words.

"I want it, too, the impossible lighter side book. I will always be a woman whose first child died, and I won't give up either that grievance or the bad jokes of everyday life. I will hold on to both forever. I want a book that acknowledges that life goes on but that death goes on, too, that a person who is dead is a long, long story. You move on from it, but the death will never disappear from view. Your friends may say, Time heals all wounds. No, it doesn't, but eventually you'll feel better. You'll be yourself again. Your child will still be dead. The frivolous parts of your personality, stubborner than you'd imagined, will grow up through the cracks in your soul."

-from Elizabeth McCracken's An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination

Revenge is a Dish Best Served Cold.

I was attacked by ant(s). Mauled. Raped. Brutalized, clubbed like a baby seal and eaten alive.

They put a bullet in my head but my heart went right on beatin'.

Ant(s) is pluralized because I feel that this must be the work of more than one. Alas, one was all that I saw. Tiny. A black pinprick of a worker. And a hard worker he was.

Before I killed him.

He was the James Brown of show business. The Roger Clemens of Baseball. The Heart of Muscles. The Ron Jeremy of Porn. He single-handedly built a strip mall of colonies that rival Gastonia.

When I bulldozed his luxury condos, I thought I killed 2,387 tiny shitheads but I made one mistake, I only killed 2,386.

(enter bamboo flute music.)

The remaining tiny drink of a cock-sucker wasn't dead.

I was all, "So when do we do this?"

And he was all, "It all depends. When do you want to die? Tomorrow? The day after tomorrow?"

Then I was all, "How about tonight, bitch?"

And he was all, "Splendid. WHEN??--" and the tiny shithead bit me and I slapped him.

(again, lonely flute.)

Then I was all, "You might not be able to fight like a samurai, but you can at least die like a samurai."

I wasn't left unscathed.


Today I saw a lone tiny shithead on the granite counter-tops.

"You can take my word for it, your co-worker had it comin'. When you grow up, if you still feel raw about it, I'll be waiting."

Dear Diary, This new year's resolution is to look hot naked-- God-willing.

1-1-98

How odd-- "98"-- I guess I'll get used to the change.

Okay, I am like, totally ready to sell out to Jesus. I even called Matt (even though he wasn't home so I didn't have to actually talk to him)-- that proves how serious I really am about this! I want so much to think about God every second of the day. I prayed last night, at the New Year's Eve Bash, that I would get serious about God-- and that's what I'm doing. No more "later"-- I am taking action. I really want to build this relationship with Jesus.

Now I have two major New Year's Resolutions:

1. To get close to God and sell out to Him!
2. To have a six-pack (stomach) by May 1,1998.

In this journal I am going to write out how I am going to achieve these things.


1. GOD

1. Make friends with all of my enemies.
2. Read my Bible daily.
3. Pray about all things.
4. Obey God.
5. Listen to God.

2. 6-PACK (body)

1. Weigh 125 lbs. (125-130 lbs.)
2. Do "The Grind" work-out 4 days a week.
3. Do 8 minute Abs 5-7 days a week.
4. Eat healthier/ drink water
5. (Tone entire body)(10-30 push-ups daily, butt exercises 5-7 days a week).
6. (Start tanning 3-4 days a week on Feb. 1st)

With these starts to a new year, I should be absolutely beautiful inside and out by May.

God is more important, however.


(dear diary posts are actual journal entries from my fifteen year old ego. how embarrassing.)

the number thirty, all wrapped in gold and carrying a boo bankie

My little brother turns thirty today. Technically he is not my "little" brother. He is 6'3". He is also two years older than me. Of the four of us hell-raising kids, I am the youngest, the only girl and simply not loved as much as my little brother, Jesse. He is the youngest of the three boys. He, whether my mother will admit it or not, is the favorite. My little brother is fondly known as "The Golden Boy." The child that does no wrong, always has cakes baked in his honor, and had his ass wiped by my mother until he went off to college. And even then she would sometimes drive two hours just because he called, yelling, "MOOOOOOOOM, I'M FINISHED!" This is my brother that carried a blue silky blankie in his bat bag. The bag that he put his bats in. To play baseball. He took "boo bankie" with him to play sports. I'm sure that frightened the competition.

