Let Your Walls Come Down

Hey y'all, long time, no see!

I decided to take a break from my  newest little DIY endeavor.  Well, when I say "take a break," I sorta mean, "for the love of all that is holy, put down the painter's tape, the screwdriver, and the sandpaper, and get the hell out of this room before you knock out a wall!"   So during my break time, I had the choice of either A.) Unpausing Friday Night Lights, or B.) Go post on my very overly-neglected blog and see if I actually still have any readers left lingering.   If I had gone with option A., I knew that I would be, once again, hypnotized by the hotness of Tim Riggins, and the adorableness of Coach and Tami, and I would get ZERO things accomplished the rest of the day.  So here I am...back again.

I feel like I must preface this by explaining how much of a disaster this was bound to be from the very beginning.  My Dad was the ultimate "DIY Guy".  That man rocked his toolbelt (with his name engraved in the back....yes, he did engrave it himself with his little machine) and walked around our house fixing any and everything he could get his hands on, whether it needed to be fixed or not.  Whether it be installing fixtures, changing lighting, building a garage, changing out toilets, phone lines, you name it, he could do it.  He had every tool that Sears ever sold, and knew how to use each one efficiently.  Well, apparently, this little talent skips a generation, because my brother and I both have issues just changing out a lightbulb!   I'm sure he's just shaking his head at us, saying "You know, I TRIED to teach y'all this stuff, and you weren't even remotely interested!"   So now, cut to me.  I spend waaaaaayyyy too much time on Pinterest.  It's an evil, EVIL place.  That little website has convinced me that just because I hit the "repin" button, that it somehow shoots a magical ray of talent into my body, so that I will actually be able to CREATE these little projects.  I sit for hours when I have insomnia, just thumbing through hundreds and hundreds of blogs, videos, tutorials, etc. and I have convinced myself, "Hey, I can do that!"     There is a huge possibility that this could end badly.

When we moved into this house 9 years ago, we were still sort've all in a bit of a post-traumatic haze, following my dad's accident.  And I was in a 20 years old and 8-month pregnant post-traumatic haze.  So needless to say, I was not in any position (physically, emotionally, mentally) to really think about overall decorating.   We pretty much unloaded a giant truck of stuff, and moved it to places where it looked right, and called it a day.  So fast-forward to now, and I am constantly driven emotionally MAD by the "builder's neutral beige" color on the walls of all 3,000 square feet of this house.  Sure, we've added pictures, fixtures, and whatever to it, but it's just so....beige!  Add to it, the 2 mentally-handicapped boxers that also inhabit our home have taken it upon themselves to leave their nasty jowl-slime on every wall and baseboard they can come in contact with.  And to top it all off....kids.  Do I really need to elaborate??  Handprints, crayons, Sharpies, and some other "stuff" that I don't even think I want to identify.   It's just nasty.  For someone like me who loves to take pictures around the house, it's a wannabe-amateur-pseudo-photographer's worst nightmare.

Bring on Pinterest!!  After finally reaching my breaking point and reading every tutorial I could find, I finally decided, YES, I'm going to repaint this house and re-do these rooms....every room.....room by room by room.  By myself.  Me.  The girl who lit her finger on fire the other night trying to light a sparkler.  The girl who attempted to make a concert-t-shirt-quilt and sewed her finger to the machine. (I AM gonna finish that thing, though...it's next on the list)  The girl who attempts to paint her own fingernails, and the final result looks like someone with epilepsy painted them during a full-on Grand Mal seizure.  I'm gonna paint.  And I'm gonna start with Shelby's room.  Poor thing is still having to look at half-ripped pastel frog borders around her walls.  She wants a pre-teen turquoise and zebra room, so that's what we're gonna do.  

