Liar, Liar, Eyes Look Like a Tire Fire

Used Under Creative Commons License

So I've been lost.  Totally, and completely mentally lost.  And when that happens, for some reason I come here.   I like to make people laugh, even at my own expense. But I don't get paid for it, and that just plain pisses me off.  I've thought about starting a YouTube channel where I will attempt to give make-up tutorials based on YouTube make-up tutorials.  See... no matter how good the directions are, when I do my eye makeup (especially when I try to do fancy make-up using instructions from a gorgeous make-up pro) I end up looking like a cross between a large breasted dude who has just begun to dip his toes in the tranny pool and a Kardashian who has fallen off the wagon into a pool of whiskey and bad decisions.  So, I think it could be epic good fun.

Anyhoo... Feeling utterly lost and confused, I popped in to this blog, eyes half-covered ready for someone to spit at me.  But all I got was a post from over a year ago titled "I'm Back, Yo" (Hahaha... I lied ;)  And coincidentally (or is it ironic) this blog was started 1 year and 364 days ago today! Hmmm.... so, two years ago almost to the day I had initiative.  I thought "if you write it, they will come" (or at least stop by accidentally and hopefully snicker or giggle a little.  For a minute).  I was full of anticipation of baby #3, hilarious antics from baby #2 and kid #1, and drive to make this blog into something.  Or to at least score some free swag (I HATE THAT WORD, BTW. But if you have some, gimme gimme gimme!!).  And speaking of free stuff... check out the fabulous giveaway from Citrus Lane here!  Digression complete....

And then shit got real.  Financial troubles, instability, unscrupulous influences, and a new baby.  By May of 2013, I felt completely defeated.  My business was failing because I couldn't devote 60 hours a week to my clients, and I felt like I was failing at being a mom of three gorgeous boys because I was spending too much time with my clients.  And I was definitely failing at being a good wife.  A sleep-deprived, malnourished, aggravated raccoon with a penchant for pinot grigio... I had that down to a science.  But being a good, loving, supportive wife and mom... not so much.  Shit had to change.

So I made the difficult decision to close my business and focus on the family.  That was only made possible by the promise that my husband would actually get paid what his contract said he would get paid (which, let me tell you, unless you can afford a decent attorney, means less than the napkin it is written on).  And at first it was pure bliss.  I spent two weeks decompressing and slinking into my new role as SAHM.  YAHOO!!!  Stay At Home MOMMY!!  Bon-bons and day drinking and cooking elaborate meals using gastomolecular techniques that would eventually lead to a multi-year contract with the Food Network.  I would teach my kids french and Spanish, and have them engineer their own tree house out of recycled pallets from blueprints found on Pinterest.  They would learn to crochet and dance and chop wood. And perhaps even grow mustaches by the year's end.   I had big dreams and I was STOKED!! WHOOT WHOOT!!!  I'm a stay-at-home-mommy, I'm-a-stay-at-home-mommy (to the nah nah nah nah boo boo tune)!!

But, wouldn't you know that shit isn't all sunshine and rainbows and kegerators filled with wine?  I feel kind of worthless.  In a very material sense.  See, before I contributed financially and now I simply spend.  And I know my job as a mom and wife is a big one, and I have no idea how we would keep it together if I worked outside the home, especially since any back-alley butcher-shop willing to hire my crazy ass would likely pay in sides of beef, which the Kindercare will not take as remuneration for their daycare services (their "Company Policy" or whatever).  I wipe butts and clean, and play and clean more (although you wouldn't know it since this place looks like a rat's nest and smells like curdled milk tastes), and laundry (oh, laaauuud... the LAUNDRY is INCESSANT), and I cook (sometimes 10 different meal preparations a day... these people are spoiled), and then there is the coloring, the painting, the singing and dancing, and grocery shopping (NOOOO!!!  Please don't make me take the children!!!  PLEASE, for the love of all that is holy and good!!!), the scolding, the homework help, the brawl-break-ups, the bedtime stories....  And I am also the psych department, the infirmary, the sex kitten, and the fantasy football brah.  By choosing to be a SAHM I chose to devote myself entirely to my family. ENTIRELY.  And yet, I still feel materially worthless, like I contribute nothing because I don't deposit a paycheck.  And feeling like that pisses me off. Have you ever wanted to slap the shit out of yourself?  Yes.  That.

So today, 1 year and 364 days after jumping into the blogosphere and eventually climbing out soaking wet without a towel in a poopy-colored swimming suit with a full-coverage ass and soggy pancake boobs, I am recommitting myself to Three Monkeys and a Martini.  Because it is mine.  It is entirely for me.  And it may not pay me (although, I am totally for that happening), but at least it can maybe, hopefully, even just a smidge fill in this very real void I feel.  It may be selfish, and I may seem ungrateful, poor pitiful me, and whatnot.  And if you believe that, poopy-colored swimsuits to you.  I don't give a damn.  Because this is for me.  And I deserve it.

So, with that, I will say, I'm REALLY Back, Yo!  And I have no idea what direction this is going to go.  I'm not sure what I want this blog to be anymore.  But I do know that I will figure that out.  And I will do it with horrifically bad contouring make-up, leopard print slippers, a push-up bra, and wine in a coffee-cup.  Because I'm already home, so I can go big if I wanna.

It's a Hawaiian Delicacy!

Photo graciously lifted off the net from here.

During the time I was a missing person in the blogosphere, I'm proud to say I have developed quite a following.  Of spammers.  Particularly ones that own websites about payday loans.  Not sure why they see my blog as the perfect space to peddle their wares, but the joke's on them!  I don't get a paycheck!  Duh.

Anyway, I thought I'd share some of the gems I have found while cleaning up the spam.

First, I found out my blog is listed in Yahoo News, from a lovely Anon who left me this: "Wonderful blog! I found it while searching on Yahoo News. Do you have any suggestions on how to get listed in Yahoo News? I've been trying for a while but I never seem to get there! Appreciate it Here is my weblog; xxxxx"
That's cool.  The specific article in reference: Drunk Mommy.  Not sure that's the kind of news I want to be known for, but hey, I'll take any kind of publicity I can get. **And oh, by the way, I am not listed in Yahoo News.  Fucking liar.

I got a lot of compliments on the design of my blog too.  "Fascinating blog! Is your theme custom made or did you download it from somewhere? A design like yours with a few simple adjustements would really make my blog shine. Please let me know where you got your design. Cheers. Also visit my weblog xxxxx".  See, I don't buy into this, as spammers are the online equivalent of a guy at a bar... they try to woo you with compliments and drinks until your panties drop off and you click their virus-laden link.  But I did get a couple of these remarks, so thanks!  And yes, I designed this dress myself ;)

These spammers have gotten smart too.  They know blog owners will delete irrelevant comments immediately, but they are still lazy and don't want to take the time to actually read anything you write.  The solution, this: "Wow that was odd. I just wrote an extremely long comment but after I clicked submit my comment didn't appear. Grrrr... well I'm not writing all that over again. Anyhow, just wanted to say fantastic blog!  Also, visit my blog xxxxx".  It's almost like this one went to college for a couple months. Brilliant little liars.

I also love the foreign comments.  Some of them are in languages I can't read (I'm sure they are all incredibly substantive), but some are some-what understandable.  Like I understand this person thinks I am slightly full of shit, "Thankѕ a bunch for sharing this with all peоple. You reаllу unԁerstand what you're talking about approximately! Bookmarked."

And then there are the spammers who clearly have no concept of reality, making statements about the "great information" I provide, or that they get "valuable knowledge" from my blog.  "I think the admin of this wеb sіte іѕ genuinеly working hard for hіs wеb site, sіnсe here eveгy stuff is quality based informatіon".  Hey, heads up... I blog about mostly crap.  Smelly pencils, poopy diapers, back alley physicians, and snot.  If this is informative to you, you need to go back to community college.

