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LA Confidential

Updated: 2014-10-04T18:55:05.767-07:00


Dear faithful reader...


You know what? I had this giant post all lined out in an attempt to set the record straight.

It's not worth it.

You people exhaust me.

I have the people I love with me. Maybe that's why it bothers me a lot less than it seems to bother most of you.

I don't need to know both sides of the story, because I AM the story. One fourth of it, at least. The "hey what happened?" street runs both ways, because I can tell you that nobody, and I mean NOBODY who isn't with us asked either me or Molly what our side of the story was.

Shortest damn high horse I've ever seen.

Call me what you want. I know, at the end of the day, that I'm the kind of person who will order a glass mixing bowl for a girl she's not so sure even likes her just because she knows how much that girl loves to cook and bake.

I'm the kind of person who will drive five hours on her own birthday weekend to deliver baby love to a girl she's never met but who needs some sunshine.

I'm the kind of person who will haul her kids ten hours because her friend is going through a horrible time in her personal life and a weekend away might do her some good.

The fact that I was the kind of person who would pick on a young, brand new mother for being young and, well, brand new, that disgusts me.

The fact that I let this whole thing bother me so much even still, well, that disgusts me.

The fact is, at the end of the day, I'm a pretty decent person. And the fact that you're trying so hard to convince me and my friends that the opposite is true, well...find a freaking hobby already. You aren't sixteen anymore.

With that, this blog is done. If you're one of my dozen or more, you'll know where to find me. If you're not, if you do manage to find me again, it's pretty pathetic of you to look so hard for someone you think so little of. Move on, already.

I am.

Peace out.

Just out of curiosity...


I was perusing the local free paper this evening...the one that comes every Friday with junk ads and a write-up about the new local flower shop or whatever...surely someone gets these besides us lucky podunk residents, right?

Anyhow, there was an ad for a local baby beauty pageant. The contestants will be newborn to twelve years old. The attire will be fall attire. The makeup will be age appropriate.

What exactly is "age appropriate" makeup for girls under the age of twelve? Maybe I'm old fashioned, but I'm gonna go with NONE, aside from maybe some Lipsmackers.

I don't get it.

Note to self...


Never order pork at the newest restaurant in town.
"With a side of parasites" is nearly always implied.


Dear election-type peoples...


You are not "mavericks."

You're just NOT.

And even if you were, the only "maverick" I would even consider voting for is the Tom Cruise variety.

Pick a new slogan.

That is all.

It's opposite day...


My husband made dinner. That's not why it's opposite day.

He made chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese. A meal usually reserved for those nights he's out and it's just me and the Boy and LB because he doesn't worship the Blue Box, nor does he appreciate a fabulous nugget.

And the Boy, for the first time EVER went to play with a neighbor kid after school.

I'm bamboozled. I'm befuzzled. I'm so confused.

I'm not complaining, though.

I know you are but what am I?


I am so sick of being accused of being something that I am not. Particuarly when that something is bad and nasty and goes against every single principle I try to uphold for myself.

I treat others as I want to be treated. Sometimes I fail, but not regularly. And I own up when I need to.

But I'm not owning up to some completely unfounded notion of what one person believes me to be. I'm just not. Because it's absolutely 100% false. And I'm at the end of my "Pretend all is well" rope.

Stupid crappy days.

If there was an award...


For lamest blogger ever, I'd totally win.

Almost two months since my last post. Oops.

Life has been busy, but blah. School has started, and the boy is rocking third grade. LB is getting to be more and more of a handful. A delightful handful, but a handful just the same. I'm working myself to an early grave, and besides my family, the only people I have time for are my girls. There's always time for my girls.

I know a few people who have been affected recently by Hurrcane Ike, both in "real" life and here in the cyber thoughts and prayers are with everyone dealing with the aftermath.

I can't wait for the election to be over.

And really, that's about all I've got.

Blah, I told you.

Anyhow, I'm going to try to find something to say on a regular basis, try to work my way up out of this funk I'm in. I seem to have only one loyal reader (or check-in-to-see-if-she's-posted-lately-er, as it is) these days. I'll dig deep and try to find some wit for the rest of you.

A year in the life of a ladybug...


