I have no idea.

So this morning I had to run back into the house to get something because, shockingly, I did not make it in one trip. I left the offspring to buckle herself in. (Quick someone alert child protective services.) When I got back I couldn’t find my coffee cup. I asked her if she’d drank it while I was gone. She denied any knowledge of doing so. As I’m digging through the lunch, snack, laptop and purse I mumble that she probably did. To which I get a loud, “I did not, I’m wearing a heart ring and you have to tell the truth when you’re wearing a heart.”

“True. What about when you’re wearing a circle?”

“The truth.”

“A square?”

"The truth.”

“An oval?”

“Lies. Always lies.”

“A rectangle?”

"The truth.”

What the hell is it with this kid and ovals?

*and yes, I did find the coffee, thanks for wondering.*

Look, they love me too.

A Partial List

Things She Will Not Eat Willingly
Marshmallows
Hot Dogs
Corn Dogs
Ham
Sausage
Pepperoni
Carrots
Mashed Potatoes
Lettuce
Chicken Breast
Steak

Things She Loves To Eat
Sushi
Edamame
Spinach
Miso Soup
Orange Chicken
Chicken on the bone
Maple Baked Chicken
Baked Snap Peas
Peanut Butter, Brie and Apple Sandwiches
Seafood Udon
Anything dipped in chocolate or Nutella

'Cause I can't say this to your face.

I’m having a shitty day again. You keep resurfacing, and it’s like a knife each time. There are memories of you everywhere and even when I think I’m doing okay, great even, one little reminder sends me back to that dark place. Then I need you again, not that I ever really stopped, or ever really expect to either.

I should have known it couldn’t last, but really, I didn’t see it ending this way. So fast. One day there was a little unnamable ache and the next . . . nothing. And no way to get it back. And I didn’t even get so say goodbye. Not really. And there can be no closure. It all falls on deaf ears anyway.

And look at what I’ve done because of it all. It makes me sick, what I almost lost because I cannot let go of what I cannot have. What I had with you was incredible, magic really. I learned so much, about what I wanted from life, what I could do, my good and my bad were reflected and accepted by you. It’s hard to lose that. I think that’s why I fought so hard to keep it, even though it was ruining everything else.

But my days are getting better, the nights are getting easier. I know I will always love you, always miss you. I have regrets, I wonder what would have happened if I had done things differently, been a better person. But I didn’t, and there is no going back. Maybe if we meet in the next life I will be wiser. In this life though, we have made our choices, and had them made for us. I hope you know I never meant to hurt you. I hope you know you are loved and respected. I hope you find happiness. I am finding mine. I am hopeful. I am light.

So, goodbye.

I hate Facebook because . . .

I’m a gamer, and the games are addicting enough to get me hooked for a minute, entice me to invite friends and send gifts, at which point I’m bored but still feel obligated to check in to help my friends out.

I hate ignoring all the little, join this group, send this ribbon, poke this person messages. I still do it, I just feel bad when I’m doing it.

My REAL name is in there, which means proper language is a must. So it’s another place to be a fake-ish version of me.

My ex just found me. And stalker that I am I find that she’s ‘friended’ my cousin, and two people we used to work with before me. And now that she has ‘friended’ me she has another way to ignore me, toss me a bone and then ignore me again.

Random things I’ve said or done while drinking.

Acquired an odd assortment of scrapes and bruises, including one in my armpit.

Danced with a 6 foot transvestite in 6 inch stilettos.

Told a very attractive man that I’d take him up on his offer to take me home if I wasn’t married, ‘cause, “I’ve never had sex with a black man”.

Had an in depth conversation about potty training a child while waiting in line in the bathroom of a gay bar.

Had a “You too? Does your mom know?” moment when I unexpectedly ran into my cousin at the same gay bar.

Bought several rounds of Blow Job shots for a group of Swedish tourists, ‘cause they laughed like school girls every time I did.

Danced on a bar top.

Defended my moral purity to a cab driver.

Challenged a group of frat boys to a chugging competition in order to get the table I wanted at a bar. I won.

Danced the Macarena.

Asked a man to but his penis in my ear to keep it warm.

Made out with Poison Ivy.

Had a spiritual moment laying in a hot tub in the rain.

Rode, clown car style in the back of a strangers car.

Danced on a stripper pole.

Rebuilt an engine.

That is ALOT of shit from Ikea

We are ignoring the fact that I still have no floor. Finishing that is both too boring and too stressful to contemplate right now. So instead let’s redo my living room. It’s roughly shaped like a singlewide, only slightly less white trash. So what, 25 ft by 12 ft? Sounds right.

First, the walls. Good bye baby poop chocolaty strangeness.

Yes. That is an actual picture of my wall. I know. It’s AWFUL.  Lets go with a creamy beige instead. But not the hospital kind. The soft backdrop for dark furniture kind. Like this maybe?

