Being an adult sucks

Remember when you were a kid, and things where all sunshine and lollipops? (Why did I just type that? Now I'm going to have that stupid song in my head!) Life was considerably less complicated and doing the things that you wanted to do was completely possible.

But then you grow up. First, you get a job. Suddenly you have to live by your work schedule, wake up and go to sleep according to the time-clock. But it's just a job, right? You're single, young and you are still able to do the things you want to do. Movie tonight? Sure! Just make it an early one, I have to work in the morning. "Hey, we're all going out on the boat this weekend, want to come?" Hell yes I do! And it's my day off! Woo-hoo!

Then you meet someone and get married. All the sudden you have another person to think about and consider when you want to do something. But hopefully you've married someone compatible and they want to do the same things you do. So you want to go out on the boat this weekend? That would be great, plus I have someone to smooch with, hold hands with, laugh with. But say you aren't as compatible. Say, you guys enjoy seperate things. It takes maturity and patience to learn to compromise. "I don't want to go on the boat this weekend. I want to go visit with my friends." But you do what your spouse wants to make him happy. It's ok to give up on what you want a few times. That's what being married is all about, right?

Then kids enter the picture. Suddenly, there are no boating weekends. There is no random visit with friends. Suddenly everything you wanted to do has gone completely out the window. Your sole purpose in life is to make these children happy. Made plans to visit your friend who also has kids? Great! But wait, your kid is sick and suddenly you're home ridden for the weekend. You want quiet time, laying in bed and reading the new John Grisham book? Nope, sorry! Your kids want and need attention and time outside.

Now you are stuck in a cocoon of other people's needs and you stand in the middle like a hard peach pit, divots from the arguments you've had with your spouse about compromise; divots from your kids bouncing off you a million and one because they're hungry, or thirsty, or needed a referee from fighting. You're broken and battered from pleasing everyone elses needs and all that's left is this tiny pebble of a person you once were.

What happened? You used to shine! You used to smile and laugh all the time. Now your hair is sprouting strands of grey, there are bags under your eyes and you're carrying extra pounds on your body because you know, you just gave up trying.

Is this what it's like to be an adult? I spend all day, every day trying to make everyone around me happy. And in all that time I've bent over backwards for everyone else, no one around me wants to return the favor. Now it's:

Hey, want to go out on the boat today?
No.
Why?
I don't want to. Just don't feel like it.
Why?
Why do you have to ask why? I just don't want to.
But why? I don't understand.
What is there to understand? I. Don't. Want. To. There doesn't need to be a reason why. I just don't want to.
Then what do you want to do?
I wanted to get the cars washed and do some shopping.
Why do you want to do that? Just let's go out on the boat, we never do anything together anymore.
Let me say this slowly so you understand. I... don't... want... to... go... on... the... mother-fucking boat!
But why? I don't understand! Why are you getting so mad?

You see the vicious circle? It happens all the time. The simple want to do what I want to do doesn't matter because I've spent the last 10 years doing everything for everyone else. So when I suddenly put my foot down and say no, I'm not doing what you want, they don't understand.

Initiate break down one.

Really... is this what being an adult is like? Pleasing everyone around you all the time because you know, if you don't, chaos will ensue? Because, let me tell you... when I go along with everyone else there is no fighting. There is no yelling or crying or whining. There is no "why" questions. Everyone is happy... but me.

Initiate break down two.

I've gotten to the point where I'm bitter whenever I have to give in. I'm pissed off all the fucking time. No, seriously... I am. I can not tell you a day when I haven't been pissed at something. And the shittiest part of it is that I actually feel guilty if I push for something I want. A simple morning out to get a pedicure with a friend... I felt fucking guilty for that! And there was no reason to feel guilty. No one fought me on it. No one threw a fit when I left. The kids were fed and happy when I got home. The husband was tired--but content. But I still felt guilty for taking a few hours out of my day--week, month--for myself. I'm so used to setting my wants aside that when I actually decide to do something for myself the guilt monster kicks in. How fair is that?

This is not what I pictured being an adult to be like. I didn't think it would be all sunshine and lollipops but I also didn't it would suck this hard.


How about I end this with a little irony. And some evilness... because now you won't be able to get this song out of your head too!

The Ex Factor--What I Really Wanted To Say

So you read my previous post right?

Well, I have been haunted by past boyfriends. Just when I think I've buried all my past, I realize I didn't bury it, I just covered it up. And all it takes is one comment to bring it all back.

Joking around with Marcy, she made a comment about my ex, Mr. Perfect, being at my wedding. My stomach turned and my heart stopped. The thought of Mr. Perfect at my wedding almost brought me to my knees. Since then he's plagued my thoughts and dreams constantly. Also doesn't help that I've been watching the show "Falling Skies" and I've always thought Noah Wyle looked a lot like Mr. Perfect. (Imagine the fun we had role playing when Mr. Wyle was Dr. Carter on ER...)



