World's Greatest Shave - I'm going to do it on March 15th 2013!

Reblogged from Strawberryquicksand:

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Okay, folks, so I’ve decided to do it. Shave my head, that is.  It’s that time of year again where the Leukaemia Foundation has their annual “World’s Greatest Shave” and I’ve decided to participate.  I will be BRAVE and will be shaving my head on March 15th.  Whilst not touched directly by cancer, I have lost a number of friends over the years to this vile disease, and have friends who are suffering, and have friends whose family members are suffering so I wanted to do my bit to support them.

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What a great thing! Take a minute to read, please.

Hooray For Boobies!

Awhile back, I wrote a post about being a man for day. I recall in a comment I made to my blog buddy Adam that I’d have another concerning women. (The post was very stereotypical, but humorous.) Here is the flip side…

DISCLAIMER: Before you ladies go getting your panties in a bunch over this post, note that I am for the equality of every living creature and their right to pursue a happy and healthy life.

That being said…

It’s been said I have a touch of the “road rage” and that can’t be more true when I see that the other driver pissing me off is a woman. I’ve been known to even mutter, “Fucking female drivers…” Why? Because seriously, you either don’t know how to drive or you’re just not paying attention. Put down the mascara wand, the cell phone, or whatever device that’s diverting your eyes from the road! If you’re going to do this and drive 10 mph under the speed limit, for God’s sake – MOVE to the slow lane! Also, if you do not know how to parallel park, don’t block traffic and makes us wait 20 minutes for you to figure out while some man stands behind your car and tries to direct you correctly. I do not know how to parallel park. I’m ok with that. I will drive around the block for 20 minutes waiting for a spot before I attempt it. Why? Because I’m not an inconsiderate ass, but also because I’ve only done it maybe twice in my life. No, I don’t want to practice it or learn. You can’t make me. So give it up ladies if it’s not your strong suit. It’s ok. Just put it down as one of those things we label a “man’s job.” Don’t act like you don’t do it either. Every woman, especially married ones, have some chore they HATE to do so we pass it off to some man. Mine is taking out the garbage, yard work, and anything to do with my vehicle. Of course I could do it myself, but I don’t WANT to.

Hardcore feminists LOVE to preach about a woman’s rights. I agree that we should have equal everything if we’re doing equal jobs. I’m also tired of hearing these women brag about how they’re doing a “man’s job.” Wouldn’t it just be a JOB? Why the need for recognition? I’m not going to pass out fucking gold stars every time I see a woman doing something considered “manly”. Just like I don’t shout to the world on the days I end up taking out my own garbage. You women are annoying. We get it, you think you’re extra awesome because you used a tool. I’m not saying don’t feel accomplished or proud of your work. I’m saying don’t be proud just because you’re FEMALE doing it. Perfect example: My mother is a truck driver. I don’t mean like a pick-up truck or even a dump truck. She drives a rig with 53′ trailers for a living. She can back that trailer in 30 seconds flat on ice. I’ve seen it. She’s an awesome driver. I use to work on a loading dock so for the record, she’s a better driver/backer than a lot of men I saw doing the same thing. In the 15 years she’s been doing it, I have NEVER heard her brag about being better just because she’s a woman. THAT impresses me. Also, the fact that she’s only 5’3″ and can somehow see over the steering wheel also impresses me. I give her a lot of credit – That is not a job for me. I could never do it.

Speaking of my mother, she’s also her own mechanic. As I stated earlier, I expect my husband to take care of my vehicle. Not really because he’s a man, but because he knows about it. I don’t. Sure I could learn, but I don’t want to. If I had to, I would, but it holds zero interest for me. That’s the thing – women can learn anything a man can. We all have the capacity to learn, most of us just don’t want to. So feminists can stop acting like men are holding our knowledge back. We get it, you went to college. They put a monkey in space, but I don’t recall that monkey flinging poo over not hanging out with human astronauts afterwards. Or over his pay grade. Anyway – back to the point. My mom knows more about the inner workings of a car than I’ll ever care to learn. She use to work on mine before I moved out. She has even taught my dad things so he can help when she’s home. My dad’s more of a computer geek and worked in a corporate world. He knew enough to get by, mechanically, but never needed to know more than a tire or oil change. Now she has him under her rig every weekend.

