I miss writing.

I miss you.

Let me know… ‘Cause I sure have a tale or two for you.

“Not a real gun, right?”

“No, not a real gun… Unless there are real zombies.”

“Oh, okay. Good.”

“Hey Dad, what’cha doing?”

“Watching that new Spartacus show on Starz… Have you been watching it?”

“Nah… I haven’t had a chance yet. How is it?”

“It’s pretty good. Lots of fighting, lots of blood. Good stuff.”

“Yeah, I heard that Lucy Lawless is really good in it too…”

“Lucy Lawless? Which one is she? The tall red head?”

“Lucy Lawless, Dad. You know… Xena: Warrior Princess.”

“Xena… hell, that is her! You mean to tell me that I’ve been waiting to see that woman’s titties for over ten years and I’ve been looking at them all month and didn’t even know it?”

“Yep.”

“Well shit.”

But when I sat down to type it up, I realized that I’ve already used it already.

Which totally screws up my sense of creativity, let me tell ‘ya.

So instead of dazzling you with a spiffy title and whatnot and whosit, I’m just going to go ahead and tell you that this is a post about…

[da da dum]

Peer Pressure.

Yes, dear reader, peer pressure.

Peer Pressure.

That thing of lore that *supposedly* turns the world to gateway drugs, murder, mayhem, and forn-i-ca-tion. The thing that leads us down the wrong paths, around the wrong bend, and, occasionally, in my case, on the wrong guy. That thing that makes even the best of us into mere sheep.

We’re far too sensitive.

Baaaah.

I’ve been getting flack from the world at large about That Middle One’s hair since he turned two. With him now at six, I can’t tell you the number of times people have said,

“What a pretty little girl…”

“And what’s her name?”

“He? Oh, I thought he was a girl.”

“Little boys do not have long hair… you really should cut it.”

…all things that I’ve used to further strengthen my  “Reasons Your Mom Says That You Shouldn’t Listen to Other People” speech that I give my children at least thirty times per school year. Thesis of said speech being, of course, “The majority of people are stupid.”

(Yes. I tell my kids that people are stupid. You should totally appreciate the honesty.)

Which begs the question of why I’ve gone and done this:

Yes, I’ve gone and shorn my child. (Shorn, sheep… get it? Hehe. )

Truth be told, the kindergartners gave us all a bit of an unexpected pause with how often they brought up his long hair this past year– going so far as to push my kid in the girl’s bathroom at one point. (Thankfully, my kid’s got an awesome sense of humor and wasn’t bothered in the least by this.) And the teachers (outside of his classroom) didn’t seem to be much better, often referring to him as a “she” or “her”.

With That Middle One being OBVIOUSLY a boy in looks and stereotypical behavior, we, as a family, spent many a conversation laughing over the stupidity of them all.

So if my kid happened to look down his nose at you in a manner that clearly stated that he thought he was better than you… He was probably right.

And too mannered to call you stupid to your face.

So, again,  why did I cut his hair even though I swore I wouldn’t?

Was it the peer pressure? The grandmothers nagging my ear off? The school chums and the bathroom doors? The silly teachers without an eye in their head?

Nope.

It was a stray flea that found its way to my kid’s hair sometime during his bout of rolling around in the front yard like a puppy on crack.

A FLEA.

IN MY KID’S HAIR.

And quite frankly, dear reader, Judith freaked the FUCK out (profanity is fully proper under the circumstances, I assure you), loaded her kid in the car, and did not pass GO as she went straight to her sister’s house where we sat in a plastic chair on the front yard like a scene straight out of  You Might be a Redneck If... and proceeded to cut off my child’s beautiful, heretofore, sacred mane.

Paranoia… when Peer Pressure simply doesn’t cut it.

Quite literally, in this case.

Watching his shiny hair fall in huge clumps to the grass at my feet, hoping to make the best of a bad situation, I made the suggestion that an awesomely spiked  mohawk might be “just the thing”..  we could dye it blue or green or even pink… everybody would think it was cool… yada yada (Plus, I’ve always wanted a little mohawked kid or two to tote about all fashionable-like)…

To which my child promptly tilted his head, looked down his nose at me, and said,

No.

Which, to my ears, sounded awfully a lot like,

Stupid.

Which to my parental pride, sounded surprisingly like a

Boo Yah.

Which in my heart said that it’s time to set my grasshopper free to wreak havoc upon the world, methinks.