Hi, my sweet girl. Mama here. A long, long time ago, your Daddy and I decided that three just wasn't the right fit for us. Four? Four would feel divine. And so we set out to get ourselves a baby.We had to wait so long for you, we'd all but given up hope. We wanted you so, so much, but it just didn't seem to be in the grand plan.Then one day, there you were. I marveled at every heartbeat, every flutter. Every second that you spent in my belly was a miracle (Okay, except the moments you opted to do jumping jacks. Those I could have lived without). The world's most patient ultrasound technician, who saw us every two weeks (lucky us, getting to see you so much!), said "Girl." "Girl?" we said. "Girl." she said. Whatever would we do with a GIRL?Oh, but whatever would we do without a girl? July 17, 2007, at 1:29 PM, my heart grew fourteen sizes, at least. I had no idea how much I needed you. How much I wanted you. How much I loved you. You came into the world too beautiful to be mine, and you continue to prove that every day.You gave me your first smile at three and a half weeks. It melts me every. single. time. That's not your only face, though. I don't know how your teeny little body holds all that personality.You are sunshine, you are surprise, you are magic. I can't believe you're mine. I'm the luckiest Mama in the world.A whole year has passed, and that makes me kind of sad. I want you to stay my tiny little ladybug forever. But here you are, taking lots of steps. You've got lots of words, like "Stop" and "Bird" and "Bubby" and "Bah-bull" and "Bye Bye" and "Baby." Stuck, and Daddy, and Papaw, No, and Good, and That. My favorite, I'd have to say, is Mama, but I'm probably a little bit biased. You've gone from being barely able to drink from a bottle to feeding yourself--or trying, at least. I love that you say "Hi" to everybody and blow kisses on command. I love that your favorite music is bluegrass and how you try to snap your fingers to the radio. I love that you sit in the middle of the living room floor and yell for your brother to come play. I love that you know exactly what you want pretty much all the time, and you don't let the fact that you're not as big as the other kids keep you down.I love that you are so happy. I love that you stick your tiny little toes in my mouth and demand "wee wee wee!" (we'll revisit that subject in a couple of years when your tiny little toes stop tasting so nice...) I love that you can't keep your tongue in your mouth, ever, because it reminds me of my own mama and lets me know that you've got a part of her in you.Everything about you makes my heart happy. I wish you a hundred more years just as happy as this one has been. I hope that for the rest of your life, this day is as beautiful and magical as the day you were born. I love you, my ladybug. I always have, and I always will.Happy, happy birthday.[...]

Cleanliness is next to selfishness...


I washed my cell phone.


So I just ordered myself this:

Everybody needs something to look forward to, right?


A quiet kind of crazy...


I said the other day that I don't have a lot to say right now.

Silly me.

I've been down this road so many times before, I should have recognized the spiral. You know, the downward one, the one that sucks you in to the pits of, if not quite despair, then at least blahness.

I'm feeling incredibly insignificant lately. I've had a couple of those weeks where I just can't do anything right. Work's a bust, my eldest spawn is having issues, I've been having far too many "mother of the year" moments with my youngest spawn, I feel like I can't say anything right when it comes to my friends (note to my readership: nobody, and I mean NOBODY has made me feel like that--it's a personal issue, I promise), and I don't even want to get into the direction my marriage is taking.

One of my dearest friends and I used to have these conversations about how if life were a boat, and if that boat were sinking, and each person could only save one other person...who would choose US to save?

Uplifting, those conversations.

To sum up my brain at this point in time: I feel like noone would choose me to save.

It's a horrible feeling, a horrible mental place to be. I used to visit this place more often, so maybe that's why I didn't realize I was headed here again.

I don't talk about it with anybody, because it's hard for most people to understand. When your brain turns against you, it's hard to convince the people you love that they did not do anything to make you feel this way, nor can they do anything to make you stop feeling this way. Sometimes you'll come back in a day, sometimes in a week, sometimes a month.

I'm not allowed to have feelings in real life, unfortunately, so it may come out here. I apologize in advance, but I have to move up a few notches on the emotional scale, and soon. Please bear with me.

Anything you ever wanted to know about LB


Can be found in this face:


Oh no they didn't...