So here we go, I've got ideas in my head and websites pinned. Off to Lowe's I go.  Ummmm, wow, there is a LOT of home improvement crap in there!!!  I almost had a panic attack just trying to pick out a paint shade!   But after giving the sales rep a giggle by explaining my room size by making a giant box with my arms to symbolize how big I thought it was,  I finally got all my stuff and I went home.  I thought that was the hard part.  I'd get home, get the border off, fill in some holes, and I'll have it painted before we leave for Boston Sunday  (this was Saturday morning).   Ummm, yeah, not so much.    First off, we put that border up when Shelby was 3.  It did NOT want to come off.  I did the scorer thing, then climbed on every stable piece of furniture I could find (that right there was mistake #1) trying to scrub off this hideous border with some glue-remover crap.  Not working.  If not for the lulling sounds of Friday Night Lights in the background, I probably would've quit right then and there.  I actually had visions of just setting the room on fire, getting the insurance money and rebuilding the room from scratch.   But the soothing southern drawl of Tami Taylor (seriously, one of the best characters on television EVER, hands down.  Plus, her voice, mannerisms, accent, everything about her reminds me so much of my most favorite teacher ever, which makes me love her even more, and she's a gorgeous freckly redhead, and...wait, what the crap was I talking about?  Oh yeah, painting.  Sorry, blogger's A.D.D.  *SQUIRREL!*) told me that it would not be wise to do that, so I listened to Tami and pushed forward.  After 3 hours, some advice from Facebook friends, (yes, fabric softener in a spray bottle DOES work to remove wallpaper) some minor wall punching, 2 beers, and 4 FNL episodes, I finally got all that crap off the wall.   I was also left with this:

I know it's hard, but please attempt to tear your eyes away from the sexy beast on the left, so you can see the mess on the floor.    At what point did I think this was gonna be a fun little project??   Jeff walked in at one point to find me precariously balancing myself on a bedside table, scraping frogs off of a wall, and all I heard was "Wow, HOW much fun are you having right this very second?"  (ahhh, the support of a sibling)  But then I put him to work at moving furniture, so he was forgiven.   After getting distracted once again by the Dillon Panthers, I went to work at scooping it all up, and getting the other remnants with my good ol' faithful Dyson....which then decided that the hose attachment was gonna quit working.  Of course!  (My mom later kicked the Dyson, and broke her toe.  Sorry Mom!)

So I was like "Yay, almost time to paint, right?"  Wrong.  Then I had to spackle and fill all the millions of little holes in the walls.  Geeeez.  I have a very scientific way of hanging things.  I nail it, hang it, it's crooked, I move it, nail again, crooked again, repeat process until finally straight.  (Seriously, why haven't I been hired on HGTV yet??) so there were 14 billion holes to fill.  But my dad would be so proud---I picked up my putty, smeared it on, and filled every hole all by myself!!  Then I sanded it all down like the directions said.  Then stood back to admire my handy work.....only to now see 10 inches of sanded putty dust all over EVERYTHING.  Uggggghhhhh!!  So that's why I was sneezing so much!  And once again, Dyson attachment not working, so here I go, hauling R2 up the stairs!  (R2 is our shop-vac)  In the process of dragging him down the hallway, I clipped a part of the drywall off the corner of the wall.   (Looks like I know my NEXT project)  I forgot to mention that Shelby's furniture is what we inherited from Patrick's dad when he passed away.  It's pure oak and it's gorgeous....and weighs about 50 tons!  So I'm pretty much giving myself a hernia trying to move the furniture around to vacuum.   But finally knocked that out, and realized I now have to scrub the said baseboards.  Of course.  Out comes my giant bucket and toothbrush---which, incidentally, I found in Gibson's mouth an hour later.  Gonna pretend I didn't see that!---and scrub all the funk-nastiness off the baseboards.