We are all two years apart. I can't understand it. Just like my mother can't understand why two children have thrown me into an identity crisis, why I would put deliciously raw fish in my mouth or how on earth I could be depressed . . . WITH ALL I HAVE GOING FOR ME!?? My parents and I are just different in that they were born to breed. I don't say this in a sarcastic, judgmental way. It's simply the truth. Where Brandon and I NEED time to carve our identities, the roles of mother and father are simply not our only priorities in life. My parents were happy to only be parents. They had four of us. Then were disappointed two years after I was born because my mother had her tubes tied after my birth. DISAPPOINTED BECAUSE THEY WANTED MORE. My oldest two brothers seemed to cause trouble together. My memory leads me to believe that they spent a good bit of time testing the boundaries while Jesse and I learned from their mistakes. Or maybe we were just nicer, more cautious children. At any rate, my two oldest brothers were completely out of my league, so I spent a good bit of time playing with the Golden Boy. His imagination was ripe, like mine. We would ride our bikes around the yard, pretending to be cops and robbers, He-Man and She-ra, protecting Grayskull and pulling out our sticks swords and probably hurting ME in the process.

Jesse, being most loved, was also the one who needed glasses first, braces first, broke his arm on a trampoline, and often peed while sleep-walking. I remember lying in bed one night as a teenager. The lights were still on-- I was probably reading Stephen King or whining to my diary (kind of how I whine to my blog now, right?) and Jesse walks into my room. I watch him. Walk in the door. Beside of me. Pull out his thing and start peeing. Into the trashcan beside of my bed. He was asleep. He finished. Walked out of the room. I don't recall if he shook or not.

He also had terrible nose bleeds. My nose has only ever bled once, while pregnant, and it was a pretty scary and awfully self-gratifying thing. Blood rushing out of my nose!! Hey everyone check it out!! I'm bleeding profusely! Out of my face! Awesome! For my little brother, this happened all of the time. Someone, somewhere, sometime, suggested that he read a certain bible verse to stop the bleeding. From then on, a New International Version paperback sat by his bed and was marked to the the clinically tested and approved (not by the FDA, probably by my grandmother) blood-clotting scripture: Ezekiel 16:6 . . .

And when I passed by thee, and saw thee polluted in thine own blood, I said unto thee when thou wast in thy blood, Live; yea, I said unto thee when thou wast in thy blood, Live.

This must have worked on some level, because I remember a blood soaked Bible next to his bed. I mean soaked. Think about it, blood would pour from his nose. He would open this bible. Every time. Just hilarious. Really.

He may not know it, but he is still our sweetheart.

He is the wonderful father of two of the most beautiful children.

He is a husband to his Junior High School sweetheart.

He is a best friend to the same kid that he's been cracking on since elementary school.

He is a teacher.

He is a coach.

He is thirty today.

And he is still breastfeeding.

He is Jess the Mess, our Golden Boy, the star of our family.

He is dear to me.

I love you, brother.

Happy birthday.

Dear Diary, I am fifteen years old. I am ego-centric. I am out to save the world (for Christ, that is).

When my parents moved from my childhood house I was forced to claim the shit that I didn't want around but didn't want thrown away. Within these boxes was an Anne Geddes Journal. You know Anne Geddes. The photographer that takes infants and dresses them up like bumble bees and heads of cabbage then mass produces them for creepy adults and fifteen year olds who: QUOTE,

"just received this journal from my mom and dad as a Christmas gift. All week, I've been wanting to jot down poetry, but I forced myself to wait until today, because I knew I would be getting a journal. This is so beautiful! Butterflies are my love and there are so many! Also, children hold a big piece of my heart-- how appropriate. I just wanted to have, I guess, an 'opening statement'-- that's it!"

Couldn't have said it better myself. Oh wait, that was me. Fifteen-year-old-me. Self-absorbed. Starving poet. Double-Dogg-ChrIsty (not Christy, as in Brinkley-- ChrIsty, as in Jesus), confused, has it all figured out, kissing-slut, lover of butterflies and babies.

This is a new feature on my blog.

Lucky you.

things.

We have lived in our house since April 2008. I have not touched our master bathroom. The walls are still covered in holes from the previous owners' "Key West Menagerie" theme of flamingos and pink sunsets over water. Keyword: pink. Fortunately they took that crap with them and the walls are a nice tan shade of ocher. I finally broke down and bought some pieces off of ETSY for the bare walls.

I wanted consistency, a similar theme (NOTHING tropical OR pink) and was looking into watercolor prints. These work so well when inkjetted onto watercolor paper because they look almost EXACTLY the same as the original, cost nothing for the seller to produce and are very inexpensive to buy. I found Courtney Oquist's shop at www.courtneyoquist.etsy.com and purchased a few earthy watercolor prints with tranquil colors and lots-a-trees. She was an exceptional seller and the art is perfectly beautiful.

Then there was an unexpected splurge (oooh! all of $6!). THIS piece, called "Head Nester", could not have been more appropriate for my life. Okay, it could have been SLIGHTLY more appropriate . . . only if there were bees buzzing out of my ears and circling the nest. But I LOVED the hair. L-O-V-E-D-T-H-E-H-A-I-R. And couldn't stop myself from coveting this head-nesting woman that I had already labeled as "myself with better hair".