And I got one total bitch. "The verу next time I read a blog, Ηopefully it does not faіl me just as muсh as this ρartіculaг one. After all, I know it waѕ mу choice to read, nonethеlеss I gеnuіnely bеlieved yоu'd have something useful to say. All I hear is a bunch of whining about something you can fix if you weren't too busy seeking attеntion.  Review my website xxxxx (short term loan site)".  Something I could fix with a short term loan, right. Of Course!!  If spamming blogs with niceties doesn't work, you should try sprinkling in some insults.  Reverse psychology.  Brilliant. 

I love it when spammers let you know how they found your site, you know, so you can use that information in your targeting and marketing, n' stuff.  "I saw your blog while searching on http://www.3monkeysandamartini.com/.  Do you know of a few information on how to get indexed in http://www.3monkeysandamartini.com/? I've really been intending to for quite a while but I never seem to make it happen. Appreciate it.  View my blog xxxx".  See, you are absolutely right, you did find my blog while searching my blog.  And I have no idea how you'd get indexed on my blog, since it is a fucking blog!!!

And my all-time favorite!  A spam comment about avoiding spam comments!  Tricksey little Hobbit ;) "Hi, i read your blog occasionally and i own a similar one and i was just curious if you get a lot of spam remarks? If so how do you protect against it, any plugin or anything you can advise? I get so much lately it's driving me crazy so any assistance is very much appreciated.  Also visit my web blog xxxxx".

I am going to leave all spam remarks that are received on this blog post remain in tact because I know that you, the three people who actually read this blog, will appreciate the irony. Also, because I am going to say right here, if you spam my blog you are going to get hit with the fiery fist of pain, and your dog will run away, and your wife will cheat on you with a dealer at an online casino. In other words, you're a loser.

Spam at your own risk.

It Was The Best of Times, It Was The End of Times...



So it has been a year since I last wrote.  Well, at least the year has changed.  There has been so much going on in the Monkey House, I just haven't had a chance to catch-up.  But fear not, I'll eventually get back into the swing of things. I got an email from my mother yesterday that said simply,
" I MISS THE MONKEYS!!!".  I get it.  I'm a slacker.  Thanks Ma.

So first on the list this year is the Secret Subject Swap.  Then announcement and prize awarding for the Christmas Tree contest (No I didn't forget... and my tree is still up, so it's not too late, right?).  But lets get this new year of blogging started with my Secret Subject Swap prompt sent by Mommy Unmuted, a funny gal you should definitely check out.  She's unmuted Yo'!  And while you're at it, grab a cup of coffee (or wine, or vodka depending on how your kids are behaving) and check out Baking in a Tornado, the humorista who runs this shin-dig.  And upon blog stalking her, you'll find links to all the other laughable ladies who participate.  They will brighten your day with a well deserved shot of snark and laughter. 

So my prompt is: If the world had ended on 12/21/12, what one thing would you wish you had done differently?  

In all honesty, I was a little concerned about the world ending.  I mean, I've already lived through like 5 "end-of-days" already, so this one had a pretty high probability of actually happening, right?  And the Mayans were pretty smart, even if the people who "translated" the meaning of their calendar weren't (it didn't end stupid, it recycles n' stuff).  I even woke up early with the intent of being awake at 6am (or whenever it was).  You know, I wanted to see the sky explode or whatever.  But I feel asleep, and shockingly woke up after doomsday.  Huh?  Well, so much for my plans to live in a bunker.  And not showering that day.  Oh who are we kidding?  I didn't shower anyway.

But if the world had ended, I guess I would be kind of pissed that I wasted my time waiting for it to happen.  I mean, I really should have spent those last days drinking champagne and betting on black in Vegas rather than making homemade Kindergarten-teacher presents and cleaning toilets in preparation for my own little end of the world (i.e. family visiting for two whole weeks).   So mainly, I wish I wouldn't have spent the end of days cleaning toilets.

The moment of truth would have also left me wondering why I had spent so much time working, saving, struggling (I mean, I sacrificed having pants all year in an effort to better my family), and generally spending time not drinking champagne and eating bon bons.  I mean, we paid off a shit load of debt, but who cares?  We all are going to die in a fiery pit of doom and despair.  It is times like those that you realize a nice pair of pants would probably be worth the expense.  And a sparkly sweater.  Like one a Real Housewife from Miami wears to the gym.  Damn.  Oh well... I can buy one now.  But won't because then I'd have to go to the gym.  Baawwaahaaahaa!!  That's hilarious!!!  And even less likely to happen than doomsday.

I would also have regretted not taking the time to become more fluent in Spanish.  I mean, if we're talking apocalypse, anything can happen right?  So maybe some Mayans would come back to life and rule over the rest of us like dictators.  I'd like the chance to get in good with the dark overlords, just in case.  But no... I spent my time in Spanish class learning how to say "Where is the bathroom?" and "The cheese is good".  I did once haggle my way through a transaction with a street vendor in Cabo San Lucas, but I think they just got bored with humoring my lousy Spanish and my arrogant white-girl-tourist attempt to haggle in their native tongue.  So, yeah.  I didn't do much to ensure my survival if in fact Mayans came back to put the smack down on all of us.  In retrospect, I totally would have rectified that.

Lastly, I think I would have spent more time trying to fully understand the ins and outs of Quantum Theory.  Why, you ask?  Well, so I could build a time machine, duh.  What other sure-fire way could I ensure my survival?  Oh yeah.  I guess just waking up did the trick.  Well, shit.  Where's the champagne anyway?  Mommy's got some catching up to do. 

Take a Moment and Give a Beautiful Child a Helping Hand

So today I read a post from a blogger friend that touched my heart, and I thought I would share her campaign with all of you.  If we all open our hearts and share Becky's story, and contribute a dollar or two, we can help give Nathan a Christmas Gift that will truly make a difference in his life.  Read on for the details:

Originally Published at The Insomniac's Dream: Christmas for Nathan:

Christmas for Nathan

Today, I am going to take a break from the funny.  I would like to introduce you to my friend, Becky, and share her story with you.

Becky and her son, Nathan Jr. 

Her son, Nathan Jr. is four years old.  He has been diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome and Global Developmental Delay.

How handsome is this little guy?

He is behind in speech and fine motor skills.

Cognitively, he is at 18 months old.  Becky and her husband have tried teaching Nathan sign language, but it is difficult for him and he can only sign a few of his basic needs.

Nathan has a problem with expression through words that causes him a lot of frustration, melt downs, and aggressive behavior.

A very brave Nathan during one of his many hospital stays

He can not hold a crayon, marker, or even a pencil.  He uses an Ipad at school to express what he is trying to say when he is unable to speak.  He uses the Ipad to learn and draw letters with his finger.  He is learning about shapes and how to write.  There are a variety of therapeutic apps available to sooth and help him to settle down when he is upset.

When Nathan is at home he is constantly frustrated and struggles all the time to express himself.

Having an Ipad at home would enable him to tell his parents his needs and wants.

Unfortunately, Ipads are very expensive and beyond what this family is able to afford.  Becky went to Craigslist in desperation, looking for help.  She was met with hate and threatening emails about her son and his disability.  In tears, she explained to us on Twitter what was going on.

Her Craigslist Ad

She shared some of these hateful emails with me as well as her story.  I cried for her.  I cried for Nathan.  My heart aches for a child who struggles every day to express even his most basic needs.  My heart breaks for a child who lives life always frustrated because he can't express himself, and no one understands him.

On top of all of this, Becky has only recently won a hard fought battle against cancer.

Who needs a wig when you have a bow and a beautiful smile?

Can we take a minute out of our days, a dollar or two out of our wallets this Christmas Season and see to it that Nathan gets an Ipad?

Please use the PayPal below to help this family and make this a very special Christmas for a very special little boy.

It is very simple, go to PayPal and where it asks for her email, you type in this Becky.budden@yahoo.com The rest of the fields are self explanatory.

*** I've also made it easy to donate!  Click the Donate button below and enter in the amount you'd like to give.  I'll forward all donations to Becky on a daily basis.

