TSM-where nonsense makes no sense

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We be mo-vi-did <--- TO a N ew Lo-a-cation. Go the--r NA-o-w, P-p-p-lease.

The Painful Truth of Tree Hugging

Sitting outside under the overcast Oregon sky, I scanned our backyard.

It was once a desolate, white-trash inspired landscape of junk hidden amongst tall grass. Now, it is a yard. It has potential, with the lawn stretching across the entire yard painfully planted last year. Summer water conservation requires we let it brown, but it is markedly improved from its previous state.

Once again, the 17 year old joins me outside to talk. He notices me staring at one of the trees we had planted with an eyebrow raised.

"I think that tree is dead."

"Which one?" he asks.

"The one with all the leaves brown and withered." I reply sarcastically.

"Are you sure?"

...

You tell me:

In the Name of All Things Holy...WHAT IS THAT???

That thing...right there...look closer...that thing-

ON! MY! FACE!

It's bad enough that I'm on the Hormone Express to Crazytown. It's bad enough that I have TWO teenagers in the house, with the baby in the family just inches away from teenager-doom herself. It's ridiculous that I have one child about to graduate. From high school. But for heaven's sake, why oh why must I develop AGE SPOTS at the tender age of 35?

I'm fair skinned. I get that. I use sunblock, and in actuality, take pretty darn good care of my skin. I am, after all, a consultant for one of the largest cosmetic and skin care companies in the world. Of course, that's only so I can know what I'm talking about when I say that the new products are "out of this world!". By the way, they are. Fantastic.

Moving on.

I just can't help but have a little out-of-body experience when I look in the mirror and don't see this:

Is it possible that I just didn't mentally mature past 17 or so? Because I look in the mirror and release a small gasp when this is what I find staring back at me:

There are some things I take pride in when it comes to the fact that I am aging. In fact, I have often said that my 30s has thus far been the age when I really came to terms with who I am and what it all means. I wouldn't go back to being that uncertain, insecure 17 year old.

However...I wouldn't mind having those boobs again.

The Good...the Bad...the Resigned.

I didn't want to have yet another title for my blog include the word "Random", so I had to come up with something. Don't judge me.

First of all, the thing that's totally making me lose my ever lovin' mind right now. Me and the Mr. are at odds. Apparently I can't wrap my tiny brain around the concept of money management and bank accounts and how the two usually work together. This makes him think that I am not only stupid but carelessly ruining our financial future by buying silly things like deodorant and dish soap. I'm here to tell you, it's totally possible to over-spend on things like cat food, flea spray and maxi pads. My position is that I need a budget. A written-on-paper-in-my-hand budget. To me, that is a plan. I can follow a plan. A smoke and vapor concept? A little more difficult. To make matters worse, I spent my day working on the business-sitting in this chair that makes me want to cut parts of my body off because they hurt so bad-then did nine loads of laundry, put the Christmas decor that's been sitting out up in the attic, cleaned out the hall closets and made an appointment for the middle child to see the orthodontist. And that was only part of my day. But, you see, all that killing myself to prove I'm worthy of love and respect was for naught when he checked the accounts and realized I had overdrawn the business account. Again. So basically I'm a piece of crap and he wants nothing to do with me tonight. Good times!

On the other end of the spectrum, all is right in the world with a big girl wins Nashville Star! That's right, Melissa Lawson took the title because I voted for her 18 extra times via text messaging last week. Yep, she owes it all to me. She has an extraordinary voice, and has rekindled my faith in humanity by winning this whole thing. When I didn't make it past the Nashville finals, I was certain there would be size 2, 19 year old blondes competing for the recording contract. I was comfortable in my outrage. Now? I guess I should try harder next year. Because I am totally going to go for it again next year.

And finally? I quit . Or, at least, I'm going to. Karl and Britt are taking the plunge and giving up one of their remaining vices , so I'm going to be the groupie that I am and follow suit. I hope they don't mind, I might have doctored that graphic a little. Wish me luck, and if you value your life, keep a really safe distance for about 2 weeks or so. Just leave me nice comments. Encouraging ones.

Which reminds me...(I suppose this would be a P.S.?)...

I had someone comment recently that I was a very unhappy person who needed to find some joy and quit being so hard on myself. Also, they suggested I stop being negative.

Bite me. I totally have like 3 other readers if you unsubscribe.

Anyone who knows me in real life knows that I am one of the most joy-filled, positive people ever. I see the best in everyone, regardless of their screw-ups or non-people-friendly ways. This is my blog. This is where I let out all that crap that keeps me from being that positive, joy-filled person in real life. I spew it out here and cleanse myself so that I can go out into the real world and let the real me shine through. If I write about politics or religion, feel free to tell me I'm full of crap and you disagree. Then we can have some nice, healthy debate. But if I am telling you how I feel, please don't tell me I'm wrong. In the famous words of Trina , "You don't get to tell me how I feel..."

Clearly I need to go smoke now.

Miss-Conceptions

There are so many ideas floating around out there about me.

Who IS this TSM? What does TSM mean, anyway? Why isn't this broad on some serious medications?

I thought I should put a few of them to rest right here, right now.

1. I do not think as much as you drink I do.
While I like to post pictures of myself embracing barrels of whiskey and talk a big talk about having far too many drinks in the evening, the truth is my alcohol consumption isn't really that impressive. I realized early on in my little pain disorder that a drink or two before bed helped me sleep and also helped a bit with the pain. Because I prefer whiskey, I suppose I've acquired a bit of a reputation for being a party girl. Not that I don't enjoy a good time as much as the next gal, but a lush? Well, we'll let my sponsor decide that.

2. I wouldn't really sell my 17 year old son to the gays.
Sure, he's hot. I tend to take credit for this, mainly because, well, I kind of made him. Or at least, I did the baking. But hand him over to be violated? It would take an awful lot of dough to convince to me to consider that, if at all. Couldn't hurt to email me your offer, Jester.

3. I'm not a real blogger. I just play one on TV.
I've read many, many blogs and most of them will explain their passion for writing and the admirable reasons the blogger got into blogging in the first place. Me? I thought it would be fun. Like that puppy we I picked up on a whim from the W@l M@rt parking lot. But then the puppy grew up. You can rest assured my blog won't ever do that.

4. I really am o.k. with having a limited number of readers.
With great power comes great responsibility...-Spiderman Yeah. I'm not big on responsibility. With more readers would come more demand to post regularly, maybe even about subjects people wanted to read about, and then where would we be? Nope, obscurity works well for me.

5. The comment option on my posts is not purely ornamental.
There is a general idea out there that the link to post a comment is just there for looks. You know, to look like all the other blogs out there. Truth be told, I really do like it when folks give me input. Whether it's hairstyles, fishing techniques or where to score the best anti-anxiety remedies, hearing from those who brave my blog is something I enjoy immensley. Spelling? Notsomuch.

Those 5 ought to hold you for a while. As other misconceptions rear their ugly heads, I will take notes and, at some point, formulate another Miss-Conceptions post to clear up any false assumptions.

Because we can all use a little more truth, no?

Taking a Hunk Out of Mormonism

It's in small print under the bigger news stories on my home page. Hardly noticable, and even when you see it, you might not click it. But I did, because I was really just curious...

Blink. Blink.

Let me see if I understand this.

A guy from the Mormon church was sitting around thinking about ways to raise funds for his faith. His extremely prohibitive faith. His faith that kicks folks out for wearing the wrong socks. And he thinks, Hey! I know! I'll get a few guys that are out there pimping for the cause to strip off their ties and white button-ups, get greased up and flex for some HAWT pictures! Then we'll get all the other heathen religions to submit to their primal urges and buy the calendar for whatever unsavory purposes, then use the money to further! God's! kingdom!

I realize that not following my thoughts through to their natural conclusion has caused me some mishaps, but this? He should have "DUH!" tatooed across one of his lovely pectoral muscles there. I'd be happy to show him where to apply the lotion. Every 4-6 hours.

Because? Now he doesn't have to worry about what the church will think of his stupid, tattooed arse, being that they kicked him out and all.

What did he think would happen when the higher-ups got wind of what he was doing? Did he think they'd all buy one for their wives? And the missionaries posing for the pictures...were they drinking from the same stoopid juice?

I would like to note that the missionaries posing for the pictures did not get ex-communicated, only the creator of the calendar. It was, after all, his idea. They just took their clothes off. And that sin isn't nearly as bad as being the guy that ASKED all those guys to take their clothes off.

I don't say this often. I'm a nice person and I don't like being contrary. And he is so adorable! But seriously.

I hate to think he might be contributing that much stupid to the gene pool. I mean, if he's taking off his clothes for money, pretty soon, he might end up having S.E.X.! And that makes babies!

Granted, they'd be very pretty babies...

Something I NEVER Do...well, hardly ever.

