Motherhussy

Vocabulary

2009-03-08T09:06:00.000-07:00

Baby boy has learned a lot more words lately. My favorite are:

"Noise". He will hear anything, a door creak, a car honk, and just cock his head and say "noise".

"Are you in there?". This happens almost every morning when I get in the shower. He will knock on the door and ask "Are you in there?"

Billionth Time's the Charm!

2009-03-06T09:51:00.000-08:00

Motherhussy has moved, but hasn't really unpacked. If you want to visit her in a disheveled state, please do so at the following link:

MOTHERHUSSY DOS*

*This title in no way means that MH-Dos speaks Spanish--at least not fluently. Une chemise, por favor?

In Which I Become Uncool

2008-12-19T14:10:00.001-08:00

For those of you that don’t know already, I had my first two children at the age of 18. Yes, I was a member of the often scandalized, ever-politicized “Teen Mothers Club.” Now, being a member of this elite club has had its pros and cons. For example:

Pro: You get a lot of attention from your high school peers
Con: You get a lot of attention from your high school peers
Pro: Your babies get a ton of cute stuff at their baby shower
Con: You get NOTHING but an aching hooch and a pair of sore breasts, maybe a new nursing bra if you’re lucky
Pro: Even though you have children, you’re still a technically a teenager, so you can get away with the more idiotic parenting moves, such as giving your children hot chocolate in their bottles at night.
Con: Since you have children, you can’t get away with most of the idiotic things you were doing before you got pregnant

Anyway, you got the picture. There is one more thing that I saw as a bonus of being a child-holding member of the “Teen Mothers Club,” and that was the fact that somehow, maybe by osmosis, most teen mothers I knew seemed to be pretty damn cool. I know, that sounds so immature, but all the girls that got pregnant the same year I did were totally cute and fun to be around, which, now that I think about it, probably led to them getting pregnant in the first place. So, I pretty much knew that when my children were born, I was obviously a part of this group of “cool” parents.

As a cool parent my responsibilities included, but were not limited to: dressing stylishly, dressing my child stylishly, listening to mainstream music and/or classic rock such as Led Zepplin and The Doors, losing my baby weight before my children turned one, talking to my child as if they were a good friend from my school days, and buying my child booze and condoms so they didn’t get it elsewhere.* These seemed like easy enough responsibilities, right? I mean, it wasn’t like I needed to learn how to balance a checkbook or anything like that. I figured that since I was a cool parent, and could fulfill my obligations as a cool parent, I would stay a cool parent forever. Little did I know that the little bundles of joy that gave me my cool parent status could rip it away from me faster than I could say, “Hey kids, want to go to a Coldplay concert?” Sadly, that time came not too long ago…

I remember it like it was yesterday, but it wasn’t yesterday, it was a few weeks ago. Colton had broken one of the tuners on his sweet, sweet guitar and was hassling me to take him to Guitar Center so he could pretend he was going to buy some new tuners, but come up short at the cash register and sucker me in to buying them. I finally had some free time so Colton and I took off on a Mommy and Son outing to the world of strings, cymbals, and guys with long, unkempt noggins.

As we walked in, I noticed there was a sign on the door that read, “PLEASE CHECK ALL BAGS AT THE FRONT DESK UPON ENTRANCE.” I guess it was one of those 9/11 security precautions, as I have read on Pajamas Media or some blog that Al Qaeda members are targeting Guitar Centers for their high-quality, reasonably-priced musical merchandise. What? You haven’t heard that? They hate everything about America, even our Guitar Centers, those sons-of-bitches. Everything I tell you! Anywhoo, I digress.

So, I approach the mangy-skulled guy at the front desk and say, “Here’s my bag.” The guy replies, “Oh, you’re fine. Just don’t stuff anything in the bag.” “Okay,” I respond. Then, with a smirk the guy goes, “Your bag is big enough though.” Now, the guy has a point. My bag is huge. Like, Hollywood huge. I got it mostly because it was large and sturdy, but also cool looking so it wouldn’t be an obvious diaper bag. Apparently, the guy didn’t know my bag was used for nappies and small snack crackers, so I enlightened him, “Oh, well, it’s more of a diaper bag,” I say with a smile and a Sarah Palin wink. The guy gets a funny look on his face, points at Colton and says, “For him?” Colton rolls his eyes; I give a courtesy chuckle for the joke, and walk away mumbling something about leaving the baby in the car. Now, I didn’t think that the whole bag-joke episode was that embarrassing, but I’m not an 11-year-old kid either.

Well, Colton gets all the guitar gear he needs and we leave Guitar Center. On the way home Colton gently says, “No offense Mom, but I like going to Guitar Center better with Dad.” Whaaaaaaa? I choke on my cool-parent latte and ask him why. He tells me that I didn’t know what I was talking about when I was trying to tell the salesman what tuners he was looking for, and then he adds, “Let me ask you something—how many Moms did you see in there with their kids?” Hmmm, when I thought about it I realized that I was the only Mom in the store, and with a large bag to boot!**. I asked Colton simply, “What are you saying? Are you telling me you’re embarrassed by me? Am I an uncool Mom?” I held my breath for a moment. Normally the answer to that question would have been a resounding “No!” followed by a list of a few things that made me cool Mom. Not this time. This time his answer was a drawn out, “Well…..” I didn’t need anymore information. The damage had been done. I realized, that night at the Guitar Center I crossed over into un-cool, embarrassing Mom territory.

I’m sure there are a few things that I could do to redeem my status as a cool parent, maybe throw the kids a boy/girl party or buy them some songs off of the iTunes, but I’m pretty sure once you become un-cool, you pretty much stay un-cool. It’s like catching pneumonia, once you get it you’re more susceptible to it. I’m susceptible to un-coolness.

Ah well, I guess I should just throw in the designer jeans and start wearing elastic-banded polyester slacks, hush puppies, and Winnie-the-Pooh t-shirts. ***

So the moral of this story is, to all you parents out there, young and old alike, let this be a lesson to you: Hold dear every moment your child looks at you with admiration, photograph in your memory the times when your child asks to borrow your jeans or your Tom Petty CD, and never, ever, ever forget that eventually you’ll probably mortify your child with your lameness, but you’ll always be a cool parent in your own eyes.

*Since I became an uncool parent before the boys reached their teen years, I have no obligation of fulfilling any of the responsibilities listed anymore, including the one about the booze and condoms, so stop dialing Social Services.
**Oh, and did I mention that I had spilled a little of my beverage on my sweater? I did. Near my one of my bosoms no less.
***Just kidding, I’ll never dress like that! I’d wear a muumuu to the boys’ parent teacher meetings before I wear a WtP t-shirt! Gag!

Tasty is in the Eye of the Cheeseholder

2007-06-19T18:25:00.000-07:00

Not a Chula Vista Cheese Sandwich, but damn close

In case you haven't already heard, the big news in the Times of Los Angeles, California yesterday was this important piece about the poor, taste-deprived children who had to get cheese sandwiches as their school lunches when their miscreant parents didn't pay up on their school lunch debts (these unfortunate urchins will heretofore be referred to as The Cheese Sandwich Kids™).

Apparently, this has been a very effective form of reducing school lunch debt, because in addition to the whole wheat bread and slice of cheese, The Cheese Sandwich Kids™ are being served up a hefty side of shame with their sandwiches. The article reads,

One Chula Vista third-grader, whose mother requested that the girl not be identified, said students sometimes ostracize The Cheese Sandwich Kids™, switching tables and talking behind their backs."Some kids say they're not the kind of kids you want to hang out with," she said.

That last quote slays me: "Some kids say [The Cheese Sandwich Kids™] are not the kind of kids you want to hang out with." Oh. My. Lord. Yes, that is every mother's nightmare—one day having her child come home with one of them there cheese-sandwich-munching twerps. Imagine, if you will, the following conversation:

[Junior has just come home from school to see his/her mother standing, apron-clad with a few words of wisdom after hearing about the whole Cheese Sandwich Kids™ situation at school ]

Mother: Now Junior, if I ever catch you with one of those Cheese Sandwich Kids™, you're going to get a bottom paddling like you've never experienced before. I raised you to be better than that. You better only be hanging with the Hot Lunch Kids®, or Tasty Sack Lunch Children™.

Junior: Awwww, gee Mom, piss off.

[Junior defiantly shoves seven slices of pasteurized process American cheese food into gaping cakehole]

I hope and pray to the sweet food Lord in Heaven that in the ten years I've been a mother, I've taught Cody and Colton enough core values that they won't be running around with those mangy Cheese Sandwich Kids™. Because if they did, let me tell you, there would be hell to pay! [pounds fist hard on computer keys]

Seriously though folks, what did you get in your lunches when you were a kid? Guess what I got in my brown paper sack a lot of times? Yes, you are correct, a cheese sandwich. I was just grateful not to get a butter sandwich.*

Oddly enough, when I ate my cheese sandwich I was not ostracized; I was not heckled in the playyard by children who ate higher up on the school lunch food chain. Granted, pretty much everyone I went to school with was middle-class or downright poor. No, wait, maybe it wasn't because of our social class that we had cheese sandwich lunches, maybe it was because back then our schools and our parents didn't cater much to our tiny taste buds. A good lunch day for me was when I got a bag of Doritos or a Twinkie, and that didn't happen all too often.

So this whole situation leaves me begging answers to these questions:

• When did kids get so spoiled?
• When did it become abuse to provide a free lunch to a child?
• And why, ever since I read this article, am I craving nothing less than a homemade cheese sandwich?

I need answers, people.

*Kids who get butter sandwiches roll with a set referred to as The Buttercream Gang™. The Cheese Sandwich Kids™ have been rumored to be a splinter group of The Buttercream Gang™.

A thought. Love, Upton Sinclair

2007-04-03T13:56:00.000-07:00

"I am not a giant physically; I shrink from pain and filth and vermin and foul air, like any other man of refinement; also, I freely admit that when I see a line of a hundred policeman with drawn revolvers flung across a street to keep anyone from coming on to private property to hear my feeble voice. But I have a conscience and a religious faith, and I know that our liberties were not won without suffering, and may be lost again through our cowardice."

Don't

2007-03-26T14:06:00.000-07:00

Don't let your blog die, Charisey. Please don't!

So,

2007-03-12T18:48:00.001-07:00

I've decided to take my work back underground--to keep it from falling into the wrong hands.

Seriously this time.

Anyone care to join me?

A Highlight of My Day

2007-02-01T16:49:00.000-08:00

Watching this interview:

Best interview ever!

I love that they aren't taking their charges seriously. I love that the press was so frustrated that they weren't getting the story they wanted. I love that humor seems to be prevailing in this situation. I love that Cartoon Network is going to get their money's worth and then some out of this advertising campaign.

I've never laughed out loud while watching a press conference, but I did today and for that I thank you, Mr. Stevens and Mr. Berdovsky.

Bleeding Gums Hussy

2007-01-30T18:04:00.000-08:00

Today I took the day off of work to get some things done, including a visit to the dentist. Now, I'm not one of those sniveling ninnies who cringes at the thought of sitting down in what some view as their local plastic covered G'itmo. It's not that I love going to the dentist, because I don't—but I do enjoy knowing that I am doing my part in keeping this world a little more periodontally correct.

I've only been seeing my dentist for the three years that I have been living here in So Cal, and he seems nice enough. He's a church man, which means God is holding Dr. So Cal's hand while he scrapes the plaque off my pearly whites. However, I was a little disappointed the first time I went to see Dr. So Cal and he informed me that he didn't give his patients nitrous oxide when performing more extensive dental tasks. I actually looked forward to getting cavities specifically because I knew I would get a hit of the nitrous while the little suckers were being filled. Alas, my legal high is not to be found with Dr. So Cal...but, today I did get a little emotional low from him.

Initially, I had gone in because of a sore back molar, which I assumed was probably a cavity, as I am quite fond of sucking on C&H sugar cubes throughout the day—you know, to make the workday a little sweeter. I jest. I don't really cube-suck like a well-behaved Equus caballus, but I do enjoy the casual sweet and/or soda. Combine the sweets and soda with what I believe to be less-than-substantial enamel, not to mention wimpy dentin, and you get cavities, right? Wrong, Motherhussy. Oh so wrong.