Nathan already says Thank You.

Thank you so much

WTF Friday: Episode 8 ~ If I Won a Million Dollars

So I've been invited to participate in a really cool club called The Secret Subject Swap, hosted by Baking in a Tornado.  By invited, I mean I totally invited myself and wasn't booted at the door even though my name wasn't on the list. 

Secret Subject Swap is much like a Secret Santa party, except with blog topics.  Your topic is chosen by the Secret Subject Swap gods (i.e. Karen, at Baking in a Tornado) from a pool of topics submitted by all participating bloggers. She tells you what your topic is, but no one else knows.  And on a chosen day, you all reveal your posts about your given topic.  My topic was submitted by Dinosaur Superhero Mommy, and is "Whoa, you won one million in the lottery... what do you do?"

So...

The prudent part of me would invest some in mutual funds; ELSS's and ULIP's and what not.  I'd invest some in a business start-up (I hear One Classy Motha is coming up with some patent-pending Beaver Babies... a learning tool that has a hilarity factor of about a billion). I'd give a little to stem cell research and I'd invest in the grey sweat sock industry (long story). And lastly, I'd invest in Ann Taylor.  Why?  Because they make pants.

I'd also give my folks a chunk.  I figure they earned it after 30-odd years of my crap.  And I'd send a hunk to Mr. Martini's folks too.  We're not talking like I'm all giving and philanthropic.  We're talking enough to buy a new TV, or to go on a short vacation, or something. Okay fine.  A new car.  And a fancy watch.  But the bulk would be invested.

The real me (read: not prudent, take-the-money-and-run-around-like-an-idiot-screaming-"I'm-Rich-Bitch" me) would go to Vegas and bet on black.  I'd buy a Jaguar, just so I could say I drive a Jag-u-ar, pronounced like they do in the commercials, which is not at all like anyone, anywhere pronounces it. I would buy a boat even though I live approx. 300 miles from the nearest body of water.  I would go to Tiffany's and try on EVERYTHING and buy NOTHING!

How much do I have left?

I would buy a pony.  I would buy an inflatable bounce house and I would have that sucker inflated ALL THE TIME!  I would buy a fur coat.  No I wouldn't.  But I'd buy a damn good fake.  I'd buy stock in Barefoot Wines.  Hell, I'd start a Pinot Grigio winery and call it I'm Rich Bitch Wines.  I would also buy at least 23 kegs of Berghoff and 190 lbs of shell-on peanuts so I could re-live my college days.

I would buy designer pants in all shapes and sizes and throw them out my car window at moms with shopping carts full of children and messy hair at the Walmart... cause I know how they feel.  I would buy 4 lbs of king crab legs and eat them all myself.  I would also by a 24 pack of toilet paper, because that kind of intestinal assault would definitely land me on the hopper for a full 2 hours.

Lastly, I would buy the rights to this song:

 Be sure to check out the other Secret Subject Swap topics and responses by clicking here.  I would tell you to vote for me, but it's not that kind of club.   

I Got Married By A Wild Boar Hunter on a Remote Island in the North Pacific

So this week's Theme Thursday post from Something Clever 2.0 is about weddings.  I could talk your ear off about weddings, since my day job is to create fabulous custom wedding invitations for bridezillas around the world.  But today I have to talk about my own wedding.  Which was perfect.  And included no invitations at all.  Which made it even more perfect.

See, my husband and I had a whirlwind courtship.  We "hooked up" in March and were married by Thanksgiving.  We travelled throughout the US during that time, bought a house, renovated it, got pregnant, and then decided, well, we should seal the deal, I guess.  We thought about having a real wedding. A small intimate affair that would take place in Chicago (neutral territory for both of our families), but for several reasons (mostly because I was afraid my dad would have a stroke if we told him, since he was still paying off my first wedding) we decided to elope.  I walked into my office one November morning and there was a ticket to Hawaii sitting on my keyboard.  How could you NOT marry that guy?

I was whisked away to the Halekulani Hotel in Honolulu. Um, yeah.  There was a button by the door you could ring for a personal concierge.  The bathroom was bigger than my whole apartment. The view of Waikiki beach was Amazeballs.  But there was construction going on at a nearby hotel that just sort of cramped our "pretending to be rich super-snob" style.  So Mr. Martini asked for a refund and we hopped on the first plane to the Kauai.  That was back when we did that sort of crazy shit all the time.  Just hop on a plane and go to XYZ.  Or just decide not to get on a plane and do something else.  I don't want to sound like a rich super-snob, but it was fun pretending to be a rockstar for a minute.  Of course we're still paying for those 6 months of fun that started 7 years ago, but whatevs. 

There was a golf tourney going on at our hotel and our beach cabana was right next to Tiger Woods' (you know, before we knew Tiger was a raging douchebag).  So we thought we were the Shiznit!  And we were gonna get married!  Whoot Whoot!  I was a princess!   So now we had to find someone to marry us.  Which we didn't realize would be such a difficult thing to do.  I called like a dozen marriage guys (you know, pastors, reverends, etc. that do beach weddings as a side gig) and everyone was booked.  OMG!  We flew all the way to frickin Hawaii and all I got was this stupid bag of Macadamia nuts?  WTF?  I wanna get married!!!  We finally found a pastor/wild boar hunter who said he could do it.  At 4pm.  That day.

I didn't even have a dress.  Not anything I thought would be marginally appropriate, at least.  Turns out, nothing at the only shopping place we could find would be very appropriate either.  Since I was pressed for time (we're talking like 2 hours till "go" time here), I grabbed the only thing that fit reasonably well and ran off (funny how that has become a theme in my normal everyday life too...).
I would be getting hitched in a black knee length party dress with big red hibiscus flowers printed all over it.  Meh.  It beat out sequined hoochie dress.  It would have to do.

We made it to the beach on time, as they say, and met our pastor.  A real nice guy who asked us over for Thanksgiving dinner.  They would be serving wild boar caught using table scraps from his son's restaurant.  I liked the guy immediately.  Mr. Martini however, was a ball of nervous energy.  He was so nervous you could literally see fear in his eyes.  And then he was asked to do the impossible. Wait until we saw a sea turtle.  Say what, Mr.?  We have to stand here looking into the ocean until we see a frickin sea turtle before you'll marry us?  Heh?  So finally, after what seemed like at least five minutes, Mr. Martini lied so we could get on with it.  That's how you should always start out your married life... with a big ol' fat lie to a man of the cloth.

There was some kind words, a declaration of love, some vows (which I have a printed copy of somewhere) and the exchange of rings.  And of course the kiss.  There are three wedding photos of us, and one is the fake kiss we did after the "ceremony".  Turns out our boar-hunting pastor was also an amateur photographer, and he wanted to get the perfect shot.  In any event, we got hitched.  We were married.  It was official.  Let the throwing of the rice, popping of the champagne, eating of the cake, and dancing off the asses commence!!  And then...

That night, we did what all married couples do. ;)

 I fell asleep while he watched the UCLA-USC football game on TV. 

It was the most perfect day ever, and I wouldn't have wanted it any other way. 

You Can Go Ahead and Buy My Book...

So I'm a published author!

 

 

Actually, I was already a published author.  Little known fact: I used to be an academic and, well, I wrote about stuff with authoritay.  Mostly about pirates (the Arrgh kind, not the Chinese kind who make fake DVD's) and about voting behavior and ideology, media and... oh, you're yawning?  Awesome.  Glad a decade of my life's hard work bores you.  Well, it bored the crap out of me too, quite frankly. But, out of all those years of binge drinking and dorkitude at the university, I got at least one article published in a somewhat respected journal.  Well, it was respected until they let me in.  It was a pretty cool study that compared the substance of political information (i.e. what you and I call "news") reported by The Daily Show vs. network news during the '04 election.  Turns out, funny news is also more substantive and is better retained in the memory.  You can check out the study here. 