I stole this little game from Snackiepoo

1. Put your mp3 player or music player on your computer on random.
2. Post the first four lines from the first 20 songs that play, no matter how embarrassing the song (Skip repeat artists).
3. Post and let everyone you know guess what song and artist the lines come from.
4. Don�t cheat, you Google addicts (sorry, Hilly, had to change the word)!

1. If there's one thing in my life that's missing
It's the time that I spend alone
Sailing on the cool and bright
Clear water

2. God knows I tried everything I could
To stay inside tonight
But that boy's like a sore in your mouth
That you just have to bite

3. Breathe in for luck
Breathe in so deep
This air is blessed
You share with me

4. You've got someone here
wants to make it alright
Someone who loves you more than life
Right here

5. I said Hello I think I'm broken
And though I was only jokin'
It took me by surprise
When you agreed

6. Look at this photograph
Every time I do it makes me laugh
How did our eyes get so red
And what the hell is on Joey's head

7. Wait a minute sir,
you mispronounced my name
You didn't wait for all the information
Before you turned me away

8. A broken bat in the grass
Taken one to many fastballs
Tired of swinging
Yeah

9. I said I'd never let that hungry wolf come
Blow this house down, But I left myself unguarded
I said I'd never let the tempter of my heart come back around
But now look at what I've started

10. catch me as i fall
say you're here and it's all over now
speaking to the atmosphere
no one's here and i fall into myself

11. I've never been the kind that you'd call lucky
Always stumbling around in circles
But I must have stumbled into something
Look at me am I really, alone with you

12. Where were you when my night fell
And pieces shattered everywhere
If I have loved you with my whole heart
Time will tell, time will tell

13. I'm a packin' up my bags and Ima head out west
Where real women come equipped with scripts and fake breasts
Buy a nest in the hills, chill like Flint
Buy an old drop top find a spot to pimp it

14. Seems I left the innocence of Eden long ago
Tempted by my heart to go it on my own beyond the Garden
Somehow through the desert of my wanderings alone
You have never let me go

15. That's all I wanted, something special
Something sacred in your eyes
For just one moment to be bold and naked
At your side

16. I'm waitin for the sun to set
Cause yesterday ain't over yet
I started smokin' cigarettes
ain't nothing else to do I guess

17. The world was on fire no one could save me but you.
It's strange what desire will make foolish people do.
I never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you.
And I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you.

18. We'll do it all
Everything
On our own
We don't need anything from anyone

19. Excuse me for this, I just want a kiss
I just want to know what it feels like to touch
Something so pure, something I'm so sure
Of what it feels like to stand outside your door

20. Lady love, never smiles
So loan some love to me a while
Do with me what you will
Break the spell, take your fill

Wishing you the best of luck!! The only bonus points here are if you can tell me what album #12 comes from.

I Am She

Look at her expression. She is thoughtful. She seems happy. The smile, however, is only a half-smile. Underneath I can tell she is wondering if this will be the last time her daughter embraces her out of love. She wonders if this child is going to break her heart again. She holds her close to her heart, inhales deeply, and remembers every moment of that child's life leading up to now. How did we get here? She wonders. How did this girl become a teenager who cares nothing about anyone but herself? How did I raise this?

In her face is the certainty that this moment of connection is fleeting, soon to be replaced with shouting matches and rebellious rhetoric from a woman-child.

When I look at that photo of my mother and I, I feel a deep sense of regret. I was so hard on her. She did the best she could, raising us alone, and I never gave her credit for the amazing job she did. Our relationship is distant now, and I blame myself. Still, with all these miles separating us, to see her I need only to look in the mirror.

Mom used to sit at the kitchen table every morning with her coffee and her cigarettes, staring out the window silently. The first hour she was awake we usually left her alone. Now that I am a mother and wife, I find myself doing the same thing. Sitting out front, staring out at the sky, thinking so deeply that I hardly realize when someone is talking to me.

What did she think about? Did she wonder if her marriage was going to work? If her children were going to live through their teenage years? Did she go over hurtful words I had said to her over and over in her head? Was she pondering her existence and its importance? Did she think about her mother?

I do.

You Are Cordially Invited to a Pity Party

It's nearly 4 p.m. on a Sunday and I am still in bed. Small beams of sunlight peek through the edges of the dark blue blanket that should be sealing the window. I am toying with the idea of spending twenty minutes to rearrange its placement so that I can properly seclude myself in my darkened bedroom. I suppose if I am to mourn appropriately I should cover the mirrors as well, but that's just too much effort right now. On the shelf above my bed sits a half-eaten jalapeno bagel and a cold cup of coffee which would have served me better had it been spiked with Velvet. Next to the coffee sits my phone. My painfully silent phone.

On any normal Sunday at this time, I would be enjoying a glass of wine with one of my dearest friends, watching Nascar and talking about nothing. And everything. On any other day like this, she would be sitting on my bed telling me to get dressed, that we were going to her house to sit outside and talk. That her husband would cook us a fantastic meal and we would relax and just "be". But not today. Today I get up only to step outside and smoke. Then it's back to bed. Back to solitary confinement. Back to mourning. Back to episodes of Deadliest Catch and Swingtown that I haven't seen yet. Then I'll probably start on the CSI Miami's and eventually the downloaded movies as a last ditch effort to avoid the bouts of tears that keep catching me off guard whenever something on screen reminds me of the friendship I have lost.

Through a series of misunderstandings, mistakes and miscommunications, she has begun confiding in someone else. I'm not her go-to gal anymore. I don't know what I am to her, actually. A mistake, I think. Someone she trusted with her inner-most thoughts who abandoned her when she needed me most. Though I didn't, but that isn't the point here. Wherever she is now, she doesn't want me there.

The Mr. swears that my friendship with her has changed me. Damn right, I say. I learned to be stronger than I thought I could be. Learned to pick my battles, but be ferocious when necessary. Learned that it was OK to stand up for myself. Stand up for what I believe in. Most importantly, I learned that I might possibly have some redeeming value. That loving people right where they are isn't a curse, but a gift. Unfortunately, I am now left to wonder if any of these revelations matter as the tables have turned, leaving me as the outcasted girl in high school. You know the one-as soon as she walks away you hear "I never really liked her anyway".

Which cuts me to the core.

There is nothing that went on in our friendship that should have brought us to this point. Yet here we are. I made some choices. She made some choices. I wasn't planning to leave her behind, but it would seem she would prefer it that way. I suppose I didn't really realize that until last night.

I long for those days when I believed wholeheartedly that nothing would ever come between us. That whatever came our way, we were honest enough with one another that we could get through it, and be stronger in the end. I expected to still be the best of friends in 20 years. Now am left wondering what conversations are being had at my expense when I'm not there. Nevermind years from now.

I don't see healing on the horizon. Only loss. And so I mourn.

I hope she finds that friend she's looking for. I hope that she looks back and treasures the good parts of our friendship and what it meant. I hope at some point she stops seeing me as the bad guy. Above all, I hope she finds that happiness and fulfillment that makes her life complete, whether I'm in it or not. Contrary to what she thinks, she really does deserve to be happy.

Maybe someday I will, too.

Night of the Sleepwalking Dead...or...Just Really Tired.

The Mr. has a creepy family secret. And I am going to reveal it here on my blog. To you. I trust you. You won't tell anyone, right? Right!

When he was young, and asleep, he didn't stay in bed. Not only did he not stay in bed, but he wandered around and did things as if on Lyrica completely unaware that he was awake and... doing things.

His parents once witnessed him walk in the kitchen where they were at the table, open the dishwasher, and proceed to use it as a urinal. Can't blame a sleepwalking kid, right?

Well apparently this trait is genetic.

The first time I was aware of it, our youngest child was sleeping at my sister's townhouse. At some point during the night, she felt she needed to open the second story window and shimmy out on ledge above the front door. It was then, while perched precariously twenty feet above the cement walkway that she woke up completely and realized she was in a bit of trouble. She attempted to jump across the walkway onto the semi-soft grass and landed with one foot on the cement, breaking it in three places. Her loud wailing woke the neighbors before it woke us. The pounding on the door woke us .

It was 3 a.m. when we arrived at the Emergency Room with our daughter (yet again...she has a frequent flier account there). I had no experience with this type of thing. My mom assured me that it was probably isolated. She was just really tired. Wore herself out playing with the cousins.

Okay, I thought. That makes sense. I'm not freaked out. I'm okay. Really.

Thankfully, I've only since seen her have conversations and do harmless things like feed the dogs in the middle of the night. I send her back to bed and she giggles, remembering nothing in the morning. Besides, we lock the dishwasher. I'm not takin any chances. Although, I would love to see the look on the Mr.'s face when he grabs a cup for water in the morning...or maybe the Boy since he's the one that doesn't empty the dishwasher at night when it's clean.

My point, before I got slightly sidetracked, was that while it wasn't completely isolated, it seemed harmless enough. Until...

