She Who Knows Too Much About Me, and Crib Notes

You've heard me talk about my bestie, Winter Prosapio, who's got to be the Patron Saint of Besties (for god's sake, don't tell her I said that, she'll be intolerable). Winter has been a best friend to me in every sense, and she knows which closet all the skeletons hang in—which is weird and kind of creepy, and a good reason even I don't loiter in my closets. But probably the best thing about Winter, from a bestie standpoint, is that she still likes me when she disagrees with me and thinks I'm being dumb. Heh, like I'm EVER dumb. I mean, that is just dumb.

Anywho, Winter writes a column for the New Braunfels Herald-Zeitung, where she's made Germans laugh every week for five years! And she's compiled some of her best into a book called Crib Notes: Reports from the Front Lines of Motherhood.

So what I'm saying to you all is, how about getting the woman who birthed you a gift? Or any other miracle-workin' mama who turned all those jettisoned little spermies into something that walks, talks, and squawks and takes your all your money? She will totally GET this book. Case in point, maybe YOU! And your full share of parental chuckles will only cost you $0.99. True! Deal of the century, I'm tellin' ya.

Wanna know what's inside the book? Here's a taste:

From "Be Mine. Get the Glue": Valentine's Day takes on a whole different level of complexity when small children are involved, because small children must love everyone in their class. I don't disapprove of this rule; frankly, I'd live in terror of my child being the one that didn't score enough Valentines to keep her off a therapist's couch in March.

From "Oh Deer": Some years you'd never see a carcass on a section of busy highway; then all of a sudden it was as if Vulture King had opened up a drive-through.

From "Staying Home with Daddy": The weight limit on jump castles and slip and slides would increase because dads are never satisfied with just watching from the sidelines. We'd have sing-alongs and nursery rhymes that involve such classics as the pulling-of-the-finger and burping along with daddy. Strollers would come with all-terrain wheels, helmets, and air bags for off-roading. Diaper bags would come in camouflage—urban and jungle. Play Doh would come in 5-gallon buckets and suitable for building a full-size replica of Stonehenge.

Go ahead now, go give her a look. And after you've downloaded your bargain read, why not leave a review on Amazon?
|

Tweet

It's My Story and I'll Cry If I Want To

I'm just going to say it. I'm suffering from a broken heart. Suffering being the operative term, and that translates to a kink in my I-Must-Write-for-the-Masses gene, so apologies for being MIA. In fact, I wasn't going to write about this at all, but heartache is universal, right? Plus this is my story and I get to post whatever the hell I want on my blog, and god knows (in his infinite imaginary wisdom) it is the one thing that actually does belong to me.

Of course, it's not finished, but the facts remain. I'm much like a water faucet these days because the complications surrounding my broken heart are, well, complicated. My reliable companions are Sara Bareilles, John Mayer, and Jason Mraz cuz their sappy lyrics and well-timed crescendos really get me, though I confess, right now even "Honky Tonk Badonkadonk" chokes me up. As does brushing my teeth. And peeling a mandarin. And getting dressed. Getting undressed is arguably worse, for reasons as inexplicable as why I can't put on mascara with my mouth closed. No, I can't. Don't even try to argue with me right now.

Add to that, this past weekend I moved into my new digs and ran smack-dab into my past. Nostalgia in the bottom of boxes undisturbed for almost two years. Like a live CD of my baby sister (gone now for three years) crooning with her band; a sentimental scrapbook from 25 WriterGrrls who sent me off to Florida feeling valued and uplifted; and handwritten love letters that make me wonder if I'll ever again be someone's first and only choice. Yeah, waterworks.

I also unearthed some treasures that made me smile, like a ceramic rooster with its butt in the air, a shiny aqua bag the size of a Rubik's cube with boa feathers, and a charming "little" sum'n-sum'n in need of new batteries. Actually, I wept about that one too, but those were tears of joy. Obviously.