 

And, well, duh.  I blog all the time because I think what I have to say is read-worthy. Am I a delusional published author?  Probably.  But it turns out at least a couple other people agree enough to have slapped some of my crazy in an ebook (along with some other crazy from some other hilarious moms).  You can check out the collection of funny from Life Well Blogged here.  It's an e-book for Kindle.  I don't have a Kindle.  But I think it's just about time for me to get one ;)  And all the proceeds of the book (not my new Kindle) go to Hurricane Sandy relief (so I don't get a goddamn dime.  Boo!!!). 

 

 But, Yay!! Charity!!  

 

I am flattered and honored that these gals thought I'd be a good fit for their collection.  And I hope you all run out and download it ASAP!  I can't wait to read it myself on my new Kindle (Oh, Amazon... how I love thee ;)  And just so you know, I will be writing this purchase off as a business deduction.  I mean, I am a published author.  That's kind of my job now.

 

Yay me!  New Job! 

The Target Mirror Box Of Horror

I got some pants... and a dose of reality

So I did it.  I bought some pants.  That's right y'all!  I took a moment yesterday, piled the kids in the cruiser and took 'em to Target.  Why Target?  Because it was a one-stop-shop.  I needed some apples.  And toilet paper.  And a baby-proof latch thing.  And I figured, hell, while I'm at it, I'll get some pants.   I wanted to go to the fancy maternity store, but that would have required dressing for the occasion, (i.e. wearing something that didn't already have a ketchup stain on it, and a nicer pair of pants).  So now that I have Target pants, maybe I'll get to the maternity store.  Likely not, but whatevs.

In any case, I learned a couple things yesterday while clothes shopping for the first time in like 3 years.
1) Even cheap clothes are over priced.
2) Liz Lange (the in-house Target maternity "designer") has clearly never been knocked-up.
3) Whoever designs the clothes for "women" sized chicks, are not in fact, women.
4) I have some body issues.  Which was not helped by the fact that my 5 year old literally pointed and laughed at me when I took off my skirt to try on pants.   Dick. 

So, I've gained a bit of weight during this pregnancy.  Like 25 pounds already.  And there is no stopping in sight.  For those who don't know me in real life, I am 5' 2" and built a bit like a hobbit.  So any extra poundage is visibly noticeable almost immediately upon scarfing down that plate of pasta.  And it has been this way my whole life.  Because I am a larger small person, I have had serious self image issues since I was a little girl.  And it all started when some jackhat doctor told me I was obese when I was 12.

That little comment set off a lifetime of self-image issues, culminating in a decade long "battle" with anorexia. I use "battle" in quotations because at the time it was not a battle... it was a way of life.  See, you starve yourself in an effort to get to a point where you like what you see in the mirror.  The battle is not with the lack-of eating part of the equation; rather, it is in the liking what you see part.  But everyone acts as though the disorder lies in the eating part of any eating disorder.  That you must simply learn to have a healthy relationship with food.  They would be the same assholes who call 12 year old girls obese.

The disorder part stems from a magnanimous lack of self-esteem that drives every thought, every decision, every choice that you make.  And that is not something that can be solved overnight with a magic pill, or with therapy, or with success (i.e. starving yourself down to a size zero).  I tried all three.  You don't simply wake up one morning and think "wow, that single grapefruit a day has really made me beautiful.  I think I'll have a ham sandwich now, 'cause I'm a hottie potatie and I'm all better".  You may finally wake up and think, "Damnit, I'm having a ham sandwich because this eating celery sticks thing blows", but you still live forever with the fear of being fat and ugly.  That never goes away. Never.

Maturity helped me conquer those demons a bit, but it was entirely by default.  Looking like a Top Model no longer is the most important thing when you've got little people who rely on you for their very survival.  The constant fear of being fat and ugly that once literally consumed me has become really small, pushed deep down, and is weighted down with cement shoes of things that really matter... like being able to pay the bills, keeping my kids safe, and being a good role model.  And it helps that I have a husband who makes me feel beautiful everyday.  Just having him by my side as my life partner is a constant reminder of my success at conquering this disorder.  When I left my first husband, he said to me in reference to my now-husband, "Do you think he would have had anything to do with you when you were a fat cow?".  Those words stung more than a stab to the heart.  But I can say without a doubt, "Yes, assface, he would.  'Cause he is.  And he thinks I'm beautiful even with some extra poundage".  Our two (almost three) children are evidence of that. 

So, I realized--standing in the mirror box of horror at Target with a five year old laughing at my pants-less cellulite laden ass--that I definitely need to get to the gym once this pregnancy is over.  And I should maybe start being a bit more conscientious of what I consume (what, you mean macaroni and cheese has carbs?  Shit!).  And although I now have to wear a tent as a winter coat, it is all fleeting.  It is not me.  I am a beautiful girl with some extra weight.  And you know what?  It doesn't define me.  It doesn't consume me.  It doesn't determine my self worth.  Not anymore.  These two little monkeys do.  And it is for them that I will hit the treadmill.  Not so they can have the hottest mama at the school play (although, I'll be honest, that is a motivator).  Rather, it's so they will have a healthy mama who has many years of playtime left.  So I can give them the time they need to become men.  Real men.  Men who don't value a woman by the size of her ass, but rather by the size of her heart.  Men who know a good thing when they see it and will stop at nothing to get it, keep it, nourish it, and cherish it.

Men just like their father. 

Who Needs Pants When You Have Ham Hock Legs?

It has come to my attention that I'm surrounded by needy bastards.  People who need time, people who need attention, people who need money, people who need approval, people who need a good kick in the pants... and to be perfectly honest, I have become really, really, annoyed.

This little personal epiphany may seem trite or obvious to some; just walk into a Walmart and you'll see a gaggle of mouth-breathers  surrounding the free yogurt sample chick screaming "Pick Me, Pick Me!!".  I mean, intellectually I know this neediness thing is nothing new.  I see it at least once a week... at the Walmart.  But it has become like nails on a chalk board to me, where I used to be able to let noise like that just roll off my back.  I think the real reason all this neediness has pissed me off to such a considerable degree is because I keep my needs and wants to myself.  Mostly in an effort to be low maintenance. My mother will begin raucous laughter here.  To which I respond, just wait until nursing home time.  Muhauuhaahaa! 

So I thought, since we're all being so damn self-involved here, that I would share a list of my secret needs and wants.  This may or may not be something you'll want to print and post on the fridge as a Christmas list.

NEEDS:
1) I need pants.  There, I said it.  I don't have one goddamned pair of pants that fit.  Not one.
2) I need more money for the finer things in life.  Like pants.

WANTS:
1) I want pants. That fit.

2) I want more money. For pants.  That fit.

3) I want some stability.  This will be the 7th time I have moved in the last 6 years.  I just want to settle down. I'm hoping this is it, seeing as how I am going to set myself on fire like a protesting monk if the subject of moving is even broached in my house within the next 5 years. I hate fire.  So yeah. Stability now!

4) I want to feel appreciated.  This is probably something every mom/wife can identify with.  I do your laundry.  I make your dinners. I do the dishes, clean move stuff around the house, make sure you have books to read and toys to play with. I clean your poop. And on top of all I do for you, I take care of our children.

5) I want some friends.  Like, real ones.  I haven't put much stock in the whole friendship thing since all mine dumped me during my divorce, but I realize that having someone to vent to is clearly a good thing.  But really, maybe not (see needy bastards above).

6) I want to be needy without feeling selfish.  If I have learned one thing from all the needy bastards out there, it is this: It's okay to think about "you" once in a while. That is something I need to work on (maybe this should go on the Need list?).

7) I want to be nicer. But only to a select few.  I am actually too nice to most people.  In fact, I can't think of a single person that deserves more niceness from me.  Just forget number 7.  Dick.

8) I want to know that my kids are going to be safe, happy, and strong.  I do my best everyday to make this happen, and every night I pray to God that he'll/she'll intervene and make sure I don't turn them into needy little bastards.  See, no matter how hard you try, you will always feel like you're not mom-enough.  I want to feel "mom-enough".

