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.

"Vacation"

I made a deal with myself to keep writing on this blog because my brain is always reeling with stuff, usually shallow meaningless stuff, but I wanted to keep writing. But unfortunately my life the last couple weeks have prevented me from having the time and inspiration to write at all. But I've wanted to bitch, and I have A LOT to my friends and I can only imagine they are sick of hearing the same BS day in and day out. So why not use this medium to bitch about my problems. Yay!

I am leaving on "vacation" tomorrow for over 3 weeks. 24 days to be exact. 24 long days. Why am I calling it a "vacation" with quotes? Because... I get to fly across the country to a different state with tropical weather and sandy beaches and blue waters. Sounds fabulous, right? Sounds like a real vacation. But there's a "catch". I'm flying across the country to the state with tropical weather, sandy beaches and blue waters to spend time with my in-laws. My in-laws are decent people. I like them probably because they do live across the country. But they are, after all, my in-laws. And, I'm taking my kids. And as every stay at home mom knows there is no such thing as a vacation with kids because all it means that there is no vacation--we are just doing the same damn things we are now just in a different place. Someone who works for Intel doesn't bring their clean suit with them on vacation so they can assemble microchips do they? No, they don't. Stay at home moms have to do our jobs everywhere, all the time, on vacation or not. Grrr...

Anyway, because of this "vacation" I've spent the last 2-3 weeks stressing on what to bring for me and my kids for 23 freakin' days. 23 days! Because my husband doesn't give a shit about what to bring for them. Packing for him is a few t-shirts, a couple of shorts, boxers and socks and he's good. He doesn't understand what I go through everyday keeping these kids happy and clean and clothed in semi-clean clothes. And here's the kicker my lovely mother-in-law believes we should bring the bare minimum. She suggested I don't bring make-up or jewelry. She suggested I leave all my "fancy" soaps and lotions at home because I won't need them on "vacation". Doesn't she know I need that stuff?? Earrings makes me happy. Smelling like honeysuckle, gala apples and stephanotis makes me happy. Covering up the massive string of acne brought on by this stress with my make-up WILL MAKE ME HAPPY! Does she want me to be a miserable bitch the whole time? Because I will. If I can't have my earrings, lotion and make-up I will be a miserable bitch. Add that to the fact that I'll already be miserable having to deal with my sweat hog devil spawn children and my husband who remakable turns into a child himself whenever his mother is around. Why can't I have these little things that make me happy? Geez...

*Deep breath*

After three days of doing laundry without stopping, attending 2 birthday parties in 2 days, saying goodbye to my sweet puppies as we dropped them off at the kennel, and trying and failing miserably to make responsible lists so I don't forget anything, I'm left sitting here the night before we leave feeling exhausted and unmotivated to do anything but bitch to you all who choose to read this and feel sorry for me. Because I know you do, right? You feel sorry because I'm going to miss my favorite television shows the next few weeks. You feel sorry that my plane is landing in the city of happy-happy-joy-joy and I don't get do enjoy any of it (do you know how expensive Disney World or Universal Studios is? Daaaamn!!). You feel sorry that I have to spend 23 days on "vacation" with my uber-perfect mother-in-law who thinks jewelry, make-up and scented lotions are of the devil and shouldn't be brought onto any plane going anywhere.

The good thing? My father-in-law likes to drink beer. Lots of it. And he, or my MIL for that matter, don't look down on me at all if I choose to drink too. My brother-in-law makes a mean mojito and my husband--believe it or not--makes the best margaritas north of the border. Can you feel where I'm going here? Maybe I'm looking at this all wrong. My "vacation" is really 23 days of child care and I could spend most of it intoxicated.

Now, to make my night so much better I'm going to watch this video (for the 100th time) and get happy and remember there are beautiful things in life. Beautiful, tattooed, guitar playing things that were put on this earth to make me happy. Oh yes. (Even the still of the video makes my heart skip a beat!)