Looks so much like Mr. Perfect here... makes my heart beat through my chest.

 Anyway, Mr. Perfect has taken residence in my brain again. Why? I don't understand... why him? I want to scream and cry and yell until he is gone from my psyche. I really don't want him there anymore. He hurt me. He left me. He used me. I never got closure. I never actually said goodbye to him. I left California and didn't tell him. I had to get away from him and leaving without saying anything was the only option I saw. Little did I know it was going to wreak havoc on my emotional being for the next eleven years. I wish I had the balls to tell him goodbye before I got to the point of me running away late in the night. Then maybe I wouldn't be here, questioning why he still consumes me.

Mr. Baseball doesn't consume me and anger me like Mr. Perfect. All I think about it how much I love(d) Mr. Baseball. It's nothing but good feelings.

Mr. Viking? I had to have closure there because I still see him often enough that if I didn't, I'd be a crazy mess. And believe it or not, I actually friended the succubus on Facebook. Don't ask me why... I still despise her but play nice to her face. It's still a dagger to the heart whenever I hear or see news of theirs. She's pregnant. Mr. Viking has bred with the succubus. I wonder what that baby will look like?

'Nuff said.



So why does Mr. Perfect have such a strong hold on me? I think what it is, is that I look at my life now and wonder what it would be like with him. If Mr. Perfect and I were to have kids, would they be like my two little monsters now? Would I be this insecure woman who worries whether I'm a good wife and mother all the time? When I was with Mr. Perfect, I was pretty darn perfect myself. I was in shape, I had a good job, I had energy and drive to do anything and everything. Is that what my life would be like? Mr. and Mrs. Perfect with our perfect kids, living our perfect life, in our perfect house. Is that what I really want?

The answer is no. Hell no. I was "perfect" with Mr. Perfect because I knew he would accept nothing less. My insecurites and fears and doubts were irrelevant. I couldn't express any of those without him freaking out. I was hiding my true self from him, and in turn, from myself.  Do I want those "perfect" children? No. Hell no. I don't think those "perfect" children would have as much fun as my little devils are. I'm raising kids to think on their own, feel things, experience things and I don't think they'd be able to do if they had to be "perfect" all the time too. And I sure as hell could not keep a perfect house. That would be exhausting.

But, I do miss some parts of him. I miss his strength. I miss that even though he was Mr. Perfect, there was a little bit of a nerd under the skin. I miss how my heart would flip flop when I would open my door to see him on my door step. I miss his strong hand resting on my knee whenever we'd go anywhere. I miss those times--although extremely rare--when he's get vulnerable with me and look at me with love in his eyes and smile.

I wish my psyche would just be content with missing those parts instead of longing for them. Even though I am married to John and I love him and will probably never leave him... *sigh*  I feel horrible for longing for someone else. It weighs on me constantly when these feeling pop up again. Which is why I'm writing about them now, hoping by purging myself of these thoughts and feelings I can bury them again and not feel so horrid and lonely for absolutely no reason. I have enough shit to deal with every day then deal with my underlying longings.

What I need to do, what I always do to rid myself of these feelings is remind myself of the bad. Yes, I miss Mr. Perfect's strength. But he was also cold as stone sometime. Unfeeling, unemotional stone. I hated that sometimes. Those vulnerable moments were too far and way too few. He never wanted to commit 100% to me. What the hell was that all about? He kept me on the line for as long as possible, using me and toying with my emotions for so long. Do I want that now? Hell no!

I refuse to be this oozeling again.

 I maybe not be "perfect" but at least I like who I am now. So Mr. Perfect, you can kiss my perfectly imperfect ass.

The Ex Factor

WARNING: This is a lot of background. If you know me--or if you've been reading my posts--you know I always have to tell the backstory to make what I really wanted to tell you relevant. If you don't give a shit about backstory, skip this post. And if you do choose to read and find yourself in the middle of this wondering why you're wasting your time on this chick's bullshit past, remember, I warned you.

I hate using that phrase "The Ex Factor" but seriously, what else am I going to call a post about old boyfriends? "My Old Boyfriends that I obsess over"?  Nah, too revealing. "The Ghosts of Boyfriend's Past"... Um... no. Reminds me of that horrid Matthew McConaughey movie . I love him and I love Jennifer Garner, and it has the extremely under appreciated Breckin Meyer, but that movie was horrid.

*focus EJ... focus*

So yea... the title stays. Unless I change my mind later which I am probably going to do, on a whim, at 3am after I've spent hours trying to kill the zombies that have invaded my roof. (Yes, on the roof level. Butter chucking corn anyone??)