So, I did something about it.

Now all I need is the nest (and the romantically bulging collar bones).

when i am visited by the dead. i am grateful.

I would often dream about Lydia after she died.

No matter how terrible the dream, or how upsetting it would be, it was always such a relief.

Scratching the itch.

Allowing me to see my love again.

I would try so hard to go back to sleep. Focus on the dream. Where I left it when I awakened.

Because it was the only way that I could visit her.

The smell was real. Her hair beneath my jaw when I held her.

She felt exactly the same. Warm. Soft. Small.

She hardly ever spoke to me.

She always had this look on her face, as if she didn't know. She didn't know that she was dead.

But I did.

And I cried.

I didn't want to tell her.

I didn't want her to go away.

I was so happy to see her.

I cried.

I cry.

The same has been happening with my grandfather.

Though very different, less tragic, with reason, and satisfaction in celebrating his life, I mourn him.

I miss him.

I remember everything.

His smell. The feeling of being held. As a child. My face in his chest. He is warm. Solid. The feel of wool arms wrapped around me.

He is not funny in my dreams.

He does not speak.

He has that same look.

But I am not afraid.

I do not cry.

I do not need to tell him anything.

He knows everything.

I reach out and touch his face.

Always.

I reach out and touch his face.

Skin.

Slight stubble.

There is peace in this.

There is a yearning, a love and I miss him.

But I do not cry.

He watches me.

I still see Lydia. She still visits. At night. In my dreams.

It is not the same as it used to be.

I am not as afraid as I used to be.

I am always grateful.

I am never satisfied.

I want more of her.

I want more of her.

SNAPS september 18, 2009

it's official. i am truly a mother now.

SNAPS september 17, 2009

SNAPS september 16, 2009

because nothing is safe on the floor.

gingersnaps and daisyfarts aren't always on your registry.

Pregnant women are taught to time contractions. They watch videos about preterm labor and the benefits of epidurals. Much time is devoted to registries, baby showers and decorating.

WHY DOES NO ONE WARN THEM OF THE HELL THAT GOOD MOMMIES GO TO WHEN THEY GIVE BIRTH?

If you are a judging mother because you're all "Why does she always try to bring people down? I never had anything but gingersnaps and daisyfarts coming out of my ass after birth", then I can tell you this in full confidence: YOU ARE AMONG A GOOD 3% OF MY READERS. And if your children are over five years old: YOU DON'T COUNT because your brain is too fried by mothering to remember five years ago. Unless it was so horrible that you do remember. So there.

Think about it, women are prepared and expected to mother from day one. Baby dolls are thrown into the hands of newborn girls. My two year old niece has been loving and mothering twins (Hector and Raylyn) longer than I have. And she is a GREAT mother. She takes them for strolls and changes their diapers. She loves them and put them down for naps. It's instinctual and environmental, right?

So why, when I gave my niece a baby doll for Christmas, did I not insert a warning along with the doll's adoption papers? A warning that reads:

You may have postpartum depression if you have had five or more depressive symptoms (including one of the first two listed below) for most of the past 2 weeks, including:

• Depressed mood-tearfulness, hopelessness, and feeling empty inside, with or without severe anxiety.
• Loss of pleasure in either all or almost all of your daily activities.
• Appetite and weight change-usually a drop in appetite and weight, but sometimes the opposite.
• Sleep problems-usually trouble with sleeping, even when your baby is sleeping.
• Noticeable change in how you walk and talk-usually restlessness, but sometimes sluggishness.
• Extreme fatigue or loss of energy.
• Feelings of worthlessness or guilt, with no reasonable cause.
• Difficulty concentrating and making decisions.
• Thoughts about death or suicide. Some women with PPD have fleeting, frightening thoughts of harming their babies: these thoughts tend to be fearful thoughts, rather than urges to harm.

Yes, it's true, little girl, you should call your doctor immediately for a professional evaluation.

Chances are she's going to have MOST OF THESE symptoms. Because that is part of her biological destiny as a mother. Because these aren't simply symptoms of being a nut-bag, they are the side-effects of transitioning from you, my toddler niece, to a care-giver that is responsible for the life of a helpless baby doll.

Does it mean that she will want to throw Raylyn down a well? Possibly, but probably not.

Does that means that she is a bad mother? ABSOLUTELY NOT. In fact, I think it makes her a better mother. A mother that cares enough about her new doll to think HOLY SHIT THIS DOLL IS GOING TO DIE IF I AM NOT PERFECT! And that she has a maternal drive that could conquer the Republicans and enable health care reform. Or make the Israelis and Palestinians tongue kiss. Or even produce enough food in her boobs to feed two babies every two hours on twenty-two minutes of sleep for more than TWO WEEKS. The Taliban has nothing on a postpartum mama.