9) I want to get a real haircut.  I have cut my own hair for the past 5 years, and I started because I couldn't understand why I was paying someone $90 every six weeks to make me look like Harry from Dumb and Dumber.  I can do that for free.  And although I give myself the best haircuts I have ever gotten, it is a week-long process.  And I don't even have pants. Why the hell would it make sense that I spend that kind of time on something no one will ever notice?

10) I want one of those Roomba robot vacuums.  Mine broke and the floor is a mess.

11) I want my ankles back.  Every day I put on shoes and think about how I once had cute girly legs.  Now I have ham hocks. And ham hocks stuffed into Nike's is not a look I would recommend for anyone.  Especially for someone wearing no pants.

There WIll Be No Sex In The Champagne Room

This Week's Theme Thursday topic is How Kid's Ruin Your Sex Life.  Since I am knocked up and as big as the Hindenburg one would think, I got this one.  But after all the political hullabaloo the last few days, I have the personality farts.  And  maybe some writer's block.  So I thought I would Google it to get some inspiration. 

Turns out this is a topic of great concern for both sexes.  Guys Google things like "Is it true that sex ends after having kids because girls are tired, or is it just an excuse not to screw anymore?"  While women Google things like "How long should we wait before we try to be intimate again after having a baby?".  Both questions are basically asking this: "Did I just sell my condo in pleasure town by having a child"?

As you may know from last week's 10 Things I Wish I Knew Before I Got Pregnant post, I used to shag a lot.  A LOT.  When my husband and I got together we were grad students (i.e. unemployed, often intoxicated, with no real responsibilities except rent and the occasional taco). So we had a lot of time on our hands.  And we used it to our best ability.  Plus we really hated the neighbors below us and got a kick out of the fact that the place was built like a Japanese paper house.  Tell me to turn down the TV; that's not the TV, Jerkface!

But things changed dramatically once we got pregnant.  Suddenly my husband would have none of it.  NONE.  OF.  IT.  He was far too aware of the fact that there was someone else in the room now, and that was just not his bag.  I suppose this is normal; irrational and stupid, but normal.

On the other hand, I was on high sex alert. You can't help it.  Why God does this, I do not know.  Dudes get all creeped out, while women finally experience what it must be like to be a pubescent boy.

.......
And then you go into labor and your idiot husband decides it would be a cool idea to take a peek at what's going on at the end of the table that is causing his maiden to verbally act out scenes from Full Metal Jacket.  WRONG MOVE, BUDDY!  That is a picture you can NEVER take back.  Never, never, never, never.  And your manhood does the only thing it knows how to do in dangerous, threatening situations... hide. 

Once all the blood, and guts, and carnage is cleaned-up, and your husband has been revived by one of the hot nurses who helped get your beached-whale ass through this disaster, you are ecstatic that you both are still alive.  And then you take your bundle of joy in your arms and they tell you, you can't have sex for 6 weeks.  To which you respond, "You expect me to do this again? Are you kidding me?  Did you see what just went on here?  I have already called Amnesty International about this shit, and I expect reparations."

........
After a while the dust settles and you are back home, and you get into your new routine.  That routine consists of waking up every two and a half hours to a screaming child who wails just like a foghorn right next to your bed.  And because you get no sleep, you don't even care about your mangy appearance.  What was once "Bed Head" in a sexy way is now "Mess Head" in a freakish, you must be a hoarder, kind of way.  You will find yourself wearing the same shirt for three days, regardless of what brand of nasty has been plopped on it.  And you don't care, because you are still just thankful to be alive.  Meanwhile, your husband is doing everything he can to pretend he is invisible so you don't rip his balls off in your maniacal, hormone induced, sleep deprived state of bat crap crazy.

Oh yeah, I see a date night on the horizon.

Things normalize a bit once you have learned how to survive on diet coke and pixie sticks and have trained your body like a Navy SEAL to function for six days on three hours of sleep.  At this point, your doctor will tell you you're all clear to have sex.  Then you will picture yourself punching her in the ovaries.

.......
Eventually, the time will come when you will actually want to do the deed.  This is usually after some big event, like getting out of jail or winning the lottery.  Both of which provide an opportunity for  consuming copious amounts of champagne, and neither are a likely to occur in your lifetime.

And to be honest, it's kind of scary and you get all nervous, like you've never been on that merry go round before (and like you don't have the stretch marks to prove it).  So once you have been properly motivated, you get back on the proverbial horse and realize, 'this ain't so bad after all'.  And just as you are finally starting to get into it, you look over and see your 3 year old standing there in a state of mortification, talking about, "Daddy... what are you doing to mommy?"

It is during this brief moment that you realize God has spoken, and he has said,

"There will be no sex in the champagne room".

 And then there isn't.



This post was inspired by Theme Thursday.  You can check out what other mommas think about sex after kids here, at Cloudy, With a Chance Of Wine.

How To Build a Better Blog By Being A Narcissistic Ass

So in my short time as a blogger, I have learned a lot.  I have learned  there are a lot of "tricks" you need to know in order to get people to notice you.  For instance, you need to read other people's stuff in order to get people to read yours.  It's kind of like a carrot and stick thing.  I give a carrot by reading your blog, leaving a nice note and casually requesting you come visit me (by putting a giant link to my blog on yours, which you promptly delete).   And then you get hit in the face with a plate full of crazy and a side order of hot mess when you come to read mine.  Hopefully you laugh.  Maybe even sign-up for the feed so you never miss a single spastic piece of word vomit that gets posted here.  That is when a blogger knows they have really scored; when someone willfully signs up for your spam.  Last I checked, I have a couple of handfuls of poor fools who have done that .  Each of you will be getting a Christmas card and one of my son's lost teeth on a chain you can proudly wear around your neck.  Oh, and a bumper sticker that will in no way encourage cops to pull you over for drunk driving.

This little cat and mouse dance has been going on since time immemorial (or at least since Gore invented the internet).  So I've been reading a lot of other blogs lately. A LOT.  Most suck, I'm not gonna lie.  But some are pretty damn awesome (check my list of favorites in my footer for a sampling).  Some even actually get people to pay to advertise!  Like The Bloggess.  How the badonk she does it, I don't know.  I mean, she is hysterical, there is no doubt. But people love her so much that companies will spend over $500 a month to advertise this:

 

Cat and mother-loving dog wigs.  I am not kidding.  She is that good.  And it makes me really. Really. Jealous.

 

But in addition to the carrot and stick, there are also social media obligations. I started a Twitter account, which is hands down WAY more awesome than Facebook (sorry Zuckerburg).  Facebook is to a prayer book what Twitter is to porn.  So you can probably guess which one I am better at.  And in starting a Twitter account to get some exposure, you must first seek out people you think may be similar to you (i.e. twisted, possibly unemployed, drunks) and harass them until they give in and start following you in return, in the hopes that you'll leave them alone.  Or to voyeuristically watch the train wreck of your life unfold 140 character snippets at a time.  I love Twitter. 

 

More than just Twitter and beating people with your craziness when they drop by, you must also realize that if you are going to be successful, you must be vulnerable.  Some people fail at this and hide behind their quilt patterns and pickling recipes.   You will never be The Bloggess.  Martha Stewart, maybe.  And to each their own... the interwebs is big enough for all (which is what makes it such a beautiful place).  My kind of crazy may not be your flavor of vodka.  But it is mine.  And I'll share it to anyone who wants a sip. 

 

I started this blog thinking I would create a sort of catch-all imperfect mother blog, with recipes and DIY projects, and silly posts that show me bumbling around trying to be a good mom.  Yeah, that lasted a week.  I don't give a poop about how to clean your oven or pumpkin bread (notice I've written about both).  But it wasn't until I finally got the courage to write about something that was "me" that I realized you can't do this trying to predict what other people will want.  You've got to just write from your heart and if someone wants to read it, awesome.  And if someone doesn't, they can shove it.  We are all narcissists at heart, whether you're writing about yourself or writing about building a fort with Popsicle sticks. We all think what we have to say is for some reason important.  I think it is important to laugh, so that's what I try to do.  Make people laugh.  But the bottom line is, I re-read my shit and I laugh.  And that's really all that matters. 