I have loved 4 men in my lifetime. The first was when I was 17. I fell in love with my neighbor who was the cutest, sweetest, funniest boy I had ever met. He was one year younger in age, but two years below me in school. So I was a senior when he was a sophomore. It's a trend... you'll see. Anyway, he played baseball. He played baseball very well. He pitched 95mph fast balls and hit home runs over the centerfield fence. We flirted with each other for over a year before any declaration of feelings were made. But once those feeling were declared, it was a love story for the masses. He would leave love letters on my windshield as he walked to school so I would find them before I left for work. He would watch out his window and call me the instant I got home from work to see how my day was. He'd hold my hand and give me the most amazing hugs. We would make out like the crazy teenagers we were.  That's how sweet and loving our young relationship was.




The All-American Mr. Baseball
(identity concealed because I'm a paranoid bitch)


We stayed together for a year and what an amazing year it was for me. We grew together, explored together and loved each other so much it was like a freakin' fairy tale. But unlike fairy tales, we didn't live happily ever after. I was only 19 for goodness sakes! We broke up when he began hanging out with the asshole jocks and was on the road to becoming one himself. So yea, I plucked that apple right as it started to ripen. His innocence was lost and he was no longer the sweet boy that I fell in love with.

That break up tore me apart. I loved him so completely that he consumed me for years, even long after I've moved on. I can safely say, 18 years later I still love him. Do we ever stop loving our first loves?

After I finally got over Mr. Baseball, I was introduced to a young man that intrigued me. I was 21 at the time and living my life as a 21 year old girl should... living on my own, working by day, hanging out and having fun with friends at night. I met Mr. Perfect on one of those fun nights. Mr. Perfect was only 18. Eighteen for God's sake! But he didn't look that young. He was... Mr. Perfect. Mr. Perfect and I flirted with each other intensely for 6 months... six very long months. And it wasn't the harmless teenage flirting I did with Mr. Baseball. This was full on "are we going to do it or not" flirting.There was so much sexual tension between us it was tangible to everyone around us. But Mr. Perfect refused to commit. I assumed there were real reasons why he didn't want to "go out" with me: He was really a pimp. He was married. He was an alien sent to earth to tempt me and draw me back to his UFO so the other aliens--not him--could breed with me. Because honestly, all I wanted to do was to breed--with him! Ugh. Anyway, my now 22 year old manipulative ass decided to teach him a lesson and started to hang out with a guy that I knew Mr. Perfect hated. I wanted to make Mr. Perfect jealous. And oh man, did it! My friends said it was mean, "So unlike you!" they said. Uh yea, whatever. It was me, I did it. And it worked. Mr. Perfect was mine after that. All mine. Mr. Perfect and I were together for 2 years. And he was well... perfect.




Mr. Perfect. *sigh*
(identity concealed again, still a paranoid bitch!)


Then, out of the blue, we broke up. But we really didn't break up. He was still at my house all the time. We were still "breeding" all the time. The commitment thing just got in the way again. Fucker. Then he left for college. And instead of moving on, my stupid ass followed him to that college. I failed miserably there. Mr. Perfect moved on and was someone else's Mr. Perfect.  I was a mess, reduced to big ol' blob of useless ooze wandering the college campus aimlessly.




Ooze: has no purpose in life but be ooze.


That big blob of useless ooze went on a downhill spiral and pretty much hit rock bottom. My brother swooped in, convinced me to move to his state, his city. And in this crumpled ooze state I was in I was hit over the head with the wit and humor and nerdy good looks of my brother's best friend. He was six feet and four inches of the perfect medicine for me. I immediately fell in love with him. He made me laugh. He restored my faith in men being a man. I knew Mr. Perfect has prepared me for this man. I was certain of it. I went through the pain of losing the man I thought I was going to spend my life with to fall in with the real man I was going to spend my life with. It was fate. And fate had brought me to Mr. Viking. (Viking as in his favorite team, not as in his size, manner or stench). But here's the problem with Mr. Viking. He was my brother's best friend. They had a pact... a code... a stupid fucking agreement. Bros before hos. Yes... that is exactly what they said. So Mr. Viking wouldn't "let" himself love me. His words... I swear. So my weakened heart got broken again. And then again when he started dating the succubus. And she was just that, a succubus. You know what a succubus does? It's sucks the soul out of men.



Yep, that's her. The soul sucking bitch.

She sucked the soul out of my Mr. Viking and made him into this unfunny, scared shell of a man. He suddenly couldn't make the crude jokes he was known for. Or watch football and get incredibly drunk on Sundays which he was known for. All his wit and humor and charm was sucked out of him. So she not only stole his soul, she stole mine.