BTW, the hotness really starts at about 2:07 in. Just for those of you who like to get down to business quickly. ;)

I apologize for any spelling or grammatical errors that may have occured. I claim no ownership to my bad English skills. I blame my junior year English teacher who felt it necessary to give me a D only because she didn't like me, forcing me into Remedial English my senior year at which that teacher ask me "Why are you in this class?" And quickly promoted me to College Prep, then to AP. Ha! Take that teacher of which I don't care to remember your name!

I also claim no ownership of the show The Voice. That is owned by NBC. I also claim no ownership of Adam Levine, although I wish with every pore of my body I did own him and those guitar playing hands were mine.

While You Wait

I've been trying to write a post--but life has decided to butt in and not let me do anything I want to do like nap all day, drink coffee, and take more naps. We went away for the weekend which produced so many dirty clothes, and such a mess in a house we were even in that I've had to focus on that. And the laundry monster residing at the top of my stairs has quadrupled in size preventing me even entering my own bedroom. She's a total bitch, a mean, angry selfish bitch.

Anyway, over the weekend, while diddling with my new iPad I was reading Twitter and saw Jesse Carmichael from Maroon 5 tweeted about this app and told everyone that we'd be happier if we used it--or something to that effect. I'm not one to jump at something just because someone said I should but since I have this new iPad and I'm new the this whole app thing, I thought I'd at least check it out. And my God! I am so glad I did. It's called Younicorn and it is such mindless silly fun, especially when you're up very late trying to get two devil children to sleep, and your exhaustion has completely taken over your brain you can't think straight any more and suddenly unicorn horns are the funniest things you've ever seen in your life.

If you go to the website, I guarentee you my pictures aren't as cool. But these are the most appropriate (read: only one's that I can share that don't show my husbands crotch or other unflattering body parts of mine) to share.

Oh no, monster kitty is going to eat me!!!

You thought I wasn't magical. And yes, I am happy to see you!

I told you, the devil children will rule the world some day.

Try it out. It's fun! And Jesse was right, I am happier after I used it! Now back to taking more inappropriate pictures because really... that's where the real fun is!

Good Support Is Always Needed

You thought this was going to be about bras, didn't you? Ok, so lets talk bras for a few moments. Yes. It's important to have a good supportive bra. And if you find one that's cute too--even better! But we all know--ok, maybe not all of you but all of us larger breasted women know that finding a cute bra that is supportive is near impossible. Either it's supportive and you look like Madonna circa 1991:

 or it's cute and everyone is suddenly calling you Sloppy Tits.

 Like I said, finding a cute supportive bra is near impossible to find.

Disclaimer: Madonna can rock the cone boobies anytime she wants. As a matter of fact, she's the only one who should ever rock them. As for the second photo, that's courtesy of the show Jerseylicious. I didn't want to put the girls face on it to save her, well, face. But if you watch the show, you know who it is. That girl's boobs are always sloppy. And for the record, I love this girl, she brings the drama to the show like no one else.

But that's enough about bras. This post was not supposed to be about bras, cones or sloppy tits. It's about the kind of support every girl (whether you wear a bra or not) needs. I'm talking about the support of other women who support your craziness, your bad habits, your good habits, and who will sit and listen to you for hours if you need to complain about your spouse or kids or the fact that you've had the same hangnail for three days and it hurts too much to cut it off.

Right now, I have three of those kinds of women in my life. I have a lot of good female friends whom I've maintained friendships with throughout the years but these women have been there for me through thick, thin, fat, skinny, crazy and utterly depressed. And I'd like to tell you about them.