Then the most fun of all.  I got to whip out the infamous blue painter's tape.  Have you ever seen the ads for this stuff?  Some impeccably-dressed woman effortlessly lining her window's with tape, and it's in the most perfectly straight line.  Then there's me:

I don't remember the last time I cussed an inanimate object as much as I did that stupid painter's tape!  Actually, I don't remember the last time I talked to myself and random objects as much as I have over the past few days.  I talk to the furniture, I start maniacally laughing for no reason, I kick things over, I ask myself hypothetical questions, then sarcastically answer them as if I'm talking to someone else.  Completely losing it over here!  Needless to say, I do NOT have perfectly straight lines anywhere on these baseboards, but you know what, the tape is on, the baseboards have been cleaned, the furniture has been moved, holes filled, doors ripped off the hinges, Cinderella is blasting at a deafening level, and now.....

I'm ready to freakin' PAINT!!   Stay tuned to watch the next chapter of this debacle unfold.

And I'll leave you with a sappy little tribute video to my favorite TV couple, and these parting words:

Clear Eyes, Full Hearts, CAN'T LOSE!!

Now....where's my tool belt? 

**oh, and the title comes from some of my Memphis boys, Every Mother's Nightmare.***

Everybody Wang Chung Tonight

Friday nights are always "to-go" nights.  I never cook on Fridays.  It's fast food or I'll pick up something to-go from a restaurant.   Well, last night, Pat was craving Chinese food.  Ok, easy enough, the Chinese place is next door to Subway, I can knock out everyone at once and don't have to drive to 4 places because each person is demanding something different.  I get the subs and the kids' orange cokes (huge mistake---as if they're not psycho enough.  I don't know why I always fall for their begs and puppy faces)  I walk to grab his Chinese.  There's only one couple in line ahead of me, so I just prop the drinks on top of each other, under my chin (because we all know I have the most awesome balance....EVER!) and I'm waiting.   Ok, well, this chick in front of me is one of "those chicks" that I used to end up next to when I was on the elliptical at the gym --  you know, back when I used to actually go to the gym.    She's got her little running shorts on with her matching tank top, holding a reusable water canister thing, and has a stop watch attached to her hip.  She weighs all of, oh I dunno...73 pounds.  Then she starts the questions:

Chick: "Ummm, what's in the seafood special?" 
Cashier: "Shrimp, Lobster, Scallops, Clams...yadda yadda served over rice."

Chick:  "Well, what else besides rice can it be served with?" 
Me: *to myself*  How bout you just eat the damn shrimp and leave the rice? Or are you also going to argue that shellfish can lead to mercury poisoning?

Chick: "Does it contain MSG?"   Because I won't eat MSG."  
Me: Oh, lemme guess, you've been googling shit again.  Bet for a million bucks, you can't tell me what MSG is or why you won't eat it.

Chick: "What kind of sauce is on it?"
Cashier: "It's a white sauce."
Chick: "Does the white sauce contain flour?"
Me: *getting irritated and shuffling my feet to re-balance the drinks*   "What kind of white sauce DOESN'T contain flour??  I mean, I'm not a Culinary graduate or anything, but last time I checked, what makes the base of a white sauce is butter mixed with freakin' flour!!  Can you please move your little Nike clad self and let me grab my Lo Mein and General Tso's that I ordered like 20 minutes ago??"

Chick: "Can I get the white sauce without flour?"
Holy crap, are you kidding me??
Cashier to Chef:  "Chingkaopaynaychowmangmangchangpow?"
*Which in my mind translates to "This idiot wants to know if you can make her white sauce without flour."*
Chef to Cashier: "Maochowkungpoulomeintaowangchung"
*Translated:  "Um, no, that's why it's called a white sauce!  Just tell her I can to shut her up, and I'll make it the way it's always made. She looks like she needs to add some carbs to her diet anyway."
Cashier:  "Yes, ma'am, he do that fo you."

Chick:  "Is this meal gluten free?" 
OH FOR THE LOVE OF ALL HOLY HELL!!

At this point, I'm having to physically restrain myself from dumping these 2 cups full of saccharine-infested, artificially-flavored high-fructose corn syrup all over her little bouncing ponytail.

