the gospel. week four. monster's of folk's dear god.

Monster's of Folk is a collabo project feauturing Jim James of My Morning Jacket, M. Ward, Conor Oberst and Mike Mogis (best known for their work with Bright Eyes).

This particular video is the winner of the MOF "Dear God" video contest. Contrary to all of the negative hype (by losing submitters, albeit), I find it to be a stunning interpretation of the childlike questioning that we have regarding something that might just be bigger than ourselves. Though, I will admit, it is a bit spoon-fed.

---

week one. oona's you tore my heart.
week two. the bird and the bee's polite dance song.
week three. the avett brothers' november blue.
week four. monster's of folk's dear god.

i have become THAT mom. you know, the one that loves her kids?

When the womb is away the mice will play. This is so true in my house. To say that my children have become clingy is an understatement. The girls are building a contraption featuring stirrups and a speculum that will enable their re-entry. The only time that they truly enjoy themselves is when they forget about me. More and more often, I find myself hiding behind the couch. Hard to believe, but they are NOTHING like this with their father. Apparently he doesn't have what it takes to make them scream and pull down his pants. The three of them have a genuinely good time together. The girls are able to relax and forget about the dark wetness of their past when I leave the house and Dad takes over.

And they laugh like this:





No surprise that I have started liking them, right? Last year was full of when will this get easier? and will i ever enjoy this? and oh my god i am going to be that mom that left her family to dig potatoes in Idaho. Without even noticing, it happened. It got easier. It became fun. It was rewarding and amazing and my children became the greatest thing that I could ever imagine happening to me and I fell selflessly in love without any of the fear and misery that had prevailed in the past.

Last night I was working a "Moms of Multiples" consignment sale with about a hundred other mothers of twins and triplets (and quads, OH MY!). A mother approached with the question How old are your kids? Beaming Mommy, that's me! We exchanged stats to find that we had the same breed of children: thirteen month/identical/twin/girls (I didn't tell her that mine were smarter) and I, Beaming Mommy, screamed AREN'T THEY SO MUCH FUN??!! The woman just stared at me, adding They're really hard, too. And my head exploded all over her solemn face. I CAN'T BELIEVE I JUST SAID THAT THEY WERE FUN SOMEONE PUT A BULLET IN MY HEAD I AM THAT HAPPY MOTHER THAT I HATE. That was my response. Then I picked the pieces of brain matter off of the horrendously matching outfits and cried the entire way home. Where I dragged the children out of the cribs, pulled out the speculum and shoved them back into my vagina.

i should have been drunk when i wrote this.

What were you in high school?

The jock? The geek? The slut that banged the football coach? The slut that brought her "birthing video" to class for everyone to see her giant, hairy, wet vagina excreting another human being? The slut that got breast implants to secure a job at Hooters and told all of the boys to feel how natural they are? Perhaps you were all of those sluts? If you are the girl that I am thinking of, you most definitely were.

I was the captain of the cheerleading squad. The leader of the bible club. The person that prayed for your slutty soul while watching your birthing video. I was, needless to say, not the person that I am today. Still, I can't help but wonder if I fit into any real group of friends back then.

A realization of myself has started peeking through. I don't fit in now. That's right, in this cyberworld where I cyberlive with all of my cyberfriends, I don't BEGIN to fit in. In fact, I think that people are disgusted and offended by cyberme. For example, I've participated in some of these MR. LINKY POSTS THAT RHYME WITH DAYS OF THE WEEK GAMES so that I can gain a few followers. Bad idea. For lack of ability to rip blogs and cyberhumans apart, I will have to remain discrete. BUT FOR EXAMPLE: I am a photographer. Whether you enjoy my photography or not is your choice-- to each it's own, right? Why not participate in some Mr. Linky Photo Fun? BECAUSE I DON'T FIT IN, THAT'S WHY. When everyone else is posting about Jesus, flowers, gingham and making puns with their adopted child's native foods (and NOT trying to be funny), a post labeled I USED TO GET DRUNK AND PLAY WITH MY FRIENDS. NOW I JUST GET DRUNK. does not fit in. And even the host of the Mr. Linky Photo Fun game does not comment on my post. Because I and anyone that enjoys my blog are GOING TO CYBERHELL (which would be what? myspace?). That's right, especially YOU, cyberslut.