 

That, and getting someone to pay me $500 to advertise cat and mother-loving dog wigs.  Seriously.  That woman is unbelievable.

 

~ This post was inspired by a post I read this morning from a good blog.  You can check it here.

 

And now that I have probably offended half of the blogging community, feel free to litter my comments section with your back-links.  I won't even delete 'em.

30 Days of Thankfulness in 13 Minutes

I am already getting annoyed by the syrupy love-fest being barfed out all over Facebook by the 30 Days of Thankfulness people.  Seriously, I have to come up with something every damn day for 30 days? Ummm... no.  There is just not that much niceness going on over here.  So I thought I would see how much I could pump out in 13 minutes.  Ready?  Here we go...

1) I am thankful for maxi pads. No explanation necessary.

2) I am thankful for being short because I can't see myself in the bathroom mirror unless I jump.  Which means exercise AND entertainment. Score!

3) I am thankful for the little things.  Like money.  Lots and lots of money!  Oh wait, I don't have any of that.  Poop.

4) I am thankful that my kids have all their fingers and toes.  Seriously, I knew a girl in grade school who had no bones in her toes.  GROSS!

5) I am thankful to have a husband who is just as sick and twisted as I am.  And who is still employable. I am actually jealous of that guy.  Never mind.  Not thankful.  Just jealous.

6) I am thankful for having experienced several floods in my house.  I think being knee deep in sewer water adds character I would not otherwise have gained.

7) I am thankful for WINE!

8) I am thankful for this new laptop. (See God Works In Mysterious Ways).

9) I am thankful for having parents who somehow did not eat their young.  And some how managed to escape our childhood without us eating them... because I am hoping for a mad payoff when they kick it.  Just sayin'.

10) I am thankful for my scorching wit, my perfect boobs, and my Herbal Essence commercial-like hair.  I don't actually have any of those things, but...

11) I am thankful for delusions of grandeur.

12) I am thankful for WINE!!

13) I am thankful for chicken.  The food not the animal.

14) I am thankful for electricity because what the poop would I do with out The Real Housewives of Atlanta?

15) I am thankful for being patient, kind, and understanding.  (See 11).

16) I am thankful for Neil Diamond, arguably the greatest musician of all time.

17) I am thankful I got Neil Diamond to give me a personal autograph... made out to #NOTME

18) I am thankful for donuts and... yeah, donuts. Mmmmm... I need a donut.  Why don't we EVER have any fricking donuts in this house!!!

19) I am thankful for WINE!!!

20) I am thankful for Spanx.

21) I am thankful Spanx makes a size big enough to squeeze my ass into something that resembles a watermelon as opposed to the Space Shuttle Atlantis.

22) I am thankful for peace on Earth.  Haa Haaaa Haaa... like that will ever happen.

23) I am thankful for having good, honest, wholesome friends, who all have Twitter handles like @superdouche, @crotchbiscuit, @Imagoodlay, and @asshat.

24) I am thankful for flowers because they smell good AND they look pretty.  And I'm pretty sure my mom is allergic to them, which means they are also a great Mother's Day gift.

25) I am thankful for WINE!!!!

26) I am thankful for Jurassic Park because it gives me hope that someday they may be able to reincarnate me into a dinosaur.  Wait, Mr. Martini says that's not the way that works...

27) I am thankful for having a know-it-all husband who will definitely be my first target when I become a Velociraptor.  They travel in packs, yo.

28) I am thankful for ghettonese.  Look it up.

29 I am thankful for Legos because nothing is better than breaking your face after stepping on them in the dark.

30) I am thankful for that good ol' Midwestern nasal drawl.  It sounds so wholesome and stupid at the same time.  I'm even more thankful now that I have a hybrid Midwestern-Southern drawl.  You can't even make-up that kind of stupid.

31) YEAH BABY!! You're only doing 30 cause you're sticking to the days.  I can do what I want because I just said I'd spend 13 minutes...

I am thankful for having two absolutely beautiful, funny, smart, and capable children who humble me everyday with their sheer awesomeness.  I am thankful for finding the man of my dreams, and having the balls to take the leap with him when everyone else had doubts.  Words can not express how thankful I am for him.  I am thankful for a home, for heat, for clean water...I am thankful we have those things, because I know some do not.  I am thankful that there are 24 hours in a day, because that means you get to start over at least every 24 hours. And lastly, I am thankful for you, my reader, who make my attempt to become a writer something that is not quite as laughable as it once was.  Although, I guess, the jury is still out on that. ;)

And now that all my Facebook friends have de-friended me for being a hater... what are YOU thankful for? 

10 Things I Wish I Knew Before I Got Pregnant

There are a few things I wish I knew before I got pregnant.  Not that any of that would have made a difference since I was shagging like 6 times a day and that baby was bound to happen, but being prepared is always nice. 

1)  Shagging 6 times a day STOPS.  Immediately. Guys are afraid that their manhood will stab the fetus in the heart and thus destroy said fetus.  Or they fear the baby "will know". And what?  Get jealous?  Whatevs.  Sex stops, and it sucks, because...

2)  You become hornier than any teenage boy has ever been in his life.  The mailbox makes you want to go to pleasure town.  Seeing a shoe will literally result in swollen genitals.  And don't even bother going through the vegetable aisle.  And all this raging sexual desire is fruitless because of 1) and...

3)  You get so big you can't see your crotch, let alone reach it.  This is bad for any chance at rectifying 1) or taming 2), because no one wants to go down there if it hasn't been treated like a lady in months (and thus looks like something out of a 70's porn) and you can't even take care of yourself in the shower 'cause, well, you can't reach it.

4)  Your lady parts will never. NEVER.  Be the same.  They cut you!!!  Did you hear me, ladies? THEY WILL CUT THAT SHIT!!  And that's only if you're lucky enough to have a nice doctor who doesn't let you rip.  ARE YOU HEARING THIS?? RIP!!  As in tear, like a piece of toilet paper.  Your vag.  Broken. OMG... I'm re-living it...

5)  If you are super lucky, you won't get stretch marks (believe it... I didn't get them with number 1).  But your snotty "I didn't get stretch marks" highfalutin ass will be brow-beaten by God with number two.  And they don't go away.  And you get them EVERYWHERE.  Not just on the tummy... oh no.  On your boobs, your thighs, your back....  You become a giant web of glossy pink and white hot mess.  And you stay that way.  FOREVER.  Self tanner ain't gonna hide this mess; you're just screwed.  Might as well trade in that bikini for a burka, 'cause ain't nobody want to see that shake.  Which, as you can imagine, does not bode well for fixing your sexless, pathetic, torn vag ego. Which brings me to...

6)  You will cry.  A lot.  For no reason.  Everyday.  Justin Bieber comes on the radio: sob fest.  You smell popcorn: tears of self loathing. You try to fit in your fat pants: OMG, that one still makes me tear up.

7)  Upon birthing you realize, Holy Donuts Batman!  What did we do!!!  Who the hell decided I was qualified for this?  I am in no condition to take care of someone else! And panic ensues.  And this is okay because...

8) You will never get to sleep again, so you can go ahead and spend every hour of every day worrying about your new baby.  This is God's plan.  It sucks for you, because it ensures you will never be able to fix your hot mess of a body because any ounce of energy not spent on your bundle of joy will be spent trying not to pass out from exhaustion.

9) You will become judgmental of other people's parenting because you will think you are perfect and everyone else is crap.  And you will, in most cases, need to learn to take your head out of your ass.  I didn't really learn this until I had number 2, and I'm still working on it.  But realizing there is always room for improvement will help you be a better mom.  I'm being serious.

