. I am annoying myself by NOT writing. Better to satisfy myself and annoy others. And possible make you laugh, feel better about yourselves, be critical, be sympathetic, or lull you to sleep. Whatever works.

Writing is like going to the grocery store naked. I will be seen by strangers, by neighbors, by critics, by fans. They will see my tattoos and stretchmarks and breast implants and judge me. Sometimes they will admire me, sometimes they will go home feeling better about themselves by comparison. They will wonder, " What the hell does she do with all those bananas?" My desire is that they understand my perspective, and feel a connection with me. I've got friends and family that know everything about me, and some that know only what  I think they can handle. So to the conservatives, the right wing Republicans, the Mormons, I love and respect you. You have every right to live your life as you see fit, as do I. If you can't handle my truth, do us both a favor and don't read it. 

I've been known to be honest to a fault.... to tell people more than they need to know. I can be blunt, insensitive, and indiscreet. I say "fuck" a lot. A LOT.  When Ryan and I got married the vow we repeated, so cleverly chosen by our Reverend Court, was "I promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, even if the other person can't handle it." So here is my truth, for everyone else. This blog is a test. Can I finish what I aspire to start? Can I expose my truth? Can I make you laugh, and understand a modicum of what it's like to be me? Could I get carried away, and actually write a book? Or five?

So this is how I begin. Cautiously, with spellcheck, because frankly it's been a while.

Balls out, bitches.