I joined the Dooce Community. Apparently a lot of people think Yuengling is the most delicious beer on the planet. A lot of people also like to pour milk over a bowl of poop and call it breakfast-- I'm just assuming-- this wasn't an actual topic of discussion. So, yeah, I told them that Yuengling sucks. I mean, if I were on a deserted island with the choice between a Budweiser and Yuengling, I'd go Yuengling every time. Between milk covered poop and Yuengling? I'm probably going for the breakfast treat. BUT I WAS WRONG. Because fucking everybody on the forum just LOVES Yuengling and if you go to P.A. you JUST HAVE TO TRY IT and WHO AM I TO CALL SOMEONE(everyone)'S FAVORITE BEER CRAP? I am a beer snob. A connoisseur of sorts. And if I was a cheese-snob in a cheese-forum where everyone was masturbating to cans of Cheez-Whiz, I would be a complete asshole. That DOES NOT FIT IN.

Even my husband has taken to calling me a cyberbully. Which makes me feel crazy. Not the idea of bullying, but the word CYBERBULLY. It's like when people try to buy drugs and they're all HEY DO YOU HAVE ANY MORE OF THAT YUENGLING THAT I GOT FROM YOU LAST WEEK? YEH, I JUST NEED A QUARTER OF A BOTTLE OF YUENGLING. THAT'S RIGHT. Except if they were buying a drug of Yuengling quality, it would sell by-the-dimebag-bottle. Which is altogether a confusing comparison, because it's not about the quality or even about drugs BUT THAT PEOPLE TALKING IN STUPID CODES MAKES ME FEEL CRAZY LIKE THE WORD "CYBERBULLY" ALSO MAKES ME FEEL CRAZY. Wow. I'm apparently cyberbullying the SITS-woman that didn't comment on my post when she was supposed to. Who probably actually read the post, but was too appalled by how much I hate my dog to comment.

Even The Bloggess doesn't love me anymore. I know she is famous and busy with all of the other people that she loves and was probably just being nice to me because I was stalking her but I thought that she would enjoy my JUST DANCE VIDEO (which I LOST the competition, by the way, because I am poor and don't have a Wii and DON'T FIT IN) so I tweeted her the link. Still no response. Maybe she took offense to me also tweeting about a fat kid that I saw on the Tyra Show. I want to tell her that I was making fun of Tyra and not the fat kid, but it's probably too late for that. I mean, her kid's not fat or anything. Her kid is brilliant. Her kid is someone that I honestly think would understand me. Then I would FIT IN. With a five year old that imagines sixty-four chipmunks crawling into her shirt sleeve. Yep, that sounds about perfect.

the gospel. week three. the avett brothers' november blue.

This is Scott Avett of The Avett Brothers singing November Blue. I went to college with his younger brother, Seth. Many late nights were spent bathing in chemicals in a dark room while listening to these boys making music in the painting studio on the other side of the wall.

They just released an album on the American/Columbia record label called I and Love and You. It was produced by Rick Rubin. THE Rick Rubin. You know, of Blood, Sugar, Sex, Magik and Ill Communication?

I can't help but to feel that I might have labored for days with these boys before pushing them out of my vagina.

Pride swells.

---

week one. oona's you tore my heart.
week two. the bird and the bee's polite dance song.
week three. the avett brothers' november blue.

today i will celebrate her life.

Kurt Cobain's face watched her sleep at night. No matter where you stood in her bedroom, he watched you. He never judged or asked of you. He simply watched. It was creepy as fuck. She didn't mind. She loved Kurt.

