It's Been A Busy Week...

 ...and that's kind of an understatement. Monday stalked me into Wednesday but by late this morning, all was well at the bat cave once again. The details are a blur. But from what I recall it involved a corrupt bank manager, a phone call from my doctor, a nor'easter, a really cool neighbor, a senior citizen discount, several 45 minute long showers, old school music, an email from a math teacher, my hard drive being sawed in half, a stick of deodorant, a lost check book, Lady GaGa, some sunflower seeds, seven bags of trash, four report cards, and a strange rash. None of it in that particular order. All I know is that it's now Thursday night, and I'm officially declaring it Friday. 

And tomorrow, when it actually is Friday? I'm staying in my pajamas. I'm not answering my phone. I'm not leaving my house. Hell, I might not even leave my bedroom. See, I'm beginning to notice a pattern. Seems like whenever I decide to high-five the universe, a butterfly effect happens that ultimately slaps me upside my head. At first, I thought it was karma. But there is nothing I could have possibly done in this life, or even a past one, to warrant the resurrection and rediscovery of Rico Suave by MFH. No, really. I'm considering drastic measures in order to appease the cosmic Gods. I almost shoveled The Queen Of England's sidewalk. For real real.

Something's gotta give sooner or later. I'm optimistic. I'm also realistic. I know Ed McMahon isn't going to show up at my door with a giant cardboard check, because he's like, dead. But is it really too much to ask to break even on a scratch-off? 




share on: facebook

Reliving The Worst Day Of My Life

**Warning**~Reading this post may cause feelings of shittiness & depressive thoughts.

Sorry about the dispiriting tone to this entry. But today is an anniversary of sorts for me, and for my family, and it deserves to be properly addressed. If for nothing more than just to get it out there. Because if it's out there, it's not in here, crushing me emotionally. 


Eight years ago. That sounds like a long time, doesn't it? Though it feels like yesterday for those of us who lived it. Eight years ago today, I held my breath and my mother's hand, and listened to the sentences fall out of her oncologist's mouth and slam off of the cold, clean exam room floor.

"Go home and celebrate the time that you have left. I'm very sorry Ellieb43, but there isn't anything more that we can do."


I will never forget that utterance. Twenty three words that have since branded an everlasting scar of a memory on my brain. Twenty three words that hit my heart like invisible bullets. But the grenade was in her eyes when she looked at me. Filled with tears that threatened to reveal emotions she never wanted me to see, she was defiant when she nodded, and told me: "We'll look for another doctor. On the internet. When we get home. Ok? We won't give up." And it was in that moment that I broke. 

I excused myself, and stumbled out of the exam area and into the hallway. A nurse seemingly came from nowhere and kindly guided me thru the doctor's private entrance. I stood in front of the elevator doors and pushed the button on the wall as if my life depended on it, because her's did. I couldn't look at her. I could not let her see me like that. She gave birth to me. She changed my diapers. She watched me bear my own children. But I would not let my mother watch me fall apart. 

For the fifteen months prior to that day, we assured and reassured. No negativity allowed. Positive vibes only. She was going to be the exception to the five year small cell lung cancer survival rate rule. And then suddenly, twenty three words turned her into a statistic. Two sentences managed to erase fifty six years. Just like that.

I don't remember much about the ride home, other than that I had swapped positions with my stepfather, begging him to sit in the back of the ambulance with my mom so that I could take shotgun in my sister's car. Never in my life have I ever felt like such a fucking failure. I knew it was coming. We all did. But what we never knew before that moment was that so did she. She didn't want us to know. And when it became the inevitable, she couldn't bring herself to tell us.

I think about that day a lot. More than the day of her passing. More than I've come to the conclusion that there is nothing I can't face in this lifetime. Nothing will ever hurt like that day did. It's one of the few positives to come out of it. The other? Is that she didn't have to say it herself. For how much I couldn't deal with the news coming from Dr. Volk's mouth, there quite possibly would have been two casualties of that disease had I had to hear it from her's. 

So here it is, eight years later. Time does heal wounds. Though I strongly suspect it's going to take aeons to completely erase her from my memory. I still miss her. I still think about her every day. I still dream of her at night. I still catch myself reaching for the phone. I still long to crawl into her bed with her and watch repeats of The Honeymooners. And it still kills me to watch the kids reach milestones that I know she would have loved to witness, too. They remember her fondly, and they mention her all the time. I never believed in organized religion. But that alone reminds me that she never really left us, that she's still here and watching out for us.