I'm now resorting to soothing my big tittybabyness with nightly Spartacus marathons. It's rough, but a girl's gotta do . . . stuff. And naked gladiators are quite the distraction, even without the requisite glass or three of wine and gobs of Tostitos stuck in icy blobs of Schweddy Balls, which is like having my own little sailboats in a bowl of Arctic debris. Who can resist diving in and stabbing and twisting the hell out of them with a spoon?

Anywho, the blogging herewith resumes at Fragrant Liar, and I'll be around to see you all as soon as I can. Meantime, I'm open to suggestions on where one can buy some long-lasting D's. In bulk, yo.
|

Tweet

When Good Women Get Pissy (Again)

You know how you spend your whole adult life trying to be cool-headed and thoughtful and role-model-y for your kids? You might be all angelfishy in the tanky-poo, but then something royally hinky happens to screw up your day, like your lawyer forgets you exist and your case languishes in some dusty file room, and you feel landlocked cuz you wanna swim with the sharks, or better still, be the shark. Uh-oh.

Yeah, suddenly you're transformed. You spit the serenity prayer. You burst your spongy stress ball. You gnash on cheery rainbows. You roll up your sleeves and dare your foe to "Bring it." You huff and puff and lather yourself into a white-hot frenzy that can only be cured by excoriating your victim with a serrated-edged tongue, after which you must shove your overheated body into the freezer. Naked.

Family Safety Hint: During this time? Do not approach your supreme leader. She must cool down, and you cannot facilitate this process with tepid apologies. Plus, she wants to revel in her righteous indignation because it's liberating and empowering and all kinds of orgasmic to be the firing squad for a change. But because she's not normally a sprayer of evil, she is out of practice and you will likely get some on you. Run.

Losing it is not a moment that the kind-hearted, compassionate woman is going to feel proud about afterward. But she will damn-well feel sensational after clearing her head of the nice-girl clutter, the pretentious civility, and the ridiculosity of trying to look at asshattery from someone else's viewpoint. Allow her space. And ice cream. Amen.

You probably didn't know that storming and stomping around is healthy, but the pissy woman gets all aerobic in the venting process. Plus, she will get a blog post out of it. And if a man is involved, he may get take-it-out-on-you sex. Not making promises, but there's anecdotal evidence that it's happened at least once in recorded history. Google.

Since I live alone, there are no witnesses to any gratifying tirades. So if nobody within 10,000 square feet hears me bitch, did it really happen? Crap.

-----------------------------
In Dallas this week workin' for the man, and life has me by the cojones (yes, I have some). Hope you enjoyed this very popular post from the past. 
|

Tweet

Unbridled and Sorta Tacky

I rode a horse today. Not your average horse, mind you, but a white and silver-mottled Percheron—a 2,400-pound draft horse, similar to a Clydesdale. It was like riding a rhino when he's a little sleepy; and I don't mind sayin', having that much power between your thighs is pretty incredible. I mean, not that I'm not used to that sort of thing already. Cuz, naturally, I am.

Now, I know what you're thinking. I look like a little princess up there on my magic unicorn—sorta—straight out of Disney. When in fact, the tall woman with her hand on the big horsey's halter is Donna, owner of Azteca Stables in Canyon Lake. Fooled ya. Hardly a "Giddyup, mighty magical steed!" moment. More like, "Mama, can we go faster?" Still . . . Note, no saddle necessary because, as I might have mentioned, that's a whole lotta horse between my thighs. Plus, I have magic all up in there. Obviously.

Interestingly, this Percheron's name is Kimmie. That alone elevates her to a superior position in the hierarchical chain of life. Natch, therefore, we shared a symbiotic connection—and a good laugh at the expense of lesser beings. (You know who you are.)

So Kimmie's the mare for the big Clyde they call Killian, shown at left with my BFF Winter. Seeing his wife with that big stallion in the palm of her hands, Winter's hubs could only bow in respect and awe. Plus Killian's got big feet, and you know what they say about that. And, well, it's true.

See Killian and Kimmie in the round pen, reducing its size to that of a play pen:



Just for comparison purposes, here's Smoky, a sweet almost-6-year-old. Now that you've seen the big guns in the same vicinity, Smoke looks rather puny, right?