And finally, the icing on the cake...

Chick:  "Oh, and do not put any soy sauce in it at all.  I don't consume salt."

This is when the "Jeff Swindol vein" is bulging out of the side of my head!   I wanted to yell out, "Hey Wang Chung, you know those little shredded carrots that I HATE, but still get, because I hate being ticky while ordering?  Just leave those out of my food, dump them in a bowl, and hand them to her, because she's not going to eat anything else you've got back there!" 

Bitch, if you're so freakin' worried about every tiny morsel of food that goes in your body, then WHY are you at a fast food take-out Chinese restaurant??  Go home and eat a salad (with all the gluten-free dressing you can get your grubby little paws on) if you think you're Jillian Michaels.  I mean, seriously, I can see every bone in your clavicle as it is, do you REALLY think that splash of soy sauce is going to make you look like Chaz Bono?   What is the deal with all this gluten-free crap anyway?  Why is there always a new trend of food that I'm apparently going to die of cancer if I consume?  -- But yet, somehow, 6 months ago, that same food apparently CURED cancer.  I don't get it. 

It's just so freakin' irritating when I'm trying to get in and out of a restaurant, especially if it's fast food, and you've got some fitness guru in front of you asking about calories, saturated fat, and if the dressings have any preservatives.  Seriously, get your perfectly chiseled ass out of the way and let me order my McDouble!

Some days, I just really hate people.  Well, take that back....EVERY day, I hate people.

Alright, now that my little rant of the day is over, I've gotta go cook dinner.  And I'm gonna make sure to add EXTRA gluten, sugar, salt, starch and maybe even throw in some arsenic while I'm at it.   Nomnomnomnomnom....


Later,

Sick For The Cure

Last week was Spring Break week, and we went to our favorite place on earth---Gatlinburg!  We stayed in a gorgeous cabin and went shopping, drove around in the mountains, went to the Aquarium, and all the other things we love to do when we go there.  East Tennessee is my happy place and I NEVER want to come home.  

 *sniff* I wanna be back there.

Only downfall we had?  Shelby got into something, we're still not sure what, that caused her to break out in a rash that covered her legs and arms.  Poor thing looked like a little leper.  And of course, being the eight year old that she is, we couldn't get her to quit scratching at it, which made it a million times worse. 

So when we got home, I took her to the doctor, because I wasn't sure if she was allergic to something, or if it was a reaction that went beyond that.  The doc said most likely it was just a reaction from something environmental.  Whatever it was, it was pretty rough looking, so she put her on antibiotics and steroids.

Now, before I go further, you've got to understand some things about my precious Shelby.  She's....um....well, she's a firecracker.   She's got the sweetest, tender heart.  She cries any time there's a hurt animal on TV, or when she watches Disney movies, she sits in her room and writes sweet letters to her teachers, because she loves them so much, she loves and kisses all over Gibson, and she'll give hugs to anyone---even just walking through the mall, she'll walk up and hug little old ladies.  But there's also the OTHER side of Shelby.  That girl has an attitude that could rival the girls on The O.C.  If I say the sky is blue, then by god, she's gonna find a way to make it green and prove me wrong.  There are times when I'll use reverse psychology on her, just to get her to cooperate, because she refuses to comply if it's my idea.  She can torture Patrick just by staring at him, and she can drive me to the brink of madness with her defiance.   But deep down, she really is a sweet little soul who just wants to be independent.

 My Sweet, Beautiful, Precocious Girl

But back to the story.   I go to pick up the prescriptions, and the pharmacist asks if I have any questions.  Well, considering we might as well have stock in Augmentin, I pretty much know the routine with that one.  But I'd heard other people, mostly adults, talk about all the negative crap they dealt with on steroids.  I wasn't sure if it was the same way for kids.  So I just casually asked, "Are there any weird effects with the steroids?"  And the girl  replied, "Well, it can make them sorta irritable."  Just like that, no big deal, just irritable.  I was like "Um, okay, well, she's irritable all the time, what else is new."