Some days, you get by. But some days...are certainly more difficult than others.



share on: facebook

Hell Has Officially Frozen Over...

This afternoon, the Karma police showed up next door, and carted out The Queen Of England. As far as I know, she isn't dead, yet. She's just down with the sickness. But, given the fact that she's about a hundred and seventy years old...


Before ya'll go ape shit and start hatin' on me, let me fill you in. Let me tell you about The Queen. When we bought this house, we really did get a hell of a deal. Yeah, it needs some TLC, but considering the market at the time, we couldn't understand why it was so affordable. Recently renovated, double lot, new furnace, street parking for two vehicles. Plus, the previous owner kind of just up and.....ran. It wasn't long before we started to discover why.


When I was pregnant with #5, and a mere eight months after we moved in, I was in the midst of one of several ultrasound appointments when the technician began to read thru my chart. My address caught his eye, and he asked me how I liked living next door to The Queen (slut). Apparently, the look on my face that must have read you-have-your-dildo-cam-pointed-at-my-hoo-hoo-and-you-know-my-exact-neighborhood? was enough for him to continue. He filled me in, telling me that his brother-in-law was actually my house's previous occupant. He also said that she was a big part of his decision to sell it. Small world.

Incessant phone calls at 6AM over parking are one thing. Complaining about the proximity of the rose bushes I planted and her backyard fence could be tolerated. McDonald's cups left on my front lawn by her visiting adult grandchildren were ignored, along with the rage I so desperately wanted to vent. But this past May? I just......couldn't take it anymore.


I was standing in my foyer that morning, awaiting the arrival of my niece, when I saw The Queen (whore) pick something up from her sidewalk (cigarette butts), and throw it onto mine. In an instant, that music from Kill Bill? Started playing, loudly, in my head. As malevolent as the day she was born, she got in her car and drove off. But not before stopping to place an orange construction cone in her parking space. A parking space, which happens to sit next to the driveway she never uses. The driveway, which is the entrance for the garage, which she also never fucking uses. A parking space, which she sweeps with a (witches) broom, the moment someone else uses it and leaves. Seconds later, my niece happened to pull up as I flew out the front door. She jumped out of her car and asked me what was going on. And since she was closer to it than me, I instructed her to bring that fucking cone into my house. 

I went about my day as happy as a clam, knowing that the sudden disappearance of her majesty's illegal parking space saver would be enough to throw The Queen's (pig) wig off kilter for the rest of the year. Until 3:45PM, when #4 came in from school. Visably upset, she told me that The Queen (succubus) cornered her as she walked up our front porch steps, and began ranting about her precious fucking cone. Again, that fucking music, playing in my head. I proceeded out back with the basket of laundry that I was about to hang on the line before the shit hit the fan. And it did. Hit. The. Fan. 

I was busy hanging clothes and scheming further retaliation when I felt the presence of her highness's unibrow behind me. Behold! The bitch, in all her glory, spewing shit from her lisped vocabulary in my general direction. With her nose held high and her nonagenarian eyes squinted shut, she stuttered with anger as she tried her best to form a complete and logical sentence. 


Now, for as much as I would love to go into detail about my reply, I can't. You see, I used words that even I am too embarrassed to repeat. But let's just say that it helps to know people. People know people. And people grow up with other people's now-adult children. Now-adult children who were once instructed by their mother to do some very, very bad things as kids. Very bad things that can get some mothers banned from their position as an ordained minister in a local Catholic church. Let's just say that this knowledge came in incredibly handy. Let's just say that on that warm, sunny, May afternoon, my neighbors got waaaaay better entertainment than Netflix could ever provide. 


It's been eight months since the day of reckoning. Eight very quiet and peaceful months. Aside from, you know, the occasional hang-up phone call or dirty look that clearly reads I-know-you-stole-my-cone-and-there's-not-a-damn-thing-I-can-do-about-it-because-it-was-in-direct-violation-of-the-Township's-littering-ordinance-anyway. You could hear a pin drop. Or, the Queen Of England next door. 

I know I always have the option of selling my house. But this time? This time, it's personal. And I'll be damned if I'm leaving the neighborhood first. I also know that I haven't seen the last of her yet. There's a reason why someone that vicious and detestable lives as long as she has. She's so evil that even Lucifer doesn't want to be her neighbor.

share on: facebook

I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream For.......WHO ATE ALL THE FUCKING ICE CREAM?!?!

