Absentee Slip....

Well, howdy strangers! I know. It's been a few days. Trust me, I really do make my best efforts to keep you all up to date on all things FUBAR around here. But I've recently found myself in the midst of a new project that requires even more of my attention. I can't, and won't go into any sort of detail about it just yet. Just know that keeping it under wraps for the time being is for the sake of productivity. And good things come to those who wait. So keep your radars on alert for a future announcement to this regard. I promise you, you won't be disappointed....
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Bless Me Father, For I Have Sinned....

It has been......a really, really hella long time since my last confession. I'll admit, I haven't stepped foot in a church since my mother's funeral. Honestly, I'm just not that into the whole organized religion thing. Yet, I can't completely shake the whole guilt-ridden Catholicistic upbringing that was washed over my brain since I was born. You know, that one that taught us that all we have to do is concede wrongdoing to a total stranger and our souls shall be healed? I don't know about all that absolution shit, but it sure does make ya feel better, doesn't it?  And so, for your reading pleasure. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, my acknowledgment of contrition....

1. I was the one who repeatedly turned the microwave light on, for no good reason other to piss of MFH, and blamed it on #3.

2. I told #4 she was adopted. Multiple times. Over the course of several months.

3. I drank directly from the milk carton.

4. I told the visiting Jehova's Witnesses that I could not invite them in because my house was haunted by a demonic spirit.

5. I cried "PMS!" the Easter after #5 was born in order to get out of dinner with the in-laws, and stay at home with the baby, because I wanted to have her all to myself that day. 

6. When the neighbor's coupon booklet was accidentally delivered to my house, I kept it. And used it.  

7. While online shopping, I re-registered a new account under a different email address just to get the "new customer" discount and free shipping. 

8. I lied to my kids. I told #4 she'd get worms if she kissed a boy before she was married, told #2 he was a test-tube baby, told #3 he wasn't really a twin, I just couldn't afford two birthday parties in a row every year, and told #1 he was planned.

9. I stole The Queen Of England's parking cone.

10. When the really old man in Lowe's mistook #5 for a "handsome young man", I just nodded and smiled because I didn't want to have to tell him he was wrong, in my loudest indoor voice ten times just so he could hear me.

11. When the sign at the counter said "Free! Take one!", I took three lollipops. 

12. I posed as an undercover security guard at Victoria's Secret in order to get  two little male demon spawn who were using thongs as slingshots to leave the store. 

13. When the clerk at the gas station rang up my purchase incorrectly, giving me twice my actual change back, I kept it. 

14. I swapped my old, dying gel pen for a better one at the bank drive-thru. 


15. I told MFH that his new mandals didn't make him look like he was a cross-dresser, he looked great!

16. I purposefully gave a bad online review of a beauty product that works really well because there were only a few left in stock and I didn't want it to sell out before I could buy the rest of it. 

17. I publicly referred to #5 as "a kid I was just babysitting" when she was acting like a heathen in the grocery store. 


18. When I heard my sister's voice on the answering machine asking if I was home, I didn't pick up the phone because I was too lazy to get up off the couch, and the eight feet I would have had to walk to reach it just seemed so much farther than that.


19. I told my credit card company that I couldn't make my payment because my mother had just passed away and I was too busy mourning, even though it's been years.


20. I called the kids off of school, saying they all had the stomach flu, so we could hang out at the park and play. 

21. I told the cop, and the magistrate, that I thought the light was yellow, and cried to get out of the ticket saying that MFH "would never allow me to drive again" if they placed points against me. 

22. When my doctor asked if I smoked, I lied and said no, and that someone in the car with me did, just to avoid the lecture. 

23. I ate the last fruit snack, but left the empty box in the pantry just to piss the kids off for doing it to me all the time. 

24. I pretended to be sleeping alongside #5 because I wanted nap time to last just a little bit longer and I knew she'd wait for me to get up first. 

25. I used a friend's handicapped placard for a better parking spot because I was taking the kids with me and I didn't feel like walking that far. 


That's just what I can remember off the top of my head. By my calculations, if I multiply this list by like, fifty, a few hundred Hail Mary's and a sizable donation should cover it. Ahhh, fuck it. Who the hell am I kiddin'? I'm goin' to hell anyway. I'll see ya'll down there! 



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Quittin' Time....(Redux)

It's been a little more than seven months since I fell off of the nicotine wagon. Instead of chasing it down the road, I decided to stay where I landed for a little while, and savor every carcinogenic puff. I knew then that it would only be a matter of time until I'd quit again. Blowing six years and five days of tobacco sobriety down the toilet was an absolutely conscious decision. I had a choice, and I opted not to get in the driver's seat and run a bitch over. I know, right? Stupidity reared it's ugly head that day. But believe me, I've learned my lesson. I realize that my life is far more valuable than anyone else's, and next time, I'ma just hit the gas instead. 