10) That the world will revolve around someone else for the first time in your narcissistic, self involved life. Those Loubou's you would have purchased are now plastic super heroes and bunk beds.  The romantic trip you planned to take to Paris for your anniversary will become a Disney cruise complete with obnoxious music, sweaty grandparents,  and candy-induced vomit.  Oh, and that weekly girl's night out will become tea-party Tuesday, and you will be required to wear a feather boa, a velvet hat, and speak with a silly Mary Poppins tone. 

And you will look back at all of it and think, huh? That wasn't so bad after all.

Posted inspired by Theme Thursday at:  http://cloudywithachanceofwine.com/1397-2/

Buttery Goodness Gotchya Feelin' Sick? DUH!!!

Okay, I am not one who will sit and judge another's choice about what to feed their kid.  I screwed up Silly Monkey when it comes to food stuffs, there is no doubt.  I was so afraid to feed him solid foods because I thought he would choke, that by the time he started actually eating, he latched on to chicken nuggets (now chicken in finger form prepared by mom is acceptable) and would not, under any circumstances try anything new.  Take away toys, go to be without dinner, reward, punishment... the list goes on, and the stress was unbearable.  Eat your damn pink sludge formed into dinosaur shapes.  What the hell.  I give up.  But we have not made the same mistake with mini-monkey (thankfully).  

I do try to be cognizant of what is going into our mouths.  We don't use artificial sweeteners because I am afraid they will turn into their toxic component parts during digestion and embalm my family just as they are enjoying that low-calorie ice cream.  We don't eat food out of a box. Okay, the kids do sometimes, but they're kids and who cares?  They have years to make up for the bad choices I have made on their behalf.  Mr. Martini and I could be so lucky. We've got 10, maybe 15 years until our livers quit, screaming "YOLO!!" as they shrivel into tiny gourds of what was once healthy living tissue.  But I know that.  I am aware I make bad choices when I make them.  I make them anyway, but I know it.  I am in control.

And then there Wayne Watson,  who wins $7.2 million dollars because (gasp!) he got sick after eating crap for 15 years.

Wayne Watson, demonstrating for the jury how he'd stuff his face into a bag of popcorn every 3 hours

 

"Popcorn Lung" is an obstructive lung disease that makes it difficult for air to flow out of the lungs and is irreversible, according to WebMD.  Hey, here's a thought... maybe, sitting on your badonka donk everyday consuming 3 bags of fat-flavored popcorn for 15 years squished your lungs into tiny grapes that struggle for blessed oxygen.  I'm no doctor, but I can pretty much say with authority that if I ate 3 bags of chips, snicker bars, ho ho's or what have you everyday for 15 years, my breathing would get obstructed too.  Unless of course I ran marathons for a living.  It is not butter flavoring that made you sick, dumbass.  It's just that you're a dumbass, dumbass.  A dumbass who is as rich as the wind is nippy because a group of twelve other dumbasses decided to fight the power and stick it to the snack-food man.

Now I get that there is some cause for concern regarding diacetyl, the chemical at the heart of this craziness.  And it seriously makes me consider if I should stop giving Silly Monkey 3 bags of popcorn a day.  But to reward a guy with such an incredible lack of judgment or concern about his own health that he would stuff his face with chemicals all day, everyday, for 5,475 days is repulsive.  He should be required to spread the word about poor decision-making to children across the country. "See kids, I'm rich bitch, but I'm dying 'cause I didn't eat my vegetables". 

I am totally going to sue Jack Daniels.

So what do you think?  Do you think justice was served in this case?  Was his argument legitimate?  I want to hear your thoughts!

Smart Car, Stupid Driver

Yesterday I spent the day traipsing around Indianapolis with my family frantically looking at houses, since we will be homeless in approximately 1 month. Selling your house is AWESOME, but being homeless; not so much.

In any event, I came across this gem while driving down the 465 freeway. If you know me, you know I hate a Smart Car. Boy do they piss me off, and their owners piss me off even more. I mean I get owning a car for the pure ridiculousness of it, and hey, if you can't ride your scooter, you might as well have something equally stupid, tiny, and light to get you around, right?  But here's a hint to all you Smart Car owners: We all see your car is tiny, and we all make judgements about your manhood. Hanging a big set of balls to your exhaust does not make you more of a man. It makes you look like a douchebag in a Smart Car with small penis syndrome.





SmartCar, Big Ballin'.

10 Ways to Get More Traffic to Your Blog: and why they won't work for you

Funny Cat Photo Sure to Bring More Traffic

Courtesy of theChive



So I've been running this blog for two weeks and I haven't gotten the 324k views I was expecting.  This is a total bummer, and makes me feel like a total failure.  Oh, you've been there?  Well, cool.  At least I'm not alone. Start following me (and I'll follow you back, I promise).  This less than stellar launch has led me to waste countless hours doing research into "How to get more traffic" (this is a legit link with some really good ideas if you are actually looking to gain some helpful insight).  This has led me to come up with MY top ten list of things to do to get more traffic to your blog, and why they won't work for you.  This list is in no particular order, because I just don't care that much ):

1) Social Network
Why It Won't Work For You:  Assumes you already have people in your life who love you and are interested in your current and future well being.  If you, like me are like the unpopular kid with snot on their shirt, then you're out of luck with the hipster social network crowd.
But if you want a for-sure follower, scratch my back and I'll scratch yours.  Like me on Facebook, or Follow me on Twitter and I'll return the favor.  One is better than none, right?

2) Use Stumbleupon
Why It Won't Work For You: Assumes you already have a billion people following your blog.  Seriously, the only blogs that show up when you "stumble" are blogs from fortune 500 companies or people who have invested years and years of salary (gained at a real job) in getting their blogs "seen".  You don't stumble across anything here, you land face-first in a giant, well-financed, pile of main-stream-esque media poo.  

3) Post on Forums
Why It Won't Work For You: People on forums are just as self-involved and narcissistic as you are.  They are not there to help, make friends, share insights, or be useful.  They are there for the same reason you are: to get other people to look at their blog.  They don't give a poop about you, and won't bother to click your signature link. And you won't bother with theirs either.  Trust me.

4) Post Meaningful Comments On Other Blogs
Why It Won't Work For You:  The person writing the blog may get a quick "oohh, that felt good" from it, but chances are, they have a zillion other comments from people who are following their blog, so they don't need you to feel good.  Much like posting in forums (or blogging at all, for that matter), no one cares about what you have to say and won't click your signature link even if you remember to put it in your comment.  And most are no-follow links anyway, so it won't even help trick google into thinking you're more popular than you really are.

5) Guest Blogging
Why It Won't Work For You: As I have said, time and time again, no one cares what you have to say.  That is why no one is reading your blog.  Why the hell would someone who is at least moderately successful let you sully their blog with your stink of failure? 

6) Create a "Best Of" List
Why It Won't Work For You:  You create a list of the "Top 10" blogs in your niche, and expect the traffic to come rolling in because, just like you, bloggers in that niche are doing the same thing you are: doing competition research.  Or, you somehow get a gaggle of readers who are interested in the niche looking for new blogs. Why this won't work: 1) you can't include your blog with good conscience unless you really are one of the best (which you're not), and 2) the blogs included in your list see you as a floater in their gold-lined in-ground swimming pool.  They are unlikely to acknowledge your saying they are on your obscure top ten list.  Who are you, anyway?

7) Write For An Audience Likely to Share
Why It Won't Work For You:  I was always told to write about what you love or hate. Not to write about what others love or hate.  If I did the latter, I would be a cat photographer and write a blog about all the crazy things that cats do; posting photos of cats in hats, cats dancing on the table, cats in costumes... and it wouldn't be too long before my blog would go static due to my violent suicide.  What good is having a bazillion people following your blog if your blog makes you want to drink bleach?  My "audience" (all three of you, whom I live for... thank you for not making me drink bleach!!!) are people unlikely to share because they don't even have time to shower, let alone "share" nonsense they find on the internet.  But I love you anyway.