Flipping through the guide on TV just now, I noticed that WGN is showing "Alf" for the next two hours.

I refuse to turn it on, because there's a good chance I wouldn't turn it back off.

(In case you hadn't noticed, I don't have a lot to say these days.)

And so it begins...


I'm sitting here watching my children fight over Goldfish and strawberry kiwi water.

LB is winning.

Good for her.

Size matters


What is up with shoe stores?

I mean, seriously. I know more women who wear size 9 and up shoes than I do women who wear under a 9.

Why do the shoe stores generally stop at size 10?

I am desperate for new black slides. Mine are gross and old and totally falling apart. While I'm at it, I need new leather sandals that don't kill my arches.

Not one single store at the mall had either of these things for me. Size 8? You can buy any pair of shoes you want. Size 9 and 10 are slim pickin', but there are a few pair for you to try. Size 11? Dream on, sucker.

I am used to doing the walk of shame to the back of the store to find my size in pants, shirts, underwear...I am used to the small selection, the fugliness, the high prices. And I realize that not being able to wear anything I want has everything to do with me and my fondness for cheesecake and corner brownies. If I wanted to (okay, I WANT to, I just need to find my long-misplaced motivation and willpower), I could eventually be a front-of-the-store shopper and have my pick of cute clothes.

But what am I supposed to do about my feet? There's no tootsie diet that I'm aware of. No surgical option--and even if there were, I'm clumsy enough WITH toes, I can only imagine how I'd stumble without them.

Shoe companies, I implore you--MAKE MORE SHOES FOR BIG FEET. Shoes that are available in stores so I don't have to go through the hassle of ordering online. Shoes that aren't sneakers or ugly flat dress shoes.

This post brought to you by the number eleven and the letter "my sore-ass bare feet."

Um, eww.


The only thing nastier than forgotten month-old strawberry yuckiness from the back of the fridge?

Pouring milk and tomato juice down the drain at the same time.


My fridge is clean, though. I'm ready for vacation now!! Except for the packing, but that's just a technicality, really.


Wordless Wednesday: I say Peek-A


She says "Boo."

And it is the cutest thing EVER.

I just finished packing...


Because this weekend I'm going to see my Molly. And my Stephanie. And my Kern (who has a blog, that I can't find, since I never put my blogroll here on the new one...but trust me, she's awesome).

And all the babies and big kids that come with.

And nothing is standing in our way this time. Take that, hand, foot, and mouth! My super baby kicked. your. BUTT.




We have a walker.

A single day earlier than her big brother did it, my baby took real, undeniable, defnite, totally for sure steps. Several of them.

Then Mama cried. Just a little bit.

And she's already trying to run.


You know what sucks?



Aunt Flo, four days early.

And taking your baby in for what you think is an ear infection, and finding out she's got effing Hand, Foot, and Mouth.


How to spoil a mama...


You wouldn't think that a great night would begin with pleas of "Would you PLEASE go to sleep, child?" at 12:30 AM. Or that it would end after a mere 5 hours of completely disrupted sleep.

But when you're almost asleep, and you feel the pitty-patter of little hands and feet crawling blindly across the bed, and then feel those soft little fingers pat your face, discerning which big person she just found, hear that sweet, sleepy sigh, and your baby falls right to sleep in your arms like you're all she needed, after all? That's a great night.

As she gets bigger, I'm trying to relish those moments. I know too well how quickly it goes by. That I'm going to blink, and she'll be too big to snuggle up in my arms for a nap. That one day I won't be all she needs, or even wants for that matter.

It's sad to think about, but I guess I have to just make the most of it, and commit those little moments to memory, because I know I'm going to need them.

Dear people who use wallpaper border...


Please don't.

Or at least remove it before you sell your house to the poor sucker who has to spend hours on a ladder removing it.


It just isn't meant to be...


I am a clothes horse. I own probably somewhere around 250 shirts, fifty to seventy-five pairs of pants, and all of the other things that go with.

There, I admitted it.

I am also incredibly unorganized and, quite frankly, a slob. I don't mind doing the laundry--I hate putting it away. Therefore my bedroom, walk-in closet, and master bathroom (okay, and my living room, office, and kitchen table) all have stacks and stacks (and stacks and piles and baskets and boxes and bags) of clothes. They are EVERYWHERE.