I’ve heard too many of these so-called modern feminists having their own double standards. You’ve got the bitchy co-worker who thinks she should get paid more because the guy next to her does, but she spends half her time gossiping while this poor joe’s doing all the work. You’ve got the “I want romance” chick who flips out when a guy opens a door for her because “I can do it myself!” Or the psycho feminist who slaps a guy over a remark on her boobs and thinks it’s justified but will call the cops if he smacked her back in self-defense. (Note: We do not hit ANYONE, kiddies – it’s just an example.)

Ladies, I think you also forget a big part of being a woman that men are not equal to, and have no comparison to. Being a mother. Pregnancy. Childbirth. Sure, most of us would LOVE to see some guy push out an 8lb baby with only 10cm of room. But only because we know most of them would cry harder than the babies. Look at guys when they’re sick. They become needy and clingy over the FLU. Let them. WE get to know what it’s like to have another human INSIDE of us! It’s like straight out of a sci-fi movie! We house it, feed it, feel it grow, and then expel it when it’s done. THEN we use our BOOBIES to feed it! What’s a guy’s boobs for? Nada. We’re awesome. SO can we stop bitching about what we DON’T get in the world and remember all the cool stuff we do?

Oh and one more thing… Any woman who doesn’t think she holds any power over a man in any scenario has clearly forgotten she has boobs. Boobs trump most anything.

White Wedding

All of the turmoil in my marriage lately has resulted in me reflecting on a lot of things. I love my husband. Sometimes I forget how much and why. This is easily lost in the monotony of daily living. We are trying to rekindle this together in any small way possible. Tonight, I was going through photos and came across our wedding pictures. I love our photos. I loved our wedding and all its little snags along the way. I know it sounds cliché, but it really was one of the best days.

I am a country girl through and through, so when it came to planning our wedding I wanted something to compliment that. (Seriously, I grew up in a town that had a population of 200) I found the perfect locale that had everything in one. Little white church and a reception pavilion. The woman who ran the place, however, I would’ve done without. We still talk about how much of a bitch she was. Among other things, she actually tried to convince me to share the church with another couple that day. NO. She even ended up chaperoning our reception by sitting in a chair by the bar all night, then proceeded to present us with the wrong bill for twice as much. Anyway, we didn’t let her damper the beauty of the event, day, or place.

Our beautiful little white church.

Being a girl, of course I’m going to talk about the dress. Actually, of all the wedding planning, THIS was the easiest part. It was the first one I tried on. I tried on others, but nothing really compared to my favorite. I’m not a “dress girl” by any means, so I really thought this was going to be torture for me. Just uttering “dress shopping” makes me want to dig my eyes out so I don’t have to do it. I was really surprised by how much I enjoyed wearing this dress. It was perfect.

 

The one time I loved wearing a dress.

Fast forward to wedding day. Great start by getting all the girly hair/make-up stuff out of the way. Quick lunch at McDonald’s before going to the venue to get dressed. Easy. Relaxing. Until the moment I’m in the dressing room with my mom and sisters realizing I can hear everybody talking as they come in. It didn’t click right away as to why I thought this was weird. Then it struck me – there was supposed to be music playing while everyone piled in and waited. Thus comes my first bridezilla moment as I declare, “WHAT THE FUCK?!” Classy, I know. And I said it loud enough that my brother rushed in at record time to defuse the situation. Which he did, in minutes. I’ve never had anyone jump at my demands, nor expected them to, but at that moment I was Queen B(itch). After the music started, the DJ appeared at my dressing room door where he received a stern scolding. If that sounds like I was talking about a child, it’s because I literally talked to him like one. I was already honing my parenting skills. Who knew? Ha! BTW – This may have been a “country” wedding, but the music to be played was by Apocalyptica. (Think Metallica songs but only instrumental using cellos)