First grade better watch it.

“To the back…”

“Why?”

“Because you keep looking at me like you want me to die.”

Humph. I guess someone ate his shredded wheat this morning.

When we were little girls, my mother always told us that bringing wildflowers inside the house would make us pee in the bed.

I think I was sixteen before I realized that that wasn’t at all true…

And what a deviously clever mother I had.

My children, unfortunately, are obviously much smarter than me.

Demmit.

Not any run of the mill type mother though… more along the lines of the scheduling, uber-organized, “I’ve had a slew of children and could do this with my eyes closed and my hands tied to the doorknob with old shoestrings”  type of mother who would have no problem taking me in hand and teaching me how to sleep as normal people do.

Normal.

Heh.

It seems as if my body has decided to finally push me off that rocky ledge of sanity that I’ve been precariously balanced at the edge of for years by forgetting how to sleep.

Yes, dear reader, I’ve forgotten how to sleep.

And if the random bouts of woolgathering and inappropriate daydreams about purple rainstorms, Chuck Bass, and Jesus are any indication, I’m fairly certain that it’s making me CRAZY. (Dude- I can totally hear what you’re thinking right now… and, frankly, it hurts my feelings. A lot.)

Random fact: Alot is a town and nagar panchayat in the Ratlam district of Madhya Pradesh, India. A lot is the amount of times that I’ve managed to set my kitchen on fire by boiling water.

Granted, I’ve always been the  night owl… Needing a bit of peace from the roar of the maddening crowd that is my progeny (plus the man) (and the cat) (oh and the little dog that grew three feet and fifty pounds in a week too), the quiet found in that lovely space between midnight and 3 a.m. has always been a haven of sorts.

Now, however, thanks to a bout of asinine flu that put me severely behind on work and various other obligations that have me, well, obligated, that lovely space of three hours has become a hectic gap of four or five.

By the time that I am finished with whatever project it is that I set out to accomplish, I am, of course, too wired for sleep…

So I read.

A book.

A book that I can’t put down until I am finished- regardless if I’ve already read it a dozen times before. (Dude? Can still hear you over here.)

Which puts me just about the time that the kids need to be up and readied for school- the time that is supposed to mark the beginning of my day and the beginning of this obviously vicious circle of purple rains, Chuck Basses, and Jesuses (Jesi?)…

Which isn’t at all as fun as it sounds, believe it or not. (Although I won’t argue its potential.)

And since I can’t tightly swaddle and hold myself down in order to force a bit of much needed rest as easily as one might hope…

I need a mother, methinks.

One who could handle the situation with her eyes closed and her hands tied to the doorknob with old shoestrings.

One who has a slew of children and has seen this all before.

One who would tell me to quit all of this infernal whining, put down the damn book, close my eyes and go to gawddamned sleep already.

One who…

Oh…

Yeah.

Nevermind.

Days go by so very quickly when I have so very much to do.

Straight-up and bedraggled, my hair is starting to look like the hair of a crazy cat woman.

Very telling, that.

Must find time for flat iron before someone sees me. A little mascara wouldn’t hurt either.

I worry about the wrinkles in their clothes and the scuff marks on their shoes, what they ate for dinner…

Fiber counts and sugar highs

Too much television. Too little math.

Homework took three hours last night, and there are dishes in the sink, and I still need to work.

Bills. Bills. Bills.

I worry about the rent, about the electricity, about the various ends and outs of it being just me.

The ends and outs of choosing some sort of man-child who doesn’t worry about those sorts of things, who thinks that responsibility is an island off the coast of Africa.

Who leaves things like worry and bills to me.

Who never takes me anywhere…

Especially not to Africa.

“I’ll take myself,” I say, “just as soon as these bills are paid.”

Just as soon as the clothes are ironed.

Just as soon as dinner is made, and the dishes are done, and I feed the dog…

“The dog loves me more,” I explain, “because I feed him first thing in the morning and don’t force him to entertain an empty belly whilst waiting upon the whims of man-children.”

I sympathize with his plight.

Very telling, that.

Deep breaths are hard to come by…

Especially when you forget to breathe.

Pocket Buddha says, “Peace.”

And I do my damnedest to listen.

I balanced that account earlier this morning.

And was so thrilled that I had that much money leftover after paying bills that I actually called my sister to brag.

Damn you, technology.

Today, The Baby turns four.