And speaking of furniture, lets buy these.

This is for the big screen TV I don’t have yet. It’s 299 at Ikea. I’m going to tape rice paper or some other prettiness to the inside the glass so you cant see all the shit I shove in there.

This is also going to be papered, cause no one needs to know we have more DVD’s than Netflix. I might need two.  Also 299.  Gotta Love Ikea.  We have to have the computer in there. And he hates the desk we have. And I hate the way he keeps it. Or rather that he doesn’t keep it clean. So. . . Either 399 or 299.

In my head the second desk looks really good with 2 dark wood floating shelves neatly organized above it. In reality, he’ll just make a mess.  I like the second one better but ‘cause of the aforementioned lack of tidiness we’ll probably end up with the full cabinet.  Fine. But I’m getting these for organization. 3.99-4.99 per 2 pack.

Other things I want but don’t know if they will work.  119-149 each.

And ‘cause the room is so narrow, a chair and loveseat make much more sense than a couch. So let’s get these, minus the ugly throw pillows.

Sadly, not from Ikea. Lazy Boy. And for the set, including the Ottoman, 1547 .00. OUCH. If not that then it’s back to Ikea for 698.  But I'd have to stain the legs.

Hmmm. What else. Curtains? 49.99 a pair, Ikea.  I need two pairs.

Assorted whatnots.  I need new frames.  And art. Like stuff my kiddo has done.  And like 3k.  And four days to put all that Ikea shit together.

Beam me up, Scotty

I got a new phone. It's called the Droid Eris by HTC. It's as cool as it sounds. It has loads of apps, gives me directions, plays games, takes pictures and video, texts, Google’s, shows YouTube videos, tells me when movies are playing, reminds me I need toilet paper. Oh, and it makes phone calls. If you need a new phone, you should get it. If you have it, please tell me how to use it.  Thank you very much.

My piercings. . . complete with photos.

Yesterday a woman commented on the fact that I had two pairs of earrings in. “Two pairs, how edgy”. I smiled, imagining the heel of my palm connecting with the bridge of her nose. I wasn’t sure if she meant I WAS edgy, in which case her idea of edgy must have been culled from Nick at Nite reruns of Happy Days, or if she meant I was a poser. Which pissed me off . . . .'cause I’m awkwardly straddling the fence between responsible adulthood and rebellious youth. And sometimes I do feel like a poser.

Where as I used to run around in corsets and leather pants, with long burgundy hair and pancake makeup, now I look like a modern soccer mom. The problem is that I still have the old me mentality. I like coarse music, crass people and all forms of low class entertainment. I just don’t look the part. Oh yes, you should see me at an Irish Punk concert, “Who brought their mom?”

All that remains, besides my bad attitude is the tiny holes left by my numerous attempts to turn a perfectly good body into swiss cheese. And so, without further ado. . . .

Hole 1: 7 years old. My mom pinched my ears for a week to show me how much it would hurt. The pinches hurt worse than the gun. After the first one she asked if I had felt my ear donut hit my lap. I almost didn’t get the second side pierced.

Hole 2: 13 years old. I finally got this set of holes after my mom repeatedly asked me if I would jump off the cliff if my friends were. (I would have if I could have landed on a piecing gun).

Hole 3: 17 years old. I wasn’t supposed to get anymore, but I was working 30 hours a week and pulling straight A’s. So I did it anyway. Mom scowled but didn’t say much else. Gave me my first cartilage piercing. Note: Never, and I mean NEVER get your cartilage pierced with a gun.

Holes 4-6: 17- 18 years old. Done in rapid succession, one every few months, after I moved into my first apartment. The last few were done with a piercing gun, because by then I had moved on to other body piercings and realized that was the way to go.

Hole 7: Not pictured. Belly Button. Sorry. The love my body thing is still a work in progress, so just imagine a small scar by a cute little button around a toned tummy. That’s not what I have, that’s why it’s called imagining. I got that when I was 18. I had temporarily moved back in with my mom. My girlfriend wanted to get hers re-pierced (she’d had it once before but had to take it out when she got pregnant). That was my first needle piercing and I loved it. Much more erotic, and less painful too. My mom kicked me out when she saw it. I moved in with my girlfriend. That’ll teach her.

Holes 8-10: 20 years old. At this point I had the job that allowed previous piercings but frowned on new ones. So on a three day weekend I decided to get this one and hope I was okay by Monday. The lady pierced me, put the ball on and then realized she couldn’t back the little tongue tongs things off, ‘cause the ball was too big. She dropped the bar through trying to get it the tongs off and ended up having to pierce it again. Of course that time it wouldn’t go through all the way. She’s practically crying, begging me to come back another day.

I’m bleeding. From my tongue.