Ok, crisis averted. No biggie. Relaxed again. The whole wedding party’s lined up and ready to start marching down the short aisle. THIS is the moment my soon to be husband’s best man tells me a “funny story”. This is how the story started, “You’re lucky he even showed up!” *Look of horror crosses my face* “No, no! Not what I meant!” *RELIEF* The story: They were all running late as it was (typical) but then my fiance had to get his clothing out of the trunk of his car, set his keys down IN the trunk, and closed it. Thus locking his keys in. (The trunk release button was broken.) Everybody else had already left to go to the chapel so it was just my fiance and his 2 groomsmen trying to break into a trunk 30 minutes away with only 45 min to get there. HILARIOUS! *note sarcasm* I’m sure the look on my face expressed this as well. Happy ending to that story – my fiance’s uncle drove back, popped the trunk in seconds and saved the day.

The ceremony went off without a hitch. Thank God. Except… I think my future husband was too nervous to stand close to me. See Exhibit A.

Exhibit A. Every other shot taken during the whole exchange is him at least 2 feet away from me, too.

 

It isn’t until it’s all said and done that we both truly relax and enjoy one another in what we thought was a private moment. I’m grateful it was captured because it’s my favorite picture of us.

Stolen moment.

The rest of the day/night was great time. Only one more minor thing happened the rest of the night. Our bartender didn’t know anything about bartending. Thankfully, our families are pros.

So, back to the point. Reflection. Loving my husband. I do. I only have to look through our memories to fully remember and appreciate all we’ve done and become together.

My ‘happily ever after’ started today.

~The End~

Who am I kidding…? Enjoy our goofy ass pictures as well!

We’re outta here!

Why, yes, sir. Those ARE reins.

They think they’re soooo damn funny.

Do the cabbage patch! (or whatever he was attempting)

And the running man! While I awkwardly readjust myself.

 

I’m Still Here

That’s right, folks. I haven’t disappeared yet. Although, I still haven’t quite figured out why anybody is interested in anything I have to talk about. I am, however, grateful for it. So don’t unfollow me just yet….

Truth is, my marriage has been in trouble for some time and it came down to the wire this week. There’s no lack of love here, on either side, but unfortunately that doesn’t mean everything’s easier or better. We have had some very long talks and some very heated arguments. Now it’s just up to both of us to do what is needed because we want it to work out. For ourselves and for our children. This will be the hard part, but I have hope.

 

 

“If it were not for hopes, the heart would break.”

~Thomas Fuller

Poolhall Junkie

Not too long ago, I wrote a post about wishing I had a real passion for something. More specifically, just for me. Nothing concerning my kiddies. They are my life and always will be, but lately I’ve felt I’m too defined by them. My identity has become only “Mom.” That’s not all who I am. Which has led me to do some searching for other acts of joy. What the hell did I do before I had kids?? It’s taken me awhile, and I can’t believe I forgot it, but I remember now. What I loved before my babies came along….

It took a 45 minute drive to get here, but now that I’m here I am filled with anticipation. A child-like giddiness creeps in on me and I try hard to not let it show on my face lest someone I know see it. Trust me, my friends are great but they’ll take any opportunity to give me shit. It’s mutual and out of love. I grab my case, sling it over my shoulder and begin walking to the door. Carefully avoiding the craters they call potholes in the parking lot, which is not an easy task when you consider there’s only one source of light from the outside – The establishment’s cheap yellow glow sign. Neon would be too classy for this place.

I grasp the cold metal handle of the door and pull it open, immediately causing the comforting stench of smoke, booze, and chalk to bombard my senses. It seems dark in here until my eyes adjust and refocus on my surroundings. The harsh sounds of loud clacking are heard every few seconds. A low, deafening hum of multiple conversations from all the patrons almost drones out the music from the jukebox. I love it.

I scan the room for an open table or friends already playing. Choosing the table is almost as important as playing on it. Here, there are so many options. 8 or 9 foot? Quarter? How ’bout Snooker? I’m not sure why I even waste time thinking about it. I always go for the 8 footer. I retrieve a set of balls and make my way to my escape for the next couple of hours. I set my case down, unzip the top and pull out my two favorite pieces of wood. My Reaper. I carefully twist the top to the bottom thus creating one perfect instrument. I close the top and begin to delve into the side pockets of my case, retrieving the tools I’ll need for the night. A couple chalks, talc, and a cloth. Sometimes there’s more, sometimes less, but these are my essentials.