Teenagers. They are the best kept secret in the dieters community...

Three teenage boys, one preteen girl, and a toddler in the ninetieth growth percentile for her age equal one insane monthly grocery bill. Some families choose to buy in bulk "to save money". And that just brings on the LOL's for me. When you have a brood this big, saving money isn't exactly at the top of the list anymore in terms of subsistence. Somewhere between the ages of when-is-dinner-going-to-be-done and are-you-gonna-eat-that, it becomes unobjective. Personally, I buy in bulk just to try and keep the friggin' refrigerator stocked. 

I wish I was being sarcastic when I say that my monthly grocery expenses are three times more than my mortgage. Or when I admit that before a major snow storm, I'm infamous for overfilling two carts at the local market. I'm not joking when I tell you that there have been times when I've cooked two pot roasts for dinner. And if the kids invited friends to eat at our house, sometimes three. Trust me, I don't own a minivan because of it's off-roading ability. I have to feed the teenagers. And it's the only legal vehicle short of an eighteen wheeler capable of fitting 8736485687 bags in the back. I don't mind, really, I don't. If they're eating, that's a good thing. A strong appetite is a sign of health. Once upon a time, I used to cry and beg #1 to eat just one bite. In a land far away, I used to struggle to get #2 and #3 to swallow half an ounce of formula each. Their pediatrician can vouch for me and attest to me calling him at all hours of the night, hysterical because they just would not eat. Be very careful of what you wish for, folks. 


It's now Saturday evening. Four days ago, I spent a little more than $300.00 shopping for food. Two loaves of bread, four gallons of milk, ten pounds of potatoes, three half-gallons of ice cream. All I wanted was a little ice cream. But. It's. Gone. Seriously. You think it can't happen to you. But. It. Does. 


I've considered pad-locking the pantry, but they'd chew thru it. I thought about electric dog collars, but they'd probably just keep swallowing in between twitches. Tomorrow morning, I'll be back at the supermarket, shopping like a senior citizen before a blizzard. When you get there, and the eggs (and ice cream!) are all out of stock, don't say I didn't warn you.


share on: facebook

Due To Recent Affiliations...

If you ignore this post, I won't be offended. After signing up with Google's AdSense program, I've decided to spam my own blog in hopes that the random endorsements that they (not me) place on this page will be something you actually might be interested in checking out. The following is a list of companies and stores where I shop at, or who's products I frequently purchase, as well as sites I regularly visit:

Victoria's Secret
Victoria's Secret PINK
Baby Gap
Gap Kids
Bare Escentuals
Sally Beauty Supply
Sephora
Trans Design
Shoe Dazzle
Netflix
Sony Style
Levi Jeans
Amazon
Barnes & Noble
Waldenbooks
ModCloth
3BTech
Domestications
Border's Books
Sam's Club
Wal Mart
Babies R' Us
Toys R' Us
Plan Toys
Etsy
Dzanc Publishing
Isabella Oliver
Maternity Mall
A Pea In The Pod
WebMD
ABC News
Hasbro
Coastal Contacts
Bath and Body Works
One Hanes Place
Maybelline 
Lowes Home Improvement
AT&T Wireless
Chevy
Facebook
Ice Jewelry
Diapers.com
Delia's
The Limited, Too
Redbox
Graco Baby
Goore's Baby Furniture 
Ugg Australia
American Apparel
Skechers
kgb_ USA
Yankee Candle Co.
Yellowpages






...let's see if it helps. Cross your fingers...

P.S....if you're a local business owner, and you'd like a little free lovin' on here, email me at rachaelsanko@gmail.com and we'll talk...




share on: facebook

I'd Rather Be A Stripper....

A couple of months ago, I found myself in quite the predicament with #4. Actually, I'm still in it. She began having some issues concerning friends, in and out of school. As a female, this is something that shouldn't be that foreign to me. As a mother, it is. My oldest three children are of the male species, and let me tell 'ya, there is a huge difference between raising boys and girls that is so much more than just badingadings and hoo-hoos. 

I've been doing this mom gig for almost fifteen years, and this is the first time in that decade and a half that I've been confronted with such issues that have never (at least for me) occurred while raising the boys. In a nutshell? Drama. Preteen, angst-riddled drama. To be honest? Cattiness. 