She claimed twenty-seven to be her rockstar age. Joplin, Hendrix, Jones, Morrison and her dearest Kurt, all preserved their mythological greatness by disappearing in their prime. At twenty-seven.

Today would have been her thirtieth birthday. No longer in the safety of youth's flailing reach. Time to stop straddling the fence and commit to adulthood.

The gray hair priming.

The crow's feet sinking.

The skin loosening.

The body turning.

The mind searching for security.

The mind searching for the accomplishments that have been fulfilled so that thirty is welcomed with pride instead of dread.

The mind asking if you are ready to jump.

The clock not caring.

Brandon's birthday is two days after Lydia's. He has a mortgage. Is married with two children. Has a good job and a dog and three vehicles. He can not move on. He is stuck. All of the possessions of adulthood can not make it happen within you.

But Lydia? She never has to know this. She will forever be bubbling with light and energy. Her eyes will always glow. Her body will never turn against her. She will never wonder if she is still beautiful. And no one will ever know her as a year older than twenty-seven.

She is preserved.

Today I will not mourn her death.

Today I will celebrate her life.

this is the greatest day of your life. money back guarantee.

This is the greatest day of your life.

This morning you woke up, moaned, got out of bed and if you are anything like me, you were naked until lunch. Not because you enjoy stale air on your filmy epidermis. No, your sweatbags knocked about the children for six hours because that's just HOW IN DEMAND you are.

Forget about how your morning started.

Forget about how you got here.

Forget about your problems.

That mortgage that you forgot to pay?

Forget about it.

Today is the greatest day of your life.

* * * * * * * * *

All of four people comment on my blog.

One of them is The Bloggess.

Another is Shell.

After sympathizing with a post regarding Shell's failure at mommy-socialization, I accepted an invitation to kick ass in a "Just Dance" competition. The competitors are to record themselves playing the game and show their highest score at the end. Shell will be posting the videos (and revealing the winner) this Thursday. And I WILL BE THE WINNER.

Only, um, what exactly is "Just Dance?"

Apparently it's a game that rich people use to flaunt their money and dance inabilities. I am not rich. But, hell yes, I CAN "Just Dance".

Dearest readers, I give you the greatest day of your life:




**music is u.b.jesus by david byrne**

peeing in your wedding dress and how to go about putting a horse's head in someone's bed.

Last weekend I was cruising Urban Dictionary for under 50 lingo and among the hundreds of disgusting words that made me purge my intestines was this gem of literacy: BRIDAL DIAPER.

bridal diaper: A diaper that is used when a wedding dress is to big or complicated to easily use the bathroom.

*Most brides who come in to the shop have never heard of a bridal diaper and are surprised to hear just how many we sell. It seems to be something not many brides talk about. but, there is many more in use than you would think. Some brides use "depends" others use adult bedwetting diapers. Some dressmakers are makeing Bridal diapers that mach your dress. other shops sell white covers that fit over a disposable diaper.*

After immediately **bookmarking** this page, I made a mental note to continue researching when I had four to twelve hours to devote to my new favorite thing.

Tonight, as I was thumbing through ideas for teaching a lesson to a certain player of a certain game that promoted her blog but DID NOT play the game FAIRLY by commenting on MY BLOG-- a CERTAIN player of a certain game was *unfortunate* enough to comment AFTER ME.

**backing up and apologizing for interrupting this program to bring you a mindless rant**

Today, I participated in SITS Saturday Sharefest. Those of you that are desperately low and shamefully beg for comments know EXACTLY what I am talking about. For the rest of you: this is a game that loser bloggers play to get comments on their blogs. You play this game by including a link to your website in the comments section of the post. Then comment on the blog of the commenter BEFORE you. The person AFTER you comments on your blog. After a few consecutive Saturdays of *no sharefest comments?* I decided to take fate into my own hands by proposing a threat towards the lucky individual that was to comment on my lovely blog.