Last night, she spent the night at a friend's house. This friend lives on some acreage next to a small farm. They have horses and goats and geese and such. It's mini-Redneck heaven.

At some point during the night, she was informed, she sat up and didn't know where she was. In the dark, she panicked and ran up the stairs. Thankfully avoiding the window, she unlocked the front door, walked outside and across the yard to the farm next door. Where she knocked on the door at 2 a.m. It was about the time they answered that she woke up completely and realized that she not only knew where she was, but knew whose door she had knocked on. She apologized, explained and went back in the house.

When she awoke the next morning, she thought she had experienced the strangest dream...

Until her friend called ten minutes ago. And told her she hadn't been dreaming. She had tears in her eyes as she relayed the story to me. I can tell she was a little frightened.

I am too.

I'm going to spend the next two hours Googling sleep walking children. For heaven's sake. The child obtains enough injuries when wide awake. I shudder to think what could happen while she's asleep.

Anyone have experience with this? Anyone have tranquilizers? No, not for her. For me. I'm going to need something to put in my wine tonight if I'm ever going to sleep. Like ever again.

For the Love of Fish and Consumerism

This morning, I visited a new fishing spot. A local river with a steep downgrade of large boulders followed by a steep path where I continually hit my shin on the same sharp piece of a log, resulting in a 5 inch diameter bruise. Lovely.

However, well worth it:

My love for fishing and my necessity for Vicodin occasionally (Fibromyalgia is a bitch) led me to be watching an infomercial while I was particularly medicated one afternoon. I was entranced by a whirlwind advertisement for a BRAND! NEW! FISHING! LURE! SYSTEM! Internets, I was hooked. Pardon the pun. I grabbed my credit card and called the number. Sap that I am.

And all for $19.95! What a deal!

Here's where our story really begins.

I haven't called to order anything since "Songs for Worship" back in 1999. Back then, it was real people who answered. Yes, they tried to get you to fill out surveys and buy more stuff. But it was easy to say no and they gave up easily. Most of the time.

There was an automated answering system. The inventor of which should be hung by his testicles in the public square. I'm sure they still do that somewhere, right?

The exchange (if you can call it that) went like this:

Recording: Congratulations for ordering the Mighty Lure 5 Senses Fishing System! Unconditionally guaranteed to catch more fish than anything else in the whole wide world! Because you have spent your hard-earned money on this crappy system, we are offering you MORE crappy systems for five bucks less! But only if you order them now! To order them NOW, say "yes" or press 1!

Me: Silence

Recording: I can understand your hesitance. But you might consider buying another set or five for gifts, to irritate your husband with your credit card debt, or to hand out to the homeless. To order more kits, say "yes" or press 1! If you do not want to order more kits, please press 2 or say "No".

Me: NO!

Recording: I understand. Well, in addition to your lure kit, and any others we might convince you to buy before you hang up, you might want to get accessory kits and refills for the smelly stuff. Only nine-ninety-five! To order an accessory kit, please say "yes" or press 1!

Repeat the first process. About fifty times for fifty different "offers". I was afraid to hang up for fear they would take that as a YES and run my card for a thousand bucks. So I stayed on the line and did my duty, saying NO to every five-ninety-nine add-on they offered and spending a good 30 minutes on the phone.

By the time I hung up, my meds had worn off and my buyers remorse set in. We'll have to see how I feel when my package arrives in 6-8 weeks.

So what I really ended up buying was a chunk of manipulative merchandising and a heaping helping of frustration. All for the amazing price of $19.99 plus shipping!

Will keep you posted on how the lures work. And I'll totally eat my words if they work like they claim to. The fish? We'll see...

Choices and Blessings

I made a choice not long ago. To follow my faith and leave behind some people and places that contradict what I believe and want to stand for. It's been painful, to say the least.

Today, I received what I believe is a blessing for my efforts.

A stimulus check in the mail that I didn't think we'd actually see.

In the exact amount we needed to catch up.

God is good. I'm tellin' ya.

TSM on the JESTER show tonight!

Tonight at 7:00 p.m. Pacific time, I will be on the Jester Show on Talk Shoe!

Subjects will range from Vicodin to Religion to (as usual) sex! So please click over there and join in the fun!

The Only Thing We Have To Fear...

Yesterday I wanted to blog. I had a great post all laid out in my head about the new fishing lures I bought. Yes, it would have been incredibly entertaining, and I promise I will get back to that story. Later.

Right now I don't know what to say.

I'm full of such conflicting emotions. Pride mixed with fear. Excitement mixed with fear. Love mixed with, yes, fear.

You see, my son- my only son -is joining the Marines today.

He's been talking about it for years now. They sucked him in with the phrase "Pain is weakness leaving the body". He's tough like that. Or likes to think he is.

We looked into all the branches of the military and for a while he was talking about becoming a Navy Seal. But he did his homework and found the Marines had everything he was looking for, including the skills for the jobs he wants when he finishes his enlistment. So the Marines it is.

The boy still has another year of high school, so he's going into a delayed entry program which will help him with some of the skills he'll need in boot camp.

My baby will be in boot camp this time next year.

As a mother, I'm terrified. Of course, I completely support what he's doing. I think he's perfect for the Marines. I think he'll do very well. I feel strongly that my support is vital for him to succeed, and he's got it in full. I am fiercely patriotic and on some level feel that it is my duty to offer my son to serve my country. And so I will sign those papers without hesitation.

But we are still at war. And I'd be nuts if I wasn't afraid. Just a little.

Sure, there's the fact that he's growing up and spreading his wings. That's hard in itself. I think I'd have a similar version of the same emotion if he were getting married or having a child.

Maybe if I had waited to have kids I wouldn't feel so unprepared at 35 to give up my son. To watch him leave, knowing that he's headed for a life that will challenge him in ways he's never known. Maybe not.

Either way, I'm incredibly proud of my boy. My little man, who is no longer little at 6'1". He's off to find his future, and probably the most frightening thing is how little his mom will have to do with it.

Here's to learning how to let go.

It's All Fun and Games Until Someone Gets Caught Having Sex in the Bathroom

I was having a great time. It was 10 a.m. and I had consumed two drop-shots of Blue Cuaco and grape Vodka dropped in Guava Rockstar. Followed by one more. I had only had four hours of sleep the night before and our first match in the APA Pool tournament? Let's just say I bombed it. Which explains the drinking. In a room full of 25 pool tables and over 150 people, I sat with my team, drinking, celebrating, and hoping beyond hope that we would play well enough to qualify to go to Vegas.

One of my teammates was considerably less sober than I and was chatting up some hot young stud from our first match. We all played and laughed and some were flirting with decidedly less-than-harmless banter. When she began putting quarters down my shirt for the benefit of aforementioned gentleman, I thought perhaps I should go find something else to do and excused myself. I mean, out with my husband singing karaoke is one thing. But alone in a strange town with a drunk gal putting money in my bra? Probably not where I want to be.

About an hour later, I looked up just in time to see her enter the restroom (a 2-stall restroom in a bar full of people) with this young man in tow. His friends dutifully guarded the door. His team captain was standing next to me and I relayed the information to him, letting him know I was headed over to deal with the situation and that he might want to have a conversation with his team member. Because a bathroom? Just yuck.

I walked in just in time to find another woman had entered and left, then grabbed a manager. We all arrived at the restroom at the same time, to a very pink-cheeked teammate of mine and her current boy toy exiting the stall. After cutting them both off (at 11 a.m.!!) and threatening to kick them out if they did it again, we all settled back in to our tables and got back to the job of shooting pool.

This is when I really got to consider what had just happened and how it had the potential to affect me and the life I want to live. Because I have chosen to associate myself with her, and because several folks had seen me talking to her (and her putting money down my shirt), I can't imagine what folks must have thought of ME. My morals. MY mindset. MY sobriety. And then I got upset. At myself.

While I am not usually one to care about what people think, there are times when it really does matter. Standing in front of 1200 people leading worship music at church, for example. Granted, nobody is sitting there thinking I shouldn't be leading because I sometimes go to (Gasp!) a bar for karaoke. That's not what it's about. But certain behaviors cross lines and if the folks I spend time with cross those lines regularly, what does that say about me?

I've tried to find myself in that environment. I've tried to fit in without breaking boundaries. I've tried to be the fun-loving redhead without crossing the lines I have drawn in the sand in my head. Wait. I don't have sand in my head. Mostly just rocks. Anyway, trying to fit someone else's idea of who I should be, whether in church or in a bar is not part of my whole plan of liking the person in the mirror. I'm not going to pick up strange men. Or women. I'm not going to drink until I throw up. I'm not going to be rowdy and raunchy (ok..maybe raunchy) and treat the men in the room as toys. Because while those may be good times, the path I'm walking leads away from all that. And toward the one thing that gives me true joy that lasts. True satisfaction. It completes me (tear!). And no amount of good-timing can compare to the feeing of being smack dab in the center of my purpose in life. It's pure bliss. And I won't give it up.