I was back to the ooze. But I was hardened. I was a crusty ooze. No, I was more then crusty, I had a rock hard shell around me. My love life had taken me through some really hard times. By the time I met my husband I was jaded, and listless. I married him thinking he was what I needed. He was stable, with an excellent job, lived on his own, supported himself and was extremely patient with my bullshit. But as marriages go, his bullshit, added to my bullshit made things difficult. Life has been a roller coaster since then. But that's a different story.

Where has all this history gotten me and why am I writing this all today? Gosh, I have no idea. Let me regroup, rethink why I babbled and then let you know what's REALLY on my mind...

TO BE CONTINUED...

Random Thoughts Monday

With all my BS babbling last post about my random dream (why did I even post all that? I have no idea) I'm going to start something for myself. It's Random Thoughts Monday. I'm going to let you know all the crap that flittered through my mind this weekend and I promise not to drone on too much. But I do love talking incessantly about nothing so please don't hold me too tightly to that promise. Like now, just babbling instead of jumping right into it. *slaps self*

First off, I'm waiting very impatiently for my medication. This medication helps me focus more and not be so scatterbrained. I have been off this medication for 3 weeks now and it's killing me. Upside, I can drink soda, which I can't while on this medication because anything carbonated tastes like I'm sucking on a dirty nickel. So I've been enjoying a soda a day, trying not to get addicted again because I will be taking the meds again soon (hopefully).

**********

I said I never dream about my kids and husband? Well, the last two nights I totally did. The night before it was my kids, and last night it was my husband. But my dream last night consisted of my mother-in-law and the fact that I will never do anything to make her happy. Which directly correlates into my real life. I will always be too lazy, spend too much money, me too mean to the kids and husband, not work enough--if at all, to please her. All the bullshit I didn't give a damn about while in Florida, I suddenly give a damn about here. Every comment, barb, suggestion and lecture now grates on my nerves. Yea, yea, I get it. She's perfect. I am far from perfect. Well, kiss my imperfect ass.

**********

I'm a fat tub of lard and sick of being a fat tub of lard. Today is the start of my rigorous workout regime. Which, in reality is at least a 30 minute walk. That's it. Just a walk. I can't afford a gym membership although I'd love to join the gym with the pool and Zumba classes, and yoga, and treadmills, and elipticals, and weights. For hubs and I to join it's a pretty fair price. But that's a lecture I got from the MIL. "You don't need to spend money on a gym, just go to the high school, walk around the track and kick a soccer ball with the kids."  *grits teeth* So, I'm going to drag my tub of lard ass on a walk today. But I refuse to go to the high school or kick any soccer ball on principle alone.

**********

My husband and I are never on the same page when it comes to parenting. Ninety percent of the time, he's cheating, looking at my paper, writing down my answers. The other ten percent of the time, we aren't even using the same book. My book is called "I'm trying my best so my kids don't grow up to be fucked up." His book is called, "I don't know what the fuck I'm doing."  It's frustrating especially when a kid wakes up at 4am and can't get back to sleep and can give no valid reason why he/she is awake.
Me: Go back to bed. There is no discussion about it. It's too early. Go. Back. To. Bed.
Him: What's wrong? Why are you crying? What do you want me to do? I don't understand what you want me to do! *nudges me until I want to chop his arm off* What should I do? I don't know what to do. Tell me what to do.

Now we are both tired and cranky because we can't share the same parenting book. Grrr...

**********

I made a Cuban pork roast the other day. By the time it was done I was so exhausted I didn't want to make anything to go with it. So I didn't. My husband was happy as a clam. My kids wouldn't eat it, and me... I ate some but then the guilt of not having a square meal took over so I didn't eat anymore. (See above... fat tub of lard. Not from too much food but from not enough. My body is constantly in starvation mode, won't let go of this goo that it thinks it needs to sustain.)  Anyway, I got concerned about my family and the fact that they don't eat well enough and I wondered if they--specifically my husband who refuses to eat anything healthy--will end up with gout. The gout? Or just gout? But then I couldn't remember, was it gout from lack of nutrition or scurvy? Scurvy sounds disgusting. It gives me the heeby jeebies thinking about it. My family is only eating salad from now on, and drink 100% fruit juice.  If I don't watch out, my family is going to be zombies.

**********

Regarding above picture... Plants v Zombies was created by the devil to make people like me stay up until 3am playing because you just HAVE to beat the last wave. Then you wake your family because you're cursing at the game because you don't have enough solar power for the chili pepper on the lane that most the zombies are meandering down. Or worse, that freakin' zombie on the zamboni... if you don't burn that lane the skaters will come out and well... game over.  Hehe... zombie zamboni...

**********

Another game created by the devil? World of Warcraft. That's all I'll say about that.

**********

A dingo stole my baby!! My dog got a haircut and he looks like a dingo. So I'm going around my house saying "Dingo stole my baby!"



This is my dog.



Here's a Dingo. See the similarity?