My intentions are not to scare every little girl that opens a beautifully wrapped package to find that she has a hard time getting past the wrapping paper. The giver used a lot of tape and the paper is colorful and makes wonderful noises when it tears! What? There's a BABY DOLL inside of that box? Holy shit, I thought I was ready to open my presents but can I JUST PLAY with the paper for a little while longer?

We shouldn't SCARE the future.

But can't we do a better job preparing it?

Can't we truthfully teach our fellow partners in procreation about what REALLY happens when babies are born? Yes, your heart swells and breaks and love is a pitiful word for what is inside of you when you see your baby. Yes, there is nothing more beautiful and satisfying and hilarious as the child that is growing-- GROWING-- right in front of you. There is no religion or god that conquers or explains the feeling that you have for your child. Faith is a powerful thing, but motherhood is valid and true and can be seen, touched and wallowed in and takes no blind conviction. There is nothing MORE REAL than a mother's love. Perhaps that is why there is nothing scarier than adjusting to it. Living with it. Adapting and giving in. You can't prepare yourself for this. I'll spare you the thrift store/pubic lice analogy, but it's so true: you can learn how to change a diaper, but can't teach yourself to uncrazy the brain that hasn't turned inside-out yet.

But we can talk about it. Openly. And support mothers: pregnant and postpartum. And stop making this out to be a terrible disease and treat it as a normalcy that comes with the territory. And maybe, just maybe, you will have gingersnaps and daisyfarts coming out of your ass. But if your shit smells like the average new mommy, you'll know that you are not a bad mother, that THERE IS HELP and

you

are

not

alone.

SNAPS september 14, 2009

SNAPS september 12, 2009

if i could reason my way out of a mental disorder i wouldn't have one.

Anxiety and depression. Secret lovers. Checking into "by the hour" motels. Frequenting night-clubs. They tango, two-step, salsa and cha-cha. They never cha-cha-slide. Because that's just effing stupid.

My children are healthy. My husband loves me. I have a house, three cars and a fridge full of beer. Not just shitty, cheap beer, either. I have traveled across the world and buy jeans that cost over a hundred dollars a pair. Because they fit me. My family has health insurance. A steady income. Milk-filled breasts and dinner on the table.

I do not have cancer.

I am not living in a nation plagued by war, famine or genocide.

I did not lose a child.

I do not worry about my family's next meal.

I am not afraid to close my eyes at night for fear of being raped.

Or murdered.

My husband did not leave me.

I can not stop my depression.

I can not stop feeling helpless.

I can not stop feeling like I am the only one inside of my life. My head.

I can not stop this lack of energy from consuming me.

I will not blame it on my medication.

I will not blame everything on my medication.

I will finish pumping.

Open a beer.

Sit down on the couch.

Eat pizza.

Watch Dexter.

Brush my teeth.

Go to sleep.

SNAPS september 11, 2009

SNAPS september 9, 2009

SNAPS september 8, 2009

SNAPS september 6, 2009

People often think that he is my son from a previous marriage.

Lilac Blooms and Unicorn's Breath

Books have always been a respite from the trials of my life. Even Franklin D. Roosevelt said that he read everyday during WWII to clear his mind. Or maybe that was Winston Churchill. Who cares, some old guy that lead a country during a war agrees with me. During my post-partum wrist-slitting and teeth-gnashing, I would find an hour a day to escape into someone else's life. Always someone who slept more than me, but usually died in the end. Suckers. This escapism is nothing new to me. I have lived in many places, been so many different people, animals, emotions and hopes . . . failures. I have lived through my books. But I didn't always fancy Steinbeck and Sedaris . The author of my childhood provided nothing more than an escape from dreadfully NEEDING to be popular and the genetic replicated sisterhood that I never had. That I never would have imagined producing. Had I known that I would have identical twin girls back at the age of ten, they would have had long blonde hair. A bitch of a best friend named Lila. A truly devoted boyfriend named Todd. And we would have lived in the valley . . .

Sweet Valley, that is.

It was all I wanted, really. Never a pony or a trip to Disney. To be Jessica Wakefield, have dark skin, golden hair, a dimple in my left cheek and most of all, I wanted to be a member of The Unicorn Club. For those of you that didn't grow up in the era of wearing a cone on your head that erupted a volcanic ponytail or never fancied such girly things as Sam and Libbies, stirrup pants or rhinestone tshirt clips, The Unicorn Club is for the select prettiest, most popular girls of Sweet Valley Middle School. Being a not-so-native of sunny Southern California, my giant imagination desperately needed to bring this club to the Mobile Home Capital of the World. Yes, world. My little hometown of Dallas, North Carolina.