I first admitted this to Molly a while back. I took "before" pictures several months ago, and began a massive purge. At that time, I donated six 55 gallon bags and four Rubbermaid totes to Goodwill, plus threw away a ton more. Then I began the organization.

Until the racks in my closet collapsed.

Seriously, I'm downstairs putting another load of laundry in, and I hear a crash. Go upstairs, and find all of my hard work in the closet floor where it started.

It took weeks to get the motivation to clean it up enough for Hubs to rehang the racks, this time, he assured me, on studs, as the people who built our house had apparently failed to do.

I've been continuing the purge here and there, the result of some weight loss and a desire to get rid of anything that will encourage me to not stop for donuts every morning as I have been known to do sometimes.

I got some sleep last night and had no plans for today, other than de-teddy-bearing and then monkifying the kids' bathroom, with some fabulous teal paint and all new accessories.

So I decided today? Would be my most. productive. day. EVER.

I started four hours ago with a box of trash bags and all the will in the world. I would conquer it this time. I would no longer have an addiction, I would have a wardrobe. That I could find. That I never had to wonder if it was clean or dirty because it was laying in the floor or under the bills on the dining room table. It was going to be FABULOUS, I imagined.

Then I was going to come here, post those shameful before pictures, and then show you how nice a job I did, getting rid of all the old, ugly, doesn't fit anyhow stuff, and then organizing it all back into categories that make sense, like "pants," "sweaters," "sleeveless shells."

For the first time since we moved in four years ago, you could see the floor of my closet. I began hanging things, in order: long sleeve, short sleeve, sleeveless, work pants, skirts, dresses, jeans, sweaters...more jeans...more sweaters...more sweaters.

I'm sure you can guess what happened.

Seriously, I'm downstairs putting another load of laundry in, and I hear a crash. Go upstairs, and find all of my hard work in the closet floor where it started. Deja-freakin-vu.

Studs my ass, Hubs. STUDS MY ASS.

I'm trying not to be too dejected. I'm trying to look at this as the opportunity to indulge in another brand of retail therapy--the kind where you go to Lowe's and design yourself a closet system. That you will personally assemble (if you're handy, which I believe myself to be) and that you will personally attach to studs. You know, like your husband would if your husband wasn't MY husband.

My chin is up, my drill is charging, and I'm going to get those after pictures.

Beginnings and endings...


Ahhh, the beginning of summer.

Today was the last day of school, straight A's for my baby genius. Hard to believe he'll be in the third grade next year.

It was the last baseball game of the season, too--we beat an undefeated team, a team recognized as the best team in the district. It was the Boy's first year playing, and he finished up with a couple dozen RBI's and a batting average over .900. So very proud.

So now he begins what we call "Grandparent Camp." For the first time in his almost 8 years, his dad is actually planning on taking him for his two weeks. Then between his three sets of grandparents and us, he'll go to three Vacation Bible Schools, two amusement parks (at least, as Mama's a roller coaster junkie), a train ride through the prettiest parts of the state, and a vacation to a destination that is yet to be determined. He'll run and play and stay dirty, wet, or some combination of the two for the next three months.

I'll get visitation on weekends and start seriously paining for him somewhere around the end of July. I just remind myself that he's having more fun than he would in daycare, he's with his family, and he's creating memories that he will carry into his adulthood. He loves it, they love it, so I try to see the bright side.

Just a fair warning, so when I get mopey in a month or two, you know why.

Guess where I'm getting ready to go?


On my last formula run.

*Insert Happy Wallet Dance Here*

Tuesday let's be random, shall we?


Today I downloaded a new ringtone.

So if you call me, and I don't answer, don't feel neglected--I'm only jamming out to "The Right Stuff."

A question you never knew you didn't want to know the answer to:

Why does the bottom of my black diaper bag smell like spinach and vinegar?
Dear Dick Cheney,

Whoever chose your nickname had you pegged, didn't they?

Apologizing through your spokeswoman? LAME-O. Something else you don't have to worry about when you aren't running for re-election? Hiding behind your spin doctors. Jackass.

Only 230 more days.