**********

Lastly, I'm going to seriously hurt my husband. The reason being is that he is one huge ball of gas and he usually expells that gas at the worse times of the day. Then he looks at me like "What was that?" He especially likes to fart--yes, I'm saying it FART--when I am on the phone. I go outside for a mommy break or whatever and he follows me out to smoke. He knows I'm on the phone but he doesn't care. He talks and talks then farts and farts. If he doesn't end this soon I'm going to take a sword and chop off one of his extremities and shove it up his butt so the farting will stop and the message is sent that he needs to learn to shut up when I'm on the phone.

*

We'll Always Have Paris... in my screwed up sub-conscious

I'm a dreamer. And I mean that in a sense that I dream when I sleep, not an ideologist who makes peoples lives better by my big thoughts and dreams. I wish I was, but I'm not. I'm a dreamer when I nap. That's all.

Anyway, for my whole life I've always had very vivid dreams. Some of the time, I don't want to wake up because the dream I was having was so good. And all the other times I wake up thinking, "What the fuck was that?" However since I've been married (9 years) and a mother (7 years), I never have a dream as a wife or mother. I'm always single. That's not to say my husband wasn't in my dream... he has been a few times but not as my husband. And my kids have been there in theory meaning they've taken forms of other people but I'm never their mother. It's a weird parallel plane that I live on at night that my subconscious brain vacations to. (Maybe that's where my brain is and not Florida?)

Two years ago I had a dream about a certain male actor--not mentioning names but he's an actor, plays a sparkly vampire, I'm pretty sure none of you know who he is--and that dream spawned a whole story that I've written and tweaked a million and one times. Hell, it's not just a story, it's a freakin' novel. Ok, Ok, this is the actor. You've twisted my arm. I feel like I HAVE to show you a picture of him. And I do like adding pictures of the pretty. :)

This is when I fell in love with him:

And this is why I still love him:

Disclaimer: I'm saying this because I feel I have to. I adore this man. Not the character he chooses to play but the actual man. I've actually come to dislike the character he is well known for. Any dude who is that possessive turns me off. But he's still pretty.

I feel like I'm digressing but bear (bare?) with me. My whole point before I got distracted by the pretty was that I have vivid dreams that can be turned into novels. (My pseudo-novel is not about the man shown above, it is--however--inspired by him. Just had to say that too.)

Also, if you've read any of my previous posts you know I have a slight obsession with a certain tattooed lead singer of a certain pop band... this guy is in my dreams A LOT. Who is he? Oh yea...

I could post a picture of when I first adored this man but I feel dirty because he looks so freakin' young. If you want to see you can google Adam Levine from 2004. But remember I was also from 2004 too so I was younger too. Whew, I feel better.

Back to the reason I started this rambling post that has turned into my own little fangirl session... my dreams. I wanted to write about my dream last night because it made me giggle when I woke up. And because there was a rather large part of me that wanted to go back to sleep, beneath my blankets, and dream some more. But I had to pee. Stupid post baby bladders.

So, without further ado, my dream:

The Scene: Backstage at a concert. But the backstage area was like a house. Lots of musicians milling around. Four very specific ones laughing and joking. I was joking with these musicians and they kept giving me a difficult time, ribbing me like I was their sister. And he walks in. My boyfriend. The illustrious Adam Levine. But he's distracted. Very distracted. But not too distracted to say hello to me and give me a few loving kisses (*sigh*). I watched him mill around in his sexy white t-shirt, black jeans and scruffy jaw. But he was really distracted and upset about something.

Scene Two: Still his girlfriend, I watched him do a Coke commercial. He was slick. And by slick I mean too cleaned up, too well groomed and too car salesman-ish. He was really selling that shit. I was disgusted seeing him like that. After the commercial was over we fought because I'm selfish even in my dreams and he needed to be just as I wanted him to be and not this slick version of himself. He's yelling at me because he basically sold-out and felt dirty having to pitch for a company like that when all he really wanted to do with his life was play music. But because it is my dream, the passion from the fighting turns into passionate, um, touching.  Just when things are getting good, my three best friends walk in to tell me the concert is about to start. I was furious. Adam just laughed, smacked me on the ass and went back into the backstage house saying it was best because he needs "alone time" before each concert. My friends were upset I didn't push for more time with him, I was upset with them because they interupted some very passionate, uh, touching. I yelled at them and told them all they sounded like a bunch of clucking hens.

Then the band came out of the backstage house with Adam and the band made a big deal about the heart tattoo Adam just got on his hand (the tattoo looked a lot like one of my daughters stickers--funny how things seep into my subconscious like that!) The band razzed me and told me I had to get the same tattoo, which of course I did because I have no problem with tattoos, especially sharing with that beautiful man! My clucking best friends swooned and made a big deal about it and then swooned again when the band was onstage and Adam blew me a kiss. A strange twist--the concert was outside and it started pouring rain and it turned into a big wet t-shirt contest. Of course not for me because even though I had on a white shirt, I was wearing a red bra--because I'm that kind of whore.