NOWHERE in the side effects list did it mention that she was going to be playing the lead role in the next E! True Hollywood Story:  Beautiful Children Who Slaughter Entire Communities.    Holy CRAP!!  What the hell do they put in this stuff??  I've seen people on PCP who aren't as psycho as she is on this junk.   I'm not talking about the usual rolling of the eyes, stomping down the hallway, or screaming childlike profanities about me behind closed doors.   Oh, no, any minute now, I'm expecting the kid from Pet Cemetery to come walking through my room.  You know, this kid:

I actually laid here with one eye opened, because I seriously was worried that she was going to come in and slice my Achilles tendon while I slept.  One minute, she's bawling her head off, begging me to write a note to her P.E. teacher because "my leg hurts too much to run."  Two minutes later, she's all but swinging from the balcony from a rope, just to tackle Patrick, because apparently he took a quarter that she claimed was hers.  The girl will try any and everything to get out of P.E. (Can't say I really blame her there, though.  It was torturous for me, too. I'm too self-conscious and not exactly a fan of people watch me openly make a fool of myself.  It happens accidentally enough as it is.) but this was just ridiculous.  I'm not trying to send her to a concentration camp!

Then I made the mistake of showing her the new summery clothes I'd bought her for school, that also had matching jeweled sandals.   Being the Fashion Club member that she is, she completely freaked out and begged to wear the new skirt and sandals to school.  Of course, today being P.E. day, I said "No, wait and wear them on Thursday."   At that moment, you would've thought I just beheaded a puppy right in front of her.   She immediately threw herself on the floor, screaming and sobbing, and going on about how she's never going to school again, and she's never going to have a boyfriend (remember--she's EIGHT!) and she hates everything and she's never going to be happy again.  For a minute there, it was like watching Lindsay Lohan get told that she was gonna have to spend 45 minutes in jail for stealing $20,000 worth of jewelry.

I just kinda stood there in stunned silence.  First of all, I'm not a cryer.  I'm either a "bottle up your emotions until you fly off the deep end" or a "turn your sadness and homicidal rage into sardonic humor" kinda girl.  (Hey, don't judge, it works for me....and look, you wouldn't have any blogs to read if I wasn't that way.)  So trying to wrap my brain around the 8 year old version of a hormonal-infested 90210 breakdown was not something I'd brushed up on in my parenting manuals lately.  So I did what any level-headed, confident, mentally stable, disciplinarian mother would do.....I turned and ran upstairs and left her screaming and sobbing in her dad's office.

Seriously, I did it for her own safety....and to torture him just a little bit.  Why should I always have to deal with the meltdowns?  Pure innocent fun, I tell ya!  It'll prepare him for what he has to look forward to in a few years.  A hormonal wife AND daughter!

I had to keep telling myself, "it's the meds, it's the meds, she's not gonna kill you in your sleep, it's the meds, it's the meds, don't strangle her, don't spike her drink with horse tranquilizers"  But at some point, you finally just have enough and have to give up, go to bed, and hope for a better day tomorrow.   I do have to admit, it was a fitful night's sleep, though.  It's pretty hard to settle into dreamland, having visions of a man with Ian Somerhalder's face and Alan Rickman's voice when in the back of your mind you keep envisioning

So from this point on, if the pharmacist ever vaguely mentions the fact that some medicine might cause my child to be "sorta irritable,"  I will now know to drive immediately to the hardware store for some soundproof padding, ropes, and a huge pad-lock.   Sorta irritable, my ass.    Now I'm just hoping that she makes it through the day at school without pulling a Carrie and setting the gymnasium on fire.  (Remember----she's not a fan of P.E.)

Starting tomorrow, I think she's just gonna have to deal with the itching....