Dr. So Cal got out his most favorite dentist utensil, the one with the curved metal hook that sort of looks like a miniature scythe, and proceeded to push and poke at my teeth and gums while I writhed and attempted mumbled responses to his questions of, "Is this sensitive? How about this?" Well, by damnit! My gums were more sensitive than my teeth. That's when Dr. S. C. dropped the bomb on me.

"Well, it seems to me you are a little bit of a gum receding gal," he said while setting down his mini scythe.

I was shocked. Whaaaaaaa? A "gum receding gal?" Aren't those the kind of gals you see on Fox's hit series COPS? The kind of gals that are usually missing most of their teeth and peddle their toothless wares to undercover vices? Receding gum gals are the kind of gals that are often seen on COPS running away pantsless from the camera, not gals that run a household and work a full-time job--not the kind of gal like me! Not me.

Alas, I faced the truth, as it does seem that my periodontals need extra attention. Apparently I'm brushing too hard. Isn't that the damndest thing? Brushing too hard. I thought that the harder you brushed, the cleaner your teeth got and the closer you got to Heaven—not the harder you brushed the more crack-whoreish your gums got. Well, just so you don't all worry, Dr. So Cal said that my periodontal regression isn't so bad that a little extra care and a special (non-whore) mouthwash wouldn't help my gums from giving me any additional grief. So, although it may have been somewhat of a mild ego slap, I know that I will be a better person for confronting my sensitive gum issues.

With that said, who knows a dentist in the Southern California area that isn't stingy with the nitrous? As long as I’m hepped up, it won’t matter what the dentist says about my mouth. I’ll just smile and drool.

this is what passes for fun on blogs nowadays

2007-01-30T17:24:00.000-08:00

Meme time. Go to your music player of choice and put it on shuffle. Say the following questions aloud, and press play. Use the song title as the answer to the question. NO CHEATING.

How does the world see you?
"Blood Sport" by Killing Joke
(Obviously the world sees me as a threat.)

Will I have a happy life?"
"Wouldn’t You Miss Me" by Syd Barrett
(That makes no flipping sense, so I won’t have a happy life if it continues to be this confusing.)

What do my friends really think of me?
"The Unknown Soldier" by The Doors
(Either this is a stupid, meaningless game, or my friends see me as a mysterious dead Vietnam vet. )

How can I make myself happy?
"Ring of Fire" by Johnny Cash
(Oh, jump into a fire pit, er, ring of fire—that will make me happy! Burning happy.)

What should I do with my life?
"A Thousand Hours" by The Cure
(Whatever it is I should do with my life is going to take a thousand hours, or more.)

Will I ever have children?
"Bedtime" by Usher
(Well, we all know that I already have children. What you didn’t know was that I have major musical suckery by the name of Usher in my iTunes.)

What is some good advice for me?
"Let it Go" by Etro Anime
(Very, very sage advice.)

How will I be remembered?
"Little by Little" by Groove Armada
(So the world will remember my greatness, little by little--what little there is to remember.)

What is my signature dancing song?
"When the Music’s Over" by The Doors
(Yeah! That’s a pretty awesome answer oh-mighty-future-telling random iTunes)

What do I think my current theme song is?
"My Way" by Usher
(I think my iTunes is hell bent on embarrassing me, playing Usher TWICE and all. I hang my head in shame. However, "My Way" may just be a good answer.)

What does everyone else think my current theme song is?
"Ocean Breathes Salty" by Modest Mouse
(It’s because I live by the Ocean, isn’t it everyone? Isn’t it?.)

What song will play at my funeral?
"Sunday (The Day Before My Birthday)" by Moby
(It’s settled then, I’m dying on a Sunday…the day before my birthday. I just hope it’s the Sunday before my 109th birthday.)

What is my day going to be like?
"The Red Pill" by The Crystal Method
(You take the blue pill and the story ends. You wake in your bed and you believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill and you stay in Wonderland, and I show you how deep the rabbit-hole goes.)

Sweet Childs of Mine

2007-01-16T20:04:00.000-08:00

Cody and Colton got iPod Shuffles for Christmas along with a spanking new iTunes giftcard, so guess what we did tonight--that's right, we downloaded some tunes. I tried to steer their musical tastes in a certain direction, but by golly!--those kids are determined to have their own taste in music. The following songs were downloaded to my iTunes (in no particular order):

"Highwayman" Highwaymen
"Desperados Waiting for a Train" Highwaymen
"Somebody Kill Me" Steven Lynch
"Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)" Big & Rich
"Sweet Child O' Mine" Guns N' Roses
"Welcome to the Jungle" Guns N' Roses
"Paradise City" Guns N' Roses
"A Little Less Conversation (JXL Remix)" Elvis

Sigh. It's not that I'm so concerned for Cody and Colton's musical well-being, they have time to wise up, what I'm really worried about is how Big & Rich is going to get along with Moby, Morrissey, Etro Anime, and friends. I imagine that all the rough and tumble music (ie: Guns N' Roses, Steven Lynch) will find a cozy, wood-floors-covered-in-peanut-shells room in my iTunes where they can all sit around and get wasted while Hooters waitresses serve them hot wings. That would be great. It is also my hope that Jamiroquai, Groove Armada, Zero 7, and the good folks at Naked Music NYC find a cushy circular velvet couch that they can all sit on and drink martinis. I just want everyone to have a good time, despite their differences.

Filler

2007-01-07T17:23:00.000-08:00

This blog intentionally left blank

Tres

2007-01-05T13:49:00.000-08:00

My sister-in-law had to go and out-womb me by having THREE babies in one day.

The Triplets

They're so cute that my heart has now officially melted and is running down my left pant leg. It's my melted heart, I swear!

while they are away

2006-12-29T17:26:00.000-08:00

Nick called me this morning to tell me she had a rare Cody and Colton "sighting" today. Apparently Grizzly let the boys loose for a day to see relatives from the other side. No, not dead relatives, my relatives--Mom, Aunt, Uncle, and cousins to be exact.

Nick informed me that when she happened upon my small children they, along with their eight-year-old cousin, were pretending to be ghetto gangsta' thugs. They were walking the walk, talking the talk, and even offered to sell her some "crack cocaine".

Seriously. They tried to sell her crack cocaine. Imaginary crack cocaine, but nonetheless *illegal, **addictive, and ****deadly.

I'm not too worried about this behavior because I know the real reason they play this way is because they're practicing for future star roles in ABC's After School Specials.

Nope, not worried at all.....

...*****except it did worry me when Nick showed noticable disappointment after learning the boys weren't really going to sell her some crack cocaine.

*Imaginary crack cocaine has not been proven to be addictive

**Imaginary crack cocaine is not illegal in 49 states (I'm pretty sure it's illegal in Utah)

***Nobody is known to have died from an imaginary crack cocaine overdose

*****No disappointment occurred

The Sog of it All

2006-12-21T19:11:00.000-08:00

know what i love?

2006-12-21T17:34:00.000-08:00

When my children create loathsome messes in the kitchen, for instance soggy bowls of breakfast cereal, and then ask me, "Mom, what are you going to do with those bowls? They're disgusting, they need to be out of the house."

I love that.

Just So Everyone Knows

2006-12-19T20:08:00.000-08:00

I know that last post seemed a little, shall we say, melancholy. However, I do enjoy Christmas. I love Christmas! In fact, if I could marry Christmas, sleep with it, and bear its children, then I would. I love all its piny, frosting-coated, twinkle-lighted, gift-wrapped, credit-charged, bread-stuffinged, holiday caroling, television-specialty goodness.

Just so you know.

P.S. Does the absence of a Christmas tree in my house make me the Anti-Christ(mas)? I mean, Jesus Christo didn't hang on a pine, did he? He wasn't birthed under the scented bows of a Pinus monticola, was he? Do pines even grow in the Holy Land? Point is, I forget the symbolism behind the tree, and I don't really care enough to Google it, so I opted for giant poinsettias instead. They're festive as fu**!

27 and Counting

2006-12-13T19:42:00.000-08:00

There's something about the closing of a year that brings awareness to my personal progression and ultimate aging. Maybe it's the long nights that take with them my summertime energy, or maybe it's just the new lines I see under my eyes, but melancholy has seemed to follow me from my first sip of coffee until the time I pull the down blanket under my chin.

I equate loss of youth with increased responsibility. Or maybe it's loss of freedom that comes along with the increase in responsibility. Funny thing, responsibility. I've wanted it since the time I was young, whether it be in the form of a driver's license or a place of my own. I work for it, I dream of it, I spend my money on it--but when I acquire that responsibility that I so thought I wanted, I feel like I lose something. Something. I'm not sure exactly what it is I lose. Maybe just a touch of freedom?

Maybe it's Christmas. Maybe it's the feeling of being responsible for the happiness of another, or just being responsible for giving in general. I am responsible for putting up the tree, wrapping gifts, baking cookies. I enjoy doing all of those things, yet the rebellious youth in me wants to reject all of that and leave until the festivities are over. The transition from believing in Santa to being Santa comes quickly, and all of the sudden you are in charge.

In charge of Christmas. I am in charge of Christmas. I am in charge of creating tradition and warmth and cinnamon-scented memories. I am in charge and responsible for all of this--it seems so anticlimactic knowing all the secrets. Knowing that Santa isn't real, that the beard is cotton and the carrots were bitten off not by a reindeer, but by an adult. An adult with responsibilities.

I DECLARE TODAY ART *SUNDAY

2006-12-03T18:32:00.000-08:00

Yellow Pairs, Nichole (2006)

Phat Apple, Charise (2006)

Meltdown in Red, Cody (2006)

Green Pairs, Charise (2006)

Grandtastic Grapes, Colton (2006)

Cherries Baby, Jez (2006)

*Subject to change...

untitled

2006-12-03T15:41:00.000-08:00

Growing up is...(a clarification)

2006-11-26T16:37:00.000-08:00

...buying your Thanksgiving turkey pre-cooked because you're too much of a wussy to put your hands in the business end of a turkey to pull it's neck and innards out of its a**.

Growing up is...

2006-11-23T13:09:00.000-08:00

...buying your Thanksgiving dinner from the grocery store because your mommy isn't around to cook it from scratch for you.

Happy TG All...!

It Was All A Dream (a Blogette)

2006-11-16T16:50:00.000-08:00

I came home from work early today as I was beginning to feel the plague coming on. Er, I mean, possibly the flu.

Anyhizzle, I took some of them there fancy Alka-Seltzer cold tabs in a cup of OJ and nestled in for a couple hours of dreamtime.

I woke up about 30 minutes ago, and one of the main points in my nappie-time dreaming I remember is that my Dad became a DJ. His DJ name:

DJ Bengay

Methinks I've been listening to way, way too much techno.

Before I Get Stoned on 6 Ft. Under...

2006-11-06T21:51:00.000-08:00

I just wanted to pimp the perks of donating blood:

1. Why sweat off a pint of sweat on the treadmill when you can bleed a pint of blood while lounging on a plastic coated chaise?

2. When you give blood, you get a high without drugs! Yay for natural highs!

3. All the free Cheetos and juice your crazy heart desires!

4. You can imagine that you're living in the 1800's and you're not donating blood, you're ridding yourself of evil spirits and airborne toxins!

5. Did I mention you lose a pint without having to move a muscle?

6. Engorged self-righteousness. I mean, seriously, I just gave my blood for *no reason at all to some person(s) of which I will never know. It doesn't get much more charitable than that, now does it?

7. In addition to the free Cheetos and juice, I got a free coupon for a pint of ice cream at Baskin-Robins. I would bleed myself 24 hours a day seven days a week for a free pint of ice cream!

8. In addition to imagining #4 above, I can pretend like I'm a dark, thick-eyeliner-wearing sadomasochist that enjoys bleeding just because it hurts. Deep.

9. You get to help someone in need.

*I guess Cheetos and juice is a reason, but whatever.

My Drug of Choice

2006-11-05T21:22:00.000-08:00

For any of you that know me, really know me, you are well aware of the fact that I enjoy shopping for clothes. Hmmm, maybe "enjoy" is an understatement. Let me rephrase that: I enjoy shopping for clothes like an old virgin guy would enjoy a one-night stand with a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader. Did that get the point across, or just repulse you, the readers? Okay, what I'm trying to get across is that I love shopping for clothes, and then wearing the clothes that I've shopped for.

