words.

And so religions, to a large extent, became diverse rather than unifying forces. Instead of bringing about an ending of violence and hatred through a realization of the fundamental oneness of all life, they brought more violence and hatred, more divisions between people as well as between different religions and even within the same religion They became ideologies, belief systems people could identify with and so use them to enhance their false sense of self. Through them, they could make themselves "right" and others "wrong" and thus define their identity through their enemies, the "others," the "nonbelievers," or "wrong believers" who not infrequently they saw themselves justified in killing. Man made "God" in his own image. The eternal, the infinite, and unnameable was reduced to a mental idol that you had to believe in and worship as "my god" or "our god."

-from Ekhart Tolle's A New Earth

snaps. (these are all of one day. birthday-day. bear with me, people.)

Apparently, my identical twins look alike. I have never thought so . . . until editing these photographs from their birthday. There are photos of Zadie that I swear, even as her mother, had I not taken them I would have thought she was Lydia.

To attempt an alleviation of confusion: Zadie is wearing the sweater and pink cords. Lydia is in the Hendrix tee.

SAHMOM Couture: Style Two

It's been a while but you fashion whores have been very patient for my return to Stay at Home Mother of Multiples Couture.

Did I mention that I almost died?

what I'm wearing:

1. Aquaman Tee by Junk Food
2. Blues Striped Pajama bottoms by Gillian O'Malley Ultimate
3. Plaque. Lots of it.

Aquaman was the official I am in my third trimester with King Kong's twins tee. All apologies, I know nothing about Aquaman, save that a thirty year old boy at the Organic Market told me that he was "The worst superhero of all time." You should have seen his face when I told him that Aquaman was my dad.

1 a : a painful emotion caused by consciousness of guilt, shortcoming, or impropriety b : the susceptibility to such emotion

I have lots of twin-mom friends.

There's @diagnosisurine, @iammommymae, @aprilpurinton, @manhattanspeak, @nanobuck and @dianasaurus. @twinhappyjen sends me a Happy Twin Tuesday message once a week (and then I think I'm supposed to play a game with her and other twin parents? i think?). Oh! How could I forget about @thebloggess? (and how much SHE LOVES ME--- oh, dear friends, I think I will write that in every post forever and ever. Oh yeh, I'd forgotten to also mention: I almost died. Which technically makes it okay to include The Bloggess in the mother-of-twins category). See, lots of friends that are counting the hours and popping their pills. just. like. me.

The problem with these friends (though they are especially fabulous women-- at least I think that they are women) is that they live in New England. Or New York. Or Houston, Texas. Places not conducive to drinking margaritas before noon/ playdates with our family.

Hell froze over people.

I joined a club.

A Moms of Multiples Club.

And in less than one week as a member of district 10, chapter 73, I have already shamed my family. For the sake of a bad joke. Okay, bad "half" joke/"half" truth.

Last night I was on the "let's meet at Panera's" forum with the PostPartum Depression sect of the club and the day before our group meeting, I attempted a change of venue.


Me: does panera serve alcohol? no, i'm completely serious. it's hard for me to leave the house if i can't also be drinking while i'm gone. no, i am not alcoholic (okay, maybe a little), i am a mother of twins. should i bring a flask?

Response: It doesn't but we thought we would meet to talk and then go to another location with alcohol. We need to make sure that when people share their personal experiences that they do it without liquid help!!!!


Uh-oh. I was misinterpreted again. I wanted to explain myself.

Repost: I'm sorry, I was just trying to be funny. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. This is who I am.

And then I decided that I would just go on and on about how depressed I am, and then I would fit right in again. They can't stay mad at me while I'm in need of help, right?

Brandon said that maybe some other people are taking the group a little more seriously than I am. My response to that? I just think that alcohol makes things more fun. Even depression.

In other shameful news:

Sunday's post regarding shit I write about while menstruating received a much unexpected response.


Have I mentioned that Jenny loves me? That Rebecca Woolf is my best friend? Just more proof of my recent coming to fame.

Let me start by saying that my mother is the epitome of respectfulness and the goodness that Christ intended. Things that I am not. There is a label on this blog called my mother will cringe because that's just what I imagine her doing as she reads my posts. We have a different humor and a much different need for tact. She doesn't always know what I am talking about and that is a testimony to her beauty and goodness. My mother doesn't understand how Jenny's love has made me famous, so she linked up to The Bloggess to find Monday's post which featured this photograph:


My mother proceeds to read about Jenny's confusion in thinking that this was a picture of a baby being impaled by a penis.