Peace out, guys!  Til next time, signin' out: 

I have no idea why, but for some reason, I now can't get this song out of my head.  *sigh*  They just don't make music (or music videos) like this anymore.

The More Things Change...

...The more they stay the same.   You said it Tom!!

I've found myself sorta blank lately.  Some may call it nerves, some call it stress, some call it a mid-life crisis, my husband calls it "bat-shit crazy".  Call it what you want, but I've had sort've a blogger's block.  I'll have something pop in my head that I need to bitch about, and by the time my fingers hit the keyboard, it's either gone, or it sounds ridiculously stupid and I hit delete.

Anyway, part of my little "pre-midlife crisis" is probably stemming from the fact that one day I woke to the realization that I've become, like, a MOM or something.   I know what you're gonna say, "You've been a mom for almost 8 years, you're just realizing this now??"  I know I've technically been a mother since 2004, but only over the past year and a half have I realized that I've now become one of those moms that I always made fun of.  I was always sorta known as the "cool" mom, the "rocker" mom, the "tattooed" mom, the "f-bomb droppin'" mom, the "shows-a lot-of-cleavage, wears skin-tight jeans, fake eyelashes and big hair, chain-smokes, does countless tequila shots, and pukes out of the back of her brother's truck at Poison shows" mom.     Now I look in the mirror and I have no idea who this person is! All I know is that she really needs to put on some makeup.

The biggest change that's come over me is that I now do any and every thing I can to hide my "body art."  I mean, really?!  HUH?   Try to tell me when I was 18-22 that I'd ever be trying to hide them, and I would've very eloquently told you to "go make love with yourself".  Most people know that it's not like I have a 4 leaf clover on my ankle.  Ohhh, no, couldn't have been that simple.  I've got six of these freakin' things and they are NOT small in any way whatsoever.  And their placement couldn't be any harder to camouflage.  I don't know what triggered my self-conscience over them, but one day out of the blue, I threw on some capris, a halter, and pulled my hair back, and suddenly I went from the rocker chick who didn't care to "OMG, the only thing I'm missing is a pregnant belly in a crop-top with a Lucky Strike hanging out of my mouth in front of the trailer park!"    Suddenly I wanted to find one of those things that Muslim women wear, when you can only see their eyes.  It felt like the entire world was staring at me and I could just hear the whispers.  I'm guessing they'd been happening all along, but for the first time ever, it was like I could actually HEAR them. (Oh great, now I'm hearing voices) Either way,  I felt like Kat Von D in a prom dress.  

Then comes the crafts.  Now, this one, I'm gonna blame on Pinterest!  This evil website is bound and determined to turn me into a Stepford Wife.  The recipe hoarding was never a shock, because everyone knows that cooking is my one domestic skill.    But the crafts--OMG!  This board has me convinced that with only a brick, some yarn, a mason jar, and an old sock, I can create a brand new outdoor patio table.  Meanwhile, cut to me stuffing the sock in my son's mouth while smashing the mason jar with the brick.  Oh, but yet, I'll go find another one I like and I'm dumb enough to try it, too!    Seems like only yesterday when I was going to the store to buy vintage metal shirts and True Blood memorabilia, and next thing I know, I'm in Hobby Lobby for 4 1/2 hours and coming out with scrapbook paper and Mod Podge.  I'd never even HEARD of Mod Podge, and now I've got about 73 pins dedicated to it.    My sacred room upstairs used to be spent stalking people on Facebook, finding old Ratt videos on YouTube, and watching DVD marathons of Friday Night Lights, and now, here I sit with a friggin' hot glue gun, crystals, beads, brads, rotary blades, corner stamps, hole punches, quilting books, and scrap-booking embellishments, hearing Elmo in the background and all I can think is "How the hell did my life end up here??"