I originally started smoking when I was fifteen. Again, stupidity. But this time it was in the form of a boyfriend who I thought I was head over heels for at the time. He smoked, a lot. As a matter of fact, so did everyone I hung out. But he was the deciding factor for me. I thought that if I smoked, he'd (oh my fucking God I can not believe I am admitting to this) like me more. Turns out, it didn't work. We broke up not long after that, but I was ultimately stuck in a dead end relationship with the Marlboro Man. 


Nine years later, I lost my mom to lung cancer. I'm just being honest when I say that even seeing her tumor on the MRI scan wasn't enough to deter me. Nor was knowing that her father also died of the same disease, or having her oncologist confirm that there is in fact a genetic component to it. In the end, it was my own personal desire to stop smelling like a human ashtray. I hated the example I was setting for my kids. I also loathed the loss of income, the extra cleaning at the dentist every year, and the eventuality that I would end up looking like Ed Asner before I turned forty. Sometimes, vanity can be a good thing. 

So, I bit the bullet and spent a small fortune on patches and gum. And it worked. Within two months, I was clean from both crutches as well as my dirty little habit. After four months, the emphysema-ish cough ceased. And after six, I noticed an increase in physical energy. But it wasn't all sunshine and roses. Every single day, for six years, I continued to crave. Every single day, for six years, I thought about smoking. At least once. On bad days, I'd follow MFH outback just to inhale the second hand smoke from his cigarette. And I'm not even going to lie to you, the weight gain was unexpected. I knew I'd gain something and that was okay. Give and take, ya know? I just didn't think it would happen so quickly. And forty extra pounds when you're only five feet tall is difficult to ignore. But it was a small price to pay, and I learned to deal. 

A few days ago, I began to feel that familiar desire to quit again, and I welcomed it. It's what I've been waiting for. It's so true, how the experts say you have to want to. The idea alone isn't gonna to do shit for ya. And so tomorrow, because it also helps to choose the day, I'm flagging down that wagon once again. This time, I'm buckling my seat belt. 



**For more information about smoking cessation go to www.whyquit.com**


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Hillbilly Heaven (Or Hell, Depending On Your View Point)

 As I type this, a nice, young man contracted by a major satellite TV company is busy installing a network on my property. While I'm composing sentences, he's drilling, and measuring, and running cables. The whole idea was orchestrated by MFH a few days ago, and he is also overseeing the project. Which is why he's now number one on my shit list for telling Mr. Dish Network to secure their obscene piece of mechanical equipment right outside my fucking office window.

Oh, did I forget to mention that my office is in the front of the first level of my house? My bad...

As shallow as it might sound, my complaint is justified. Drive past my house and you'll understand what the fuck I'm talkin' 'bout. Since the day we purchased this house, my priority has been designing and ultimately renovating the outer-most portion of the structure. It needs it, and we knew that way back when. I've spent the past two years looking into contractors that might be capable of doing what I want done. Only for those plans to be dashed by a obstructive dome of titanium. Ok, I get it. it can be moved....eventually. But I know nothing if I know MFH, and something tells me it's time to scrap all previous ideas, because I'm going to have to work around a fucking satellite dish. 

Why are men like this? Seriously. What makes them think that an intrusive piece of equipment mounted at fucking eye level on the front fucking windows isn't going to be a problem? I understand that the pitch of the front roof was too great to position it there, and I understand that the easier the better in terms of having to climb up onto the upper level of the house. But seriously. My home now looks like something out of Green Acres. Who needs garden gnomes when you have a bowl-shaped broadcast transmitter? Am I supposed to decorate it with icicle, or standard string lights? Ahh hell, maybe now we can just leave the outdoor Christmas trimmings up all year round. Maybe on #5's next birthday, I can tie a bundle of balloons to it. Because the first thing an obtrusive inanimate device needs is more attention. 

I know, I'm anal about this kind of shit. But if I don't say something, I'll have a wheel-less, rusted Chevy parked on the front lawn by Memorial Day. If I let this slide, I'm going to come home one day and find the kids, dressed in denim overalls, playing banjo's on the front steps. Congratulations, MFH, we are now a wad of chewing tobacco and an oversized confederate flag away from the next episode of Wife Swap. If anyone out there troll's People Of Wal Mart, and you see our photos, please....just pretend like you didn't see 'em. 


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#@*!&%$!@#!!!

 So, I awoke in a rather pissy mood today. Believe it or not, that's become a rarity since The Great Uppage Of The Prozac Dosage Of 2010. I can't remember the last time I rolled out of bed feeling like the first person who comes in contact with me is gonna get a punch upside the fucking head. Maybe it had something to do with #5 kicking and slapping the shit out of me in her sleep. I will never understand the physics behind how someone who is only three feet tall can take up an entire bed. I think she does it on purpose. The beatings, not the hogging of the sleeping space. Her nocturnal giggles give her away.