This is how I know that a certain player of a certain game did not even consider glancing at the blog that SHE was supposed to comment on. Because, really???, who ASKS to be godfathered?

Brandon suggested that I find her in the Whitepages, post a comment on her blog including her address and the horse's head scene from The Godfather.

**we now return to your scheduled programming**

While scouting potential harassments, I happened upon the BRIDAL DIAPER in my bookmarks (because yes, my bookmarks are LOADED with potential harassments) and proceeded to get lost in this message board for incontinent brides and sympathizing wedding DJs.

Member jamie_wedding
Posts:
Joined: Jul 2006
I’m due to be married in August and have a rather imbarising question for you brides out there. I have a new wedding dress with 5 foot long ruffled train that rises up the center of the back and while it is beautiful, it takes twenty minutes to get into, and three people to help me move around in it.

When my cousin got married this summer, she asked the manager of the shop where she got her gown about going potty in her elaborate dress. He said that if she was concerned he sold something called "bridal diapers" for, as he put it, "just incase". I guess they are like depends or something. She didn’t get them, but im not sure its such a bad idea?

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Member mrs.smithtobe
Posts:
Joined: Jul 2006
This is a question I have been asking myself too. I haven't heard of woman wearing incontinence products under their wedding dress, but have not on just one, but two occasions heard of women wetting in their dresses (fortunately you couldn't tell through all the layers)

The thought has actually crossed my mind to wear one of my nieces goodnight bedwetter pants. I probably would if I wasn't afraid there wouldn't be time to change before we went to the hotel. (dont want my diaper to be the first thing he sees, think he is more into a thong)

Anyway, I dont think its a bad idea. It cant be that much worse than wearing a pad when you are on your period and no one will be able to tell under your dress.

I’m “really nervous” about getting into my dress and being “really nervous” which makes me have to tinkle more often anyway. What do you think?

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Member sue
Posts:
Joined: Feb 2006
Is this serious? This has got to be one of the most disgusting things I have ever heard of. I can't imagine wetting myself or letting myself wear that all day and night. Won't you stink after a while? Even a baby's diaper will stink of urine when not changed. I am thinking that you wear just one all day because if you can't go to the bathroom, then how would you change this adult diaper during the day

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Member varis67
Posts:
Joined: Aug 2006
As a DJ I am involved with many weddings every week. Believe it or not, the bridal diaper is actually gaining popularity. Ask yourself: How hard is it to say to your husband i ahve to use the bathroom right before you leave the reception? besides know one needs to know, and keep in mind if you are like most brides you will be drinking during the reception and therefore are more likely to need a little extra insurance. I suggest that if you are a person who isn't outright against it, Go for it! for the rest of you who think it's wrong or gross don't complain when you wet yourself right as your husband is removing your garter with his teeth. Now tell me what is more embarassing, taking a precaution or wetting on him. besides if this is the person you want to marry you shouldn't have secrets I'm sure that if he is a decent kind of guy he'll understand why you CHOSE to wear protection, just like he understands the need for protection during your period.

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Member sue
Posts:
Joined: Feb 2006
Varis67, I am curious....as the DJ how do you know that this is becoming popular? I only ask because if it had been something I choose to do, I don't think I would have shared it with my DJ.