I walked through the forest and saw two paths in the road, and took the one on the right. The one with all those cool folks cheering me on and handing me a fresh drink. The one where everyone was having so! much! fun! Then, a bit down the path, I found it wasn't as fun as I thought it would be, and through the trees I can see, just barely, the other path I should have taken. And I really think I can get there from here. It's just through those trees.

The most difficult thing about leaving that part of myself behind is that I leave the people too. And some of them? I am pretty darned attached to. There are some that I know full well I will spend time with in other situations where I can stick to my guns, so to speak, and still be tight with good peeps. But some of them? In a few weeks they'll wonder where I've been. Why I don't come around. If I stopped caring for them. And that is where it hurts.

Come with me. There is so much more to life than the weekends at the bar. The dynamics of our relationship have to change. No question about it. But losing you competely? It's what has kept me from leaving the path this long. But if I don't go now, I will be left behind. I don't want to sit on a barstool when I'm 60 with a cigarette in one hand, a Jack & Diet in the other watching fishing shows on the teevee and wondering what happened to all my grand plans of changing the world.

The mirror isn't quite what I'd like it to be. Yet. But without you? I'm not sure I would like the reflection any more than I do now.

Crossroads suck. Which is why there are so many movies about them. And teevee shows.

Random Appreciation

First of all, I wouldn't be a Follower if I didn't...well...follow somebody!

I do appreciate my readers! I know sometimes it doesn't feel like it, mainly because I blog sporadically and don't really follow any kind of pattern regarding subject matter. But to me, this is a reminder that my blog has successfully accomplished that which it set out to do-serve as a vessel for anything and everything I think and feel so that at some point I can look back and ~~wonder what the hell I was thinking~~ learn from my experiences. If you choose to come along (both of you!), then I'm glad to have you!

I recently spent some time in my archives and began to wonder who had written these posts. First of all, some of them were funny! Actually humorous! As I read, I found some interesting insight into myself and my reasons for blogging. Because there is so much being said right now about it, I wanted to use my personal platform to express my personal views. And guess what? They're not about anything in particular. Just random stuff.

1. The tone, humor and subject matter of my blog seems to be directly related to what blogger I'm currently blog-crushing on. What does this say about me? That I'm a good mimic! I wouldn't have learned to sing if it hadn't been for mimicking Barbra Streisand records! And yes, they were those big vinyl kind. I know!

2. I don't go too deep. Unless you count the gash on my leg (which is healing slowly, but is a horribly disgusting deep hole in my shin nonetheless). The content of my posts rarely goes the depths to which I wish it would. I hear you, in your best Picard impersonation, say "Make it SO, number one!". I'm givin' her all she's got, cap'n. There are simply some things I can't share here. This is both a blessing and a hindrance, and I'm working on it. Like so many other things.

3. I need a better blogging platform. I know, already.

4. The very coolest folks come here and leave me encouragement. While I always say it's not about people reading me, but rather me writing me (if you follow!), it's always nice to hear that I'm not necessarily more than a few cards short of a deck and there really have been others who have felt like me. Just like me!

So thank you for sticking around. Thank you for not deleting my RSS feed. Thank you for your encouragement and your laughs.

Please know that I read all of your blogs. I try to comment on those who comment here, even if I have nothing witty to say. I support what we're all doing, no matter what our views are.

Little by little, you're all teaching me. And maybe...just maybe...someday I might be able to return the favor.

Happy-Ness

I've come to realize, and please don't laugh, but I believe that true happiness is a fleeting emotion. And also? That there's nothing inherently wrong with that.

Like when you're driving to the lake at sunrise and you sit quietly, alone, on the bank watching the first thirty minutes of calm water as the sun creeps up over the mountain in the distance, bathing first the higher points, then the shadows with the warm and beautiful sunlight.

And then as you enter cell phone reception, you have four messages from your children begging you to come! home! now! because someone is bleeding or about to meet an untimely death.

Or that moment in the car with the man you have loved with your whole heart for the better part of thirteen years, and he looks at you with those big, brown eyes and smiles a smile that makes your heart melt and puts very naughty thoughts in your head. Then, like an idiot, you ask what he was thinking and he tells you he was contemplating going in to work early on Tuesday because some big wig is coming in and the store has to be in tip top shape. Fleeting, I tell you.

The kicker here is that we're fed such a line of crap. We're supposed to be in a constant state of bliss or there's something wrong with our life. It just isn't so, and don't you believe it.

Those moments when your heart is full and about to burst, those moments are the cherries on top, the diamonds in the rough...those are what make the rest of the rubbish worth trudging through. Those are the moments that we hold onto when we think life as we know it could come to a screeching halt. And those? Those are the moments I want to take with me when I go.

If life was comprised of nothing but everlasting joy all the time, how boring would that be?

Something to chew on...

Pain....is relative.

So I should totally be working. And I will. I promise. In a minute. I have things to say. And...well, I have a BLOG, so why not USE it! Novel idea, I know!

First, I must introduce you to the newest addition to my collection of permanent ink. Here is what it looked like freshly done (yes, it hurt!):

And here is what it looks like today, but don't judge the circle because this was taken at an odd angle, since the tattoo is on the back of my neck:

Here is what the logo looks like. I have written the folks at Brown University (it is the logo for their newspaper) to ask them what it means. I'm thinking I might have thought of that before having it permanently added to my body. Maybe.

Anyhoo...

The tattoo was in honor of a dear friend's birthday! He got the Loomis fish (said since he can't afford their fishing rods, he'd get their logo!). Happy Birthday, Lee! No, I am not posting that picture of me highlighting your hair. I would never imasculate you like that.

So other than scarring my body for life, what have I been up to of late? Working like a mad woman, fishing as often as possible, and watching far too much Deadliest Catch. I simply love that show! Those guys...it's like watching Axe Men. Yowza! Okay, so some of them aren't exactly total hotness. But some of them are ! Plus I feel really good about my life when I'm snuggled up all warm in my bed til noon watching guys throw 800 pound crab cages around in extremely rough seas while it's snowing.

Speaking of television, Nashville Star premiered Monday. It was harder to watch than I had expected. As my aforementioned dear friend said yesterday, "You said yourself you didnt' bring your A Game when you auditioned in Nashville...but you will next year." Point taken. I kicked serious ass in Portland, but when we were in Nashville, I was totally intimidated by the amazing amount of good-looking (and younger!) talent and let it get to me. Bottom line, I wasn't good enough to make the show. Not this time. Monday night's episode brought some tears and inspired a day of self-pity, but I think I'm pulling out of it enough now to fiercely attack the rest of my life and make it what I want.

So that's the last thing. I'm finished letting my life be out of control. There are aspects to it that I may not have total control over, but for the most part, I have allowed those things to take over and control me. No more, people! I've shown in the last year that food doesn't have the hold on me that it used to. So now? I'm going to alter the few meals I eat and see what I can do with this body! I'm going to try to get a little exersize so that the pain doesn't put me in bed for days at a time. I'm going to put plans in place for all the things that overwhelm me so that I am no longer caught off guard.

And most of all? I am going to make sure that the person I am when I go to bed at night is someone I like. Which is much different than liking the person I am in bed WITH at night. He's pretty awesome, if I do say so myself. And his butt? Wowie! Love ya babe!

So, while I am off to a grand start, you all are probably well aware that I tend to bite off more than I can chew sometimes, and I am expecting some aspects of my 'plan' to have to be altered. We'll see how it goes, but for now? I'm full of hope and ready to ROLL.

Here we go!

Redneck Heaven, It Was

Otherwise entitled, "In Which I Become A Momentary Daredevil".

Oh, Internets. I have neglected you. And for that I am truly sorry. But here! I have something to make up for it! A fun-filled post about completely inappropriate happenings and a disgusting picture for your viewing displeasure!

It began last September when my dearest friends invited us up to the mountains to go camping for Labor Day. Camping to them means REAL camping-no toilet, no water, no limits . At least, once the kids go to bed, that is.

My Jeeping-virginity was taken by a smooth talking man at camp who suggested we ride a trail. What he didn't mention was that a sports bra was most definitely required. And ride that trail we did. I whooped and hollered and squealed like a little girl with each bump we flew over and each time I swore we were going! to! die! a very grisly death by falling off the edge of the earth in that old Jeep. It was spectacular. On one particular trail, there were some very expensive rigs up top on the large rocks with a broken axel (when Jeeping, broken axel=BAD, especially on a trail). My friend driving looked up at them, looked back at me and smiled. I smiled my Thelma & Louise smile and said "Left side looks good!". And in that 1945 Willy we crashed our way up that black diamond run.