When I'm not baking Star Wars cupcakes for kindergarteners or creating a Death Star replica for my son's birthday, I'm gluing inspirational quotes and photos into memory books, cutting up my old concert shirts for a quilt, and chaperoning school field trips to the zoo (Yes, with the giant camera and 50ft zoom lens strapped around my neck).    I've gone from bedazzled Cinderella shirts, ripped jeans, and stilettos to turtleneck sweaters and ballet flats.  I just said ballet flats---ME, the girl who would wore 6 inch heels to stand outside for 3 1/2 hours waiting on Bret Michaels to come out of his tour bus.

Then there's Mommy Dearest.  With my older two kids, I was literally counting the milliseconds until I could ship them off to European boarding school Mother's Day Out.  But then here comes this little guy who I never in a million years thought I would ever even have, much less be so stinkin' attached to, and I've become the poster mom for Parenting Magazine or something.   I had him all signed up to start MDO in the fall, and then it came time to send in the paperwork and I just. couldn't. do. it.  I look in those big black eyes and can't even picture having to leave him somewhere.   I mean, seriously?!  What is with this sappy crap?  I know I started having kids too young, that's pretty obvious, but I just never thought it would be THAT different being a mom at 20 and being a mom at 28.  It's just insane.  I find myself staring at him like some kind of lovesick puppy and every single thing he does is somehow cute. And let's not even discuss the fact that I do baby sign language with him.  And I'll squeal in one of those godawful annoying voices when he does them without me asking.  Good gracious, I'm like a crazy first time mom, but for the third time.  I don't even know how to process this.

But the one that made me want to curl into the fetal position and die.  The final nail in the coffin. The other day, against my better judgement, found myself on the used car website looking at.....*breathes deeply*  wait for it....

MINI VANS!!

Dear God, make it stop!!!  I don't know what has come over me.  All I remember was walking to my car in the Target parking lot, lugging Gibson and 27 bags (I only went in for Aleve and diapers) and as I'm digging in the bottomless pit that is my purse, searching for that gargantuan wad of keys, I see this preppy little soccer mom prance up to her van, click one button and the door slid open.  I was staring daggers at her, as I was dropping bags (and the kid, probably) and all I could think was "I want a door that opens without touching it!"   Cut to me searching through Soccer Mom Pimp Rides website.    I mean, what next?  Am I gonna get one of those stupid stickers with the stick families and all of our names?  A megaphone decal with "SHELBY" emblazoned on it?  (Please, oh, please, oh please, if you're gonna spare me anything, PLEASE let it be cheerleading.  My poor mental stability can only handle so much)    But seriously, if anyone ever sees me in my driveway removing my "Defy Gravity" decal in an attempt to replace it with a stick-figure family of 6 with 2 dogs, or ANY kind of organized sport with my kid's name on it, I give you full permission to admit me into Lakeside...or just go ahead and put a bullet in my head.

I mean, is this a phase?  Is it like the time when I had my tongue and eyebrow pierced?  Or the time when I got the fabulous idea to color my hair?  (Note: Black hair, white skin and red eyebrows---not a good look on ANYONE)  Am I going to wake up and realize that I've just been over-medicating myself and the real me is happily waiting to reemerge?  Or is this what my life has now come down to?  Minivans, Mod Podge, and Muslim-wear?   Then I wonder, was the other life I knew all just a ruse?

All I know is that there are parts of me that haven't escaped and I'm bound and determined to keep them here.  I'm still a Vagabond through and through.  I'll never pass up a chance for a roadtrip to anywhere, and music and concerts are my life.  I'm still snarky and slightly foul-mouthed.  In order to be the parent of my children, if I didn't have a sense of humor, I would've been in a medically-induce psychological coma a looooong time ago.   (And in order to drive in Memphis traffic, you have to have a very diverse and colorful language.)   And even though I've somehow become an unwilling Desperate Housewife, I can promise you that you'll never see me making smocked john-johns, matching bunny jumpers, or shirts with puff paint (that one's for you, Kim!)

*sigh*   Well, I'd better go---don't want to be late for my interpretive Mommy & Me Zumba class.