Here's the thing:

For those of you who have only met me since I've been married, well, the above statement may have come as a shock to you. (I'm referring to the part about me loving to shop, not the part about the lonesome guy enjoying a bang from a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader. That's a shock to no one, I'm sure). See, that sad thing is, since my marriage to a money-conscious CPA, I've become what can only be referred to as "consumer-ly retentive". Maybe a more politically correct term would be “shopping-ly challenged”. So now, if I get loose enough to drop some dough, I have to conjure up explanations for my spending that will pass AICPA auditing standards. In addition to frequent shopping audits, I have two more obstacles in the way of me and a pleasurable shopping experience…

Cody and Colton.

From about age two to six, I had four blissful years when Cody and Colton would come along and shop with me. Not only would they shop with me, they would offer fashion advice about what I was trying on. Comments like, “Mom, that makes your butt look lumpy,” or “That’s pretty.” And really, that’s all any woman needs to know when she’s shopping, whether she looks lumpy or pretty. Yes, Cody and Colton were my own little Carson Kressleys. Then one day it all changed.

One day, Cody and Colton decided they hated shopping. Cody and Colton now hate shopping almost as much as I hate those spoiled little bitches on My Super Sweet Sixteen. If I channeled my hate for those children into something productive, there would be no world starvation. Yes, I hate those kids that bad.

Since Cody and Colton have a newfound hate of shopping, anytime I want to go I either have to do it without them, which never happens, or endure ten minutes of Inferno-grade whaling. I say ten minutes because that is the maximum amount of time I can spend in a clothing store with them before they start behaving as if they are ridden with the plague. That’s about enough time for me to find a pair of shoes and put one of them half-way on my foot. But I recently figured out a way to change all of that. I figured out a way to win when it comes to my shopping challenges, here it is:

I enter a store with Cody and Colton (who have just by entering a clothing store already begun the process of mentally melting), find all the clothes I want to try on…and get this—instead of trying on all the clothes, I BUY THEM! Yes, I buy them all without trying them on. Insane, isn't it? Yesterday I bought almost $400.00 worth.

I know what you’re all thinking, you’re all thinking, “But Charise, this shopping madness isn’t going to fly in the face of Mr. Dollars and Cents CPA Guy!” I know that. Here’s the part where it gets good. I take all the clothes home, try them on while Cody and Colton are stewing their brains with video games, and then whatever makes my butt look lumpy—I return! That way, Mr. Dollars and Cents CPA Guy gets mad only for a second when he sees the money go out of the bank account, but shortly after, most of the money comes back home and his blood pressure returns to normal.

I’m a genius, aren’t I? The sales people don’t really like me much anymore though. You should see their faces when I come back the next day to return eight pairs of jeans. When I tell them that I just didn’t like the clothes, they look at me as if I had just told them that I had tainted every article of clothing with the hanta virus and any moment we're all going to die...or something. Doesn’t matter because in then end, I win. I get my clothes, the boys don’t have to suffer burning purgatory, and Mr. Dollars and Cents CPA Guy doesn’t feel so financially reamed.

My only worry now is, what happens when the day comes that I buy a sick amount of clothes, bring them home, and love them all?

What happens then?

What happens then?

Brain Calisthenics--Bear With Me

2006-11-01T14:41:00.000-08:00

The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog. The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy log. The quick brown fox jogged over the loopy frog. The quick brown box shipped itself some grog. The quick, tasty lox removed itself from God. The blah, blah, blah, blahed over the lazy fox. Whoever said that Southern California doesn't get seasons wasn't walking with me last night. As I was taking the boys home from trick-or-treating I walked past a house that was littered in piles of dried leaves. I kicked them around, forgetting for a moment that I was in California, remembering fall in Utah. The smell of dried leaves was the scent of innocence. A time when the word "busy" or "stress" were only words on fiber commercials that came on in between morning cartoons. The leaves were small pieces of artwork, designed by temperature changes and shorter days. Speaking of, doesn't the day when fall falls back seem to last forever? I felt so rested and refreshed the next morning, but that only lasted a day. It took me only 24 hours to feel busy and stressed again. Normal. I don't like normal. I haven't wanted to write lately because I sit with my face staring at a computer screen all day. Why stare at a screen all day, then come home and stare at a screen even longer? Yes, I know, it's all for the sake of creativity. Well, my creativity is in my brain right now. Stewing, marinating, fermenting. I'm sure eventually something artistic will manifest itself. No guarantees though. The quick brown fox needs to take a shower.

"Hi... my name is Motherhussy..."

2006-10-25T11:24:00.000-07:00

(thought you needed some help with your blog....)

So what does it mean when a beautiful, young, clever mother of two bright and comedic boys, living in California and who has just over the weekend entertained her brother, his wife and their two adorable children.... what does it mean when she "apparently" has nothing to blog about? Is she just ignoring her blogging community who have grown dependant on her witty script? Has she left us to having to resort to search for scraps of talent in the cold outer fringe of the blogworld? Answers. I want Answers.

Would you still love me if...

2006-10-17T18:48:00.000-07:00

you found out that sometimes all I make for dinner is microwave popcorn that I made you eat with a knife and fork?

Just wondering.

A New Focus

2006-10-09T19:54:00.000-07:00

I think I have found a subject which offers a wealth of infinite writing material...it is:

Gluttony in My Place of Work

Stay tuned!

Saturday Night Poem Sunday Night

2006-10-08T20:42:00.000-07:00

Death is
muffled voices
behind closed doors
duct tape
over tight lips
tip toes
across floor boards
shhhhhhhhhhh

ignored.

Clarity

2006-10-08T20:33:00.000-07:00

As I manically shoved the wadded up cash into my mouth, I thought to myself, perhaps there is a small chance I have issues when it comes to dealing with money. I didn't have much time to dwell on the thought, as I had to direct my full attention as to where I was going to spit the money out before I gagged on it.

Mystery

2006-09-29T17:03:00.000-07:00

Does anyone know who this actress is?

See If You Can Find My Name! Yay!

2006-09-25T21:31:00.000-07:00

Kewl.

Brains!

2006-09-24T20:13:00.000-07:00

For any of you that were wondering...my brain is just fine!

HUZZAH!

One for Saturday Night

2006-09-23T20:20:00.000-07:00

(written to "Panorama" by Patchwork)

wheels on blacktop travelling a never-ending road
always heading somewhere, but with no place to go
sun rises and sets, coffee brews and grows cold
eyes open every morning, waking up to grow old
lights blink, traffic hums, voices lie, t.v. re-runs
maybe you should trade-in your brain,
upgrade your thoughts
re-model your existence, write a new plot

6 v. 7

2006-09-23T11:12:00.000-07:00

Colton has been assigned to give a talk in Primary, the topic: "My Favorite of the Ten Commandments." Personally, I find this subject challenging—as I don’t have a favorite. I hate them all. But Colton on the other hand was quick to answer that his favorite of the Ten Commandments is Commandment #6: Thou shalt not kill. When I asked him why that was his favorite he responded:

"Well, if I had a choice between Thou shalt not kill and Thou shalt not commit adultery (Commandment VII), I would commit adultery before I would kill anyone."

Me too Colton, me too.

When I Grow Up I Want to be a Renegade Artist

2006-09-19T20:47:00.000-07:00

I peeled this beauty off of a stop sign on my walk last night....I heart it HARD! If anyone knows who it belongs to, please let me know. I would like to buy the artist a drink.

Today

2006-09-19T20:05:00.000-07:00

While riding home from school today, we passed by a tired-looking woman waiting for the bus. Next to the woman was a Nordstrom bag full of what I'm pretty sure were non-Nordstrom items. The boys stared for a moment, then Colton commented, "Now those are two things you don't see together very often."

"What are?" I asked, focusing only on the red light in front of me.

"Nordstrom bags and bus stops."

"Hmm, you're right," I agreed. He was right; normally the only bags I see hanging around the bus stop are brown paper ones--and lady ones.

"You know what else doesn't go together very well?" Colton quizzed.

"What?"

"Chinese food and pudding."

How I managed to raise such an insightful young lad on only a public school education, I'll never know. I'm just glad I did, because now I know what not to serve for dinner tonight. Bags.

Just a Saturday Night Nothing

2006-09-16T21:09:00.000-07:00

Mamma's free spirit
was locked up in chains
Daddy's free spirit
was pushed underground
Baby's free spirit
well,
it's somewhere around

It's hanging on by a thread
but lost in a mire
it's losing its breath
in some saint's dying pyre

Goodbye long summers
afternoons watching planes
dreaming of nothing
but what you'll do the next day
it's all a dream, all a thought
letting go of the things
you initially sought

Excited to be Melancholy

2006-09-12T19:50:00.000-07:00

Don’t talk to me about Christmas
All it is is wrapping paper vomit
pine-scented dysfunction
carols for the Joneses

Don’t want your designer garbage
Market it with a “C”
Put it in the oven
For Jesus Christ and me

I want an IV of chai tea
A brulee of dried leaves
Bob Dylan and Morrissey
Just give me Fall, please

"Look! Brains!"

2006-09-12T18:30:00.000-07:00

Since my grey matter feels like a bowl of stale grits today, I've decided to pimp my cousin's blog. Not that she needs pimping, because she's pretty much SLC's literary answer to Heidi Fleiss, nevertheless, I want to pimp her to all ya'll:

My Kick Ass Cousin

It's a funny read, and we all enjoy funny reads--don't we?

07:03 AM. On a Friday. Lomita, CA

2006-09-09T11:12:00.000-07:00

On my way to work (yesterday) I was starving and decided to stop by Jay's Donuts for a tasty morning treat. I pulled into the crowded parking lot, eager to meet my soon-to-be-consumed baked good. The air was so thick with sugar that I took in a deep breath and exhaled cotton candy. I purchased my tasty treat, along with a cup of hot, cheap joe (I'm talking about coffee, not a gay prostitute). With items in hand, I started walking briskly towards my chariot. Unfortunately, my sweet jaunt was quickly interrupted when the ground gave way under my heels and I was assaulted by a blanket of blacktop. It all happened so fast, yet it seemed to also be in slow motion. I lurched forward, with both hands and a knee breaking my fall. The palms of my hands and my right knee were skinned up pretty good, but somehow my left leg wasn't hurt at all. I figure it must have separated from my body during the fall, and returned to its rightful place after the danger had passed. Smart thinking left leg!

Sadly, my coffee, once held tenderly in my hand, went spilling to the ground as I fell victim to gravity's evil scheme. The donut went crashing down almost simultaneously, and landed in the puddle of what was to be my morning buzz. I sat stunned; I don't fall! I'm too old to fall, I thought—only children fall. Soon the reality set in as I realized a handful of old gentlemen had stopped talking about the price of pork to ask me, "Are you okay?" I answered, "Yes," but in all honesty it took a lot to keep the tears in. I pulled the pile of my body up, grabbed the empty cup of joe and soggy donut, and walked to the trash can to throw away the tasty fallen soldiers.

In case you're wondering, I did not return to the shop for a replacement donut and cup of coffee. For one, I was much too proud (and embarrassed) to show my tear-filled eyes to the stunned (holding in laughter) crowd. Secondly, I figured that the fall was karma's way of telling me, "You shouldn't be eating a fecking donut for breakfast—oatmeal is much healthier!" I agree with karma; however, there are no oatmeal shops on my way to work.

Question

2006-09-07T22:09:00.000-07:00

Do you think it's strange that the doctor I saw tonight for my migraines gave me his cell phone number? Maybe he's just a great doctor, and I haven't seen a great doctor for SO long that I just didn't realize that great doctors give their cell phone numbers out.

Anywhoo, just wondering. I think I may call him up tonight for a little chatty chat, what with DH out of town and all.

Drumroll Please...

2006-09-06T21:58:00.000-07:00

The book the boys had to read was Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing by Judy Blume. See the correlation? My kids are in fourth grade, the book is about a boy who is in fourth grade.

So deep.

Absinthe all around!