Maybe it has something to do with the God-awful weather we've been getting slammed with lately. For the past five or six weeks, the Skook's been dealing with snow and sleet on an every other day basis. I can deal with ten degree daily high temperatures, but snow? Fuck no. It hasn't even been getting a chance to melt, or be properly shoveled and cleared out, before we get dumped on again. Today was no different than the last six Saturdays. Dreary, cold, wet, icy, repeat. 

I dropped off the face of the indoor tanning world about two years ago, but I'm strongly reconsidering it. Skin cancer is starting to sound like a minuscule price to pay in exchange for twenty minutes of daily peace, relaxation, and warmth. I don't even change colors. Never have. I've accepted the fact that I will always naturally look like a sparkly Cullen. Still, the smell of tangerines during a warm power nap is pretty fucking enticing. 

And that fucking groundhog? Seriously. I'm surprised no one has put a price out on his fucking head yet. You want a seasonal prediction? Here's your seasonal fucking prediction. The sun is never going to shine on the fucking northeast ever again. The end. And you didn't even need to wake up a hibernating rodent to find that out. Just look outside, people.

To add to my misery, tomorrow is Superfucking Bowl Sunday. And I. Do not. Give. A. Fuck. Everywhere I look it's Green Bay this and Pittsburgh that. Please God, just fucking kill me now. You know what the best part about the Super Bowl is? Nothing. Yeah, I said it. Traditionally, #5 and I would take off for the day, spending way too much money on really useless shit in Wal Mart, but that's not gonna happen this year because the sun is never going to shine on the fucking northeast ever again. And after the fuckery that ensued on Super Bowl Sunday, 2008, it's safe to say I've learned my lesson about attempting to shop in craptastic weather again. One post-natal mother plus four kids stuck in a sub-zero parking lot at 9:30PM multiplied by awaiting the arrival of help in order to fix the fucking van door that iced over and fell off it's track does not equal a good time. 

I think I need a nap. And another dosage increase. Oh, by the way, the first person to comment with the exact number of f-bombs in this post gets...nothing. Fuck it. I'm going back to bed now. 






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She Said WHAT?!?!

 Anyone out there with a toddler, raise your hand! Aren't they interesting as shit? I have the pleasure of spending the majority of my days with #5. I know a lot of moms that yearn for some adult conversation after a long day of deciphering toddler-ease. Maybe I was dropped on my head when I was a baby, but I'm kind of the opposite these days. I've come to realize, especially during the past couple of months, that I'd prefer to dialogue with my three year old. She's a hell of a listener. She understands. Understanding her, on the other hand, well....

For instance, one of her favorite shirts portrays a picture of a chocolate chip cookie, with the word "tough" printed in bold letters above it. It makes sense that she'd offer me one of her tough cookies during her afternoon snack. She's just now entering the stage of "mine". Everything is "mine". Not hers, not yours. Not "my". But mine. As in "Mine sissy is at schoooool two-day". Or "Mine tough cookie is goooood." Not to be confused with mine-mine, such as "I got dese sickers from Sissy's bedwoom. Dese im's mine!". That's a whole other blog post, folks. Her haphazard outbursts in the midst of a crowded grocery store ("Ha! Ha! I fah-ted!") tend to render some odd facial expressions from strangers, but she's nothing if she isn't real. Sometimes, she can be incredibly insightful. Like the time she rose from her after-dinner nap and told me all about what I thought was a pacaroni and sheets fueled delusion. But I was so wrong. She really did swallow that penny.

She also in that stage where she likes to repeat. Everything. Twice. It's akin to living with Vincent Twice Vincent Twice from Sesame Street with a pinch of Chris Rock. I recognize that this is a direct result of the certain four letter words that I have a tendency to sprinkle amongst grown-up discussions. What can I say? I'm workin' on it. Potty-mouth-training should be included in all that useless parenting literature. Isn't it ironic how they never seem to repeat the child friendly versions of the bad words? Like buttocks. Or urinate. Still, I have to admit that hearing an unexpected f-bomb from a little one with the accent of an immigrant is pretty fucking funny.

One day soon, that little bit of awesomeness will be outgrown, and her random annunciations and proverbs will be articulated no more. In the meantime, I'm going to continue to cherish every garbled syllable that crosses her lips. It makes you really, really appreciate what Willis' been talkin' 'bout. We were all her age at one time. Relating to the way she looks at the world isn't that difficult. Not if you take the time to view life thru her eyes. That, and overlooking the constipated pronunciation of her words. Yeah, she does speak like Great Uncle Felix after Thanksgiving dinner, but I'm hopeful that just like the penny, that too shall pass.




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Can't We All Just Get Along?