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Member tammywade1984
Posts:
Joined: Dec 2009
OMG how can you all be so heartless to say its gross. Some people like me need to wear them 24/7. How do you think I feel to hear some one say its gross? For one they don’t stink like you think. I do change when I can, I don’t leave them on all day. There was one time I did only because I had no choice at the time. When I was able to change it I never stunk. I wear at night too and they never did ether. Most incontinent products out to day are not like they were in the old days. There made a lot better with odor control. The other thing is, it’s only for maybe a couple of hours you would wear them any way. After the ceremony you change anyway into the dress you were for the reception. I don’t see them wearing all night that would be ridiculous if you don’t need them that bad. I applaud you ladies that you would do this for just in case. I have never met a woman that had an iron clad bladder, and most women do have a leak at times. I think it would be better then going around in a wet dress during the ceremony. If they are afraid they might have an accident, then let them. Also you say its not sexy, how do you think I feel? If no one knows no one cares. I feel sexy even if I do wear adult diapers. Just because you wear one doesn’t make you any less sexy. Who cares anyway, your wearing a beautiful dress, all your BM’s are with you, and the place is wonderful. I think that would be the last thing on your mind when you father walks you down that isle. Next time don’t be so critical about other people’s views on things, not every one is as perfect as you.

---

Perhaps that is also the resolution to my dilemma with certain players of certain games promoting their blogs without taking the time to visit someone else's.

Not every one is as perfect as me.



***ps. I ALMOST FORGOT TO TELL YOU!!! . . . I peed myself while walking down the aisle. When announcing to my parents that "MY PANTIES ARE WET! MY PANTIES ARE WET!!", my father kindly marched forward with, "It's too late now, honey."

the gospel. week two. the bird and the bee's polite dance song.

I'll give you a minute to change clothes and wipe the piss from the floor.

While having been around since 2007, I was recently introduced to The Bird and the Bee's Please Clap Your Hands in a venue other than the local grocery (which is where my hubbs first fell in love with this song). Polite Dance Song has been kicking around in my head ever since.

Lucky for you, it also has the greatest video of all time.

Happy Valentine's Day, bitchez.

---

week one. oona's you tore my heart.
week two. the bird and the bee's polite dance song.

passive agressive love letter to my dog. or 10 Things I Love/Hate About You. or I'll be right back. Don't you go dyin' on me!

Dearest Layla,

You are our firstborn.

I can not help but to love you for the years of service and blind love that you have unselfishly given to me.

I have not forgotten the months of couch-rest that you entertained my loneliness. Months of horizontal growth that lessened me to a whale that would roll off of the couch, on to the floor, then climb up the coffee table . . . then walk like I'd been riding a horse named John Holmes. Just to piss. Every two minutes.

You were beside of me the entire time. Days, nights, through panicked phone conversations with doctors. Through mourning a best friend. When human beings weren't enough, you were beside of me, clawing my hand. Begging to be pet. Ignoring my pain, my needs, my grief and frustration. Barking in my face. Screaming WHO CARES THAT YOU ARE BREASTFEEDING TWO SCREAMING FIVE POUND BABIES?? HOLY SHIT WOMAN, PET ME NOW! WHO CARES THAT YOU ALMOST DIED? FOR CHRIST'S SAKE, I NEED YOUR. HAND. ON. MY. HEAD. WHO CARES ABOUT ANYTHING BUT ME. ME. ME. ME. ME. ME.

Mothers knew that this would happen. I would fight for our love and dedication to one another. I would argue. I just KNEW that things would never change between us. You would always lay at my feet, follow me from room to room, put your head in my lap, know my insides. I told them that the babies would be put outside before you. I told them that we weren't like THEM. We were 2gether 4ever.

This morning I hated you. And last night. And every day since we brought your sisters home. I hate that you demand my attention. I have a baby that woke up smiling and she is covered in piss. Hungry. Cold. I mentioned that she was also smiling, right? I mentioned that she woke up because you were barking, right? While I am changing her clothes, feeding her, holding her sister, making, washing, comforting, loving your sisters you are barking and demanding me. I hate you for that. When I am stretched thinner than I can bear, you are demanding me. You no longer come first. I don't come first either, okay? I can deal with it, why can't you? Aren't dogs supposed to adapt to the pack? Aren't females, regardless of species, supposed to sympathize with a suffering mother? I hate you for not understanding. I hate you for the incessant barking. It scares the babies. As if I needed another reason to BE NEEDED.