Trust me, #4 gives as good as she gets. But holy PMS, Batman! Little ladies these days surely know how to bring it. Since this school year commenced, I've began to dish out cheese to accompany the whines about everything from "She is soooo skinny, but so-and-so said she was fat" to "Insert-random-name-here said she can only be friends with people who wear Hollister". The best part about that last one is that the school just implemented a strict dress code that allows no labels of any kind. So unless they're showing each other their undies in the bathroom, how the hell does it even factor in?


Like I said, my kid is no saint. She'd like me to think that she is, and I love her dearly. But I'm not retarded. However, I can not fathom the justification behind a comment made to her by a fellow grade-mate. I've chosen to address it here, publicly, because not only does my "open book" policy include my own kids, as well as those who read this blog (EllieB43 never held anything back from me about her own life, and she was dead on accurate when she said that rule #1 as a parent is never lie to your kid), but hopefully it will clear the air in terms of grown-up's and half-truths. 


Here in the Skook, people can be infamous for spreading rumors about others. Some have an innate ability to hone their fairy tales really well, and hide behind their own children as the cause for spreading them. I know, right? Sad, but true. Now it's time to clear the air. 

Just before Thanksgiving break, #4 came home from school one day, totally beside herself with anger. I asked her what was up, and of course, she said it was nothing. I pried until she finally gave, and I gotta say, her anger was not unwarranted. 


"When I got on the bus to come home, Sally Shouldshutherfuckingmouth was telling everyone '#4's mom is a stripper', and everyone kept asking me if it was true".

Ask, and you shall receive. Was it true? Why lie? And especially, why lie to your child? They're only going to eventually find out, and hate you for it. So I told her...

Truth is, I'm a stay-at-home-mom. I'm a transcriptionist by trade. I'm a writer. I also work part-time for a globally known company. And back in the day, yes, I did work at an area gentleman's establishment. No, I will not disclose which one. Details are not necessary. It was for a short amount of time. The only thing I ever exchanged with a customer was money. And it made for a far better living than waiting on drunks at the local six pack store. I did it to pay the rent and feed my kids during a period of time in which it was required, and I would do it again if I had to. I'm not ashamed of it in the least. And neither should my daughter be made to be. 


Yeah, I said it. In damn near those exact words. You might look at me differently now. You might think "What kind of mother does that?". But what kind of mother slams another to her ten year old daughter? 


Truth is, cattiness in preteen girls comes from somewhere, not just out of thin air. Children learn by example. For whatever reason, women feel the need to criticize other women's maternal capabilities, and that's just fucked up. It doesn't make you any better a parent than anyone else. It just makes you shallow. And one day, that will not be a mannerism you're going to appreciate in your own daughter...



share on: facebook

Hey, Which Kid Are You???

Earlier this evening, I heard the amazing news that a dear childhood friend is pregnant, and expecting twins. I am soooo beyond ecstatic for her. Back in the day, and ahh hell yeah I did go there, the two of us were like peas and carrots ourselves. We did everything together. We hung out all the time. We babysat together. We studied (but mostly not lol) together. We got drunk together. We got suspended from school together. We even lived together at one point. She was there with me, for me, through some pretty heavy shit, too. She is tattooed on so many of my adolescent memories. Words cannot describe how happy I am for her. 

Part of that also stems from me being kinda partial toward spontaneous and natural human cloning. #2 and #3 are identical twins. Born merely four minutes apart, I can assure you that there are no other two individuals on this Earth that could possibly be so incomparable from one another. And that in and of itself is just phenomenal. Their personalities are that distinctive. #2 is obsessively organized while #3 is completely disarranged. #3 is very fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants, and #2 plans everything accordingly. #2 loves the color blue, and #3? He digs red. #3 is right-handed. #2, a lefty.

They are also very similar to one another. When they were still in elementary school, we used to love April Fool's day. They'd swap classes and pose as each other, and laugh because no one else noticed. Physically, there are very few ways to differentiate the two unless you know them. As infants, I used to dress them differently in order for me to be able to tell them apart. One way  to distinguish them is vocally. Another is that one of them was born with a birth mark on his hiney. Up until recently, it was very tricky for close relatives to know. And now? It's only because #2 decided to shear off his hair.