It's not like I didn't have ANY friends. There were a few that braved my world of Barbie Dolls and the resort village of a bedroom that I was a strict and intolerant dictator within. KELLY SAID WHAT?? SHE MUST RETURN FROM PILLOW'S PEAK WITH MELODY AT ONCE! APOLOGIZE TO SKIPPER THEN RIDE WITH DEE DEE TO LAKE TUB IN THE CAMPER. DON'T ASK QUESTIONS YOU STUPID, IMBECILE CHILD, YOU DON'T HAVE THE SLIGHTEST CLUE AS TO HOW TO PLAY BARBIE. JUST DO WHAT I SAY OR I'M GOING TO MAKE KELLY TONGUE KISS KEVIN AND YOU KNOW HOW COURTNEY'S GONNA FLIP HER SHIT IF SHE FINDS OUT! That would usually solve the problem with Kelly . . . and with my one friend . . . I never liked playing with other kids anyway. Their imaginations sucked.

When it came to Sweet Valley Twins it was a different story entirely. In order to become Jessica Wakefield, you must have a cast of friends to recognize your efforts in popularity. In order to be a member of The Unicorn Club, there must be a club in establishment. It didn't seem that any unicorns were cultivating in my sixth grade block, so I decided to take matters into my own hands. And so, began the attempt at popularity: Sweet Valley Style.

• Possibly the most important commandment of The Unicorn Club: Thou Shalt Wear Purple Everyday. This does not necessarily mean that I had to pair my brother's extra large eggplant Hilfiger polo with the violet, acid-washed Jordache jean shorts that I carefully stitched a recycled Guess triangle to the back pocket (and effing got away with until Beau Norwood noticed the Jordache waist snap and called me out. Well how about calling this out Beau Norwood: what were you doing looking at my crotch buttons anyway???). A club member could wear as little as a Royal Stripe on their layered, scrunchy socks, as long as purple was in view. Quoting the club President, Janet Howell: "Like this year we decided purple was our favorite color, so we all bought purple stuff to wear." Who's writing your Congressional speeches, Obama? May I make a humble nomination? Purple gear, CHECK. Tagged with labeled note-clips and neatly organized by days-of-the-week in my closet. If all else fails, I planned to pile on a pound of lilac eyeshadow. Qualified.
• Every nation needs a leader: Since the uber-popular Janet Howell didn't attend Carr Elementary (and was in EIGHTH GRADE ANYHOW), I had to seek out the perfect President. Cue sad background music. Enter a mess of red hair stage right. This is the sad and terribly hilarious part of my tragic Unicorn Club. Remember, this is meant for only the MOST POPULAR girls in school. And I am a ten year old that thinks it's cool to wear my mom's clothes. Even if they are snug.Understanding and appreciating the foundation that I was establishing for my dreams of popularity, I had to respect that I was not fit to be President. Or even Vice President. Yes, this was my club. Yes, I was going to be the founder of the Carr Elementary Chapter. But I was hardly popular or pretty enough to be secretary. To happily keep the minutes of Lipsmackers applications and organize bake-sales that would support our fluffy bangs. And so I had to find a totally awesome most popular duo to lead this great nation of purple flared unicorns. I didn't have very far to look. No campaign necessary, the leaders of this great organization HAD to be Summer Ravey and Stacy Nelson. If I couldn't convince them, the whole thing was off.

But how do you approach someone with this proposition? Just like this: "Um, Summer, I have this great idea to start a club at our school! It's for only the prettiest, most popular girls. We will have meetings and wear purple everyday and um, since YOU are the most popular girl, I was wondering if you would be the President? And Stacy can be the Vice-President because she's second most popular. And I'll scrape the gum from your shoes and wipe your ass."

I imagine asking her while we are walking down the hall at school. She's looking straight ahead, not at me, wearing REAL Guess jeans, not cut-and-paste Jordache's, an orange sweater and Halloween earrings. Pumpkins, probably. Oh, and K-Swiss sneakers. Always the K-Swiss. Maybe even an orange grosgrain ribbon in her wavy brown hair. She says okay. Not HOLY COW I'M THE MOST POPULAR GIRL AT SCHOOL AND YOU ARE NOMINATING ME TO BE THE PRESIDENT OF THE MOST AMAZING AND FABULOUS UNICORN CLUB? Just "okay".

And that she doesn't want to have to wear purple everyday.

I honestly don't remember what happened next. I would guess that I drew unicorns all over my Trapper Keeper and wore amethyst earrings for a week, then realized that I didn't really want to alternate my five purple outfits for an entire school year. There's a good chance that I planned a meeting that was never attended. I probably wiped Summer's ass every morning after she drank her grande, no-fat, sugar-free Cinnamon Dolce Latte, no whip, over ice. Or maybe just her chocolate milk.