I tell you this to explain how I found myself at the same camp this Memorial Day weekend. I'm impressionable, you see. I have also begun watching Nascar, rediscovered my mad shotgun skillz and love me some cheap wine. This weekend, my neck turned a deeper shade of red.

After a few drinks and watching the boys ride those darned dirt bikes up and down the main road, I pleaded with one of them to teach me. After all, I learned to ride a quad in one afternoon:

Clearly I should be able to haul my huge, Fibromyalgia-ridden ass onto a dirt bike and ride like Evil Kneivel, no? Apparently the overwhelming answer to this questions was NO.

I donned the helmet. I learned to turn the bike on. He pointed out each of the contols and compared it to a bicycle. And a quad. And I was confident. I slowly pulled away from him and felt...amazing! I was riding a dirt bike! I would be popping wheelies in...uh oh..whoa...left...right...no!!! And over she went. Only as she went down, somehow the throttle revved up just as a group of offroads were coming by. All those good ol' boys jumped over to help a lady out and soon I was back on the bike, ready to try again. I ain't no quitter!

This time, I was a bit more cautious. I tested my leg strength to make sure I could hold the bike, and bounced a few times on the seat. You know, because I've seen them do it in movies. I revved a little and inched forward. I was good! So I moved a little faster. As I went to slow down, the bike once again couldn't decide which direction to go so it went all directions at once. Then it fell on me. And I fell on the rocks. Why I was trying to learn to ride a dirt bike on rocks we will discuss another time.

I jumped up and threw my arms in the air to say "I'm okay!!" and laughed, completely embarassed that I couldn't become Easy Rider in 5 minutes. But, I did it. And I was proud. I felt great. Until I realized the leg of my pants was wet. And it wasn't raining. I looked down and found blood. My shin did hurt a bit, so I thought I best go take a look. About that same time, I realized my hand was starting to throb as well. Flesh wound, the leg, I'm sure. And the hand? Just jammed. I'm sure.

I walked over to my 'First Time Jeep Man' who was sharpening his chainsaw on the trailer bed (Did I not say the word REDNECK, people?) and was coincidentally bleeding all over the chainsaw and trailer bed himself. He turned funny colors as we lifted my blood soaked pant leg and found (CAUTION-gross picture!) THIS:

That is a gash or gouge if you will about an inch and a half long with road rash on either side. I wont be shaving that leg anytime soon, folks. We butterfly bandaged it up and changed bandaids about every 10 minutes until it stopped bleeding the next day. My hand turned pretty colors, too. The other knee is scraped and bruised (as is my hip) and I have a bruised handprint on my ass. Don't ask.

Battle scars aside, I'm completely proud that I tried it, and will do so again, only on softer ground. I shot large shotguns, went on jeep runs, drank excessively and had the best time I've had in a long time. We got crazy, several people disrobed (or were disrobed by others), some very questionable photos were taken that I expect in my inbox any day now with demands for oreos in exchange for secrecy and I found out some things about myself that I think will change the direction I am currently moving in. And? I remembered a sports bra.

I hurt like hell and will be in bed for a few days. But friends, I wish you had been there. I'll post some of those pics when the are emailed to me. But...only some of them.

And Nothing Else Matters

Anyone who knew me 'back in the day' (you know, before, I grew a personality) thinks that the Metallica reference is entirely appropriate. Interestingly enough, that song came out long after my Metallica (and free!) days were over. By then I had two screaming children and a rotten divorce. And the idea that "Nothing Else Matters" was simply ridiculous, because HELLO? This dirty diaper? lemmetellya it matters ALOT! Like, right NOW!

I digress.

Earlier today I was thinking about that which has grasped my attention of late and how it has affected my life. I drifted to the lives of my children and what they would become, then wondered whether or not my current level of interaction would affect that future. As I thought of the future, I began to wonder about the presidiential race and was disheartenend that, no matter who wins, we all lose in some way. It was discouraging to think that, while at one time "one man can make a difference", I don't believe that to be true anymore. While I still believe that there is another theory of relativity to be discovered, the idea that one person can affect change seems about as far fetched to me as taking my summer vacation on Venus this year.

(Mental note: UNDO function on laptop? Yeah...that deletes that last 10 minutes of writing your deep, thought-provoking blog post. Don't DO that!!)

Would I be worried about President Obama if I lived in a war-torn country? Or would I wonder how I was going to feed my family? If I were a member of a primitive tribe somewhere in the jungle, would it matter to me what the teacher thinks of my parenting skills? Or could I just have her for dinner? Does this high-tech, advanced society make things more complicated than they need to be? What really matters?

I know what my basic needs are. I need food. Air, most of the time. I need my kids, but soon they will grow ~~brains~~ up and run far, far away from my crazy self. Then I will be a scary story they tell their kids. Nana Tracy...the one that was always fishing...yes, she's in that big white building now. The one with the bars on the windows. It's ok, don't cry.

I know that I need my husband. The one who swore he was finishing that chapter after I heard him start to snore. The same one who dropped his electronic book thiny on his nose when he fell asleep again. But I know that he could be gone in an instant.

These things I feel I need...the troubles of the world...my struggles to stay in the land of the sane and well-adjusted (if there is such a thing) and all those emotional issues that just never go away...do they really matter? Because in the end, won't it just be me, and whoever made me? No husband, no kids. No air, no president.

I think the things that will be counted are not my dollahs or my clout, but the love I shared and the effect that love had on others, and in turn, the world.

Kind of like Pay It Forward, only on a bigger scale and without Haley Joel Osmond.

Then again, spouting "my love will change the world" is often trying to compensate for having screwed up everything else. Which I do exceedingly well.

But I would like to hear from you. What really matters? To you?

Life. Love. Freedom. God. My children. My husband. My dogs. Such big things. Yet so easy to lose sight of.

The Goddess Speaks...(as long as it isn't midnight yet)

It hasn't hit 12 yet, so I can post this blog. It was supposed to be today's blog but I took too long. If you want to know why I'm staying quiet on Friday, ask Jester.

My post for today was short:

Watching aforementioned (yesterday's post) reality television (while drinking, of course, out of my Mother of the Year trophy-the one I made myself while I wait for the real one to arrive):

TV: Because every woman is a goddess of something!

Me to the Mr.: Baby, what am *I* the goddess of?

the Mr.: You really want me to answer that in front of the kids?

...

Be Impressed. Be Very Impressed.

This very blog you have most likely stumbled upon on your way to someone decidely wittier and more interesting belongs to a celebrity! At least, someone who is about to be a celebrity. Yes, friends, today I received notification that, indeed, I am in the top running for the coveted title of "Mother of the Year"!

TAH DAHHHHH!!

Oh the accolades! I am just bursting with pride. Let me share with you the many ways in which I am deserving of this prestigous award!

Earlier in the school year, the 10 year old child came home from school and informed me that her teacher would like to speak with me. When I inquired as to why, she had a very lengthy response.

It would seem that her teacher was absolutely in awe at my daughter's fashion sense. She had never seen a child so perfectly match one sock to her shirt and one sock to her pants. In fact, she found it simply astounding that the green in one of her socks (which later turned out to be a foreign substance, and not a color in the sock at all!) so beautifully complimented the grass stains on her pants. Also, she was amazed at our child's practicality in choosing pants with ventilation in the knees. Additionally, Ms. Teacher was nearly envious that I had managed to raise such a strapping young girl that she didn't even need a coat in 20 degree weather. In Oregon. When she learned that I trusted our daughter so much with her own clothing that I ~~rolled out of bed at 9 am~~ didn't feel the need to wake with her and oversee her wardrobe, it was almost too much. She just had to let me know what she thought.

While I appreciated the gesture, I sent Ms. Teacher an email explaining that we simply couldn't take full credit for her, and also the many ways we have taught the girl to be self-sufficient. I even told her that the girl is a strong-willed and independent child who probably wouldn't respond well to me trying to dress her. She must have been speechless, because I didn't hear back.

Yesterday, Ms. Teacher ~~cornered me~~ ran into me as I dropped the child off for a field trip to discuss my daughter's gifted status. While she had been so impressed with her choices in clothing, she was even MORE astounded by her inate ability to make items disappear! Almost like magic! Pens, toys and the plush class mascot had all vanished into thin air, and all by my daughter's skilled hand!

The woman found it impressive that we had been so involved with our child and didn't notice her ~~screaming for help~~ developing talent. So amazed by this talent was the teacher that she simply couldn't take her eyes off our daughter in class. Ever . Because you simply don't see a gifted child like ours very often, she suggested that we spend much, MUCH more time with her to channel her abilities and guide their direction. Let's just say it was a very strong suggestion, echoed by the school counselor.

I was secure in my position in the lead for this award when I received yet another ~~nail in the coffin~~ recommendation today!