Scene Three: I was still his girlfriend but for some reason I was furious with him. I moved in with my brother who had an empty bachelor type apartment--and like any bachelors apartment it was filthy. So in my anger I was cleaning his apartment. Marcy was there trying to talk sense into me, telling me to call him. I refused to, I was so mad, making me clean even more. Then my brother called to ask about the roasted pork and if it was done.

Then I woke up. I groaned because I didn't want to wake up. I wanted to know why I was so mad at Adam. I groaded because I had to pee so freakin' bad. Then I groaned again because I needed get up to put the pork roast into the crockpot before it got to late and wasn't going to be done until midnight. But that is how my dreams go. I am not exaggerating any parts of it--they are that detailed. I have a notebook next to my bed that I write down the most vivid ones. I read that notebook and say "What the fuck?" but honestly sometimes these fucked up dreams inspire me and lets me know I do have a very active imagination. The times when I feel like my real life has drained any creativity that I may have, I read that notebook and don't feel so empty.

Or... when I'm feeling particularly fangirlish, I read that notebook to remember the good dreams. So the next time I see a photo of Adam or whomever and think, we'll always have Paris.... or in the case of last night the backstage house, my clucking friends and our new heart tattoos.

Credit where credit is due: First photo of Robert Pattinson is courtesy of GQ, circa April 2009. Thank you GQ. Second photo of Robert Pattinson is courtesy of Entertainment Weekly circa April 2011. Thank you EW and that precious elephant Tai.  Photo of Adam Levine courtesy of MSNBC and their celebrity sightings, circa I don't know. But thank you... just thank you.

Added ramblings: Rereading my dream I thought I'd add why I think I dreamed it. I love to dissect my dreams:

1. Um, hello. It's Adam Levine. I honestly haven't fangirled in a while, not being of sound mind recently meant my usual fangirling has stopped to. Maybe with this dream I'll be back to normal, thank goodness.
2. The commercial was probably because of a thought I had about Mr. Levine weeks ago. He was looking awfully slick lately and I don't particularly like it. I like him more, um. rough. Maybe I think he sold-out a little being a part of The Voice. I've always liked him being slightly under the mega-watt press radar. I hate it when the object of my obsessions are obsessed over by the press. Which is why I've always felt sorry for Mr. Pattinson. And me, being me, can't stand too much of a good thing. Too much of it doesn't make it good anymore and I don't want that to happen to Mr. Levine. (I'm over-analyzing something so trivial, I know. But that's what I do.)
3. My clucking friends... My friends don't cluck. They've never ganged up on me over anything. But I think it's rather funny that they were my anchor of sorts to keep me in reality. They walked in during the passionate, um, touching telling my dream life to get a grip. And yet they got mad at me because I didn't spend more time with him. They anchor me but also push me to dream. I love my clucking friends.
4. I clean when I'm mad. Obviously my sub-conscious likes to as well. And Marcy was the friend there talking me through my anger. Gee, like that's never happened....
5. Pork roast--dinner
6. Heart tattoo--getting another tattoo soon (hopefully) but definately not a heart on my hand. The sticker part is obviously kid induced.
7. Concert--outside, raining. I'm seeing Maroon 5 in September at an outdoor amphitheater. Am I predicting what's to happen? Guess I've got to make sure I'm wearing my red bra.

Want To Buy New Brain, Inquire Within

My brain is still on vacation. I don't think she's coming back. All my usual daily habits are not here. All my usual semi-graceful moves are not here. Any coherant thought is JUST NOT HERE.

As a matter of fact, where am I? Who am I?

The brain that has been temping for my usual brain is lazy, tired all the time and doesn't want to have any kind of intellectual conversation with anyone. My words are gibberish, my actions are awkward and clumsy, and my thoughts are mostly about sleeping, when will I get to sleep again, and how much longer do I have to stay awake to be a viable member of society. The answer to that last question is easy. I am not a viable member of society.

My usual brain phoned it in the other night when I actually got out of the house and watched the new Harry Potter movie. But she was gone the instant I walked through my front door.

Even now, I feel like I'm not making sense. My kids are looking at me like I'm a pod person... not that they know what a pod person is. They just think Mommy just needs more coffee. Smart children. I've raised them right...

I better go consume that coffee if anyone wants dinner tonight. I'm making enchiladas. Let's see if it actually works out and doesn't turn into tortilla-chicken-sauce cassarole.

Yea... I think my old brain has left me. She's happily swimming in the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico. But don't worry. The call is in to the doctor's for my medication. I'll be back to complaining about my kids and daydreaming about random celebrities soon.

But would you come back from here if you had to?