And then I probably realized that it wasn't worth starting a club in order to feel popular. Or at least that's what I told myself.

While I stained my pillow with mythical tears of lavender.

SNAPS september 5, 2009

SNAPS september 4, 2009

SNAPS september 3, 2009

i do not have the motivation to buy toilet paper.

Does that make me sick?

Insane?

Adorable?

Avoidable and aromatic?

It's not that we can not afford toiler paper.

It's that I honestly do not have the *keyword*: motivation to drive three minutes to the grocery store, walk in the door, grab the sugar-cookie-impulse-buy-that-is-packaged-to-sell-but-tastes-like-stale-dog-food on my way in, pick out the most expensive four-pack of tissue, hold my breath while waiting in line behind a shirtless chicken truck, imagine myself decking the eighteen-year-old-Nick-Jonas-but-gayer-look-a-like-cashier that always asks if I'm "Saving a plastic tree?" when I pile a hundred dollars of groceries in a paper bag, stand on the curb in a pile of cigarette butts and wait for traffic to pass because drivers don't stop for pedestrians in Gastonia, then drive home and have something to wipe my ass on other than:

• the panties that I am wearing
• the tiny, pink washcloth nearest the toilet
• a pantyliner from the chest of toilet accessories that lacks toilet tissue
• not wiping my ass at all but committing to a shower tonight

The Suite Life of Zadie and Lydia: 7/2

1. Training for the Circus: That's Zadie, alright. Fearless, daring and ready to jump from her crib. Do parents typically lower the mattresses at seven months? I wouldn't know. However, I do know this: Zadie has started pulling up on the side of her crib, raising her head over the rails and blowing raspberries on the wood. As we have vowed to encourage our children's talents, we are spending our weekend attaching a tightrope from Zadie's crib to Lydia's. Don't look down, Zadie, whatever you do, DON'T LOOK DOWN!
2. Breakin the Law, Breakin the Law: I've started eyeing those infant/toddlers swings every time I go to the park. Thinking that maybe, just maybe . . . . Boy was I ever RIGHT! Layla DOES fit in the infant swings!! Oh, no, that would be the girls. THE GIRLS DO FIT IN THE INFANT SWINGS! And love it. I mean L-O-V-E in with whipped sweet potatoes and banana flavored puffs on top. I have become TERRIBLY cautious and unfun in my creeping adult age, spoiling the fun for everyone around me. I DO NOT break laws, I DO NOT hang out with that kid that always gets in trouble (not naming names that start with the letter K, but there was this one boy that we WERE NOT ALLOWED to be friends with in school-- I wanted to hang out with him then, but OH NO, not now), and I DO NOT eat more than one starch per meal because ACT STUPID, GET HURT . . . right Dad? So, I'm reading the small print on the back of the rubber swing to see if they are ready and apparently the participating swinger must be between nine and thirty months. Which does not enable swinging privileges for seven month old babies. UNLESS, you have TWINS and can add their ages together. Why would I do this? Because I have TWO seven month old babies to put in one swing equals the same as ONE fourteen month old!! Am I brilliant or what?? Up ya gizzad with a rubba lizzad Stowe Park!
3. We can finally claim a reason for all of the drool: TEETH. Or T-O-O-T-H to be exact. That's right readers, our Dr. friend, Mrs. Fink, lied when she told us that they would never have teeth. And now we's wallerin in shit I tells ya. Wallerin. When I woke up with the girls on Friday morning, Lydia was particularly fussy. She's been sick for two weeks, so I dismissed it for the same wretched illness that I have had SINCE MY HUSBAND MADE OUT WITH THE H1N1 VIRUS THEN TOUCHED A DOORKNOB WITH HIS BARE HAND AND CAME HOME TO SPREAD HIS GREASY LIPS AND SHAMEFUL HANDS ALL OVER US . . . Lydia's whining never stopped. And honestly, fortunately, my girls are not whiners. So I checked the gums, as I have everyday for the past four months. What am I looking for? What should it look like? As if a tooth breaking through gums would resemble the Virgin Mary or a pig with wings . . . but IT DOESN'T! I discovered on Friday morning that it looks like . . . SURPRISE! a tooth breaking through gums! A little slit of tooth if you will, sharp against your fingertip, nothing like La Pieta. I remembered a mother of identical twins from work (back when I fluffed cotton candy and blew kisses for a living) telling me that her boys cut the same teeth at the same time and walked on the same days and so forth. I mean, they are technically the same person, right? Zadie didn't seem disagreeable, but I fingered her gums anyhow. And wouldn't you know it? The exact same tooth coming in at the exact same rate singing the exact same song.
   