Blog Stew

2006-09-05T19:38:00.000-07:00

Obviously I've been out of the bloop lately, so I want to present to you all a quick casserole of what's been going on in my life--get you up to speed so I can get back in the regular groove of day to day postings. I'm going to go in order from present to past:

*I'm sitting at the computer. They boys are working on their projects for the FIRST DAY OF FOURTH GRADE tomorrow...guess what book they read for the subject of their project? I'll give you a limited edition bottle of my own home-distilled absinthe if you can guess correctly. [Please submit guesses in comments section of this blog]

*I sat at work for too many hours. I think my butt my be turning from a circle to a square. I do squats while I brush my teeth, I think that may help counter the square-butt situation.

*I spent the weekend in a baby opium den. Me, Michele, Suzy, and Nichole laid around Nichole's house taking deep drags off of Teague for hours until we passed out. One night, I tweeked on Teague so hard that I passed out at about 2 a.m. I still feel the sweet hangover only an infant can give. I'm craving more, more, more! [picture Motherhussy twitching and looking around nervously for her next baby hit]

*Obviously, Cody and Colton returned from their lives of redneckedness to their lives of beaching and hummus. I had to re-teach the boys their grammar. Colton came home saying, "You know what? I really like them Mustang GTs." Fingernails on a chalkboard would have been sweet, sweet music compared to that grammatical bullshit. Now, I'm no grammar rodeo queen, but even I know "them Mustang GTs" is incorrect grammar. Incorrect on so many levels.

*I got a new job working for the City of Snoop Dogg (Long Beach, CA). I quit my favorite job working for my favorite Pastor that works for GOD. But before I could do that, I helped orchestrate a wedding. There are oh-so-many stories I can tell about that one. One story: "Charise Forgets to Make a Copy of the Wedding Certificate--Havoc Ensues." I miss working at the church. I miss the scary attic that makes bumping sounds, I miss the smell of the courtyard, I miss taking walks to the Pier with Katherine, I miss Catalina Coffeehouse "my kingdom for a cup of coffee" chat, I miss feeling like I'm doing something really worthwhile. I miss feeling awake.

Well, I think that about brings everything up to speed. Did someone say speed? Baby speed? Give me a hit of that chubby shit!

Love you all,

Motherhussy

I Think I May Need to Begin Soul Searching--Not Soul Patrol Searching

2006-08-26T16:02:00.000-07:00

Tonight I'm going to American Idol Live.

I know, I don't even recognize myself when I look in the mirror.

Q&A

2006-08-25T20:31:00.000-07:00

Q: Why didn't the Deseret alphabet last as long as polygamy?

A: Because...

PS: HAPPY BIRTHDAY ICM!

And They Called the Baby "Teague"

2006-08-19T17:36:00.000-07:00

So, in my earlier post I mentioned that Jez was having her baby. Well, guess what folks? Jez had her baby! She was in labor for almost 24 hours (that’s what I call a glutton for punishment). After laboring almost 24 hours, I would have expected her baby to be at least 17 lbs 13 oz with a head the size of a 12" loquat, but instead Teague decided that he would defy nature and be born at the a-god-damn-dorable size of 5 lbs, 7 oz*. This was all around 3:42 a.m. I was there, via cell phone.

Right now I’m pathetically dining on my heart (picture me wielding KFC sporks), knowing that Suzy and Michele are in Utah holding the newborn god. Alas, I will have to wait until…get this LABOR DAY WEEKEND to see Teague in person. Until then, just had to tell Nick,

Congratulations New Mommy!

*Jowel Alert! The pictures I have seen so far show that no baby jowels have formed on Teague yet. I’ll keep everyone posted if there are any new jowelvelopments.

A Little Early...Nonetheless...

2006-08-18T08:13:00.000-07:00

Jez is having her baby! Jez is having her baby!

I want to get in my car, abandon my freshly arrived kids, and drive 10 hours to see her. I can't though, my hands are tied--seriously, my hands are tied. Cody and Colton* have me bound with strong cord until I tell them where I hid all their college savings.

Did I mention Nick is HAVING HER BABY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

*There was an extra "and Colton" here, but thanks to ICMs sarcastic eye, I had one of my Coltons removed. Not to worry, the removal went smoothly and they gave me some good painkillers. Two Coltons is one Colton too many.

Tonight, I Fell In Love With Ferlinghetti

2006-08-14T20:07:00.000-07:00

Wild Dreams of a New Beginning
Lawrence Ferlinghetti

There's a breathless hush on the freeway tonight

Beyond the ledges of concrete

restaurants fall into dreams

with candlelight couples

Lost Alexandria still burns

in a billion lightbulbs

Lives cross lives

idling at stoplights

Beyond the cloverleaf turnoffs

'Souls eat souls in the general emptiness'

A piano concerto comes out a kitchen window

A yogi speaks at Ojai

'It's all taking pace in one mind'

On the lawn among the trees

lovers are listening

for the master to tell them they are one

with the universe

Eyes smell flowers and become them

There's a deathless hush

on the freeway tonight

as a Pacific tidal wave a mile high

sweeps in

Los Angeles breathes its last gas

and sinks into the sea like the Titanic all lights lit

Nine minutes later Willa Cather's Nebraska

sinks with it

The sea comes over in Utah

Mormon tabernacles washed away like barnacles

Coyotes are confounded & swim nowhere

An orchestra onstage in Omaha

keeps on playing Handel's Water Music

Horns fill with water

ans bass players float away on their instruments

clutching them like lovers horizontal

Chicago's Loop becomes a rollercoaster

Skyscrapers filled like water glasses

Great Lakes mixed with Buddhist brine

Great Books watered down in Evanston

Milwaukee beer topped with sea foam

Beau Fleuve of Buffalo suddenly become salt

Manhatten Island swept clean in sixteen seconds

buried masts of Amsterdam arise

as the great wave sweeps on Eastward

to wash away over-age Camembert Europe

manhatta steaming in sea-vines

the washed land awakes again to wilderness

the only sound a vast thrumming of crickets

a cry of seabirds high over

in empty eternity

as the Hudson retakes its thickets

and Indians reclaim their canoes

Frequent Flyer Miles (For Cody and Colton, of course)

2006-08-12T11:10:00.000-07:00

Frequent flyer babies
Coming and going
But never really
Home

Round trip children
Non-stop flight
Feelings come and
Go

Check-in, check out
Claim your baggage
Before you leave
Please

Always missing
Always missed
Before you leave
Hug; kiss

One day, maybe
Your frequent flights
Will finally bring you
Home

Too Good Not to Pimp

2006-08-10T18:43:00.000-07:00

Dear Readers,

For a delightful sight that is sure to warm the cockles of any meat lover's (or lacto vegetarian's) heart, please log on to:

http://purejackassery.blogspot.com/
EOT.

I Like Me

2006-08-08T20:33:00.000-07:00

Random thing that made me happy today:

Volunteering to take a giddy couple's picture at the beach today after noticing they were twisting and writhing in the ever-akward "let's take the picture ourselves" pose.

Score one for Charise's karma.

On the Way Home

2006-08-08T20:30:00.000-07:00

It’s ironic that Nick posted what she posted today, because I was thinking about similar things.

I was thinking about some of cases I have seen while working in a prosecutorial environment. Bad things. Sad things. Flat out make-you-sick-at-humanity things. At first when you come across this kind of information, you’re shocked. Then you become intrigued and start to wonder what made these people behave the way they did. You try reading true crime stories, to get more informed. You keep posted on the news to see if anything new has slipped out of the perp’s mouth that will bring clarification to the sickness. You flip through the psychiatric analysis looking for clues.

So much information but no real, solid answers to the real questions: Why do bad things happen? Why do sad things happen? Why do make-you-sick-at-humanity things happen?

I grew up believing that bad things happened to you if you sinned. Well, at this stage in life—I know that’s not true. Nobody should teach that type of lie. Psychologists tell us a lot of reasons for why bad things happen but they’re just scientific excuses.

I’ve finally come to my own personal conclusion as to why humans do horrible things. Drumroll please…

They just do, and we’ll never really know why.

At least that’s what I’m going to tell my children when they come to me with the same questions. It’s the best I can do.

To Add to the Horror

2006-08-06T16:11:00.000-07:00

Just when I get over the whole Pimp Juice shocker, I get a call from the boys today in which they inform me how much fun they had at their friend D’s house last night. I asked them what was so much fun and apparently, in addition to playing on the Slip n’ Slide, they took turns aiming beebee guns at each other to see who had the best aim.

“Don’t worry Mom,” Cody explained, “we made sure to only shoot at each others backs so it wouldn’t hurt as bad.”

It’s taking so much restraint on my part keeping myself from jumping in the car, driving all night to Utah, so I can *shake the redneck out of the boys as fast as I can before it permanently sets in.

As soon as they get home, I’m putting them on a strict diet of organic fruits & veggies, hummus, whole grains, NPR, and play dates without weapons. It’s their only hope.

*The medical term for this is Shaken Redneck Syndrome

The Raisin Conspiracy--A Guest Blog

2006-08-04T15:15:00.000-07:00

I know what this business with the raisins is all about. When you think about it, it makes perfect sense. It's a dastardly conspiracy that reaches up to the highest levels of the United States government. The FBI is in on it, certainly, but it looks as though the CHP has been left out of the loop. Hence the conflicting orders.

What am I talking about, you ask? This.

It's all a plot to get those damnable monstrosities from the 80's back into the American heart and mind! This truck driver was carting a load of genetically engineered raisins to a secret warehouse in San Ysidro where they were to go through some highly advanced chemical processes through which raisins are brought to life—Claymation style! Then they will wreak havoc by twiddling their fingers and singing tired old 60's soul songs. It will cause mass hysteria! I'm not sure why our government wants to do this, but I think it has something to do with the Rapture. Somehow.

Think about it. You know I'm right.

—ICM

Keep Truckin'

2006-08-02T22:30:00.000-07:00

I was going to post about a comical semi rollover that I saw on the news last night, but I can't find anything online about it. Since I don't have specific details, I'll give you the essentials--

Semi truck full of raisins rolls because the driver of the truck was running from the cops. When asked why he didn't pull over, the driver said the FBI told him not to.

A semi truck full of raisins. I've been mulling over the reasons as to why the FBI has an interest in the raisins. I have several theories, but until I get the details I need I'm going to have to remain quiet.

Yes, this is what keeps me awake at night.

M. Hussy Gets Angry

2006-07-30T22:11:00.000-07:00

I haven't posted much here about the fact that Cody and Colton have been away for most of the summer--they have. It's officially been four weeks since I left them in Utah with Grizzly Adams (a.k.a: "The Ex"). I know what you're all wondering right now, you're wondering, "Motherhussy, why did you leave your adorably jaded nine-year-olds with a shit-for-brains redneck mountain man?" Well, (sigh) he is...their father. I know, I know, I have shame. I mean seriously, this guy once had an argument with me and my sister insisting that Princess Diana didn't really die in a car wreck, she just faked her death to get away from the paparazzi. I bet he believes Elvis is still alive and is performing duets with Johnny Cash on some island in the Bermuda Triangle too. What a greasy rube.

If you haven't noticed already, I don't have a favorable opinion of ol' Grizzly. I have tried to stay away from writing about him, if only for the fact that so much ridiculously idiotic material has spewed forth from his whiskey-tainted breath that I could create a completely separate blog specifically dedicated to his jackassedness. (Yes, I just made up a word--jackassedness. No, I'm not sorry.) I just don't have the kind of time it would take to dedicate a blog to someone who thinks that Hee Haw was a reality show for up-and-coming inbreeders. Plus, I don't make a good angry person. When I'm angry, I like to say "fuck" a lot. And throw things, like forks and small rodents. So, mostly I try not to get angry. But tonight, I'm angry. I'm angry at Grizzly.

Why am I angry at Grizzly? Well, that's a good question of which I will answer simply--I'm angry at Grizzly because he is an ignorant sonofabitch. He is the kind of guy that thinks it's funny to fart in a can and give to someone else to smell. That's the level of intelligence that he operates on. For example: Last night Grizzly calls to let me speak with the boys. Everything is going along amicably with him, until he tells me that he is letting the boys drink Pimp Juice. Pimp Juice? What the hell? (For those of you retards that don't know, Pimp Juice is an energy drink created by some guy that whores out slutty crack addicts.) So he tells me the boys have each drank like FIVE of these Pimp Juices and, "It's funny to watch them. They're bouncing off of the walls." Yes, very funny. Personally, when I drink one or two of any energy drink--whether it be coffee or Red Bull or what have you, I get shaky and blink a lot. I can only imagine what it's doing to my nine-year-olds. I can imagine that he's not going to think it's very funny when they get violent and start beating on their half-brother and half-sister. It won’t be funny at all when they don’t sleep all night because they’re afraid of the spiders crawling all over them—spiders that aren’t there! Who know, maybe he will think it’s funny--knowing him he'll video tape it all and send it in to America's Dumbest Jackass Videos or something like that.