Am I A Bad Mom?

I'm told I'm horrible for torturing my child like this. I'm told I've scarred her for life. I'm told millions of people are now going to be privy to my child neglect. You decide for yourself:

Am I a horrible mom? I don't think so. That shit's funny right there! If she crawled off the boat, she's got a life jacket on, she's safe. Have I scarred her for life? I highly doubt it. Since she's helped clean the fish, feed fish guts to the grunts in the canals by the house and eaten enough fish herself to get her seafood fill for the year.

Maybe I'm a bad mom because I put this on youtube. That is debatable. But I couldn't help it. I needed others to laugh as I did until I had tears in my eyes, my tummy hurt and even my cheeks hurt from smiling so much. Maybe I'm a bad mom because I'm using my child's fear for my own amusement. Eh, whatever. If I can't laugh about it, what else can I do?

Tan lines, Totem Poles and Douche Bags

Well, I've been on my "vacation" for approximately 10 days. Actually, it's been 11 days and all I can say is Florida is not my favorite state in the summer months. It is hot, wet and sticky. My face has maintained the shine of a new car and I think may have caused several accidents on I-95. Or I-10. Because I've been on both highways, for extended amounts of time. 8 hours of time to be exact.

Oh, but you've only been on vacation for 10 days? You've driven that much?

Oh, honey. I've driven that much. We drove 8 hours to Alabama the second day I arrived in Florida. Then three days later we drove another 8 hours back. And then (no and then!) we drove 8 more hours south to the Florida Keys. So yes, I've done that much driving! Ugh.

But all that isn't what I'm going to write about. I'm first going to apologize. I complained a little too much about my mother-in-law. She made suggestions to me that, at the time, I thought were ridiculous. But now that I'm here, I get it. Ok, I didn't need my make-up. Putting on make-up is not something I want to do after stepping out of the shower and immediately sweating again. It takes everything in me to break out the mascara. And the earrings. Ok. So what, I didn't need all the earrings I brought. I brought 6 pairs which I widdled down from the 10 I wanted to bring. I've worn 2 pairs the whole 11 days I've been here.

That brings the score to MIL 2 - Me 0.

But I did bring my body wash. And my lotion. That I was not budging on. I dug my heels in and refused to give in to her tyrannical (and completely rational) demands. And what does she say when I tell her?

"Oh, that smells amazing! Nice choice."

*Sigh* MIL 3 - Me a total zero.

So she was right. As always. I don't know why I have to fight her all the time. She's almost always right. (Like how i slid that almost in there? Because I refuse to give in 100%!)

And here's another reason why my mother-in-law is amazing. She handles my kids like they are perfect little angels. Because with Grammie, they are. They listen to her. They do as their told. When they want something, it's "Grammie, can I have..." They look at me like I'm no one special now. I am knocked down the totem pole not just one notch, but it feels like I've been tossed to the bottom.  And after all the complaining that I do about them, you'd think I'd love losing out on the responsibility. But no, it hurts. Not much. But I imagine it feels like a lifer from prison who is finally let out. What do I do with all this freedom? I don't know. The only thing I want is to have my clingy, needy life suckers back on me.

And speaking of those needy little life suckers, have you tried to put sunscreen on wiggly kids who refuse to sit still? It takes about 30 minutes to do both of them. And collectively they aren't that big but fighting them to stand still long enough so I can cover their delicate skin is torture. This is the one job Grammie hasn't done. Maybe there's a reason for that. Hmm...  Anyway, after 30 minutes of fighting with them, I have about 2 minutes to cover myself before we are out the door in the boat or on the beach. Which I do a pretty good job of doing. But my friends please, remember to put the lotion UNDER your bathing suit strap and not just up to. Because the thin line of sunburn skin right at the bra strap is EXTREMELY uncomfortable. That aside, because of my mixed and questionable heritage (am I Spanish or Mexican? Is it really a difference? Why is this an ongoing argument in my family? I don't know...) I am able to tan pretty easily.

This was me before I left for Florida:

By the way, I do have arms, legs, hands etc. I was just being lazy with the drawing. No, the truth is I just can't draw and the thought of drawing the extremities scared the crap out of me.

Here is me after 11 days in Florida:

So, what ever my genetic makeup, needless to say I tan very easily. John has made fun of me repeatedly because he's red as a lobster and he used the kid's SPF coverage. I look like a local, he said. People will treat me differently here in Key West, he said. I laughed at him. But he was right. I no longer look like a tourist so the locals are nicer to me. Maybe I should rent a scooter while down here so I could fit in better, ride around in a bikini top and cut off jean shorts, swerving in and out of traffic like an asshole all because I'm a local and I have special rights to drive like a jackass.