You are basking in the sun. In this very moment you are not barking at me to feed you, open the door, love you, touch you. This very moment I feel guilty for ever hating you. Nothing makes me hate you more than the guilt that you spawn.

Please don't go anywhere until the girls require less of me and I can love you again. I know that you are getting old and I know that you will not be here forever, but please, I beg you, do not leave me until I can make this up to you.

Love,

Mama

black and white wednesday: i used to get drunk and play with my friends. now i just get drunk.

I have boxes of costumes.

Wigs.

Props.

They have been collecting dust for almost two years now.

Why does an adult collect costumes?

Why is the sky blue?

Why does my dog bark?

Why are we out of milk?

Why do my children always want the same toy?

Why do white people like Twenty-four?

Why did I stop getting drunk and playing in the woods with kitchen appliances?

Why did Bush get re-elected?

Why does a human being think that they know a god? Personally?

Because I did lots of drugs . . .

p.s. black and white wednesday is a feature of The Long Road to China.

SAHMOM Couture: Style Three

what I'm wearing:

1. Swayze
2. Black knit yoga pants by Ann Taylor Loft
3. Fuzzy socks by Walmart (where else?)

Swayze is more than just a shirt, it is a legend. It is a story. It is quite possibly my claim to fame (other than The Bloggess loving me and that I almost died). Swayze is my name in certain parts of the world. In West Virginia I answer to "Hey Swayz!" Western North Carolina? "Wassup Swayze?" In high school I was called a dick-tease. Only because I didn't put out-- but was a total kissing slut. And no, I am not Mormon.

inspirational figures in my life.

Oprah knows a lot about being fat.

She also knows a lot about inspiration.

When I considered unfatting myself, I decided to look to my four o-clock friend for help.

She suggested creating a "vision board" of sorts. You know, the idea that visualizing myself as a skinny would make me work towards my goal?

I didn't actually make the board, but instead posted these images all over the house. In the cupboard, refrigerator, toilet seat, the headboard of my bed, on diapers, mirrors and the kitchen table.

Ninety pounds, here I come!

the gospel. week one. oona's tore my heart.

I decided that popular music is pretty terrible.

Of course, everyone thinks that they listen to good music. Some people, like me, actually DO listen to really awesome music. Most people do not. I completely agree that to each it's own, but shit, pop music makes me want to reach into T-Pain's throat and physically remove that effing distorter out with my right hand.

I couldn't be move removed from the phenomenon of pop. Contemporary pop, that is. I feel sure that about a billion people saw Jamie Foxx on the Grammies and thought it was the greatest thing that they had ever seen. EVER. While browsing through the Billboard Top 20, I discovered that I have heard all of TWO songs. When did I turn eighty-seven?

My mother is planning to see The Black Eyed Peas in concert. I haven't listened to the Black Eyes Peas since their first album with Fergie. My mother is going to see a band that I fondly remember Brandon blasting and dancing around to while I was puking my liver into our bathroom toilet in Asheville. All after walking home from a bar where we had spent the past nine hours drinking Coronas and arguing with a recovering alcoholic. No, this wasn't yesterday. It was before children. Before mortgage. Before My Humps.

Since my taste in music is genuinely awesome and, let's face it, probably much better than yours, I am going to give you a new song every Sunday. Music is as close to religion as I get and perhaps I might even save a few souls.

This week, Oona and Dave Tweedie's Tore My Heart.

Meet your new favorite song, people.




I first heard Tore My Heart on this past season of So You This You Can Dance. After picking the pieces of my brain off of the ceiling, I ran to the computer to watch it again. And again. Then I had unprotected sex with it and didn't make it pull out. Because it's that hot.

welcome to the tundra.

It's so funny, right? The southeast gets four inches of snow and they post pictures on their blogs?