Zadie's tooth:

ZOOM AND ENLARGE:

cold turkey.

cold turkey. from freckletree on Vimeo.

SNAPS september 2, 2009

SNAPS september 1, 2009

Our first time in a big girl swing.
I'm pretty sure that we were breaking Stowe Park rules
by horseplaying with two babies in a single swing . . .
but I'm also pretty sure that this is the first of many rules
that will be broken by the Martin-Malones.

One HANDed JOBs.

Is my husband gay?

Honestly, I don't think so. He may order girl's t-shirts with his High Life points because he likes the graphic and one time he tried on my jeans to see if he would order from that brand on Ebay, but I feel pretty safe. Then we started getting Parenting Magazine. It was coming to his name.

A few months back when we first started outing with the girls, I had an itch for the Uptown Target (because the Uptown Target has a Starbucks inside . . .). I try to shop in Gastonia as LITTLE as possible and must balance each trip to Gastonia with a trip to South Park. Or Uptown Target. Where people wear leather boots in the summer with their three inch skirts. But they are beautiful. You don't have to hold your breath because you can smell the fat sizzling in those boots. And you don't ask wandering toddlers where their mommy is to have them point to what you thought was their five-year-old sister. So, we went to Uptown Target and there were two well-groomed, umbrella carrying, middle-aged men strolling their toddler twins. The taller man sees me and asks, "How old are they", "Are they sleeping through the night", "We had that same stroller" and "Their names are Madonna One and Madonna Two." Yes readers, you venture into the Uptown Target and YOU WILL FIND GAY FAMILIES STROLLING AND SHOPPING FOR UNCONVENTIONAL COLORED TIES AND THE NEW KYLIE MINOGUE (just kidding gay readers, you can finish this post-- there is no NEW Kylie Minogue album) AND LOOKING ALL CONFIDENT AND BEAUTIFUL! How do I know they are gay? Do we really have to play the how do I know they were gay game? Really? Because the "Mom" showed interest in my children? That's not enough?? Straight men don't ask baby questions to strangers. Straight men do not carry umbrellas. They also don't read Parenting magazine.

Or do they?

I'm thumbing through the magazine while Brandon cooks dinner (?) and I happen upon the mini-article: TEN THINGS YOU NEVER KNEW YOU COULD DO WITH ONE HAND. This is humorous for a mother because it's so true. With two babies, I've actually learned to do things with my feet . . . pick up laundry, clean the shower, wipe myself . . . So, I read the bullets . . .

• text message
• make spaghetti
• feed a pet
• brush an older child's hair

. . . and so on and so forth because yes, if you can breast feed while doing the dishes WITHOUT A DISHWASHER-- THAT'S RIGHT PEOPLE-- WE HAVE TWINS BUT WE DO NOT HAVE A DISHWASHER-- then you can learn to do any number of things while holding your baby. Then I come to number ten, the last bullet.

• tend to a husband's personal needs (if we know what we mean)

WTF? WTF????? Yes, I KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN AND WHAT YOU MEAN IS WRONG!!! IS WRONG AND TERRIBLY WRONG WITH SO MUCH DISGUSTING WRONGNESS ON SO MANY WRONG LEVELS!!!

I'll give my own little bulleted mini-article on why Parenting Magazine is going straight to Hell:

• What could be more WRONG than giving a hand-job with your right hand when there is A BABY IN YOUR LEFT????????
• Making spaghetti, feeding a pet: LIVING BEINGS HAVE TO EAT, that is why you learn to do those things with one hand. Husbands? Hand-jobs? He's not missing it like he is dinner, trust me.
• You have a child within carrying age. And you are actually even THINKING ABOUT GIVING HAND-JOBS?
• Why, Parenting Magazine, would you make me, a mother that does not rank giving hand-jobs up there with eating, feeding my family and caring for my child's personal hygiene, FEEL GUILTY FOR THE HAND-JOBS THAT I AM NOT MAKING A PRIORITY??? Jesus, Joseph and Mary, don't I have enough to feel guilty about?? I just brought two children into a world that they are going to die without affordable health care! CHRIST!
• I have to be a super-mom and a DIRTY SLUT?
• If anyone is getting pleasure from my one empty hand, WHY SHOULDN'T IT BE ME?
  

Thank you, Parenting magazine, for printing this article in the magazine that my husband subscribes to.

This dog-eared page confirms his heterosexuality.

He Must've Been Bound, Gagged and Castrated By Twinfants.

Hobby Lobby. Bead Aisle. Girls are cuddled into blankies, sleeping in their double stroller. Seventy-Year-Old-Virgin-Asshole mumbles to himself while passing. Turns. Stares.