I insist we get it done. Random hot piercer guy comes in and saves her, stabbing through a third spot and securing the ball correctly. Strangely enough I didn’t have to pay for that piercing. Note: Do not ever, again I cannot emphasis this enough, do not ever drink beer the night you pierce your tongue. Even if you only do it that typical one time the beer will make that puppy swell like virgin in whore house. I took it out when I was 23.

Hole 11: My nipples. Again no pictures. Sorry, it’s not that kind of blog. However for a PG-17 shot you may look here. I was 21. My room mate was dating this random bi-sexual guy who was afraid to pierce his belly button. So we bullied him into my car and off we went. He tried to chicken out when we got to the shop, but the heavily tattooed guys gave him hell. Somehow a deal was made to get his for free if I got my nipples done (also free). The original suggestion was for a lower piercing, but I didn’t want to risk losing sensation, so I opted for the nipples.

There was a crowd. I’m in the photo book at the shop. I mean, you think they look good now, imagine them 10 years younger. I took them out about a year later when I moved back in with my mom. We’re a naked kinda family and you can only imagine what she’d have done if she’d got a glimpse of that. Besides, it looked like I was wearing bull nose pasties. Not hot.

From 23 on, I was a professional, no piercings or pancake makeup allowed. Damn responsibility. Made me lose my edge. That’s fine though. I think I was more of a poser with all that crap anyway. I do miss putting holes in my body, which is odd considering how much needles terrify me. Maybe I’ll try acupuncture, the last refuge of reformed piercers.

. . . . and that's the story of Easter

So there I was pinned down in the bathtub. Naked. The four year old asking me if I thought Jehovah created the world. I’m blindly trying to balance my desire for my daughter to become a respectful open person with my desire to scream “Fuck no, and if you keep talking like that and you won’t get holidays anymore.”

I say there are lots of different things people believe, and that Jehovah is just one of them. I say that no one really knows the truth and that’s okay. That it’s just what we feel is right for us. I’ve been vague with the answers, but the questions keep coming, rapid fire.

I mumble something about Buddha and Jesus and then it goes kind of fuzzy. ‘Cause she asks me what I believe. I give the same answer I’ve given most everyone for the past 17 years. That I don’t know if there is a God. That I think humans used to be monkeys. That we learned and changed and became people over time.

She looks at me like I’m crazy and I realize that my beliefs are harder to explain than a cosmic puppet master. (Hey, you try to explain evolution to a four year old the next time you’re all naked.) That’s not the worst part though. The worst part is that I’m not sure that is what I believe anymore.

I don’t want to believe. I like swearing, and drinking too much, and dirty sex, and women, and I could never keep to the 10 commandments. Oh wait. I’m not going to be Mormon or Catholic. Well, regardless. . .

I’m really beginning to believe there is more to it. The idea of a cosmic plan is starting to make sense. Some people pull me to them like they are meant to be in my life, and I feel them even when they are gone. Like a web, a tug on them is a tug on me. I used to explain it as similar neurological firings intersecting across the airwaves, but now I’m not so sure.

Then there are people who are ‘old souls’. I’ve known children with more wisdom than should be possible. Makes me think about reincarnation. I’m starting to think about what I hope to have learned by the time I get to my next life. Not that I don’t plan on improving in this one, it’s just always in the back of my head.

My next life.

It could be escapism but I really don’t think so. I think it’s the beginning of faith.

'Cause it's stuck in my head like a mantra

I saw this guy live, on accident, just the man and his guitar.  He was the opener for a shity band.  I would drive for hours to see him again.  He moves me.  You must love him.

Let's talk about sex.

Conversation 1
“How do you make a baby?”
Okay, I can do this. “It takes a seed and an egg.”
“Oh, okay”

Conversation 2
“So, how do you make a baby?”
“You need a seed and an egg.”
“Where do you get the seed and the egg?”
I visualize her smashing an acorn into a chicken egg. “The daddy has a special seed and the mommy has an special egg.”
“And they make a baby in a mommy’s tummy?”
“Yep.”
“Oh, okay.”

Conversation 3
“How does a baby get in a mommy’s tummy?”
“The daddy has a seed and the mommy has an egg.”
“But how does the baby get into the mommy’s tummy?”
Oh god, not at four, thank you. “When you mix the egg and the seed. . . Hey can you get us a cookie?”
“Cookie!”

Conversation 4
“How does the seed and the egg get into the mommy’s tummy”
“When you mix them. Hey, what do you want for dinner?”
“Oooooh, nachos!”

Please, I beg of you. Help me. I need better answers, the right balance of honesty and developmental appropriateness; otherwise I’ll have a fat preschooler who will grow up conditioned to eat every time the subject of sex comes up.

On miscommunication . . . .

"Mama, what's a pound?"

"It's a way to measure how much something weighs.  It's about the same weight as your dolly."

"Oh, okay. . . . but why do they take dogs away?"