Seriously. Sibling rivalry, though probably incurable, has always been a point of contention around here. Never have I faced a parenting hurdle so difficult to gain the upper hand on. Anything can set any of them off, and nothing seems to stop it. I've tried it all. Apologies, hugging it out, ignorance (which, by the way is not bliss in these situations) separation (to different levels of the house). Everything. Nothing works. I've now resorted to praying.

This morning, and I'm talkin' six fucking thirty a.m., I (along with #4 and #5) was awakened to an all out nuclear holocaust of a verbal assault between #2 and #3 regarding school uniforms. As I've mentioned in a previous post, #2 and #3 couldn't be less identical, personality wise. Case in point: #2 has been appointed personal slave of #3, and #2 obliges. After all, he is four minutes older. Those four minutes? Yeah, they make a difference. 

#2 is the most self-sufficient 13 year old I've ever known. This kid rocks, and I'm not just sayin' that out of maternal admiration. He does his homework...without being told to. He's obsessively neat and organized. His future plans include working at Burger King when he turns sixteen because "it pays". He even does his own laundry. Did you hear me? He's a thirteen year old boy who washes his own clothing. That, in and of itself, has absolutely made the last thirteen years of raising him so worth it. 

Suffice it to say, #3 quickly learned of this laundering of clothing done by #2, and true to his Italian heritage, found a way to take advantage of #2's hard labor and use it for his own personal gain. Yes, I'm aware of the mafia'ish stereotyping in that last statement, but then again there is no mafia. Let's proceed...

For the past several months, #3 has been strong-arming his twin to wash his school uniforms on a daily basis. Scratch that. #2 has been doing all of #3's laundry, undies and all. I've recently become aware of #2's passive aggressive tendency, but #3's dominance never really was a secret. Still, I'm surprised at #2's compliance. Maybe it's a twin thing. I suppose we'd all be a little more accommodating had we all been forced to share a womb with someone else for months. 

This morning, at six fucking thirty, #2 got his anger on. Pushed to the brink by #3, he decided to put his foot down. After being berated for forty minutes as to how he could have possibly managed to overlook #3's laundry last night, he finally washed his hands of the whole ordeal. You should have heard it. I certainly did:

#3: "Where'd you put the uniforms?" 
#2: "Top drawer of the second dresser."
#3: "They're not there! There's only one shirt and it's yours! I have no pants!"
#2: "Well, that's where I put them."
#3: "Where's the stuff from my hamper?"
#2: "I washed what I could find. Where were your clothes?"
#3: "Under my bed."
#2: "Well, if they weren't in the hamper, they didn't get done."
#3: "But you cleaned the bedroom yesterday! Why didn't you wash my stuff? Great! Now I don't have anything to wear today! You only care about yourself!"
#2: Ok, you know what? From now on, I'm only going to wash my own stuff. That way, if I miss something, I have only myself to blame!"


I know, right? And that last remark? It was fucking priceless. As I lay in bed listening to this exchange from across the hall, it took every ounce of willpower to keep from butting my two cents in. My mother's voice kept ringing in my ear. You'll only make it worse. And that couldn't be more true. 


Eventually, #3 found a clean uniform to wear, and the war ceased. But I strongly suspect the days of #3's free housekeeping have now concluded. The young lad is on his own. Or until #2 takes pity on him once again. You know, I've thought about secretly recording their disagreements and airing them on YouTube, but that damn little voice from the great beyond just keeps getting louder. You'll only make it worse...
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An Update On The Queen....

So, I suppose I'll update ya'll on The Queen Of England's medical status. Apparently, she had a fall (off of her broom) of some sort, and is still incapacitated in a local (nursing home) hospital. Though it's not confirmed, I would imagine that she broke something (someone's spirit). Though it's not confirmed, I believe she's going to be off of her (high horse) feet for quite a spell (eternity in purgatory). I'm sure her family (at least those who'll admit it) is hoping (to be included in the will) for her speedy (or not) recovery (kicking of the bucket).

Seriously, I can't believe I'm about to admit this, but I actually kind of feel sympathy for the old bird. After all, if she does drop over not only will I have no one to argue with on a daily basis, but chances are her house will go on the market. And God only knows who might end up in there next. From what I understand, she's lived there for decades. She's as much a part of the neighborhood as the stop sign at the end of the block. It wouldn't be the same without her.

Believe it or not, she and I didn't always harbor mutual animosity for one another. Though short lived, once upon a time we actually got along. I know, I can't believe it either. That she used to bring over snacks of tootsie rolls and cookies for the kids. That she sent a really thoughtful card after the birth of #5. That she gave decent gardening advice. That she often complimented the kids. I guess the good does outweigh the bad, huh? I suppose a little part of me is rooting for her to get well soon. But, let's just keep it between us for now, ok?

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