So, yes, Motherhussy is angry. She's angry that Grizzly has no regard for the health of her children. She's angry that he thinks it's funny that the boys are so wired with caffeine and whatever else that they're running in to the walls. She's angry that he doesn't realize that he's supposed to be their dad--not the head of the hazing department.

Motherhussy is angry and now Motherhussy is going to bed.

Everybody feel sorry for Motherhussy...and everybody send in $1 US to help pay for Cody and Colton's Pimp Juice rehab. I hear it’s pricey.

Beauti-Full

2006-07-25T22:05:00.000-07:00

From L to Right:

Full of Fetuses, Full of Lust, Full of Opinions, Full of Sliced Jowel, Full of Baby Boy, Full of Psychoses

Motherhussy Learns It's Hip To Be Square...or Knit a Square

2006-07-19T21:30:00.000-07:00

This blogette is for all of you who knew me in my teens, my high school years, and my early twenties. This post is for all of you who have been witness to my wild character, my reckless nature, my willful wantonness. This post is for anyone who has smoked with me, drank with me, or done psychedelics with me (I've never really done psychedelics, honest). You officially don't know me anymore. My round, rock and/or roll curves have been replaced with four pointy right angles. That's right, I think I may have just officially become a square.

It was enough to be church secretary, wasn't it? Motherhussy working for God's right-hand chick. But no, I had to go and take it to the next level tonight--by learning to...get this...knit! I blame Katherine. Katherine made me do it. She sang to me her siren song of creating neat tidy rows of interlocking yarn out of one long, bundle of acrylic spaghetti. How could I resist? Of course, always one to give in to temptation, I didn't resist. After about an hour and a half of repeating "1, 2, 3, 4" over and over in my head like a nutty waltz instructor, I had done it. I had done the deed. The result, four rows of yarnie goodness. Yes, the product is amateur. There are holes where there ought not to be holes, and there are stitches where there shouldn't be stitches--but by damnit! I knitted!

Now, will you all please excuse me while I purchase at least one crack rock to smoke? To take the edge off. I can't imagine how difficult sleeping with all these points and edges may be--and I'm not about to find out.

Lunch

2006-07-19T17:06:00.000-07:00

Trader Joe's California rolls are pretty good, despite the side of lonliness I ate them with this afternoon.

[everybody feel sorry for Motherhussy--NOW!]

Motherhussy Steals More Material from Others

2006-07-17T11:50:00.000-07:00

In honor of the new season of Project Runway, and one more television show to add to my couch-oriented OCD, I have stolen a myspace bulletin and claimed it as my own. The bulletin started out innocently enough, a few people I don’t know with some well received fashion advice. As we get lower in the bulletin you will notice that the comments get funnier. Especially the two comments I made. Best of all, ICM comments without even bulletin-ing—because he’s too good to post to the masses. I, on the other hand, will post anything to the masses regardless of taste, humor, relevance, or spelling and grammatical accuracy—that is why I’m posting his email in regards to fashion errors below the actual bulletin advice (that and lately I’ve been prone to stealing other people’s funny). Enjoy!

Socks With Sandals--------Tamara Black
socks with any kind of shorts-------Jayson
Fubu...hahahaha--------------Tyler
pleated pants...............Corey
Anything Eminem wears----------Marcy
cellphone clips on the waste.............Jen
"Git-R-Done" T-shirts-----------Justin.k
Hats with ponytails through them-------------Erin
Zoobaz work out pants----------Derrick
K-Swiss and Puka Shells--------Eric
Shirts that say "Spoiled Brat" "Princess" or "Drama Queen".....Suzy
Articles of clothing made for adults that display characters from "Winnie the Pooh"-------Charise
Also, cell phone clips on the "waste". (See Jen's comment above) I too hate when people wear things on their garbage------Charise
Jogging Pants men or women!------------Ashley
Heterosexual Men that wear pink shirts, pink accents or pink shoes/shoe laces. Heterosexual men that wear women's jeans. For all our sakes, just 'come out' already.---------------------Richard
I can't believe you guys left out the "fanny pack". Can I also add the famously bragged about "Prince Alberts". SO OUT! -----Nichole

ICM emails the following:

“I'm not going to do a bulletin, but I will tell you privately, I am far from fashion-savvy, but quite frankly, there is a lot of shit I am tired of seeing on the university campus. First of all, I am sick of seeing so many straps. This is more of a problem with the high school and young college-age crowd. Once a young woman gets into her twenties she usually figures this one out.

You know what I'm talking about? The girl with two tank tops and a bra, all different colors, all visible. That's three pairs of multi-colored straps. Incredibly tacky.

And clear bra straps are fine from far away, because you can't see them. But up close they look ridiculous.

Also: anything with the playboy bunny or Hustler logo. Skirts so short that the wearer's bare ass touches the seat when she sits down. And those little gym shorts with words across the ass.

And to go along with what you posted, add "Hello Kitty" and Barbie to Winnie the Pooh.

And for dudes: Most of the worst offenses have already been listed below, but also: stupid t-shirts about drinking and/or sex. Short-sleeved shirts with ties. Calculator watches. White socks with dress pants.

And along those lines: Fraternity and sorority members: you don't need to make a goddamn t-shirt for every little thing you do. I don't need to know--via your shirt--that you went on another "bar crawl" the weekend before last.

Finally: Anything with advertising! If you are going to be a walking billboard, you should be paid to do it. If you pay to give a company free advertising, you are a total rube.

This email was a lot longer than I meant for it to be. I guess I needed to get a few things off my chest. Feel free to put me in my place if need be, since I'm sure you kick my ass in fashion knowledgability.

Annoyedly,

ICM, fashion-critic-in-chief.”

Motherhussy Invites a Guest

2006-07-14T09:25:00.000-07:00

As many of you know, the boys have been gone for almost two weeks now. Last year during their usual summer absence, I was all a flutter with moving, gyming, beaching and all sorts of exciting ings--but so far this summer has been different. Their absence has left what I will refer to as a "need vacuum". Nobody needs me right now. To some, that may a great feeling--to me, I feel like I'm suffocating under a heavy blanket of freedom. So now, after work, instead of coming home to needs and demands from the only two people I really care to be needed and demanded by, I come home and am confused. What do I do? Should I go to the beach? Should I clean? Should I feed the homeless? Should I undergo invasive, unnecessary surgery? Should I write? Instead of doing any of those things, I just find a quiet corner to sit in, hug my knees to my chest, and visualize making sack lunches over, and over, and over.

Since my newfound, uncomfortable freedom is leaving me--shall we say, uninspired (my recent blogs are proof) I've decided to invite a guest writer. Actually, he invited himself--but I welcome the self-invitation with open arms full of freshly sliced jowls. He's a man of mystery, and imagination. A fellow of brains and pron. So, without further ado...put your hands together for my friend (and often my muse), Iron Chef Mexican!

Jowls, a pictorial essay. With words.
by Iron Chef Mexican

When I discovered that this blog was the fifth Google result for "saggy jowls," I felt moved to compose this treatise, so that we might reflect upon, ponder upon, and hope to understand the phenomenon which is the jowl.

The jowl, like the bald head, belongs to that rare class of physical characteristics that most people find adorable on infants, yet repulsive on mature adults. Observe:

Cute.

Not so cute.

See what I mean?

Many, many infants enjoy a bit of pudge on the sides of their faces. This is popularly known as "chubby cheeks." It is only when the cheeks begin to answer gravity's irresistible call, can they be known as "jowls."

This little guy's chubby cheeks are just starting to blossom into jowls.

Jerry Falwell's jowls are consecrated to the Lord.

I hope that someday, science discovers a way so that someone who gains weight can control where the fat goes. Then I could grow my own jowls. My goal is to out-jowl the guy on the right:

Major League Baseball executives Bud Selig and Bob Dupuy. Dupuy's got some serious jowlage.

The Bob Dupuy of cute little babies.

Relatively few of us know that jowl is also a tasty cut of meat. According to www.smokehouse.com, "Jowl may be fried and served just like bacon, but it's more flavorful and less expensive." It's available sliced and unsliced.

Jowel-wrapped prons—fancy!

I Know Somebody Who's Having a Birthday Today

2006-07-13T09:11:00.000-07:00

I just wanted to publicly announce that today is Katherine's birthday...and anniversary. Isn't she just the greatest multitasker the world has ever known? It's one of the many reasons she's one of my idols. Here are just a few of the other reasons she's one of my idols:

She can haul ugly, heavy pieces of furniture down scary, back-tweaking steps in a single bound!
She's a fearless lizard hunter
She wears cute shoes--mint green shoes!
She was a groundbreaking writer for a feminist magazine, writing about such feminine issues as...well, nevermind.
She has a t-shirt that says "Jesus Surfs Without a Board" (I need to get me one of those)
She likes both coffee and tea
She puts up with my often tasteless sense of humor
Her actions are consistent with her beliefs (or in other words, she practices what she preaches)
She's the only boss that, after giving my two weeks notice, I went shoe shopping with.
She's the only boss that I feel, I will always be friends with.

There are hundreds of more reasons, but before it gets to sappy I'm going to cut this blog short by saying:

Happy Birthday(Anniversary)

Katherine (& Ben)!!!

Too Sad to Title

2006-07-10T11:29:00.000-07:00

If any of you have some spare change, or a huge wad of cash lying around--maybe you could unload it here.

To paraphrase a friend, "So many kids have such shitty lives."

Wolfjam

2006-07-10T11:03:00.000-07:00

So, how come after seeing Pearl Jam, I dream of Wolfmother songs all night? Stupid inconsistent subconscious. Also, why do I feel hung over when I didn't even drink. It's not fair.

"So, I've decided to take my work back underground- to keep it from falling into the wrong hands."

2006-07-05T18:32:00.000-07:00

I'm done blogging. I'm too afraid that the FBI is archiving all my blogs, just waiting for the moment when I seize power as the Governor of California--then BAM! I will be indicted on lewdness charges for using the phrase "saggy jowls" one too many times.

Saggy jowls, saggy jowls, saggy jowls. Saggy jowls, saggy jowls, saggy jowls. Saggy jowls, saggy jowls, saggy jowls. Saggy jowls, saggy jowls, saggy jowls. Saggy jowls, saggy jowls, saggy jowls. Saggy jowls, saggy jowls, saggy jowls. Saggy jowls, saggy jowls, saggy jowls. Saggy jowls. Saggy.

Not really. I've been out of town dropping the kids off with their Utah Manny--aka: The Ex--that's why I haven't written for a few days. Sillies! I have much catching up to do, but for now, the following will have to suffice:

*Katherine is back in the office, I can't wait until she wears her pretty seafoam colored shoes again! Yeah for seafoam!
*I recently, in the past 10 minutes (6:55 P.M. PST), ate too many Twizzler Nibs ® and now I am sick to my tummy.
*I went on a hike alone and almost got eaten, I mean bit, by a large snake with colossal fangs!
*I bought expensive cheese today--why? Because there are no kids with me at the store to say, "That looks gross," while turning up their Velveeta® jaded noses at me.
*I miss the boys so much already I've concocted an elaborate kidnapping scheme to get them back home sooner than expected. I won't tell you the scheme just yet--but I will tell you it involves dairy cows and a large vat of mayonnaise.

That is all for now. Stay tuned all you wonderful summertime viewers! As Karen Carpenter would say (R.I.P), "We've only just begun."