Signing off---



The Artist Formerly Known as Ashleigh

DUDE....Where's My Car??

Ok, I'm seriously gonna try to start updating this thing more often.  I've had to make peace with the fact that it's really okay to post a blog that's NOT a mini-novella.   So they may be short and sweet, but they'll be posted more often.   And sorry, Facebook buddies, you may start hearing the same story more than once, maybe just slightly more detailed. (There's only so many details I can give in 420 characters.)   Oh wow, I'm gonna be like my Grandfather who tells me the exact same story every single time I happen to mention food.  He'll find a way to tell the overly-long story about his first time at a crawfish boil.   

Anyway, back to my story....

Note to self:  ALWAYS double-check your car for the Tora Tora decal in the back window.   Yes, I know that thing makes me look like a self-promoting groupie.  Yes, we all know I'm a complete tool when it comes to my bands, and how I like to "advertise" my love for them.  Yes, it probably embarrasses the shit out of my husband when he has to drive my car, knowing there's a big decal of his own band's name on the back.  (Then again, when have I ever passed up the opportunity to irritate him?)    Call me a corny cheeseball if you want, I'm so used to it.   But you know what?  I can find my car in a parking lot!  I mean, it's not like I'm the only person in the lot who owns a silver Dodge Durango.  But I'm definitely the only one who has a big red Tora Tora logo on the back. 

Anyway, so I'm leaving the nail place after getting a long-overdue pedicure.  (which was a story all in itself, because I always end up getting talked into getting procedures done that I don't need or want, all because I can't understand one freakin' word they're saying)   I knew the general vicinity of where I parked, so I was just headed towards my car, or what I thought was my car.  It was exactly like mine, but I only saw it from the front/side.  And knowing me, I was probably thumbing through Facebook on my iPhone at the same time (I have a problem, I know.) so I'm sure I wasn't paying as much attention as I should've been.  So I walk up to "my" car, open the door and throw all my crap in the front seat like I always do.  Then I'm digging through the bottomless pit that is my purse, looking for my keys, which incidentally are on the largest pile of keychains EVER, but yet, I still never can seem to find.   Find the keys, stick it in, go to turn, and it won't.  So I'm immediately going "Umm, WTF?"   But this had happened once before, because my precious children decided to mess with so many buttons in my car that it got put into theft mode and wouldn't let us crank it.   Try again...nope.    Only at that point do I happen to look over and think, "Wait, I have a GPS that's mounted to the dash.  It's not there.  I also have a pile of lighters, receipts, loose change, chargers, and little Starbucks coffee stoppers all piled in the console.  THIS console is all clean."   I mean, there is NOTHING in it.  Nothing, except for a badge...a badge to a medical supply place where I'm most definitely NOT employed.     Apparently, that still wasn't enough to convince me, so I actually turn around and look in the backseat.  No car seats.   Oh holy HELL, this is not my car!! 

Then comes the time where I have to very nonchalantly grab my stuff and get back out of this car, meanwhile just hoping and praying that the owner of this vehicle is not standing outside the door staring at me....or possibly calling the police.   I'm also really, really hoping that the people that are in the parking lot don't notice that I'm now getting out of the same car I just got into, only to then go to ANOTHER car.

So then I put my head down, and run very quickly to MY Durango that was parked 2 spots down.  I know this because even though there's no way in hell that this could possibly happen twice, this is ME, and I should know by now that if it's gonna happen, it's gonna happen to me, so I walk to the back of the car, and see that lovely faded and peeling band logo stamped on the back.   I jump in, and again throw all my crap in the front seat and proceed to gun it out of the parking lot at record speed. 

Yeah, so Note to Self:  Always check for the Tora decal. 
But also,  Note to my Doppleganger Durango:   Lock your friggin' car!!!   Not only do you have to worry about idiots breaking in and stealing your stuff, you also apparently have to worry about idiots getting in and attempting to drive it home.