First there is Erin. I met Erin, believe it or not, playing World of Warcraft. I used to be a casual/hardcore (read: hardcore but only casually, 3 days a week) raider back in the day and so was Erin. I can't tell you exactly how we became friendly but I imagine it was because one of us made a snarky comment about someone else. Imagine my joy that I found someone as cynical and annoyed as I am! Then, lo and behold I discovered Erin was as big of a whore as I was too. She had her own celebrity crushes and our friendship flourish as we talked about hot guys. Then we talked about our spouses, then my kids, then everything else. Erin is my "rational" friend. She's my PhD friend too. She's working on her PhD right now so I always say she has it, because I know some day soon she will. I know I can count on Erin if I ever need rational insight on raising my kids (her masters is in psychology--I imagine she felt like she hit the jackpot meeting me), or my husband or anything else I might be having issues with at the moment. We'd talk about that, then conversation will always--and I mean always--turn to hot guys. It's the glue that keeps us together. She's my whore and I'm sure if you ask her, she's pretty proud of her whore status.

Then there is Michelle. Gosh, I love this woman! I also met Michelle playing World of Warcraft. But unlike Erin who lives in Southern California, Michelle lives here in Oregon very close to me. And she married to a techy guy... like me. And she has two kids...exactly the same age as mine. And she gets overwelmed with her stay-at-home status... just like me. Everytime we meet up she is wearing an outfit... identical to mine. If I didn't know better, I'd say God made Michelle, forgot to throw away the mold then made me. We are so much alike it's scary. But for some reason, I used to think Michelle was a little too straight-laced for me. My humor is really off-color and sometimes raunchy. There was no way this sweet woman could ever share the same humor as me too. It all changed the night we decided to go to the movies and she said to me "I kind of want to see 'The Hangover.'" I said, "Really? Me too!" and we saw it on a whim. She laughed just as much as I did and I knew I found a kindred spirit. Now, two years later we have pretty much seen every raunchy comedy released along with every girly movie released and I can always count on her to take me away for one night--for just a few hours--and make me forget that my children are actually spawns of the devil.

Last and certainly not least is Marcy. I met Marcy when I was 10 years old and she tried to steal my boyfriend. Or I tried to steal hers... it's all a little hazy. But I distinctly remember sitting on a blue beanbag with him in the middle and me and Marcy flanking him. Sounds weird right? Ok, it is weird. But despite that, the boy moved away later that year and Marcy and I became best friends. And remember in the 5th or 6th grade when you said to your best friend "You're going to be my best friend forever!" Well, with Marcy and I it stuck. We have been best friends FOR-EV-ER. Since those years of sharing boyfriends in the 5th and 6th grade I moved, she moved and we have never lived in the same city again. Our friendship continued with letters through Jr. High and High School. Then phone calls after. Then right after my 21st birthday I drove to her house and saw her for the first time in 10 years. Since then we've been closer then we ever were. Why is all this relavent? Because it is. Because like I said, we've been best friend FOR-EV-ER. Twenty six years after the bean bag incident Marcy and I still talk on the phone daily--several times a day. She knows every detail about my life, I know every detail about hers. She's been there as I cried into the phone because I wanted to run away from my life and give it all up. I was there when she cried into the phone for the same reason. We've talked each other into loosening the death grip on the knife we were clutching because we were going to murder our husbands (it's a metaphor, ya'all, I've never literally held the knife ready to kill. I would be more clean about it. Stabbing someone is messy and I don't want to clean that shit up too.) We've also spent hours upon hours on the phone giggling about the stupidest stuff to the point neither of us could breathe. Marcy is my best friend. She's my family.

Obviously, I love my friends. I don't tell them enough how much I love them--and I tell them all the time. I truly hope other women out there have friends as good as mine. At least one. I'm lucky enough to have three.

I'm going to sign off this post before I get anymore sappy. I think I need to go to iTunes and purchase "That's What Friends Are For" or some other sappy friend song and cry myself a river. Or go to bed and have another shirtless Jake Gyllenhaal dream. Come to think of it, iTunes has enough of my money, I can never have enough Jake Gyllenhaal dreams. If you don't think so, go watch "Love & Other Drugs" and I promise you'll change your mind. That man looks damn good naked.