Porn in the Puddle (Rated R-)

2006-06-27T16:21:00.000-07:00

Don’t ask me why (because then I would have to kill you), but today I was thinking about my first exposure to pornography. I know, I know, you’re all gasping, grabbing for your rosaries and thinking, “Oh my heck! Motherhussy has viewed naked people? People that are naked?” Yes, it is true. I no longer have the squeaky clean, bright round eyes of a porn virgin. [Hangs head, full of shame]

My eyes have actually been virginless for years, and in those years my filthy-for-quite-some-time eyes have witnessed all sorts of naked people parts—a Lever 2000 amount, if you will. Now, don’t misunderstand me. Just because I’ve seen porn, doesn’t mean I’ve searched it out, downloaded it onto my computer, drawn the shades, and had a “tender moment” with it—my porn viewing has been inadvertent. Party patrons with poor taste, pop-ups, Las Vegas peddlers, public library leftovers—I am but a victim of circumstance! Innocent until proven guilty, I am. Years of inadvertant porn, and to think it all began at the tender age of…oh, seven or eight years old. I remember the first day I laid my eyes on human filth, smut, erotic art, or as others may refer to it, a two-dimensional lover…

It was elementary school—Rolling Meadows circa 1986. It had been raining and I was relieved to find out that the rain had stopped by the time school was over, since I had forgotten my Holly Hobbie umbrella that day. The playground black top was wet with rain and sparkled like broken glass on charred concrete. I loved the smell the rain left; it was a mixture of damp earth and hydrated foliage—with a dash of wet fur, a virtual nature cocktail! I drank it all in. For a child, there’s no greater reward than being outside after a day of stuffy indoors. I was out, I was happy, I was innocence in action! Until it happened.

There were puddles everywhere, and like metal to a magnet my foot was drawn to those small pools of grounded rain. Splosh! I would land a foot in one puddle and savor the result, a cold explosion of upwards water. On to the next—splish!...Splash!...Splosh!...Splush!...Splush? My foot came down in a puddle, but instead of the crisp sound of foot breaking water, there was a slight sucking sound like soggy paper stuck on a shoe. It was soggy paper stuck on a shoe. My shoe. What could this paper be? I wondered to myself. I had images of a love note, accidentally discarded (how scandalous!)—or better yet—secret blueprints to the school (how exciting!). As I peeled back the paper, I was confused. The paper was a magazine page, and on it was a woman, bare naked and spread eagle. She had a look of pain on her face (at least what I thought was pain). Her hair was long and wild, but it didn’t cover her exposed breasts. Her hands were holding something, but I didn’t look long enough to find out exactly what it was. Maybe it was because the paper was soaked with rain water, but the whole page had a dark hue to it. It was scary. I immediately threw the soggy paper back in the puddle from whence it came. What was that? What had I just been holding in my soft little hands? For some reason I felt like I was going to get in trouble for looking at it, even though I still wasn’t sure exactly what the picture was all about.

I mulled over the image on my walk home, and decided it must be something for men. Men like naked women, right? (I didn’t learn about homosexuality until I was 12) Even at that age I knew that much—but the naked women I referenced to were more like Botticelli’s “The Birth of Venus” or Picasso’s “Nude Descending a Staircase”. I didn’t imagine men liked painful nakedness. I ended up keeping the discovery to myself, and as years passed the image of the woman faded, but not completely. As I got older, I don’t remember exactly when, I realized what the picture was all about—and it wasn’t scary anymore. Perplexing, yes—scary, no.

Today, there is plenty of scary porn around—and I’m actually relieved that my first exposure to it was gentle in comparison. Who knows how I may have ended up if I had been exposed to transgender S&M or adult diaper fetishes at the tender age of eight? For all I know, I could have grown up—changed my name to "Christina the Crusher" and become a foot fetish superstar! What fun I would have had stomping various food items in my red, four-inch spiked Jimmy Choo heels. Maybe I missed out—we’ll never know.

So there you have it. No longer am I the naïve child who once thought that porn stars were in pain. I have since grown up, witnessed more porn than I would have liked, and now I know that porn stars don’t cause pain--people cause pain. People in red, four-inch spiked Jimmy Choos.

*Oh Lordie! I can’t wait for all the hits my site is going to because of this title. Yes, it was a selfish act to drive up viewers, I know.

Who's Your Daddy

2006-06-27T14:11:00.000-07:00

Thought I'd give you a hand Motherhussy

Actually the pict is for Michele. Don't you just heart it?? It's so cute.

Happy F-er's Day!

2006-06-20T15:35:00.000-07:00

Yesterday Dear Husband (from here on out referred to as "DH") got a Father's Day card in the mail from my sweet, religious, adorable, (did I mention sweet?)Mother. Inside the card she had written a darling little note of appreciation for all that DH has done for me and the boys. The last thing she wrote in the card was, "Always remember the greatest example of fatherhood is Jesus Christ."

DH, not about to be one-upped by the Son of God himself responded by asking, "How could Jesus be the greatest example of fatherhood? He didn't even have kids!"

Great point honey, one which could possibly be argued, but nonetheless a damn good point. Until otherwise proven, DH will continue his reign as being the greatest example of fatherhood--at least in our house he will.

I Copied Kat

2006-06-19T13:20:00.000-07:00

Your IQ Is 100

Your Logical Intelligence is Below Average

Your Verbal Intelligence is Exceptional

Your Mathematical Intelligence is Exceptional

Your General Knowledge is Average

A Quick and Dirty IQ Test

Due to my below average logic, and below average focus(I should be changing my residency right now)...I stole this activity from Katherine and made it my own.

In Case You Were Wondering

2006-06-13T15:49:00.000-07:00

Right now I have both the front and back doors of the house open. There is an ocean breeze that's blowing in, it seems, from both doors. I can just barely smell salt in the air.

This is why we continue to pay too much for rent. It's a beach thing.

Stretchy Denim and Sadness

2006-06-12T15:59:00.000-07:00

So today I feel like complaining. I feel like complaining about designer jeans. Not real designer jeans, fake designer jeans. Not just fake designer jeans in general, the fake ones I'm wearing right now.

[single tear streams down Motherhussy's face]

The tale begins with a so-called friend...

So Called Friend [at church food social thingy]: Hey Charise! I thought you might be interested in this--my husband found a retailer that gets designer jeans at a discounted price. Say, jeans that would go for 189 USD you can buy them for 98 USD.

Motherhussy: Duuuuuuuhhhhhhh, okay. Here's my money. [Charise hands over crinkled wad of sweaty American currency]

When the jeans come, Motherhussy is somewhat pained and highly annoyed to find out that the jeans are fake. How can she tell that they're fake, well, she does the research. Now Motherhussy is in a predicament, does she tell her "friend" that she's selling rip-off designer jeans and ask for her 98 USD back, or suffer in cheap denim silence? What's a hussie to do?

Here's the answer: I'm sitting here suffering in cheap denim silence. These jeans suck hard and for a while I had them in a bag and fully intended on deporting them to the Salvation Army, but for some reason I thought to myself, "Self, why don't you try wearing the fake jeans again today--they may have vintaged themselves to a higher-quality while they were sitting in the Salvation Army bag."

They're not higher-quality even after fermenting in a bag for weeks, and I'm lesser of a woman for wearing them. Let this be a lesson to you all, never buy jeans from church-social peddlers.

The End.

[This was a public service announcement from Motherhussy, Inc. DBA: Nothingdefinable.blogspot.com, a Detroit LLC. 2006]

Traumatized--A Blogette

2006-06-07T19:53:00.000-07:00

Just when I think I've been harassed enough by that stupid-as-the-California-High-School-exit-exam song "Daughters" by John Mayer, I wake up in the middle of the night to my neighbors getting it on HARD with that song blasting romantically(?) in the background.

The filth won't wash off.

Every Time I Type “I’m Cool” in Word, It Tries to Change it to “I’m Cooling”

2006-05-30T22:00:00.000-07:00

So, this task, this task I’ve been assigned—or “tagged” to do, it troubles me. It troubles me for a couple of reasons, the main reason being that I know I’m not cool. How do I know I’m not cool? I know I’m not cool because I think I am cool. Didn’t Socrates say, “I think I am cool; therefore I am so totally not cool”. That would be really cool if he did. I am the anti-cool because I think I’m so emm-effing cool. So basically, I’m going online and purveying to you—my blogience, why I am something which I really am not. So, before I go any further, I apologize in advance for misleading any of you into thinking I am cool. I think I’m cool, but the more you read this post—the more you will realize, as the reader, that I am indeed not cool. Are we clear? Clear as Kool-Aide? (harharhar) Now, I present to you,

5 Reasons Why I Think I’m Cool

Numero Uno: The fact that I spelled out, in Spanish, “number one” instead of just typing a boring old “1.” makes me HELLA cool.

#2: I use words like “hella”.

#3: Before I was even old enough to drink, I was already working on my own winery. My technique was to pick grapes from our backyard, squish them up into a sick pulp then strain them in a sieve for their precious juices. Then, add a little sugar and some yeast to the grape juice and—Voila!—you have wine. Or so I thought. When the moment of truth came, I was expecting total underage drunkenness. There was no drunkenness, only stomach cramps accompanied by heavy disappointment. I guess this could go in the uncool category too.

#4: I have SUPER cool reproductive organs! Most women, let me rephrase that, most uncool women only get one baby the first time they get knocked up. How lame is that? Not me! I took pregnancy to the edge with multiple births. Having two placentas in your body is akin to rocking out HARD in the London Underground. It is. Let me tell you, you want to be punk rock and put other people in awe of your coolness—*make two humans inside your body! Penn and Teller got nothing on me beyotches! (*With that I must add that I bow down deeply to the Queens, nay, Goddesses of Coolness—mothers of triplets, quadruplets, quintuplets, sextuplets, seventuplets, eightuplets, ninetuplets, and bakers dozens. Now that is cool! And, I might add, scarier than watching Jacob’s Ladder by yourself…on Children’s Benadryl®).

#5: In high school, I was so hep that instead of hanging out with troubled teens at lunch, I could be found in the school library listening to Jethro Tull and bagging on the drill team with our beloved school librarian, Mr. Atwood. I had friends; really, I was just too cool to hang-out with them. They wouldn’t have understood me anyway.

So there you have it. Five reasons why I think I’m cool. Please don’t ever ask me to list these reasons again. I’m already less cool just for writing this.

Now, to make me feel better about my self-promotion, I give you:

5 Reasons Why I Don’t Think I’m Cool

Numero Uno: Instead of typing “1.” like a normal cool person would, I went the route of the geek and spelled out “number one”—in Spanish! I’ve never even been to Spain!

#2. I use words like “hella”. I try not to, but my inner geek that is trying to be cool often times spews forth outdated slang. I am currently hanging my head in shame just thinking about this uncool fact. So early 90s. So Elko, Nevada.

#3. I have Mariah Carey on my iTunes. Oh my bleeding heck! It’s not my fault, but I can’t help but feel indirectly less cool for having this type of music chilling next to my freshly downloaded Boz Scaggs. It’s a crime I tell you! A musical crime!

#4. I shop at Old Navy sometimes. I’m CHEAP and nerdy!

#5. I go to bed at early hours after typing feverishly for a blog that is purely for my amusement. Somebody call the cool-cops, there’s a nerd on the loose!

Okay, enough narcissism and self-loathing for one night. This was a very therapeutic activity, I must say I feel rather balanced right now, and I don’t like it one bit.

EOT

because I really like this picture of CT

2006-05-27T19:16:00.000-07:00

Soon to come on Motherhussy:

Motherhussy takes time out to list,

"5 Reasons Why I Think I'm Cool"

shortly followed by,

"5 Reasons Why I Don't Think I'm Cool".

Kewp told me to do the first one, and I have to do what she says because she works for God. I'm just doing the second one to counter the fact that I wrote the first one--it's a yin-yang thing.

Happy Memorial Day, Hug A Vet If You Know One!

Post-American Idol Traumatic Stress Disorder

2006-05-24T23:01:00.000-07:00

I am ashamed to admit that I spent a portion of my night watching American Idol (which will, from here on out, be referred to as “AI” because why spell a whole word when you can use acronyms?). However, my shame is somewhat diluted by the fact that I was not alone—millions of other television addicted, Hollywood-humping viewers joined me in my self-loathing. It’s all over now, AI 2006, and I feel empty—like the online "playa" who has just realized that no matter how many times they’ve had cyber sex, they’re still a 36 year-old virgin living in their Aunt’s basement. What a sad waste of time! On the bright side, Katherine McPhee didn’t win even though she totally fit the glistening wax museum mold of what an AI ought to be. I am utterly pleased to find that the majority of AI viewers this year have grown weary of Vaseline smiles and hair extensions, and are now ready to embrace grand mal seizures and grey hair with open arms. Congratulations Taylor Hicks—if anything, your win makes up for Chris Daughtry’s *premature elimination. (*not to be confused with premature ejaculation)

Now for Motherhussy’s Final Thought:

Several times during tonight’s show, Seacrest and his stylish blazer mentioned that there were more voters voting for “your next AI” than there were for the Presidential elections, like this was some type of massive accomplishment. This is a totally asinine statement. Complete and utter bullshit. Why? Well, let me point out a few facts:

* There are NO age restrictions on AI voters
* There are NO citizenship restrictions on AI voters
* There is NO limit on how many times you can vote
* You can vote BY PHONE for the love of Judas!
* If you don't have a phone, you can vote via TEXT MESSAGING! For the love!