I lean Reaper against the table, leaving it only to form my first rack. Put it down to my OCD, but the 3 ball is always in front when I rack. Maybe I like the big red target, I’m not sure. Once I make sure it’s tight and in it’s proper place, I return the plastic triangle to its compartment and walk to my essentials. I rub some talc on left hand for easy gliding. I place one blue chalk on my table. I grab my soft cloth and give Reaper a quick rubdown. I don’t want any earlier residue causing me resistance. I use the other chalk on Reaper’s tip, loving the little puffs of blue flying into the air with each rub. The tiny squeaks it makes as if it loves the action as much as I do. I leave that chalk with my things. In this place, people think anything on the table is community property.

I slide Reaper between my pointer and middle finger a few times, transferring my talc, making sure it’s an easy glide. I walk to my 8 footer and place the cue ball in my favorite breaking spot. Once it’s ready, I assume my position. I probably don’t look as cool as I think I do, but it works for me. I place Reaper on the table, the only time I shoot this way, and steady it between my left hand’s first and second fingers, while holding the butt lightly in my right hand behind me. I line my shot, line my cue for top english, and draw back. In this second, everything else fades. My deep breath is paused as I stare at the red number 3 ball, mental imaging how this will turn out. I let out my breath the instant my right arm shoots forward to cause Reaper to strike the cue ball and send it to the target. The loud thunderous boom of heavy pool balls shattering against each other is exhilirating. And so begins my night.

I use to play pool 3-4 times a week before I had kids. Or got married. Or even MET my husband. It really was my passion. I love everything about it. The calculations, risks, cues, tables, shots…everything. I miss it. The last time I played for any amount of time was my last birthday. That was almost a year ago. And it was with a bar cue. Bar cues are shit. I love MY cue. My Reaper. My dad bought it for me when I first started playing (age 16) and I’ve never traded it for another. It’s perfect.

This is a picture of my cue from the website it was purchased from. I am too lazy to go to the garage and take a pic of mine. Although, now I’m sad it’s sitting in the garage.

So, I may not have a resolution, but I’m now determined to do more of this in the future. Because it makes me happy.

No Rest For The Wicked

And by ‘wicked’, I mean my son. For over a month now, he has been waking up at least once a night. Screaming his head off. Causing me to have many sleepless nights. Even his nap time’s are getting thrown off with this new habit of his. To clarify, he is now 19 months old. There’s not much that should be waking him or causing him to be restless. This is a boy who, before this started, I’d have to WAKE UP in the morning so he didn’t sleep TOO much. He’d sleep 12 hours straight during the night and then nap another 3 hours during the day. What the fuck happened to THAT??

I’ve gone through all the usual: teething, nightmares, being older and needing less sleep…. nothing’s adding up and it’s not getting any better. Selfishly I think, “I thought I was DONE with all this!” Motherly I think, “Why isn’t my boy sleeping? How can I help him?” Usually we’re both just tired and bitchy. Last night he was up 3 times between 2am and 6am. After I’m done with this, I’m napping.

I believe I’m so frustrated because I thought I’d finally gotten the baby that slept well. My daughter DID NOT. She didn’t sleep more than 5 hours at a time until she was 16 months old. (This would make me 7 months prego with my boy at the time.) She was the worst sleeper and my husband was the worst enabler. He would put her in bed with us. Half the time I wouldn’t care because it meant for that night, I didn’t have to get out of bed if she woke up. She would also never fall asleep on her own. Someone would have to hold her until she fell asleep. Trust me, by the time my son came around I was hell-bent on NOT doing that with him. And it worked. Until now. It’s seriously like having an infant in the house again. Except I’m not breastfeeding. Which does make for a quicker trip to his room.