And speaking of jackasses, I met a winner a few days ago. I'm talking the biggest jackass of all jackass asshole douche bags. And I should feel bad for saying this about the guy because he used to be a high school friend of John's but this guy is a douche bag. The instant I met him, I didn't like him. The way he looked at me made me want to kick him in his steriod strunken penis. He gave me that look that meant "I'm better then you because you do not reach my weight requirements." When I first met him, ok, fine. I let it go. He was in amazing shape. (I think I threw up a little in my mouth even typing that) He was a lawyer. He had owned a big house. He owned a big fancy boat to go fishing on the weekends. Maybe he was better then me. But I was ok with that. He got what's important to him. I've got what's important to me. If he wanted to think he's better, let him, no skin off my back. But then his wife joined him. And his wife had the same attitude and she started dismissing me and everything I said, I wanted to rip her hair out. I'm sure that would have put off an amazing impression with my in-laws. Wifey would sit down and purposely put her back to me. Barely said two words to me--and I'm not exaggerating. Ok, fine. Whatever. I don't know her, but the bitchy side of me started taking over. If her husband was so concerned with fitness and weight, he should take a good hard look at his wife because her gut was twice the size of mine. I wear clothes that fit me. She was wearing clothes that would fit a 12 year old.

But the one part of the whole thing that pissed me off the most was that this guy, who made these plans to meet with John because they were such good friends in high school, barely said words to John. Practically ignored him too. John--who is a big guy, but really no bigger then he was in high school--had his feelings hurt. And understandably so. And the bullshit kicker of it all was that we were going to have to spend the whole next day with these douche bags. Grrr...

I'm not going to give you a run down of what happened the next day. I'll give you the trunkated version. Mr. Douche Bag was an even bigger douche bag. Made a comment to me "At least your kids are skinny" then looked me up and down and walked away. Mrs. Douche Bag still didn't talk to me. She probably still believe she was better then me because she had a job and worked long hours and let someone else raise her hellion child, while I was just a lowly stay at home mom who sits on her ass all day and watches television. Well, Mrs. Douche Bag, fuck you. Instead of letting your mother and mother-in-law raise your son, why don't you put in some of the work and realize for two seconds how difficult it is being a mom. Because you obviously have no idea. And maybe when your child is screaming his head off at the beach or at the pool and jumps into the water or splashes after you asked him several times not to, he'll actually listen to you. And maybe, just maybe, Mr. Douche Bag can help you with the parenting instead of telling everyone around him that his child his the worst behaved child in the world yet refuses to do anything about it.

Oh yea... Mr. Douche Bag? You are better then me. You are so much better at being a pompous ego-stricken douche bag then I, or my husband will ever be. You win in that department.

Oh, and for the record: Mr. Douche Bag is NOT a lawyer--never even got accepted into law school because of his felony record but just lets people believe that he is a lawyer (lesson learned--don't trust everything you read on Facebook). Mr. Douche Bag does own a big house, but I guess only because big houses go for pretty cheap in the Orlando area. As for the boat? Nope. Not even close. He mooches off other people so he could spend his weekends away from his family. Something else Mr. Douche Bag doesn't do... take care of his wife. Maybe if he did, she wouldn't have spilled the beans on all his bullshit to my mother-in-law. Mrs. Douche Bag loved my mother-in-law, followed her around like a puppy dog. John said that Mrs. Douche Bag was threaten by me. I have the well-behaved kids. I have the husband who listens to, talks to and takes care of me. And of course John said I'm hotter then her, which I'm going to take as stone cold fact as to the real reason why she was threatened.  I mean, come on, who wouldn't be threatened by this?:

That was my first real brush with weight discrimination. John and I are not obese, we are just holding onto some extra pounds that we've both become very comfortable with. Someday those pounds will be gone but I refuse to lose weight for assholes like this. If you refuse to get to know me because of my weight then I say, fuck you. I have met and loved so many people who weren't the "ideal" weight. Why go through life ignoring all those amazing people? *shakes head in sadness and disgust*

Here's a parting picture I'd like to leave you all with. If you have traveled to or are from Florida, maybe you know what conch fritters are. They are the most delicious things in the world. I told everyone all I wanted for my birthday was conch fritters and I got them much to my happiness (with the most amazing yellowtail in the world but that's beside the point).  I was having a discussion about what exactly conch fritters were made out of since all I knew about conchs were the shells. And I imagined the fritters aren't made with the shells... right? Well, yesterday I found out exactly what a real, live conch looks like:

The nice lady who gave us the tour told us it was a "queen" conch because of the healthy pink color inside. *cough cough* And then the fleshy conch slithered out. How did she say it, "The long fleshy muscle". *cough cough cough* Can I tell you how difficult it was for me to stay clean and appropriate with my children around. It looks like...well.... do I really need to say what it looks like?  And I ate that. I ate that long fleshy muscle. And it was good. So, so good.