Okay, see what I mean? Seriously folks, if we could vote for our President anonymously, by phone or text message, regardless of our age and United States citizenship status, as many times as we wanted—well, I’m almost sure the Presidential votes would sickeningly exceed AIs pithy 64+ million. But, that’s just me, I could be wrong. Maybe America really has turned in to a bunch of television licking political ignoramuses.

Anywhoo, way too much rambling for one night! I’m going to go kill my television now.

Blogicide

2006-05-23T15:16:00.000-07:00

Somebody, quick! Give me a subject to write about...

I swear, if you don't--I'm going to "off" this blog.

A permanent solution for a temporary problem.

HOW'S THIS FOR A BLOGETTE?

2006-05-16T14:22:00.000-07:00

Today, officially, my blogger profile has been viewed...(drumroll, please)

One-Million Times!

Oh, ahem...it seems I may need to make a slight correction to the above statement.

Correction:

Today, officially, my blogger profile has been viewed...(drumroll, please)

One-Thousand Times!

I like the even-ness of that number. Please, nobody view my profile from this way forward, as I would had to ruin that wonderful, even number.

EOT

The Difference Between Boys and Girls

2006-05-11T14:19:00.000-07:00

This morning, while I was getting the boys ready to go to school, I decided to take the opportunity to give my children some "praise". (Child psychologists say that kids just eat that shi* up) So I said to Cody and Colton in a charming voice, "Guys, you picked out some really cute outfits today. You look very handsome!"

Colton turned to me, and giving me an indigant look said, "Mom, boys do not "pick out" outfits. We throw on some clothes!"

He was right! That's just one of the things I love about being a mother, realizing that my children are much smarter than I am--regardless of how much I try to convince them otherwise.

Moving Right Along...

2006-05-10T21:53:00.000-07:00

I don't really have the writing bug this evening, but since I don't like rotten blogs--I thought I would post something just to post something.

Tonight Colton made Cody pee his pants. They were playing rough. I told them somebody was going to get hurt. Cody got hurt. And peed his pants in the process.

I heart motherhood.

It Only Hurts When I Laugh

2006-05-08T00:37:00.000-07:00

Last Tuesday night I got the call that no mother ever wants to get, I got the - “Hi honey, I’m on my way to the emergency room with (insert young child’s name here). He’s been hit in the (insert body part here) with a (insert dangerous weapon here). No worries though, I’m sure it’s nothing a few (drops of superglue, staples, stitches, metal plates) won’t fix. ”- call. I’ve received the call, and been the caller several times before—but it continues to suck HARD each time. The child’s name inserted this time was none other than my little James Dean, Colton.

Apparently, Colton was warming up to pitch for his first time ever this baseball season—actually for the first time ever in his baseball career—when it happened. Anthony was catching for Colton as he warmed up, and when he caught the ball Colton pitched, he would throw it back to Colton. Colton would then catch the ball, and pitch it back to Anthony. At first read, this all sounds like a swell little tea party, doesn’t it? That’s only because I haven’t added in the part where the blood and guts go flying everywhere. Well, not exactly guts, although there were guts—there were just contained in everyone’s bodies as they rightfully should be. And I don’t know if any flying was involved. I actually only know the details as pieced together in the police report—I mean, as was reported to me by Colton and Anthony. Okay, I’m rambling. Back to the story…

Colton threw his final practice pitch to Anthony and Anthony caught it, as he should have. Anthony threw the ball back to Colton, and this is when everything in my safe, orderly world fell apart. Colton didn’t put his glove in front of his face like a good little leaguer should, so instead of the ball falling into the glove like a good ball should—it hit off of his glove and smacked right into Colton’s mouth, like a bad ball does. And what do mouths do when they have been split by baseballs? They bleed profusely. That’s just what Colton’s mouth did—I was told.

The cut must have been bleeding pretty badly at the field, because when I joined Anthony and Colton in the Emergency Room well over an hour after the accident, Colton’s lip was still bleeding. I thought for sure we were going to have to amputate. Fortunately, there was no lip amputation that night—just stitches. Five of them.

The high point of the night was trying to talk Colton down before the stitches. I was trying to distract him with all manner of conversation such as, “Colton, did your horrible Father even say he was sorry after he threw that ball right at your face?” and “I know you haven’t eaten for five hours, so I’m sure you’re starving right now. If you could eat anything in the whole-wide-world, what would it be?” Colton may have been on the edge of a lip amputation, but he did not lose his sense of humor. In response to my question of, “What sounds good to eat?” he simply answered, “Lard.” And then he continued to elaborate on what types of lard he would like to eat. Lard balls, lard puffs, lard burgers…if you could put lard in it—that’s what he wanted.

I was really proud of him at that moment. He learned one of the most valuable lessons in life—how to laugh through the tough times and the scary times, and he was laughing! Of course, with a split lip that wasn’t very pleasant for him. He would laugh, and then try to refrain because it hurt so much. I was caught somewhere between laughing with him, and crying for him. It was a conflicting situation--let me tell you. It’s something else to see a little boy with a split lip laugh, and cry in pain at the exact same time. I’m sure it would have made good sitcom material--or Lifetime (except he would have to have cancer or something to make it on Lifetime).

All in all it was an eventful night. It has now been almost a week, and the stitches come out in a few days—but I will never forget the night Colton and I spent in stitches.

My 15 Minutes of Fame

2006-05-05T18:15:00.000-07:00

Pastor Katherine is famous, and she kindly sent some attention my way via her site:

http://www.kewp.blogspot.com

She's youthful, she's intelligent, she's God-loving, and she pretty much kicks Christian Pastor a**...

Can I say that?

Cinco de Mayo--Schminco de Mayo!

2006-05-04T23:17:00.000-07:00

Want to know what's better than a bunch of Mexicans getting drunk and pounding on pinatas filled with leche?

My husband.

HAPPY 34 BIRTHDAY ANT!

I would post some incredibly sappy, embarrassing post--but I think since it's your birthday, I will refrain from such writing--for a day.

Thanks for sticking around another year and gracing us all with your wit, your charm, and your way with the ladies. *wink, wink* Can't wait to see what 35 brings!

Love you!

A Question & A Comment

2006-05-04T16:16:00.000-07:00

Question:

Was it inappropriate that I wore a t-shirt to work today that said, "God is a DJ" on the front?
I wore the t-shirt under another shirt.

Comment:

While standing in the line at the grocery store this afternoon, a cute little old man told me that I look "just like the women in the magazine". The women in the magazine were Heather Locklear and Denise Richards.

Cute old man. Cute, crazy old man.

Politically Sic

2006-05-01T16:27:00.000-07:00

Today I did something incredibly stupid. I got involved in a conversation about illegal immigration with someone of Mexican heritage; a conversation about illegal immigration with someone of Mexican heritage—via chat. A conversation about illegal immigration with someone of Mexican heritage, via chat, with that person also being borderline genius (if not genius). Very stupid, indeed. Although a blog about this incident would be a delight to many of my (three) readers—I will abstain from the painful details. Let’s just say I almost lost a muse and made myself look like a complete bigot ass-face. I looked like a fool. Those were not my intentions at all. You know what they say though, the road to hell…Anyway, let that be a lesson to you all:

“Never get into emotionally charged political conversations on the internet—or off of the internet for that matter.”

To correct the situation, I say:

"Si se puede!"

There. Now everything is better. On to issues more important than immigration reform, like oral hygiene.

The other night as I kissed Anthony good-night, my lips were lingering over his ready to plant one on him, and I caught a whiff of something disturbing. My nose recoiled in horror! What was that smell? I knew what that smell was. It was the smell of someone who hasn’t brushed their teeth since the morning, and in the meantime ate something dead that had onions or garlic on it, and then rinsed repeatedly with something sweet and sugary. It was ill. So gently, so as not to shatter his fragile ego, I said, “Honey, did you brush your teeth yet? They smell like corpse.” Anthony, of course, got defensive.

“You’re the one with the bad breath,” he skulked.

I told him that although my breath may not be pleasant, it sure as heck doesn’t smell like I’ve been chewing on a piece of pooh.

“It smells like I’ve been chewing on pooh, huh? How could I chew on pooh? It’s not like pooh is something you can just sit there and gnaw on. It would be more likely that I was eating pooh, not chewing on it.”

Once again, I was put in my place. Rendered retarded, if you will. I think it’s my lack of a college degree or something, but I keep setting myself up to look foolish. Or, I could look on the bright side and be happy about the fact that I am surrounded by those who are of superior intelligence. I guess I need to finish my education before going into debates about immigration—or matters of consuming pooh.

End of Transmission.

Generic Beach Scene

2006-04-28T13:35:00.000-07:00

I took this...In 1984. Just kidding, it was the other day.

President McKinley Assasinated!

2006-04-28T13:31:00.000-07:00

Reminds me of JFK, in ways

1979

2006-04-26T17:33:00.000-07:00

So today I found this ultra-cool, super swank, mega-hip station on iTunes. I’m listening to it right now as I type, although I shouldn’t even be typing—I should be vacuuming, but I’m not—I’m typing. Anyway, the station is Luxuria Music. I’m not going to review the station much more than to say that it kicks polyester-blend, terry-cloth covered ass! The station plays the kind of stuff you may hear while sitting on an orange couch, wearing a brown turtleneck sweater and cotton-knit blend bellbottoms, as you get ready to gingerly sip an ice-cold Tab. That’s EXACTLY what it sounds like. So, that’s the extent of my review on Luxuria Music.

While listening to the station I drifted off and started imagining, what would it be like to live in the 70s? With all the happy trumpets, tambourines, and “bom-bom-ba-da-da-doms”, I imagine it was nothing short of Eden. I was only present for a mere year in the 70s, so I can’t say that I remember much about it—although I do have a picture of me wearing a pair of plastic pants and looking much like a stoned 7-month-old, so that only supports my notion of the 70s being paradisiacal.

To support my exaggeratedly positive attitude about the 70s, I’ve compiled a short list of “What Was Good About the 70s” (Not to be compared with VH1s “I Love the 70s”).

1. I was born in the 70s
2. Women’s Lib gained steam
3. Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin
4. Shaft and Bruce Lee
5. All the many shades of brown one could find on the television screen
6. LHTP—beeyotches!
7. Gerald Ford on the Simpson’s…oh, wait—that’s present day
8. The Girl from Ipanema –oh, wait—that was the 60s
9. Shaggy hair?
10. Scooby Doo?
11. That noise that people could make on the keyboard that sounded like extraterrestrial humming…you know that sound, don’t you?
12. Jimmy Carter?
13. That “bow-chica-bow-wow” that guitars could only make from 1970-1979

Okay, I can’t really think of much more to add to the list. Damnit! If I were only born earlier, this would have been a good blog. Anyway, give Luxuria Music a spin, “you won’t be sorry for long”.

2006-04-22T18:11:00.000-07:00

When the Honda Element first came out, I was dead-set on the fact that it was horribly odd looking and I would never drive one. Well, I'm still not driving one, but I'm actually starting to think they're pretty hip. I credit most of my newfound insight to their commercials. For those of you who aren't familiar with these commercials, please visit:

www.elementandfriends.com

I think I like the commercials because the voice of the Element reminds me of my sister's ex-husband Randy. Basically, when I knew Randy, he was a pot-smoking snowboarder that watched a lot of Cartoon Network. At age 20, that was okay by me as long as he was cooking for us. Randy was a pretty good cook too, smart pot smokers usually learn to cook well. If they're smart.