Look people, not only do I live in a place that requires the daily virgin cleansing of a white blanket of Godliness, but we only get it-- what?-- twice, thrice a decade? Meaning that we are defecating amongst the dinner plates of Applebees, Red Lobster, Outback Steakhouse, Golden Corral, Ruby Tuesdays, agggghhhhhhbarrfff . . . I can't believe I have to shit in this filth.

This is one of those holy cleansings.

I took pictures. I posted pictures. I published.

Now stop laughing you heartless bastards.

**update** My husband just informed me that this post makes no sense. I explained the metaphoric cleansing of the snow upon the metaphoric filth of the particularly popular chain restaurants of Gastonia and how that metaphorically makes snow important. Then I contemplated changing the post. Then I decided that I really like talking shit about these restaurants and I don't care if anyone understands.

the good, the bad and the down right disgusting (i'm talking about you. yes, YOU.)

This morning I woke up and thought:

Today I am going to write about the awesomeness of waking up next to these little girls.

The girls have been sick since their birthday. Which was over two weeks ago. RSV can suck a fat turd. Two weeks of moaning, wheezing, crying, coughing, snotting and clinging, CHRIST JESUS WITH THE CLINGING ALREADY?? Two weeks of quarantine. We left the house ONCE in two weeks. That means me, too. Sleepness nights, broken-- if any-- naps -- and the breathing treatments?-- and shoving syringes of pink candy that THEY HATE FOR SOME RIDICULOUS REASON? down their throats while they writhe and struggle through the pool of mucus that has become their brain? Two weeks of Lydia waking up to get in bed with me at 6:00. Then Zadie's regular cuddle time at 6:30. Dearest readers, it is not easy to get two sick pre-todds to snuggle back to sleep. In our bed. PLEASE SOMEONE TELL ME WHY OUR GODDAMN BED IS TOUCHING THE CEILING? You can deal with that fact that you jump into bed every night. The image of you baby rolling off of the Eiffel Tower? Not so much.

This morning I awakened at 6:30 to my Little Bugg, hoping for a morning snuggle. Would you believe it, people, that we went back to sleep until the sound of Lydia laughing at her toes woke us up at 7:30? And I put the girls on the floor and danced butt-ass-naked around their room for thirty minutes because NO ONE WAS COUGHING AND EVERYONE SLEPT AND I WAS SO EXCITED THAT I PEED A LITTLE BUT IT DIDN'T MATTER BECAUSE I WASN'T WEARING ANY CLOTHES AND WE HAVE HARDWOOD FLOORS!!

And so the day continued to be incredible.

Until they woke up from the afternoon nap thinking that they were teenagers.

I've never told ANYONE this, but I plan to give the girls away when they hit the double-digits. This is not a joke. In fact, if you are one of those crazy people that actually like teenagers, I am accepting applications as early as, um, today.

People always ask which is the sweet one? or which one is more dominant? and even which one do you like better? If I'm feeling generous, I will offer the explanation that you can't really put them into categories because they are always changing (not to mention that I don't have shit for brains). Which is the absolute truth. But today, on our first outing since the Carter administration, no one was asking which kid was the asshole. All you had to do was take a peek into our double-stroller to see Lydia holding: a stuffed dog, two cell phones, a book, Zadie's bottle, John Edwards' shot at the Presidency, and a partridge in a pear tree. Beside of her is Zadie. Just. Zadie.

Screaming. Tugging. Fighting. God help me, I considered chugging a bottle of Two-Buck-Chuck in the check-out line.

While helping with my groceries, a very sweet lesbian told me that she was a twin and also that her boyfriend had red hair. I told her to kiss her mother everyday and send her complimentary alcohol until the day that she dies of liver failure. Why? She asks why? Because you and your sister did this to your mother, I tell her, pointing at Whitney and Bobby down below.

*********

In other news, why is my blog such a filth magnet? No really, I asked for birth control advice UNLESS you were into Dirty Sanchez', Steam Rolling and Hot Carls. So far? The post has been read by over three hundred people and only eight comments-- one of which was myself. Which means that two hundred and ninety three OF YOU have poop-related sexual tendencies. Disgusting.

let's talk about sex. and the reason that i'm not having any.