Seventy-Year-Old-Virgin-Asshole: Twins?

Me: No.

Seventy-Year-Old-Virgin-Asshole: ?

Me: (smile)

Seventy-Year-Old-Virgin-Asshole: Twins. That's a curse that I wouldn't wish on anybody.

Me: I think they are a blessing.

Seventy-Year-Old-Virgin-Asshole: They're a curse!

Me: It's actually pretty exciting.

Seventy-Year-Old-Virgin-Asshole: One child is exciting. Twins are a curse.

Me: Oh, do you have twins?

Seventy-Year-Old-Virgin-Asshole: No.

Me: Well then, you wouldn't know, would you?

Seventy-Year-Old-Virgin-Asshole walks away, turns corner.

Seventy-Year-Old-Virgin-Asshole: A CURSE!

SNAPS august 31, 2009

i pledge not to post about politics ever again. well . . . maybe.

The original purpose of this blog was a means of self-therapy.

Then someone actually liked it and started following it. While building a small fanbase, I have tried to stay true to myself and write honestly, otherwise it is a pointless task and I have no time for those. While my readers that are on medicare or conservative christianism (new word, spellcheck!)-- or both-- might become slightly flustered at my use of profanity and jokes about baby-killing, my aim is not to offend. I love these people. I respect that we are different. As I believe that they must respect our differences, or else they wouldn't continue reading. And they would get all Dr. James Dobson on my ass and send out newsletters advising white people to unfollow my blog (and I would be the Liz Claiborne of the blogosphere! What, you didn't know that Liz Claiborne donates money to the Satanic Church? Go ahead, I'll wait here while you burn your black and white damask printed cardigans and timeless shells). Still, I try to keep a light mood most of the time and not get heavy into politics and religion because that only makes me angry. When I am angry I spit fire. And then the computer melts and I have to buy a new one and HELLO! nobody's paying me to write here. Yet.

My husband advised me to NOT write this post, and in fact, I have a much more hilarious post just waiting to be published. But OH! the hole that burns inside of me and so I will burn my beautiful and faithful readers as well. Let's talk about abortion.

JUST KIDDING! I would seriously NEVER do that!!

However, I will talk politics. The burning starts on Facebook: My dear cousin asked for comments on a posted video. The video is political in nature. Perhaps she did not realize the can that she was opening, perhaps she did, anyhow, the worms are all over the counter and into the fruitbowl.



Was that a Liz Claiborne cardigan, Ashton?

Okay, awesome right? A little fascist, could use minor editing, but inspirational and well done. Now what if I told you that a school principal showed this at an assembly? Okay, now some of you and really excited and others are fuming. The principal apologized. Obviously he forgot that he was in Uber-Mormon, Utah. The site that my dear cousin linked to the video was a conservative blogging site which I could comment for days if I had the energy to care so much. The blogger seems to be quite dedicated to convincing parents that their children are in danger of becoming Communist Nazi's for Self-Confidence and Service to their President and Nation. YIKES! BRING THE TROOPS HOME FROM AN EIGHT YEAR WAR ON TERROR TO HELP SAVE OUR CHILDREN FROM . . . FROM THE WAR ON POSITIVE IMAGING!!

Facebook disagrees with me. At least the commenters of this specific post. They never see the sarcastic "Coming to a classroom assembly near you" reference before the video as sarcasm. They commented that their children would not be at school on the day that this video is shown. That they are researching to see if it will be shown in their child's school. They must agree with the blogger and sited source of media from Utah that reads:

… Gayle Ruzicka, president of conservative Utah Eagle Forum, said the video was blatantly political. She said other offensive pledges included, “I pledge to be of service to Barack Obama,” “I pledge allegiance to the funk, to the united funk of funkadelica,” and pledges to not use plastic grocery bags and not flush the toilet after urinating.

What tha hell? You mean we's gotta stop pissin on-a walls and piss in-a cammode? An bags? Hell bags! I can't git dem da bag my Coors in fitty bads no mer? Shit, I payin fur dim bags ain't I? An what tha HELL is funkadunkafunkadoo-doo? That some Mexican shit ursumpin? Shiiioot.

And my children will go to school with their children. My children will pledge to their God every morning. And I have to respect that.

Because I'm not blogging about the separation of church and state . . . and the lack thereof.

Not tonight, anyhow.


DISCLAIMER: No cousins were hurt in the writing of this blog. I checked.

words.

"Leonard asks me if there's anything I need to know before he dies, I think about it for a minute, turn to him, say what's the meaning of life, Leonard? He laughs, says that's an easy one, my son, it's whatever you want it to be."

From James Frey's My Friend Leonard