Size doesn't matter to Smoky, though. His youthful ego is unbridled and primal. When the big guns came out of their stables with a certain, shall we say, swagger, little Smoky manned up and showed he wouldn't be intimidated. Here he is below, dropping the stud tack like it's hot (no argument there!), just in case Killian chances to look over while trotting circles in a round pen that hardly contains him. You go, Smoke!

Of course, when Smoky saw me snapping his picture, he got a little embarrassed and reined in the tack. Even primal displayers give pause when the threat of Internet exposure looms.

But I'm telling you, not a whole lotta difference between males of all species when it comes to claiming territory and dropping the tack—or did somebody want to argue that?
|
And now here's your moment of zen with this week's creative cuss word combo, thanks to my HSM:

Tweet

Epiphanies and Equations, Or Why I Feel a Trip to the Beach Coming On

2012 has begun, and I have failed to spout forth a resolution. I am the equivalent of an algebraic equation: unresolved. In my defense, I am not a fan of math—unless it's one plus one equals an incredible afternoon of delight.

While having lunch with my BFF—the absolute smartest person I know, besides me* (obviously), I enjoyed two epiphanies. Actually, I didn't enjoy them so much as I was unhinged by them. And since BFF also serves as my personal GPS (Global Perspective Sister), her trademark poignant line of questioning assured that I would locate my epiphanies somewhere over Pollo Enchiladas and Fish Tacos. When last we found me there, I was crying into a bottle of cerveza and pondering the mating habits of sand crabs, where I left my cover-up, and why zinc oxide can't just be clear.

Okay, so . . . Epiphany One. Apparently, a person can have a few too many loose ends in her life, and the preponderance of said loose ends can make a normally together person feel all sorts of unresolved and, well, icky. Math wiz that I am, the equation looks like this: Too many loose ends = too many variables = overwhelm = risk aversion = a disturbing bout of inertia. Sure, I oversimplified, but who can function with that kind of resistance?

Epiphany Two. My discombobulation, heretofore known as Epiphany One, is a major buzz kill equivalent to, say, a borborygmic pressure cooker. Yeah. Quiz later. Anywho, no avoiding it. Before you can make a resolution you'll keep, you have to be clear on your shit. You have to know what you can and can't live without, what you have control of and what you don't, what will make you the happiest, what you're willing to walk away from, and what will take care of itself. Plus, how many carbs are in a slice of margherita pizza—or the whole thing with maybe some pineapple. Or more precisely, would I benefit from a nice getaway in the sun, sand, and surf instead of thinking so hard? These are things I must get to the bottom of.

In summary, time to shore up my loose ends so I can really enjoy my next big adventure with a clear conscience, a joyful heart, and a renewed zest for life. Who knows, 2012 could be my best, brightest, biggest year ever. Maybe it will even be Apocalyptic. Hey, I think I'm having another epiphany.
_____________________
* and HSM, but I'm not telling him that cuz, well, there are only so many kudos you can freely bestow upon a Hot Sexy Man before he reminds you about them, like when he posits how you can be Mensa material one minute and a laughable 12-year-old the next. Clearly, I'm not a 12-year-old (I know you are, but what am I?); I'm just flexible (that's what HE said!) on an intellectual level.

|

Tweet

Merry Christmas, Y'all!

My 8-y-o granddaughter's Christmas List. Priceless.

Christmas Eve 2011, White Elephant Party

My White Elephant Prize:  A golf ball monogrammer.
Cuz I like to show ownership of my balls.
And someone has placed a suggestive frog on my shoulder and 
made me hold some kind of special, um, oil. Don't judge.
(Click to enlarge, at your own risk.)

|

Tweet

Sucking Up the Family Genius

In my family of origin, improv is just a part of who we are. By improv, I mean, we make stuff up, not necessarily stand-up. Although, we also think we're freakin' hilarious and can offend others on command. Plus, commandeering other people's conversations through the interjection of lame word puns has been part of our hey-look-at-me arsenal for anyone unlucky enough to make eye contact. Not me, I'm saying, but, you know, the rest of my family.