Apparently, when we lived in our duplex prior to purchasing this home (when the girl was about 3), Ms. Teacher was a nearby neighbor! Our daughter explained to me that Ms. Teacher has been ~~taking notes with a phone in hand~~ watching her since she was knee high to a grasshopper accomplish amazing feats, such as climbing a 6 foot chain link fence when she was playing in the backyard and moving her play area to the middle of the street. Barefoot. Then, there was that one time when Ms. Teacher's husband found the daughter playing in their home. Apparently she had let herself in. Also, the instance where she knocked on the door of Ms. Teacher and about 5 other houses asking if they had candy (Halloween had recently been a topic of discussion at the family table). And all of this without any help from me at all!

My mind raced back to those days and wondered how I could not have noticed her abilities back then. But, I remembered, I did! She was not only skilled in stealthy entrances and hasty escapes, but I believe at the time, she was dabbling in bending the space-time continuum! Yes, she would be sitting next to me one minute, and in the street another! Oh, and in her high chair one minute, and at the neighbor's the next! She was simply amazing!

While raising a child as gifted as our daughter is not the only accomplishment that qualifies me for this award, I am content in the knowledge that, whether I am the final choice for its recipient or not, I am most deserving of this honor.

So I thank the...academy?...for the nomination, and look forward to hearing the results. Right after I drink myself into a stupor and watch reality television while the kids make me dinner and wash their own clothes.

And you can say you knew me when...

Great Expectations

This started as another post for the Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign 2008 (a benefit for RAINN ), and turned into something completely different. Please visit their website and see how you can help raise awareness and support the cause.

The ocean.

To my 35 year old self, it is so beautiful, so powerful. It opens the mind and calls to the soul. It is heaven on earth.

To my headstrong teenage self, the beach was a place to party with my older sister and her boyfriend. A place to build a campfire and hang out, away from mother's watchful and judgemental eye.

The teenage boys who joined us were in good spirits, seeming to have also broken free of their parental chains for the evening. Though none of them had stellar personalities, we enjoyed their company. They seemed to like me, and one in particular was very attentive. His name was Steve.

As the evening wore on, Steve and I chatted up a bit and decided to find someplace more private. I wanted to be kissed. I wanted him to like me. It never occurred to me what he might want. When our kissing became necking, and necking became petting, my heart started to shout to me to stop. My body didn't want to go further. My mind didn't want to go further. But my mouth said nothing. My actions said nothing, but continued. We had sex.

While I greatly regretted that decision before following through with it, the events of that night cannot be called rape. They cannot be called non-consentual. While I had no business doing so, I most certainly consented. The only question is why. Why did I go that far when I knew I didn't want to? Because after my behavior all night-the flirting, the kissing, the petting, I knew it was expected . Steve had an expectation, based on my behavior, that he was not going home with blue balls. I spent the evening letting him know in no uncertain terms that I was easy and would go alltheway. I sacrificed another piece of myself because of someone else's expectations of me. I was a slave to those expecations then, and I still am today.

Currently, there are a countless number of expectations placed upon me. Create my website, please, and make it perfect. Support my business with your lovely graphics and printing. Be my personal assistant. Be my mother. My sister. My wife. My maid. My cook. My friend. My lover. My everything .

And internets, I am buckling.

A phrase was introduced to me recently that perfectly describes how I feel: The circumstances in my life have outgrown my ability to cope with them.

I can be a graphic designer. Maybe not a great one, but decent enough. I can be a mother to my children and take care of their every need. I can be a Fibromyalgia patient and learn to live with the limitations that entails. Even learn to live with the pain. I can be a worship leader at church. I can be a wife, a friend, a lover.

But it would seem that I cannot do them all at the same time.

I would love to end this post by saying that I have found the answer to my problem. The Holy Grail, if you will. But I haven't. I am still struggling with how to find the solution, some way to deal with the business that has taken over my life, the 10 year old that is now stealing, the husband who is at his wits end with his job and has nothing to give me, and the illness that makes all of it that much harder. Right at this moment, I believe wholeheartedly that there is no answer. My mother's voice is in my head, whispering, "Just buck up and deal with it. You are stronger than this!" But Mom, I'm really not. I never have been. It was all a facade.

Right this moment, I am that teenager on the beach. All I really want is to be held and loved. And all around me are people who mean well, but really want something from me. Something I cannot give, because there is nothing left of me to give them.

And no amount of self-destructive coping mechanisms can change that. It's my own expectations-of perfection in every arena-that lead to such great disappointment and despair. Expectations are a bitch.

Caught Red Handed

Actually, I am caught GREEN handed.

Let me explain.

My hands are covered in a sparkly green substance. It smells like old shrimp and is a horrid color of green. I believe it's called "Chartreuse". Not only are my hands covered in this gawd-awful substance, but also my clothing. And, I do believe, there is a sparkle or two on my face as well. I am dressed like a man in my jeans, hiking boot-type shoes, a flannel and jacket, with a hat and red sparkly scarf. And gloves that match. Yes, my friends, I am a sight to behold.

While I am the first to admit I am completely off my rocker, this is not a new fashion statement, or an outward expression of my inward insanity. There are lots of other ways that comes out. I don't have to dress crazy to BE crazy. Ask the Mr. My reasoning for ignoring my keen sense of style is obvious.

I've been fishing. The green? It's power bait. Chartreuse Sparkle Power Bait. The trout love me.

Every year about March, I get the fever. I run to a large box-store chain and get my fishing license and fresh supplies, and start hitting the lake as often as possible. While women anglers aren't particularly rare in Oregon, women anglers whose husbands are not really sportsmen is unusual. Mine prefers his PC to a fishing rod and will only be dragged to the lake, kicking and screaming, a few times per year. Thankfully, I don't need no stinkin' man to show ME how to fish (with some exceptions). My van is usually pre-loaded all season with a rod and tackle box in case the opportunity arises.

This is why I have a bass tattooed on my back.

I'm going to have the words, "Fish On!" added to it soon.

So why am I telling YOU this?

Well, to explain my absence, of course! You mean you didn't notice? I can hardly say I blame you. But for those three people who might have wondered where I was, I have five words for you:

I caught my limit today.

I am about to get up and clean those suckers, then find some suitable recipe to cook them up and ~~force my children to eat them~~ serve them to my family. The will be delicious, of this I am certain. Why? Because I caught them. All by myself.

The only time it ever crossed my mind that maybe I should have thrown them back was when I pulled the stringer out of the water, tossed the beautiful rainbow trout in a grocery back and put them in the back of the van, watching them suffocate. Okay...that might have bothered me a little bit. But not enough to stop.

Besides...I can't have them telling all their fish friends about the freakishly dressed woman in the red scarf and gloves and her "special green fish food". That's a secret worth dying for. The fish, I mean.

I shall report on their exceeding deliciousness in the coming days. Meanwhile, the lure (ha!) of the lake has lessened slightly with the day's success, and I return to the land of the...um...technology obsessed...with a renewed sense of purpose and a teeny weeny hint of sun on my cheeks. And the smell of fish cooking in my kitchen.

Good times, internets. Good times.

For your viewing pleasure, a related 80s flashback:

Popularity is Overrated. Right?

So I�m a webmistress of sorts.

He he he, I said mistress. Brings to mind all sorts of naughty things! Moving on�

Knowing just enough to get myself into trouble with a website has been useful, especially when I found myself in a position to barter goods and services. Electrical work? Hey, do you need a website? 10 year old wants to join travelling soccer? Hey, I bet they need a website! I am thankful for the amount of skill I have, and that is has proven helpful over the last ten years.

Today I want to discuss the soccer website. When the 10 yr old wanted to join travelling soccer, I got all the forms and such ready and was about to sign them when I saw it. The total. $250. DOLLAHS , people! For soccer ! This is horrendously akin to paying $400 or more for a kids birthday party . Just blows my mind! As I tried to explain to the girl with the alligator tears how we weren�t rich like her friends who live up on that hill there, and that was not as easy to come up with as the $19.99 for new shoes (when she has holes that let the water in, mommy!), one of the moms suggested payment plans. Then they sent me to the website for info, where the light bulb above my head started to glow, albeit dimly.

So the deal was made. They had this:

I gave them this:

Here is where we branch off to the part of the story I really wanted to talk about.

I thought for sure when they saw my amazing talent in graphics and design (compared to whatever crap they had previously) that they would be in awe and wonder and see that there is something redeeming about me, after all! You see, these women (mostly women) have ostracized me for the last 5 years. When we were in city league, all standing in the rain watching our girls clusterfook (hi Lisa !) the ball, it looked like a commercial for deodorant. They were all gathered around one another laughing and smiling, and I was under my own umbrella, alone, away from the crowd. Sure, I could tell myself it�s because their husbands all wanted me and they were horribly jealous, except they were pretty much all sizes 2-6 with Caddy SUVs, acrylic nails and their hair professionally done. I wore a baseball cap and, before I quit, had a cigarette hanging out of my mouth.

The essence of hotness, folks.