This blog doesn't have much purpose, only to spread the word of the funny commercials put forth in the name of the Honda Element. Although I may never buy one, I can imagine who would.

Holy Reading

2006-04-21T12:52:00.000-07:00

Recently I’ve been turned on to the author Anne Lamott. I’m sure that some of you have read her stuff, but if you haven’t I highly recommend it. Her writing is a pure, unadulterated, insanely humorous joy to read. I’m not talking about the cheesy, manipulative “Chicken Soup for the Suicidal Soul” or anything like that. I’m talking about they type of joy that you experience when you find out that the neighbor you thought was perfect in every way, is actually having an affair with the sleazy guy at the used Honda car lot in Lomita—that type of joy. I think it’s referred to as “Shadenfreude”.

Some of the joy I derive from her books stems from the fact that she and her son either get along wonderfully, or don’t get along at all. I experience that on a daily basis with Cody and Colton and I used to think that I was bi-polar parenting and needed to get back on drugs, or start drinking again on a regular basis. Come to find out it’s semi-normal to one minute wish you had sold your children on the black market for a sizable sum, and the next minute wish that you had a millions of dollars so you could buy a small island for your children to rule exactly as they pleased. I just thought I was going insane. I know, I know. It’s old news to many parents that parenting is both an eternal albatross and a blessing lottery at the same time. But to me, I feel I’m just becoming aware of the fact that it’s okay not to always enjoy what I’m doing as a mother, and wish for something else. I think it’s only fair for me to feel this way since often I am told, “Mom, you’re the best mom on the whole-wide-world” and then seven minutes later I’m told, “You’re the worst freaking Mom ever!” Usually the second phrase is accompanied by a door slamming, and/or something cute and stuffed being thrown hard enough to leave marks on exposed skin.

Another reason I find joy in Anne’s books (yes, we’re on a first name basis now) are her views on religion and faith. She has a way of describing Jesus, God, and Saints so they aren’t scary. I’ve been brought up thinking that 99% of the time God wanted to kick my ass for something. I’ve been brought up thinking that I’m a sinner, and as hard as I try I will never be what I ought to be. To me religion, and all the commandments that come along with believing, felt like someone telling me that I have to dig to the center of the molten Earth with a KFC spork, and once I started digging with the spork—I was told that I could never do it, that I would never make it to the center of the Earth—but keep on going anyway, jackass. It seemed pointless. So, when it came to religion in the past—I just gave up. It was easier to just pull away from organized religion and try my best to abstain from murder, adultery, and prison. I could do that. Once I pulled away from the scary God—I started forming my opinion on what my God was like. Yes, my God. My personal belief is that since we are all unique like snowflakes, and none of us are exactly alike in thought, spirit, or being—that we must have our own unique relationship with God, our own God. My God was going to be a kind, understanding, easy-going, accepting (but not too accepting) God—for starters. This is the type of God I find throughout Anne Lamott’s books. In one her book “Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith” she writes about Jesus maybe not always going to the mountains to pray when things got heavy, but possibly instead throwing back a beer or two and “then he may have gone bowling, slinging the ball bitterly down the alley until he felt better.” I like that visual a lot.

As a few of you know, I’ve been experiencing religion again—it seems for the first time. I’m experiencing religion with a pair of “just woken up” eyes. I’m looking around and religion is everywhere. It’s in the news, it’s on the streets, and it’s in every single person in the world. Even the absence of religion is a religion in itself. I’m not necessarily considering myself “born again” or anything of that nature—just becoming aware. In this time of my personal religious awareness, it’s nice to have an author like Anne Lamott who can in one sentence be writing about coming down off of cocaine, and in the next sentence be writing about the grace of God. Isn’t that when we need God the most anyway, when we are at our worst? When we hate ourselves and our surroundings, when we think that we’ve sunk the deepest we can sink, when we think that there is nobody there that understands—that’s when we need to find a God we can have a beer and go bowling with.

p.s. readers: Did I mention that I didn't find Anne Lamott on my own? A BIG thank you, thank you, thank you to Katherine for turning me on to Anne! (how's that for props?)

Objects In Mirror May Be Closer Than They Appear

2006-04-20T15:53:00.000-07:00

Taken from outside the car window on my way home from work.

Think Fast!

2006-04-19T14:31:00.000-07:00

Quick, name an animal that starts with the letter "u".

"Unicorn" and "urangutan" do not count.

Random Shout Out to the Tiny Handful of Semi-Regular Readers of this Blog (In No Particular Order)

2006-04-18T20:40:00.000-07:00

Columbia, Missouri
Tuscon, AZ
Alpine, UT
Las Vegas, NV
O-Hi-O
Long Beach, CA
Mountain View, CA
Torrance, CA (That's me reading my own blog. I just gave a shout out to myself. I don't think that's sad at all.)

Random Shout-Out to Friends I've Lost (in no particular order)

2006-04-17T19:28:00.000-07:00

Carrie E.
Michele and Liz
Lizette and Jenae
Cally S.
Megan C.
Laura Y.
Daisy W.
Kyle O.
Brant
Mindy H.
Mike R.
Mike H.
Sara
Allan
Dave L.

If I've left off anyone, you aren't my friend--or you ARE my friend. I will add you to the list when you become NOT my friend for some reason or another.

*FYI: These people are not dead (not that I'm aware of) we just lost contact when they became pregnant or married or when I became pregnant or married. Either that or I was just an asshole to them.

RIP--I still think of you all from time to time.

Be Strong

2006-04-17T15:37:00.000-07:00

"I must rise above it, it is a concoction of sugar and fillers--a mere confection," I said to myself. But I knew, deep down inside, as much as I tried to fight it, I would eventually succumb to the fluffy goodness that went by the curious name of "marshmallow peep".

Contacts

2006-04-14T13:43:00.000-07:00

The receptionist at the eye doctor probably wouldn't have been as nice to me this morning had she known that when she called to confirm my appointment, I took the call in a pair of 99 cent panties--AND NOTHING ELSE!

Add that to the list of "Things You Can Only Do While Your Children Are Away Visiting Their Old Man in Utah".

While the Mice are Away

2006-04-12T15:05:00.000-07:00

I don’t know if I’m the only parent that does this, but when my children leave out of town or to a friend’s house overnight, my level of responsibility drops to that of a newly emancipated teen. Let me add to that last description—a newly emancipated lazy teen. Let me add to that even further—a newly emancipated lazy, unhealthy teen. I could add more describing words to that one sentence (reckless, wild, undisciplined, unruly, disrespectful, gravy), but then that would end up being my whole blog, and nobody wants that. What I’m meaning to say is that having the children gone is often like being young and having your parents leave for the weekend. It’s little scary and a lot of fun.

Normally, as you all know, my schedule is fairly hectic starting from the time I wake up to hear Anthony’s sweet voice lulling, “Bitch! Get in the shower! You’re going to make the boys late for school, you lazy hussy!” (Just kidding. That would be really sad if he spoke to me that way, but it would be super funny for, like, three seconds before I kicked his ass…HARD!) From dropping the boys off at school, I’m off to work.

The task of digging up kitschy religious publications from underneath the sink in the church office usually keeps me quite busy at work, almost to the point of tears. Actually, I did cry once at the church a long, long, long time ago, but now that I got that out of the way I can focus on finding interesting artifacts in odd corners of the church office. It is a task, let me tell you. After dusting off from work, I often find myself at the library for an hour or so, straining legal research information through my sive of a brain. From the library it’s on to the Esplanade to try to cram in a few minutes of Dr. Laura’s psychotic radio pulpit preaching. (“You need to take care of your man. If you don’t take care of your man, some other slutty woman will take care of your man!”) From there it’s to school to get the boys, home to help them with their homework and make them a snack, all while trying madly to do dishes, prepare dinner, and hide the dust and mold that has settled in the house during my time away at work. It’s exhausting I tell you! Well, all that is going to change for a few days while the boys are in Utah. Actually, it has already.

Currently, while I type this, I am sipping on a Hansen’s vanilla coke—and it’s not diet! To add to the immaturity, I’m sipping it through none other than a Red Vine! For those of you puzzled at this combination, ask any child younger than 10 years of age and they will tell you that Red Vines® are the official soda sipping straw of the adolescent (they will tell you in that in those exact words). Actually, while I type, the straw just slipped into my coke—now it’s a vanilla cherry coke, I guess. Now, I wouldn’t dare trying any of this while Cody and Colton were here. They would immediately mimic the behavior resulting in $500.00 worth of new charges at the dentist, and a long night of caffeine induced boy fights sprinkled with with hysterical impersonations of the entire Desperate Housewives cast. Children’s Benadryl® anyone?

In addition to my childish spell of poor nutrition, I’ve also been indulging in the following:
 Movies that say the “F” word
 Novel reading (normally the only time I get to read is during my afternoon “evacuation”)
 Staying up past midnight
 Waking up after 7:00 am
 Listening to talk radio—24/7!
 Cussing out loud while driving
 Buying meals from places that take longer than six seconds to prepare the food
 Shutting the door on the boys’ room and pretending like it's a guest bedroom for starving artists

Oh, I know, I’m downright evil aren’t I? But I'm sure other parents do this as well. Maybe even worse—I’ve heard of parents that burn effigies of their children while dancing around in the moonlight drunk on mint juleps. Honest. I’m not that bad though. I do miss the little chaps. There was nothing like flying to Utah and sitting there squished lovingly in the middle of them on the plane. Cody leaned up against the window and placed his legs across my lap, while Colton snuggled in to my shoulder and fell asleep. They both slept almost an hour on our way there. At home, they won’t stay still for four seconds, let alone take a nap for an hour. I guess it was the lull of the plane’s engine combined with exhaustion from anticipation. Or it may have been the Children’s Benadryl®. Whatever it was, it was nice spending that time with them in quiet coziness. I bet they had no idea that while I was there cuddling with them, like a teenager plotting a kegger when his/her parents are away at a Christian marriage retreat, I was plotting my wild week without them. They’ll be back on Saturday, so now it’s just a question of what to do next, do I walk around naked in the house or drink milk out of the carton? Do I take a nap in the middle of the day or catch the afternoon version of Oprah?

The possibilities of what I might do are limitless. For now, I think I’ll start off with another round of Red Vines and coke. Huzzah!

California is cool...

2006-04-08T17:59:00.000-07:00

But you can get some great, cheap shizz at Down East Outfitters in Utah!

It was an allergic reaction--to life!

2006-04-06T13:56:00.000-07:00

I haven't had much time to blog because I have been too busy feeling sorry for myself. I'm done now, so look forward to some more laughs (or sympathy laughs) from the ever-so-exciting life of Charise, the Motherhussy.

Some adventures I've had this week:

Taking Colton to the doctor's, like, ONE BILLION TIMES only to find out that it was what mother's intuition had initially told me--his rash was an allergic reaction due to his PCP changing his athlete's foot RX mid-week. I (I mean, Anthony) will probably end up paying ONE BILLION DOLLARS to Healthcare Partners for the whole debacle.

I got my first crappy grade in class Tuesday. I guess the A's had to stop sometime, I was getting an ego anyway. After class, I decided to buy some artichokes for dinner at Ralph's. Ralph's didn't have any, so I decided to get a little bit of delicious Alpine Lace swiss cheese for a snack--the deli was closed. My hunger panges not yet defeated, I headed to McDonald's. Two regular hamburgers, please (and a bunch of Big Macs for the men). When I got home and looked in the bag--my hamburgers were no where to be found. I ended up eating a small bowl of shredded wheat, shortly thereafter I spent the remainder of my night crying while I watched Sex in the City.

Wednesday, I cried at work like a PMS-ing pregnant woman (yes, I realize that is impossible, but I wanted to put emphasis on the hormonal factor). It had to happen sooner or later, right? I mean, everyone has at least ONE day at work that they cry, right? Right? Please tell me that you all have cried at work. (FYI: If you ever are in a situation where your coworker is getting all emotional on your a**, cheesy postcards will snap them out of it like a charm)

Thursday--LOVELY THURSDAY! No clouds, sunshine, Diet Coke flowing like nectar from the God's, and I'm leaving the scene of the crime (the crime being my week) for a few days.

Friday--Don't bother me, I'll be in Utah pretending I'm still as cool as I was when I was 21. Did I mention I'm visiting my pregnant sister--she's cool.