So my kids have not fallen far from the proverbial make-stuff-up tree, for they too improvise. Take my eldest daughter, TG—a true and certifiable (and gorgeous) genius. Yesterday she decided she needed to clean under her fridge. Well, that part is not exactly something I would ever, EVER do in my lifetime or a nightmare. Cuz really, who cares about the dust amassing where mice gather to conspire humanity's downfall—and poop? Not me. Certainly not the mice. They couldn't give a proverbial rat's ass about public indecency. So when TG fell from the proverbial make-stuff-up tree, she lolled to the right and shimmied a little. But we still love her.

Fact is, TG cares about mice poop. Unfortunately, TG's vacuum attachment was plain ordinary and woefully inadequate and couldn't get way under the fridge to suck out the flotsam and jetsam. (No, those are not mice names. Gawd.) So anyway . . . TG fired up the genius generators and cued the improv genes.

What that means is this:  when you need something important done and you don't have the traditional Black & Decker stuff or a large wad of cash to hire out or kids who are old enough to force into servitude, you think real hard and toss around the "What the hell, why didn't I think of this sooner?" phrase to quickly and efficiently overcome any obstacle. To be even more succinct, we don't know why we think up shit like this; we just do.

To that end, I give you TG's official far-reaching sucker-upper attachment:

Click to enlarge and see the fascinating improvisational details,
revealing my daughter's true and inherited genius.

I know. I'm gonna blush and reiterate, she gets it from me.

If you're short a vacuum attachment for those hard-to-reach areas where mice poop accumulates, here are all the biodegradable materials you'll need:  two used toilet paper rolls, some duct tape, and an entire manicotti noodle (uncooked).

I dare ANYONE to out-do TG on this one.
|
For those of you who just came here looking for your creative cussin' combo of the week, it's the holidays and you should be ashamed of yourselves. But—for you—I'll gladly digress:

|

Tweet

Because, Well, I Can

I'm a girl who truly appreciates a thoughtful man, so bear with me while I talk up my boyfriend. Hot Sexy Man (HSM) came back bearing gifts from his recent trips afar. He seems to have a knack for choosing just the right things for me, so I think I'm going to keep him. Because, well, he keeps calling.

Here I am with my little Destructo, 
wearing my new pearls.
(Click to enlarge.)

First, let me quote Diane Sawyer who once said, "There's no substitute for paying attention." Hardly a more apropos statement, I assure you, cuz lucky for me, HSM really listens. After I mentioned I'd never had one and thought it would be the absolute coolest, HSM came home from Virginia with a beautiful pearl necklace. That's right, my BF gave me a pearl necklace, and I liked it. Of course, we might be talking apples and oranges . . . but whatever, it's my new favorite thing.

Then last week, I discovered just how well HSM knows me—and therefore how much he can see into my soul—after only six months. See, he gave me the gift that keeps on giving, direct from Flagstaff, and I'm re-gifting it to you all. Because, well, you deserve it.

Here it is, my special book: Creative Cussin': A Mix 'n' Match Profanity Generator. And peeps, it's the Redneck Edition. Sweet! It's chock full of preciously inscribed sentiments on spiral rings, and all one has to do, if one is so inclined, is flip through and choose a feeling/attitude/outlook for the day. Does HSM really "get" me, or what?

Curiously, he also gave me some special scented bar soap with cacti embedded in it. Wonder if there's a message in that for my mouth. Hmmm, not too subtle, HSM.

So since this is the season for giving, here's your special sentiment below. Think of it as a little love in a post from me to you. Because, well, I like you.

Now I'm trying to decide where to keep this priceless gem so that everyone who visits me can enjoy it. What do you think? Shall I place it strategically, say, in the bathroom? Or as a coffee table centerpiece? What about in the foyer for those heartfelt goodbyes?

Here's a hug, and one for the road to let you know that I think you're a "Bastard Licker!"

I know. Stops the heart. Everybody, thank HSM. Because, well, he's earned it.
|

Tweet

A Potty Humor Break

No not a break FROM potty humor. A break FOR potty humor. It's Monday, for crap's sake. You're welcome.