One night about 2 1/2 weeks ago, I slept in his room with him. There’s an extra bed in there and he’d already dragged me out of bed 3 times. So I said screw it, I’ll just sleep in here. Thinking, if he does wake up he’ll see me and be OK, and go back to sleep. I thought maybe he just wanted more closeness. Not exactly. He still woke up about every 45 minutes and I’d tell him to lay back down. However, I woke up around 5am to him giggling. Yes, giggling. Seriously, there’s not much creepier than waking up to this sound before dawn. Why? Because he wasn’t giggling at me. His sister hadn’t wandered into the room. Creepiest: He was standing in his crib, hands on the rail, looking UP. Nothing’s UP except the ceiling fan. THEN he proceeded to dip down, pause, pop his head back up, then giggle again. He was playing peek-a-boo. I silently watched him do this several times trying to figure out what was so funny. It really wasn’t me he was playing with. I could see his face looking upwards, not across the room. I finally decided whatever it was, he was happy, and I was going to catch some more Zz’s.

Now, I don’t know how to explain all that, and if you can – please feel free to help me out. I do, however, think there are a lot of things in this world that are simply unexplainable. I’m open to almost any ideas. I’m not exactly firm on any one thing, either. I’m not religious and I’m unsure on the entire one God thing, but I can’t deny that I feel there’s something more than just us. I believe in having a soul. If that’s the case, something had to put it there, right? I believe in spirits. Everything and everyone is made up of energy. When our bodies die, what happens to that energy? I’m not so clear-cut on the Heaven and Hell thing, so I won’t delve into that. So, seeing what I saw my son do and thinking of the timeline he’s begun to not sleep, I think it’s a possibility that someone is visiting him. He started this waking up nonsense a week after my husband’s grandmother passed away. She always played peek-a-boo with him. Maybe she just wants to see him. Maybe she’s accidentally freaking him the hell out. I don’t know. But if that’s the case, how fucking cool would that be? My husband’s a total skeptic, by the way, and thinks I’m nuts. Until I told him that story. AND until HE went in there once and our son was crying and pointing at his closet. Something he’s never done before. If he points at anything, it’s his bedroom door because he wants to get out of bed. Now I think even my husband’s freaked out. Which makes me giggle. I do so love seeing a grown man uncomfortable.

 

2012

It’s that time of year again – the end! Tons of people are considering what resolutions they’re going to make for the coming year. In theory, this is a wonderful thing. Review the past year and choose something to change for the coming year, making it better than the last. Unfortunately, tons of people are idiots and pick something they’ve probably failed at every other year. Losing weight, quitting smoking, etc. Let’s be realistic people. First of all, stop thinking you HAVE to pick something. That’s a lot of pressure. What if you had a pretty good year already? You might want to keep it the same. Secondly, if you still feel the need to do something differently in your life for the next 12 months – go with something you can actually do. Never eating chocolate again is unrealistic and torturous. Personally, I don’t make resolutions. Mostly because if something’s shitty, I try to fix it before December 31st. I don’t think a new year really means I get a do-over in my life. Otherwise, I probably would’ve picked a whole new one by now.

I do like to think of the past year, though. What was good, bad, or ugly. As a stay at home mom, my accomplishments are mostly measured by my childrens’. My daughter was completely potty trained this year. This is a very freeing moment in a parent’s life. My son was at the ages this year where he had a lot of milestones. He began walking, talking, using a cup, climbing, and stopped using a bink. No bink is a big step for both of us. I no longer have to dread that moment after leaving the house and realizing the bink was left behind. On the other hand, I now have to find new ways to stop meltdowns. Trust me, when you have a screaming kid in public, there was nothing better than to have an object to literally shove in his mouth to quiet him. There should be adult versions of this…

Personally, I’ve managed to convince myself that if everything isn’t perfect – it’s REALLY ok. I don’t like it, but my world won’t crumble just because I didn’t get to something right away. I’ve even given myself some “lazy” days. Forcing myself to NOT clean or organize something when my children aren’t even here. For the first time in over 5 years, I took a hot bath. Best hour of my year. Ok, well besides surviving yet another apocalypse.

I hope next year is definitely better than this one, but really….who wants a worse year?