The truth is, I simply had nothing in common with these people, so they chose not to talk to me. They chose not to include me or my daughter in their plans or conversations. I admit, I let it get to me.

When travelling soccer began, it became a whole different ball of�well, something soccer-ish! When I was late because of work (heaven knows they all could rearrange their schedule for the team�I think they might have all been in real estate or something), or when I didn�t get her to a game once, she was scolded. They questioned her dedication. This from the people who called me up and said she needed to be on that team because she is just so good and loves the game!

The next game, I felt as if I were Josie Grosey You know, that girl in high school that, for one reason or another, is a total outcast. For my daughter�s love of the game, I tolerated it and counted the days until the season was over, vowing to not enroll her in travelling league ever again.

However, I did continue to do their website.

This last week, I have received multiple emails with updates they want done for their spring registration. Then emails pointing toward the emails. THEN phone calls and more emails. I�m working on the site this morning, but I have to say. I�m seriously tempted to put some flash animation in of kids playing soccer while the moms gossip about the one mom that �doesn�t� fit�. Just because I can. And because my sense of outrage wants justice.

Women can be bitches. I can be a bitch. I know that. But in my heart, I would never treat someone as if they don�t belong in my �group�. I talk to everyone, even the ones who have hurt me at one time or another, because everyone deserves that respect. Everyone.
I would love for you good people to offer suggestions for revenge. I will likely never carry them out, but reading them will make me feel lots bettah. Also? Lots of �gawd what bitches!� is expected in comments.

Thanks a bunch!

**JUST ADDED**

This was just sent to me. I had to include it. Thanks, Dawn!

I'm a REBEL, yo!

Seems like everyone and their sister's brother's cousin are doing a "Things About Me" meme. Because I am nothing if not a total follower, I thought I should join in. I mean, if they're doing it...yeah, you get the point.

I have been thinking about this for several days and wondering what juicy tidbits I should share about the mystery that is TSM. I don't want to do the 100 things, because, let's face it...I'm just not that narcissistic. Shut up, Dawn. What I've concluded is that I am decidedly whacked, and you all should petition the state of Oregon to take me into protective custody. Barring that, here are some interesting little-known factoids about me. Here is the food and drink section:

1. If we are dining together and you take a spoonful of sour cream to put on your declicious mexican food, you had best not leave ANYTHING attached to that spoon other than sour cream. No cheese, no lettuce, and forgodssake no beans! Otherwise, I will scoop all the offending sour cream out until it is clean and white again. Even then, I might feel kinda icky about eating it.

2. When I order a latte, it's always too hot to drink. I have to wait 20 minutes before I can drink it or I burn my tongue. I know this, it has never changed, and yet I don't tell the barrista to please make it non-scalding. I don't know why.

3. I am obsessed with "the perfect bite". If I am eating pot roast, I try to make each bite have a little meat, a little carrots and a little potatoes. And also just enough of the broth so that it all is "even".

4. Along the same lines of the sour cream thing, I always check the mayo jar before using it on my sandwich. I cannot STOMACH when little particles of tuna or bread are in there and end up on my sandwich. Like the sour cream, I will scoop it out until it's clean. Same with peanut butter, FYI.

(Are we seeing some OCD going on here? Methinks so!)

5. I am so afraid of getting sick from bad food, that I will throw away entire containers of food if it is questionable. Even if the date is still fine. If it even enters my mind that that might be an issue, I'll chuck it rather than risk it. This comes from my fear of vomiting, which we will discuss another time.

So now that you are sufficiently convinced that I am in need of medication, what are YOUR odd little habits in regards to food? Leave them in comments, or post your own and link to me! Let me know so I can go comment!

Cheers!

Oh dear GOD...not THAT!!! (Kind of adult-ish post)

Please excuse the abuse of exclamation points in this post. They are, as you will see, WARRANTED!!!!!!

Why is this woman crying into her Northern bathroom tissue? Not because she's too cheap to buy Kleenex, though that would also be accurate. No, she just received some heartbreaking news.

Best I can remember, I was returning from a grueling day of cleaning my van. This required removing and replacing the hundred pound seats, vacuuming and steam cleaning them and doing the same to the ugly maroon carpet that was matted down from having one too many lattes spilled and not cleaned up properly. Because that's how sweet my ride is.

I was utterly exhausted and in need of some relaxation. I thought a hot bath would be fantastic.

*On a side note, in case you haven't figured it out yet, I take hot baths almost every night. It soothes the aches and relaxes me for a good night's sleep. I know it wastes water. My daughter's science project said so. But my take in it is that I will happily let my children solve the environmental issues that my hot baths have created when I'm wearing diapers and can't remember my name. It works for me.

I walked in my ~~complete disaster area of a~~ lovely house and was greeted with a huge hug from the youngest. All four kids were sitting in the living room. The small, sound-carrying living room. That's when my youngest looked at me with pity and said the most frightening words that I think have ever left her mouth.

"Mom, the dog ate your vibrator."

Let us now go over all the ways in which that statement is just WRONG.

First of all, yes, I own not one, but several. I am a married, healthy 35 year old woman and it is not illegal for me to possess bedroom accessories. If my husband isn't threatened by my ~~massive~~ battery operated boyfriend , then you should be cool with it. (click the link at your own risk, and ONLY if you are over 18!)

Second, my youngest is TEN, people. Even if she happened to come across a phallic toy ~~while rifling through my bedroom~~ while putting laundry away, how would she know what to call it? I think I have some older children to spank. Or maybe cancel their myspace accounts.

Third, how did the dog GET to it? I mean, all our toys are in a box under our bed. UNDER OUR BED! Our dog is too big to fit under there! I don't even want to consider all the possible scenarios on how this happened. I also want to deal out some punishments to children for allowing the dog in our room in the first place! She has been banned since we had to buy new underwear for the entire family after leaving her in the laundry room unattended overnight. Of course, if I stopped leaving my dirty underwear on the floor, she would probably stop eating the crotch out of them. I'm just sayin.

Lastly, and assuredly most disturbing, is what she DID to the poor thing:

She chewed the tip clean off.

Did I mention it was my favorite? I am now going to retreat to my happy place and start thinking of all the ways I can save up the eighty-something bucks to buy another one. Maybe I'll even buy one of these:

Whatever the case, there is a great weeping and gnashing of teeth in Oregon tonight. Light a candle for me and my poor, dead vibrator. Funeral arrangements to be announced.

Moments of Clarity Part 1-Sake

As I prepare to draw a hot bath and drink Sake, let me start by saying how heartbroken I am for Lisa . Let me also state how determined I am to make sure that more people know about her fight, that cancer is a total bitch and that life is incredibly precious. So precious , friends.

Today, long before I heard the news of Lisa�s prognosis, I was driving around town, enjoying the first real sunny day of spring here in the Pac NW. I was at the stoplight in front of Dairy Queen trying really hard to ignore the fries and Blizzard calling me from the drive-thru, when I heard a smaller voice. It said,

Look at that man pushing his shopping cart. He pushes that cart all through town. He�s done it for years.

I wondered about the man. His cart was protected from the unpredictable Oregon weather with a wrinkled blue tarp, tied down with old bungee cords. He had several items visible above the tarp, including a very brightly colored woman�s hat. I wondered who it was for, and then began to think perhaps the man was mentally ill. That inevitably led me to think about the mental health profession and my brief experience with it. My mind expanded as I pondered mental illness on a grander scale, then the human brain and on down the line until I settled on death. Those who know me are completely un-surprised.

My musings regarding death were not dark and deep, as one would expect, but peaceful and light. I was taken aback by how clear everything suddenly seemed. That moment last week when I was in so much pain (both emotional and physical) and felt there was no way out of it except to resort to my old coping mechanisms (we�ll go over that another time) felt so very far away. So far, in fact, that I wondered how I could have allowed myself to get to that point. With the sun shining on my arm, hanging out the driver�s side window, I couldn�t imagine feeling such pain. I thought about depression and my darkest days a few years back. I thought about the times I wanted to end my life, but somehow didn�t. And that�s when it hit me. My moment.

When I am in my final moments, I want to look into the eyes of those I love. I want to give and be the recipient of ultimate forgiveness. I want to know that all my past pain has been released. And when I am in that moment, I somehow think that it will have nothing to do with my treatments for depression and self-injury, my fibromyalgia or any other infirmity that strikes me. Those things will disappear, and all that will be left is the love. Love for life, love for people and love for the chance to experience it all.

Warm days like this one, my children smiling and hot, HOT baths�catching a huge trout and getting another awesome tattoo�his hand on my face and the way he makes love�sharing the light that shines in me with everyone I meet, and knowing that the reason anyone likes me at all is because that light lives inside of me. That�s what it�s all about, peeps.

My moments of clarity are few, but I�m planning to share several with you over the next few weeks. Be patient, for I am not a writer. Be understanding, for I might become emotional. Be tolerant, for you likely will not agree with my viewpoint. But be here. Because I couldn�t share it if you weren�t.