I can only apologize to my mother.

I can not stop laughing.

Since shame seems to be the topic of the day:



I must say that nothing in my mothering career has been more shameful than holding my Lil Weezie and giving her breathing treatments. The doctor's office was kind enough to give the girls upper respiratory death for their birthday.

The terror is that I have to hold this medicinal-mist-blowing-mask over Zadie's face for seventeen hours a day BUT THE UPSIDE for Zadie is that she gets to hold my cell phone while getting treatment. This has turned into quite the social connection with myself and various people who swear not to know me and forbade me to ever call them again.

This morning, after finishing treatment, Zadie pulled the mask back to her face. Then Lydia came up and held the mask over her mouth. Just twelve months old last week and the cell phone has already poisoned their brains.

The shame of it all.

Being the fifth grade cheerleading captain of the Dallas Raiders lead to great responsibities . . .

Fifth grade. Dallas Raiders. I was the cheerleading captain. After I was chosen to lead this most prestigious of misfit squads, my cheerleading skirt was taken for a weekend to have the words "Joy Martin-Captain" monogrammed across the pleats.

I call this the most prestigious squad of misfits because I have a very vivid memory of a Mom on this squad. It was Tracy's mom. She always wore very high-waisted, very tight, stonewashed jeans and had long, dark hair. This may be a bit of an embellishment but there must have been curls. Frizzy, stiff curls. And this, dear friends, is what I remember most about Tracy's mom:

TM: Tracy ever tell you about her diddy?

Me: Uh-uh.

TM: You ever heard uh 'KISS'?

Me: Uh-Uh.

TM: You know who KISS is: "I wanna rock and roll all night . . ."??

Me: Uh-huh.

TM: You know Gene Simmons?

Me: Uh-uh.

TM: The one with tha reee-yul long tongue?

Me: Uh-huh.

TM: That's Tracy diddy. Met em backstage one night and then I got pregnant wit Tracy. We send em letters all tha time but she aint never met em.

Me: Wow, that's weird.

To this day I still think back and wonder what Tracy must've thought to know that her father was a rock legend. Or what could have REALLY been bad, is if Tracy's dad was really her Mom's husband, but her mom was just telling me that it was Gene Simmons because I was captain of the cheerleading squad and she thought that Tracy would get the front middle elevator stunt if I thought her dad was really that old guy that wears a bunch of weird make-up and sticks his tongue out a lot. That would suck. Because the very least she could have done is beef up on current pop stars and find that maybe Garth Brooks or Bret Michaels would have been a hotter choice. In terms of having a cool illegitimate dad so the captain of the cheerleading squad puts your stunt in the front middle.

Maybe then I would feel less sorry for her.

Unless, of course, it was Bret Michaels.

Words I write down and hit 'Publish Post' when I'm on the rag.

First, my kids are very funny. And I love them.

Second. The rage is growing.

I want to bite the heads off of tiny puppies and spit the eyeballs into an unknowing member of PETA's vegan-organic-locally grown martini.

TIP #1: If you custom order something-- say an adorable ?HAT?-- from an ?artist?-- don't be a Picky-Nicky. Remember the Domino's pizza scandal? Where the pizza dude was blowing boogers in the deep dish? That was a custom pie for a Picky-Nicky-- I'll bet my malnourished-empty-tube-sock-of-a-left-breast that it was. Artists love the money. It's something that they rarely, if ever, have of their own. They, however, do not like Picky-Nickys.

CONFESSION: Brandon and I have started shooting heroin after the babies go to bed. That is why only post once a month now. I barely have the motivation to bite off puppy heads, much less think of something clever to say about myself that millions of readers my mother will want to read be embarrassed by. Heroin makes me hungry. Puppy heads swell in my belly just like pasta. Ergo, heroin makes me sleepy. Sorry, Mom.

I am famous. Internet famous. Kind of. Without taking my clothes off. After I take my clothes off on the internet I will be even more famous. In a National-Geographic-kind-of-way. Yes American Housewives have boobs just like African-Hunter-Gatherer-Tentwives. They just don't flaunt it all over public television.

FAMOUS #1: Jenny loves me. For those of you that probably custom order shit and then make a lot of stupid requests, I am about to change your life (by introducing you to the funniest person alive). For most of you, however, HELL YES, JENNY LOVES ME!! NOT ONLY was I a featured question on Ask The Bloggess (which, btw, don't even bother linking up if you are easily offended by anything that I say about diapers), NOT ONLY did I apparently offend some of Jenny's readers, BUT JENNY LOVES ME!!