A couple of weeks ago, I took an unmarked photo and placed it on the fridge. In our house, the refrigerator is the steel equivalent to a photo album. What happens at Rach's house might stay at Rach's house, but it always ends up on Rach's fridge. A couple of days later, I thought that it might be a good idea to mark the picture, simply because it was one of the twins and if you don't identify who's who in that moment, you may never know. This has actually happened to me on more than one occasion. So I studied the photograph for a bit, took a red pen, and wrote #3's full name and cinematic age across the back of it. 

But I was wrong. Literally moments after hearing the wonderful news of my friend's own expectancy, I completely and unexpectedly confused my own sons. What should have been a posting about the weather (seriously), immediately turned into the fuckery of misidentification that comes hand in hand with identicals. 

#3 stormed into my office, holding up the photo of who was factually #2, and laughed his ass off. No, really. He had to grab hold of himself in an attempt to not fall down and physically roll on the floor. As for myself, I'm still sitting here, studying this pic, and completely thinking it's #3. I can't tell the difference.

Think it can't happen to you? Go ahead, have a set of twins. I DARE you!
share on: facebook

It's 5:52 AM....Do You Know Where Your Toddler Is?

I do. She's asleep, on the sofa, seven feet away from me. Ever since #5 equaled 3 about two weeks ago, she graduated to full on insomniac. Told you it was genetic. Earlier in the evening, we went to bed shortly after 9PM. She passed out cold. I, on the other hand, did not. So I made my way downstairs to the office, hoping to enjoy a little quiet time (yes, you can laugh now). It lasted a whole  1 hour and 25 minutes. And then, her mother-is-not-in-the-bed radar kicked in and she stumbled downstairs, homeless alcoholic style, and bitched me out. 

"Why you not seeping?"

"I'm not tired yet."

"Whyyyyyyyy?" (mind you, she drags out her words like a constipated great-uncle)

"I'm just not. You need to go back to bed."

(thru garbled tears, at this point) "Why you mad at meeeee?! I need lovin', gimme a huuuuuug!!" 

So we hugged it out like bros, and I took her back to bed. I laid next to her for what seemed like hours, until I finally decided to check my cell phone for the time. And guess what? It was hours! Three and a half, to be exact. I figured she had to have fallen asleep by then. There was no singing of "Hatsa Birfday" under her breath. There was no game of let's-hide-the-sippy-cup. There was no thumping of the foot. Just small, steady breaths. I sat up. Still no motion from her. I slipped my feet into my booties. Just silence. Then, I rushed thru the bedroom door like my ass was on fire. 

Finally! I made it to the kitchen and still no sound of footsteps from above. Excellent. I prepared a pot of coffee, and enjoyed the sounds of the clock while waiting for my brew. Ten minutes later, I was shuffling my way toward my desk when I heard it. The CD that she stole from #4's bedroom, bouncing down the steps like a slinky. I walked into the foyer, looked up, and there she was. Sitting at the top of the staircase, hands folded in her lap, smiling at me. 

She won. No, really, she did. I popped Mr. and Mrs. Smith into the DVD player, gave her the good blanket and a cup of chocolate milk, and there we sat. And right around the time Jane & John mutually discovered that they were each others targets, she began to snore. Those of you who have toddlers, ever raised toddlers, or plain ole' even met a toddler know that unless the house is on fire with no possibility of putting it out without awaking said toddler know that you never, ever rouse them. Let sleeping toddlers lie, no matter where that may be. The sofa. The back seat of the car. The kitchen floor. Shit, I'd bet Satan himself doesn't have the balls to wake #5 up. 

It's now 6:28 AM. I am exhausted. While she's happily dreaming of kittens and marshmallows and lady bugs. Sleep well #5. For, you may have won the bedtime battle, but I shall conquer the nap time war.

share on: facebook

There's A New Sheriff In Town

Teenagers. They are fickle little creatures. They eat. A lot. They sleep. Oh my God do they sleep. They change their clothes faster than they can be laundered. They like to buy stuff. Shiny, expensive stuff that for the most part, they really don't need or won't use. They like to stay up late. And, they like to test their boundaries. 

Before I say any more, I have to make one thing perfectly clear. I love my son. I love all five of my kids. #1 is my favorite first born. #2 and #3 are my favorites because they are my twins. #4 is my favorite because she is my eldest daughter. And #5 is my favorite baby of the bunch. However, I find myself in an unfamiliar territory concerning #3. 