To Whom It May Concern:

I do not write this specifically to any one of you, because you are all equally responsible for the fury which I am about to unleash. Please grab whatever protective gear you deem necessary and take cover. You have been warned.

Let�s start with this morning.

After walking across the kitchen floor, layered with fruity loops and cat food, then working for several hours in my cramped, crowded office, I decided that two days without a shower is simply enough. While in this glorious, hot shower I reached for the soap and discovered, in its place, a quarter inch thick piece of gooey soap film. At least I hope to GOD it was soap film. Can't be too sure when you have teenage boys in the house. When I reached outside the shower curtain to grab a fresh bar of soap, I found not one, but TWO empty soap boxes in the shelf where our supplies are supposed to be. I left them in the shower for you to wash your nether regions with on your next shower. You can use them while you are waiting for the Coochy cream to moisturize your hair, since nobody told me the hair conditioner was empty. I also used your razor to shave my bikini line. Dad, you'll thank me later.

While we�re talking about my bikini line, I want to tell you that I am not wearing underwear. While it really is quite �freeing� to go to church commando, the absence of the usual undergarments in my wardrobe is primarily the result of having not one pair of clean panties to be found anywhere in the entire house. Except Dad�s. And that�s just WRONG, people! I find it troubling that whomever is responsible for laundry in our house has miraculously forgotten either how to do laundry or that it needs done at all. Please let me remind you. I am placing your clothing (yes, that Abercrombie sweatshirt you worship) in the wood chipper in the morning if I don�t have (clean!!) panties to put on when I get up. And yes, I sleep nude. Deal with it (Pssst�me and Dad�we also have�.SEX!!!)

Also, the faerie who magically fills our cupboards and refrigerator seems to be missing. I don�t want to worry you, but I can�t remember a time when we didn�t have at least top ramen and mac and cheese to tide us over until the faerie returned, bringing fresh fruits and veggies, and even cooking a meal or two so that we didn�t have to survive on fast food and freezer burned hot dogs. I don�t know where she went, but I have it on good authority that she won�t be back anytime soon, so I think you had best start learning how to replenish those supplies and fast. I know how quickly you wither away when you cannot find nourishment within a 20 foot radius of your sleeping area, and I don�t feel it would be prudent to invest in Carl�s Jr. stock. I�m just sayin.

Speaking of sleeping areas. I am curious-do any of you happen to know when the last time your bedding was washed and replaced? I know that at one time, the boy (almost man) had a white comforter, but last time I ventured into his room, the only thing on his bed was something that resembled a yellowish green color. I hope to God that is a different comforter altogether. There are several missing animals in our neighborhood. You might take a safari in your bedrooms and see if you run into them during your adventures.

I think we can all agree that the house is completely out of control. The cats refuse to use the litter box because they might �catch something�, and the dogs would rather be outside because it is decidedly cleaner. I realize you are all very active people, but the rock climbing, playing in the dirt and obstacle courses? Yeah, those are supposed to be OUTDOOR activities. I don�t buy the Windex, Fantastic and Pledge because I am powerless against good advertising, folks.

These white pills? Oh, those are Vicodin. They�re pain pills. People normally take those when something hurts. What hurts? Every single frickin� molecule in my body. My pinky finger? Yep, it hurts. My eyelids? Yeah, they hurt too. My ass? Ohmyfreakinggawd. Ok, remember Indiana Jones when she says �Goddamit, Indy, what DOESN�T hurt?� and he points to his elbow? Well that hurts too. This isn�t the flu, folks, and it is not going away. I won�t feel good enough to get back to doing all the crap I used to do anytime soon, so unless you all want to starve or wander around looking like orphans, you had better figure out how to take over the jobs I tried so hard to train you in when I knew I was getting too sick to do them myself. Quit whining. There are worse things, and as my new tattoo will say (very soon!!) PAIN IS RELATIVE. Yeah, I feel like I have a horrible case of the flu every single day. But you know what? I�m not dying. Not yet. So count your blessings. Or not. But do the damned laundry.

And for the other adult in the house�You know that leisurely drive I took today? Yeah, that was to pick up my stepdaughter. Did I mention that, since she moved within an hour�s drive of us, I have ALWAYS been the one to pick her up or drop her off? To entertain her? To make all the plans for vacations with her? For, like, the last three years? Also, that I am the reason she has visited at ALL in the ten years we�ve been married? I might be WAY off base here, but I think a �thanks!� or maybe oral favors might be in order. Should be really easy to reach, considering I don�t have any underwear on.

Please don't read this, Mom.

This is a post meant for the Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign 2008, and is meant to generate donations for RAINN -The Rape Abuse and Incest National Network . You can visit the page for all the information you need about RAINN and the campaign.

Happy HUMP Day! Pun completely intended!

I want to talk about sex. If you are a family member, someone I worked with in the past or just someone who doesn't like that sort of thing, well, first of all, I'm sorry for you. Second, probably go read something else because I'm going to talk about SEX. More specifically, the sex I like, the sex I have, and the sex I want. So, consider yourself warned!!

I am 35 years old. When we're talking about sex, please keep this in mind. This means I am at my sexual peak. Right...(looks at watch)...NOW! Never have I wanted it more, thought about it more of demanded it more from the poor Mr. I believe he is taking vitamins as we speak and receiving condolences from his coworkers on his way out the door to come home. Poor sap.

These last few years, I have come to realize that my attitude toward sex is very frank and to-the-point. I've had enough of it to know what, to me, is good and bad, and have been blessed to not have any experiences so bad that it tainted the rest for me. For this, I am truly thankful. I started as a teen and just never could stop. On the positive, I�ve learned a great deal about myself and my needs. On the negative, I�ve been called a few choice names.

I have also noted that my affinity for the bumping of uglies is not always shared by those nearest and dearest to me. In fact, some of my girlfriends find me downright freaky. Shocker.

In preparation for a ladies romantic accessory party recently, this fact became very clear to me. I was surprised how many women, good friends of mine, wrinkled their noses and said, "Um...no thank you. Not my kind of thing." when I tried to hand them their invitation (These were the same women who couldn't speak when they learned what I'd had pierced). What do you mean? SEX is not your thing? You have children, no? Were they conceived immaculately? I don't understand what you could possibly mean. For God�s sake-it�s the propagation of the species!! Sex is EVERYONE's thing!

But, in fact, it is not.

I have learned that I have close friends that view sex as a horrible, dirty task they must perform to keep their husbands happy. Friends who will not have sex with lights on and will certainly not discuss it with me. I even have friends who have *gasp* never! had! an! orgasm! EVER! Not even by themselves! I, of course, feel that they are the ones most in need of a girlie party, but got the distinct impression that the conversation was most definitely over. If I could corner them and have 20 minutes to spew my sex-crazed agenda at their poor, undersexed ears, I would first spout the words of the philosopher, George Michael:

Sex is natural, sex is good
not everybody does it, but everybody should
Sex is natural, sex is fun
Sex is best when it's one on one

(See the video HERE )

Preach it, brother!

It is my firm opinion that every woman should have in her sexual aresenal three things:

1. Full knowledge of her own body-her likes and dislikes
2. The secure knowledge that sex with her partner is a safe and potentially pleasurable experience and
3. A really good alternative (with fresh batteries) if she doesn't have a partner. Like the Cone .

Somewhere along the way, someone gave these women misinformation about sex and its purposes. I imagine they were told not to touch a man�s winky and to just think about quilting until he stopped breathing heavy. Then they could clean up and go back to things they enjoyed. Or worse yet, they were told nothing at all. Is it me, or is that just sick and wrong? I cannot imagine not wanting to look into my lover�s beautiful eyes and tell him what he means to me, while I kiss and caress him. I cannot imagine not wanting him to touch me and please me as an expression of that bond. For what it�s worth, I also cannot imagine sticking to missionary for life. Sex and intimacy, under the right circumstances, is an intoxicating, addictive and insanely beautiful thing. And let�s face it�orgasms feel GOOD, people!

I want to launch my own campaign. One with fliers and commercials and anti-conservative slogans about sex. Something like: SEX: Invented by God-Perfected by My Husband. (Stop feeling sorry for him�he knew what I was like when he married me! And I already quit smoking, what more do you want?). This campaign will reach women of all walks of life who have not been properly informed of their duty as a woman to make sure the sex she has (IF she chooses to have it!!) is exactly what it was intended to be. It will sweep the nation and cause an awakening of an entire generation. Can you see it now?

I will call George Michael tomorrow.

Meanwhile, promise me you will talk to your daughters. Your sisters. Your mothers, if appropriate. Let's dispel the myth that our bodies are icky secrets. Let's bring sex (and the talk of it) out of the bedroom and, above all, let's start GETTIN' BUSY!

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