8) Make Your Content SEO Friendly
Why It Won't Work For You:  No one is searching 'How to clean poop out of the dryer" or "Why my grandma smells like vinegar".  But these maybe the random craziness that makes up your life, and thus you want to shout it to the world. You can litter your post with "How to clean poop out of the dryer" links but if no one is googling it, no one will find you.  And people are looking for ridonk you just don't care about: Kim Lardashian (not a typo), How to Lose 30 lbs in 5 days, Binders Full of Women, Prostate Cancer, Bike Repair, etc.  So unless your target audience is searching for "How to give a cat a bath", SEO the crap out of your blog and no one will know the difference.

9) Use Graphics
Why It Won't Work For You: Graphics actually do bring in traffic.  On my other blog (a wedding industry blog for work) I get a lot of traffic from the graphics I include, but so what?  These people are googling something like "Red and Purple Wedding", they look at images and a post I wrote 12 years ago with an inspiration board pops up.  They click.  Go to my Blog.  See the full size graphic, and leave.  They got the eye candy they were looking for.  That leads me to porn.  Unless your blog is about porn, graphics are not going to keep people coming back.  Or cats.  Photos of cats seem to work too.

10) Enable Subscriptions via Feed and Email
Why It Won't Work For You: How many blogs do you follow religiously?  Now just think, 1/116th of that number are likely to follow you religiously. There are a lot of blogs I really like, and a lot of individual blog posts that I think are great, but I sadly don't 'follow' most of them.  I am overwhelmed as it is by the sheer magnitude of cool stuff out there I wish I had time to focus on.  But sadly, I spend a majority of my time at my full-time job (being a mom), being self-absorbed (i.e. trying to get this blog off the ground), and the other 15 minutes are spent in the bathroom.  Now what makes you so special that you think you will be able to steal minutes from my precious potty time?  I guess I could multi-task, but that is just gross.  

So in the end, write your little heart out about what you love.  Just like the kids who played magic cards in high school, your crowd will eventually find you.  And if they don't, you can't blame me for not warning you.

Report Card: FAIL

Mr. Martini and I don't often discuss my son's school... I mean really examine the quality of the education he is receiving there.  Let's be honest, who has time for that?  I'm not a PTO mom; they have those meetings at noon and I'm lucky to have slapped on a bra by then. I'm not one of these "advisor-types" who constantly have to give their two cents.  I figure the 14 year old that is teaching my son must be qualified, right?  I ask Silly Monkey everyday 'What did you do in school today?" He answers, I poke a little, and we're good.  That was until last night. 

I received an automated phone call alerting me that report cards were in backpacks.  I was a ball of excitement and anticipation.  Well, actually, I was a little nervous since my boy has demonstrated an uncanny ability to focus on anything except for the task at hand.  I was eager to see whether or not he was excelling in his new Kindergarten environment.  Or at least not sinking like a fish.   I was, I presume, going through the ball of emotions that most parents go through before checking semester grades.  And I admit, I was a little excited to see if we would have an excuse for an early bedtime.

In sum, I was very pleased!! Silly Monkey was paying attention, participating, and has shown significant improvement in all areas of what is deemed important by a board of parents who clearly take this stuff more seriously than I do. However my sense of pride quickly dissipated when I took a good look at the stuff that makes up my son's permanent record.



 

 

Now, I'm not stupid, but I was a little confused.  What the hell is "RIMES"? Are these people that lazy that they can't proof-read the frickin official document that goes into my Silly Monkey's permanent record?  Or is 'rime' like the new 'thru'?  An acceptable substitute for the official word?  I started to question my own hipness, and intelligence... like, what if I didn't even know rime is the new rhyme?   So I googled it.  And I am pretty sure that rhyme is in fact still the accepted spelling.  Which can only mean one thing.  'Rime' must mean something else entirely.  And it does!

 

Apparently my son can create a hard ice covering on single syllable spoken words.  Ice, out of thin air!    That is frickin amazing!!!  There is way more for me to be excited about than his ability to count by fives, or to sound out simple words.  No... my son is apparently on his way to being a real life Harry Frickin Potter!  I could not be more thrilled!  Thank you school for revealing talents we didn't even know we should be looking out for!  I can't wait to find out what they'll be learning next.  I hope it's horcruxes.  This evil genius wants to live forever!  

I Pledge Allegiance to the Flag of the United States of October...



We are a very political family. Mr. Martini and I both studied it through grad school, and would consider ourselves astute both in terms of policy and in the workings of the government. However, we are also, shall we say, vehement.  During the '08 Vice-Presidential debate, I sent poor Mr. Martini to the hospital.  Well, I say he sent himself but I was the mechanism that made it happen, and you would have relished the opportunity at the time too, I assure you.

But knowing how heated we can get, we try to keep a lid on our political fanaticism around our kids.  They are obviously too young to understand the complex concepts involved.  BUT... being patriotic is something we do encourage.  Last night, as usual, Mr. Martini and I were were discussing the political events of the day and of course, Barack Obama came up.  I was excited when Silly Monkey interrupted, "I know who Barack Obama is."  We were thrilled, "oh yeah, who is he?" we questioned. "He's the President of the country", he responded excitedly.  "You're right!  Do you know what country we live in?" we asked, trying to get a measure of his social studies knowledge.  "Bloomington", he said.  No...  "October", his second guess.  Ummm, yeah... we've got some work to do here.

I wasn't really concerned that he doesn't have much of a clue when it comes to social studies... it wasn't too long ago that he was making poo in his pants with a fury, so I cut the kid some slack.  But when Mr. Martini asked if he knew The Pledge of Allegiance, he began reciting proudly.  When asked if he knew what The Pledge meant, he couldn't have given us a better "huh?" face.  I began to wonder, "why do you know the words if you don't know what it means?" Which quickly became, "why are you required to say that, if you don't know what it means?"  Then, "Why the hell don't you know what it means?"!!!  What?  It is not patriotism if there is no understanding, rather, it's closer to indoctrination.  And that shiznit is dangerous. 

Now, I don't have a problem with kids saying The Pledge of Allegiance in school... the whole 'Under God' thing, I know, big panty-bundler for some.  Not me, really.  But I would appreciate it if my child was taught the significance of it's recitation, at least on a really basic level.  Like, "hey, this is a saying that means you support your country".  You know, the Republic of October.

Drunk Mommy

So I am fuming about having to take a completely unnecessary early blood glucose test because ONE of my poo-poo head doctors is shocked that I am actually gaining weight during this pregnancy. Yes, I make a big deal that one of them (at least) is a poo-poo head because I actually have three doctors.  "Why, you must be super rich like Beyonce or or that Snookie?" you say.  No, quite the opposite.  Rather, I have 3 frickin doctors because the bumpkin office I go to thinks you get better care being passed around like a drunk college freshman than you do being nurtured and looked after by a single care-taker. 

As I am fuming about the whole damn thing, I am reminded of a time around a year and a half ago when I was too-big-to-see-my-crotch pregnant with Mini Monkey and had to rush out to Walmart. Yes, I said Walmart.  See, the little bumpkin town I live in doesn't have much in the way of options. And to be honest, going there makes me feel better about myself and my life. Anyhoo, I'm in the freezer section and reach into my front pocket, or attempt to.  See, as I was rushing to get pants on my gianormous self, I managed to put them on backwards.  Big old ass pockets in the front and crotch pockets in the back.  Even at Walmart that ridonk is not good. And no, I didn't leave in a hurry like most sane people would.  I just kept on truckin' looking like happy drunk mommy, giggling to myself the whole time. 

So when I go to take this useless, waste of time, waste of money test on Monday, I'll be sure to wear a dress, because although I know they already think I am a fat, pregnant cow, I certainly don't want them to get on my ass about being a fat, pregnant, drunk cow.  I get enough of that from Mr. Martini.