In Texas, we take our crappers seriously. It's probably the biggest reason some Texans think we should secede from the union and become our own country -- when you spew a big enough load of shit, you really need an additional place to put it all. So without further a-doo-doo, here's a parade of our state treasures from the Thunderbox Road project.



This little beauty was built by Ben Beckendorf. I think it boldly goes where just a few people have gone before and captures the harmonious spirit of Austin, the live music capital of the country. Hang up yer hat, Bubba, it's time to do yer doody.

(click on the images for bigger, more detailed views)





This Thunderbox was by Gwendolyn Listerman. I feel certain she has captured the majestic beauty of Texas' ranch life with these wild horses. The secret message underlying this project is not lost on me, though. When one has to go, one has to GO, and sometimes at a full gallop.






This gem was made by the dynamic duo of Betty Rhodes and Greg Glowka. I think they did a fine job of illustrating farm life in Texas. Ya got yer billy goat and ya got yer rooster, and naturally, they all git along jes' fine. And since those critters poop everywhere you step, they should not be at all bothered by what we Texans do inside the kaboom box.






Dotti Brundrett is undoubtedly tired of all the attention rednecks get simply for being rednecks, so she put her aquarium powers to good use with the fish tank theme. Masterfully done, too, you ask me. I believe the meaning behind Dotti's choice tells us that once you're inside and doing your bidness, you will need to hold your nose.









Every man - and woman - really does need a throne. David Querbach has fashioned just the right Thunderbox for ye royal highney. Go in style in a perfectly appointed mini-castle, and you'll feel like a real part of the Dudor Dynasty. King Henry VIII is smiling right now--or aghast.






There you have it! A fun treasury of Thunderboxes from Texas. You can find more info about the Thunderbox Road project and the talented artists who made them by visiting this website: http://www.thunderboxroad.com/index.html.

Was that a gas or what? I don't ever want to hear you say I never shared any of my crap.
|
Look familiar? This is a post from 2009 that seemed to bear repeating.

Tweet

Vagina Vagina

Thanks to Hilary at The Smitten Image
for selecting this a Post of the Week. 
Click the link above and go check out
her gorgeous photography!

I am sitting on the couch in my GYN's office and we are discussing lady infections, or as I like to call them, infuctions. Doc has on his white lab coat and sits across from me with one leg over the other, speaking nonchalantly yet with some formality about vaginas and sexual intercourse and the flora that naturally exist in there but which get out of balance from time to time. Then Doc says with a complete straight face that one of the infections we women get is not an infection at all, but a colonization.

"A colonization?" I say. "Bwaaaahahahaha!"

Doc stops mid-sentence and stares at me.

I say, "Bwaaaahahahaha!" again, like a fifth grader, and then I add, "Bwaaaahahahaha! Seriously, Doc, that is so a blog post."

*crickets*

Well, come on. A colonization? In my vagina?

I can only imagine thousands of battle-weary farmer Johns, storming the valley with long-barreled muskets to sack Fort Hoohah. The unsuspecting natives are overrun 13 ways to Sunday and sent packing with just their loincloths, and suddenly Captain Flora's plucky pioneers have infiltrated the countryside, erecting little log cabins and rowing and hoeing a flourishing cotton crop. Say, how many settlers you think can fit into one vagina anyway, pilgrim?

Naturally, the first thing I did was Skype my eldest daughter, TG. She's not too old for her mama to explain the birds and the florabees. So what if she's had three kids? I've had four, and colonization is news to me. I must prepare her.

TG: Mom, you're talking about your vagina?

Me: Yes. And the flora.

TG: I don't want to talk about your vagina, or . . . that other thing.

Me: Flora. Not just my vagina, but yours too. And your sisters'. All women's vaginas. And the flora that's already in there but gets all crazy and greedy and starts land grubbing—

TG: Mom! You're talking about vaginas.

Me: Well, only cuz you have one. And I have one.

TG: Mom.

Me: What? You just don't like the word. Vagina, vagina, vagina.

TG: Mom.

Me: What?

TG: No.

Criminy. Who doesn't want to be forewarned, The flora are coming! The flora are coming!?

|

Tweet