PROOF:

FAMOUS #2: Just in case you didn't see who else can't get enough of me on twitter (because of magical stars and shitty hearts-- thanks, art school, for nothing), that would be @girlsgonechild. Yes, Rebecca Woolf is my new best friend. We do just regular old BF-shit together . . . like for the holidays (just for example) she taught me how to create smokey, purple "Holiday Eyes" and I made hats for all of her favorite wee ones. Sweet Rebecca Woolf could teach a certain Picky-Nicky out there a thing or two about custom ordering . . .

PROOF:

FAMOUS #3: Front page of ETSY, bitches.

PROOF:

**That doll arm pendant reminds me, I'm adding some new gadgets to the sidebar. Long gone are the months of the Awesome Walmart Baby Calendar and Asian dudes dancing to your-favorite-gay-club-mix-tape. They are replaced by more dancing (except also replace the Asian dude with dirty hippies) and my favorite art (except not my art . . . or Walmart Babies). You're welcome.**

Well, Brandon and I just tied off, so I've got to go hunt down some puppies before I get too sleepy.

I'll leave you with a quote from Oprah that I feel is relevant to this post:

"I don't think there's anything better you can do in this world than bring light wherever you go."

it all started with just one egg . . .

music is hopefully by my morning jacket.

way back whensday. clueless.

One year ago today.

Shit, I was big.

I mean, crushing-skyscrapers-and-raining-tears-BIG.

Check out that hat if you don't believe me. It totally fit my head before . . . before . . . the parasitic-monozygotic-embryonic-placental-cyborg-transformation.

The anniversary of a double vaginal expulsion has gotten me weepy. Just look at them now! All pointing their fingers and telling me "NONONONONONO!" while throwing their heads from side to side.

They were just blobs. Parasitic blobs of skin and breath and blood and organs and bones. Blobs of wrinkled honey.

Now they are independent. Now they have a repertoire of comedic performances. Now they hide in the corner and eat paper because they know I will take it away and NOOOONOTTHEPAPERMOMMYINEEDTHEPAPERINMYMOUTH!! Now they kiss me. And say "mmmmmmmmm". And sometimes catch my lips between their open teeth and threaten to go all Dr. Lecter on my face. And then I jerk back. And then I go in for another kiss.

One year ago.

I would go to the hospital on the weekends and beg them to keep me. To expel the parasites.

My OB said that Lydia's head was "a fingertip inside of me." I could have caressed her soft spot if I'd had the balls. Tempting.

I laid on the couch. Brandon and Layla slept with me. I was lonely. I was bored. I didn't have a clue HOW EASY I HAD IT. How hard it was about to be. How much I could love. How my marriage would change. How funny a baby is. How perfect a baby is. How helpless a baby is. How strong a mother has to be.

I didn't have a clue.

i vow not to eat a piece of cake until i lose twenty pounds. i'm serious. then i will probably eat an entire german chocolate cake to the face.

I'm not going to lie.

I'm much fatter than I look.

My pre-natal appointment wanted me to lose ten pounds BEFORE I got pregnant. WTF? "You would lose all ten pounds if you'd stop drinking so much beer": words from my silly doctor. (sidenote: That reminds me of a friend that took a pregnancy test in the middle of a living room Grind with Eric Nies. Two pink lines and she turned off the video and went straight to the cookie jar.)

Almost a year later and I'm still wearing ten of seventy preggo pounds that weren't related to fluid. That ALSO is not a lie. Okay, maybe a little lie. My kids were almost eleven pounds together. BUT THE REST WAS FLUID. My thirty-fifth week of gestation wore a label reading "HELLO, my name is Preeclampsia." (I am also still wearing netted hospital panties.)

I ALMOST DIED. I just realized that I don't say that nearly enough.

Yeh, so I'm ten pounds fatter than the ten that I was supposed to shed before pregnancy.

New Year's Resolutions, people:

(in no particular order)

1. Unfat myself . . . you do the math.
2. Find a cure for depression . . . my husband's, that is.
3. Be on the Ellen Show . . . not as an audience member, as a GUEST.
   
4. Take down the Christmas Tree.
   
5. Say "I ALMOST DIED" . . . at least once a day.

I know what you're thinking: why don't her resolutions include her children???

BECAUSE I AM ALREADY A RIDICULOUSLY KICK-ASS MAMA.

That's right.