She has asked for “birfday coffee, birfday sushi, and birfday strawberrrrry cake”.

My job here is obviously done.

Kid, you’ll move mountains.

I am not above pinching my children.

Hard.

Yes, I can see that you are on a date of some sort, and I, for one, am simply thrilled- thrilled- that your many hours of cyber-wooing paid off in the form of a real live girl willing to suffer through your 15 minute monologues on the joy of whatever it is that jerks your chain these days while partaking of the super-swanky “2 can eat for $20″ meal spread across the table before you…

And, yes, I understand that my child’s high pitched laughter, born of the joy of having a brother whose pre-appetizer performance consists of sticking a straw up his nose, isn’t always considered a delightful sound to someone without children such as yourself…

But if you send so much as one more dirty look in my direction…

I am not above pinching my children.

And moving their chairs closer in order for you to be upfront and center for a drama-filled toddler breakdown, complete with mountains of snot, rivers of tears, and the occasional stomp and/or kick or two.

Hell, I’m not even certain that I’m above having them fling said snot and tears at you and your nifty metr0-sexual pre-ripped jeans while your date and her cute shoes look on in sheer horror.

So how about we stop all this mess before it starts…

I’ll get back to the second act of the illustrious straw-up-the-nose performance now in progress…

My children can get back to being children as children ought…

And you?

You can walk away from this whole experience snot-free and (perhaps) wise enough to recognize the perils of dining in any restaurant that serves crayons with their menus.

M’kay?

Took the kids over the weekend to see the new *gasp* animated Disney film… Dinner, tickets, and snacks for 5 (three of which are children-like creatures) ended up costing just under a hundred bucks.

There is something just plain wrong with that.

[Flash to evil corporate meisters bah humbugging into their triple espressos while climbing up step-ladders  into their pretty monster cars.]

While there, The Baby tripped over her own feet and fell on her face in front of god and sundry.

Unfortunately, I’m afraid that she gets her grace from me.

But, then again, I’m more afraid that she gets her eyebrows from her daddy…

So she’ll still love me more.

And that’s what counts.

In other holiday news…

I haven’t mailed out our Christmas cards… Of course, I haven’t. To expect me to do something like that in a timely fashion is just plain silly. I have a nice pile of cards just sitting in the van awaiting a no doubt traumatic ride through the postal system.

To defer their suffering and save some face, I’ve come to the conclusion that having them delivered after Christmas is quirky.

And I’m at least quirky, right?

But I did finish up the majority of my shopping last night. (For things that I didn’t order online for whatever reason, I plan a last minute 2am run to the Wal-Mart every year in order to avoid both the crowds and the inevitable smell that comes along with them.) While there, I somehow ended up having a 30 minute conversation with a drunk lady about:

• her teenager’s shopping list
• their ages, their attitudes, their boyfriend/girlfriend’s names, how much they weighed at birth, and the color of the walls in their rooms
• her sister’s weight at birth (she was delivered at 7 months and weighed 4 and some odd pounds)
• the better wrapping paper
• the better cream cheese
• the fact that her husband buys the wrong cream cheese
• her choice of perfume
• her daughter’s choice of perfume
• her aunt’s best friend’s choice of perfume
• green beans
• The Saints
• the fact that she once lost $200 in a slot machine with a mermaid on it

This was all done in the check-out lane at four in the morning… amongst the two open cashiers (both on those little half-lanes that don’t have a belt)  and the sixteen other people who thought themselves as brilliant in planning as I. Or did I think myself as brilliant as they? Or…  nevermind.

My brain is obviously a big puddle of peppermint hershey kisses.

Just like that bulge in my stomach.

And that taste at the back of my throat offering up a clear warning of what will happen if I eat one more.

Which I will, of course.

Because I’m clearly an ungraceful, procrastinating, looks like she wants to hear your life story stuttered over a cloud of berry-whatever Arbor Mist in the checkout lane, hershey-kiss-eating FREAK.

With good eyebrows.

Who is currently off to yack up that last kiss.

(I simply hope that, like ice cream, peppermint isn’t too terrible coming back up.)

Usually it’s over a misplaced movie quote or a she was totally in that other film, she just had a different nose sort of thing…

But mostly it’s over who tried to kill the other last or who’s turn it is to make coffee.

Thankfully, however, there’s an app for that.