Now, I'd like to think of myself as the Mrs. Carol Brady type of mother. But let's not exaggerate here. I'm more like Hitler with a pinch of Stalin. In light of recent events (events that shall be known as The Great Depression of 2010, and believe me, I will be filling you all in on that in due time), I became...dare I say, a pushover? Sometimes, as a parent, you have to. Sometimes, punishments need to be overlooked. It's for the betterment of the children. But there are situations, like the one I now find myself involved in, where a parent must call upon their inner Napoleon and do what needs to be done. 

The Great Depression of 2010 hit us all very hard. Wait, let me rephrase that. It beat the living shit out of us in a dark alley with a baseball bat. The rest of us are healing from our wounds. But #3? I feel like he may be succumbing to his. The Carol Brady in me wants to make him a cup of hot cocoa and sympathetically ask him how I can help. But the Hitler in me keeps saying fuck that shit, he needs prison camp. 

To say he fell in with the wrong crowd wouldn't be an understatement. It would be an all out, bold-faced lie. Truth is, these are the kids he knew his whole life. But the combination of entering his teenage years along with the sudden implosion of our family created a catastrophe. I can handle breaking curfew. I can handle the drop in grades. I can deal with the slip of the tongue, the skipping of practices, and experimentation of illegal substances. But what I'm completely and utterly at a loss with is the distance. Even though we're in the same room with each other, we might as well be continents apart. I know my son, and I know there are things he wants to say, but he isn't saying them. That? That just kills me. I would rather he kick and scream. Punch a wall. Break something. Tell me to go fuck myself. But just say something.


I'm not writing this to garner any sympathy, trust me. I never really did give a flying fuck what other parents think of me. I do what's best for my kids regardless. Though, it's only fair to warn the rest of the world and especially those who hang out with my son, that Rachael is getting angry. And you aren't going to like Rachael when she's angry. 


I'm not oblivious to the fact that #3 is capable of making his own decisions, even if I don't agree with them. Even if they are wrong. Hell, I'm a grown-up and I still screw up. The most difficult part of being a parent is biting your tongue. I've bitten mine so much that it's bleeding. It hurts. And I can't do it anymore. So, to the select few who've made it to my you-are-so-fucking-fucked-you-little-fuck list, expect some up and coming actions. Expect a knock on your door. Expect me. Expect police. Expect attorneys. Expect juvenile detention centers. Because I'm not going to stop until I know my son is safe. You are putting him in harms way, and I will make sure I put you away.

As for #3? He knows what he's in for. Believe me, he knows. Right about now, he's devising Plan B in hopes of saving himself from impending doom. He's going to start showing up to practice. He's going to bring books home every night and study. He's going to become more helpful around the house. He's even going to begin to spend more time at home. But he isn't going to be able to distract me from my ultimate goal. See, once upon a time, I was 13, too. And none of that saved my ass, either. 



share on: facebook

Getting To Know You

I'm pretty much an open book, but that's just me. Everything I write about are actual events. But to be fair, I've decided to keep the identities of immediate family concealed. To be frank, my decision was based wholly on the fact that creepers, perverts, and pedophiles are a real reality. So, if you are one of those, fuck you. You're not getting the names of my kids. Everyone else, please refer to the following index (listen closely):

MFH= My First Husband (a private joke between us, me & the man I married)
#1= My firstborn 
#2= My second born (see the pattern here, folks?)


Then, respectively, #3, #4, and #5. 


SC1= My oldest step child, who also happens to be the eldest child out of 8. 
Followed by SC2 and SC3. SC2#1= the oldest grand child, and SC2#2 is in reference to the youngest. Yes, my name is Rachael Sanko, and I became a grandmother at the age of 29. Are you confused yet? You ought to be.


As for the rest of the family, I've decided to come up with a few nicknames. Nicknames which will be revealed in due time <insert evil laugh here>...
share on: facebook

And On The First Day, She Created...

If you're reading this, apparently, you've found me. I won't even lie, I'm pretty difficult to get a hold of. So if I didn't return your calls or respond to your emails, it's because I've been busy working on what I'd like to refer to as my confessional. At the very least, it's quite possibly the best thing I've ever decided to do in terms of keeping those in the know, in the know. If you already know who I am, then you know that things can get pretty hectic around here. And if you don't, then you're about to get a crash course, first-hand. Expect bluntness. Expect chaos. Expect a lot of bad words. By my calculations, this can go either really, really well. Or, lol, really, really bad...

share on: facebook