My mother reads this blog.

As does my mother-in-law.

Therefore, I have changed this post into under-fifty speak. Sorry to all of my old seasoned readers-- it had to be done to protect our family.

When discussing the haps of pregnaphobia, it always goes back to one thing. Well, two things, actually . . . One: a lack of birth control method. Two: a lack of mojo.

Here's the gist: six weeks after popping out our identical tax deductions, I had a choice to make. Which brand is going to keep us from getting the worst STD ever? Not HIV, fools, I'm talking about impregnation.

I have tried so many different methods of protection. They all lessen me to a mere bumbling birth control casualty. Some make me crazy. Some make me hungry. Some even make me spontaneously vomit at the sight of my husband. Granted, THAT IS THE EPITOME OF BIRTH CONTROL, it is not conducive to our quest toward bareback legandry. Because, let's face it, when condomplating, all married couples are in the same boat. We are all avid Condomists. We all have friends that practiced the "pull-out" method . . . and all of those friends have children. Of course, you could always be into butt burglary-- but I, being a model of grace and modesty, am not. Which is why finding the perfect birth control method is so important.

My OBGYN recommended that I try Mirena-- you know, the levonorgestrel-releasing intrauterine system that is inserted into your uterus and stakes camp until your children are in Kindergarten? Yeh, that one. I told her of the horror stories of EVERY WOMAN THAT I'D EVER KNOWN that had tried Mirena. She was so convincing, this doctor that threatened the psych ward a month prior, so persuasive, that I scheduled the insertion . . . only to have my insurance decline coverage for this method. All eight hundred dollars of it. And so, my dear homies, I am bumping shoulders with Bristol Palin and The Blessed Virgin by choosing to forgo bumping uglies altogether. It is, after all, the single most effective form of birth control.

PROBLEM? My husband is stuck with me. Forever. And while I am still in a fog of post-traumatic stress due to a small event that changed my life over a year ago WHEN I ALMOST DIED, I have to face the reality that human beings should have sex. At least once a month, right? Even once a year could be a desirable goal. And if, by chance, I were to get completely plastered and not feel like crying beside of an unmade bed, we would always have to revert back to numero uno: get strapped with protection or strapped with, um, another tax deduction.

I know that I am not alone in this tragedy. I am not the only woman that has had children and not wanted more . . . Advice, please, anyone? That's right, I want to know your story. Your method. What has or hasn't worked for you. Unless you're into Dirty Sanchez', Steam Rolling and Hot Carls. In that case, keep your comments to your nasty self.

black and white wednesday: lydia.

You can love someone as much as the last time you saw them.

You can miss them the second that they are gone.

You can miss them as much in that moment as you ever will.

You can live your life without them.

You can watch their life unfold, unravel, release and move on.

You can experience the things that they never will.

But you can not forget your loss.

It is just as large as the breathing soul that once faced you.

Just as deep as the love within.

The greater your love, the greater your loss.





p.s. black and white wednesday is a feature of The Long Road to China.

ode to baby mullet.

You've graced my life with many forms.

With many names.

With memories.

Today I recognize your beauty.

Your recklessness abandon.

Your commitment to never committing.

Today I recognize you for the history we have shared.

For this moment, for you are singing to my soul.

For the future that awaits.

You are so sleek in the front.

Fuzzy.

Soft.

A mere glow of what is to come.

When you fall to the back.

To the back.

Where wisps of fire are uncontained.

Glistening.

Singing.

A song for my heart and blood that is pumping.

For you.

Dearest mullet.

Dearest baby mullet.

Shine on.

Curl on.

Sing into the depths of my soul.

And grow forevermore.

snaps. (1/20-1/29) who says that staying inside of the house for two weeks with rsv can't be a blast?