(Not the killing part, of course, because I totally think that throwing that glass light fixture at my face totally trumps me shoving a handful of jelly beans down her six-week-old throat. Which totally makes me the nicer sister. So neener.)

You simply make a list, add some people, give it a shake, and then it randomly chooses a person to get off of their lazy ass and make a fresh pot, clean the litterbox, or yell at a kid.

It also picks blog giveaway winners.

Because I  use paperclips to hold my hair up am a  repurposing goddess like that.

My thumb! My thumb!

I only count four fingers here... Alright who stole my freaking finger??

Congratulations, hon. I'll email over your details in a bit.

Speaking of Irish guys…

Somehow my quick trip to the bookstore on Friday night ended up with me hanging out at a little bar that once claimed decorating fame via the numerous over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders hanging from its smoky old ceiling…

One of which belonged to me…

Back in the day when the only thing I had to spend my money on was booze and outrageously expensive lingerie.

(And since I was obviously the type of girl who tacks up her bra to dingy bar ceilings, the booze more often than not came pretty damn cheap…)

As I was sitting there sipping on my Newcastle watching peeps play a rousingly boring game of ‘find the difference in these two pictures of porn stars’, I realized that I probably spent more on that bra ten years ago than I have so far this year in GROCERIES FOR A FAMILY OF FIVE.

I am currently deciding on how to close the letter demanding its return…

Because I’m fairly certain that “Sincerely,” just won’t cut it in this situation.

And in other news that totally sucks…

It’s eighty freakin’ degrees outside and my super-hot-sexy (yes, that’s one word) winter boots are taunting me mercilessly. I can hear them snickering, I tell ‘ya.

My bank account has decided to send me twice-daily awfully cheery text messages letting me know that I’m broke.

And considering that all of the lights in the back half of my old (though charming) house abruptly stopped working and the little bar that connects the lever to the drain in my bathtub suddenly split in two all in one week, I think it’s pretty safe to say that my luck holds true  in all things in this world.

Happy bloody Monday, folks.

Something Wicked This Way Comes…

While getting ready for Halloween festivities, I looked over at my super-cute daughter, 3,  prancing about in the hastily purchased drugstore sorceress costume and said, “Oh, honey, you look pretty!”

To which she responded, “Yep, mama. I look GOOD.”

Are You Questioning My Badassness?

That Middle One, 5, came home from school last week a little upset because a little girl didn’t pick him for some random classroom thing that day. I asked him what happened… He explained that “Leena” was supposed to pick someone for “something” and that if you wanted to do it, you were supposed to raise your hand. “I raised my hand, mama, but she didn’t pick me because she doesn’t like me.”

“Really, honey? Why do you think she doesn’t like you?”

“She said that she doesn’t like me because I make green checks all of the time…”

(Green checks are given daily for good behavior, yellow for the questionable, and blue for the times when a child makes the kindergartner teacher cry.)

“I told her that I made a yellow check on the first calendar…

And that I made a yellow check on the second calendar…

And that I was  probably going to make a yellow check on this calendar too.”

My Sincerest Apologies, Mother

[This spot reserved for something that my oldest, 10, may eventually say that isn't snotty nor frighteningly reminiscent of a ten-year-old me.]

Hours to New Orleans from Huntsville  via minivan equipped with 3 screaming children: 7

Friday

Hours necessary for errant husband to convince me to move back to Louisiana despite my SIGNIFICANT (Look! ALL CAPS for EMPHASIS) misgivings: 5

Saturday

Hours to Hunstville from New Orleans via minivan with no screaming children: 6

Sunday

Hours to reassure me that this was a good idea: 24

Monday

Hours to rent truck, pack shit, load it all up: 9

Hours spent convincing me that this was still a good idea: 24

Hours from Huntsville to Lake Charles, Louisiana via slow-ass moving truck: 10.5

Hours slept: 0

Tuesday

Hours spent reflecting on what exactly went wrong in your life in order to end up living with your mother-in-law after all: [censored]

Wednesday

We’re heading back to New Orleans tonight to pick up the Spawn of Shakespeare from my mother’s house. I am tired. I am grouchy. My face has broken out from the stress, and I’ve yet to surface from this cloud of complete disbelief and chaos.

I am in desperate need of a good book, a hot bath, and a significantly large dose of liquid demerol.

I am also in desperate need of a good long look at my life…

This spur of the moment shit is for the birds.

Perhaps it’s time to become boring.