Taking the heart road.

Sometimes Braden (now age 4.5) asks me how to say things in Spanish. I go to this website and we enter words and then we learn now to say them together. He especially enjoys the feature where you can actually listen to a pronunciation of the word. Unfortunately, however, he gets really frustrated when we encounter a Spanish word with an “r” in it, and he can’t say it exactly the same way. I’ve tried to help him learn how to roll his r’s, but he hasn’t been successful yet.

Today he asked how to say “tree” in Spanish. The answer is “arbol.” He became very frustrated about the sound of his r’s again. I began encouraging him to keep trying, but he just kept telling me, “NO, because I CAN’T do it.” This prompted me to launch into a long discussion with him about how you have to keep trying when you can’t do something the first time, rather than giving up, if you really want to learn it. I even gave him examples from my childhood.

(I totally went through torturous and seemingly endless trials in front of the bathroom mirror to learn how to roll my tongue. I was going to be damned if my brother could do that and I could not, and refused to believe the BS idea everyone was feeding me that it’s a genetic trait and you can’t do it unless you inherit that. IN YO FACE, FALSE POP SCIENCE.)

Braden indicated he didn’t agree with my sage advice about trying and learning. So I told him that he can take a slightly easier path and trust my advice, or he can be stubborn and take the hard road through life. He considered this for a few moments, and replied, “I think that instead, I am going to take the heart road, Mommy.”

Me: “What?”
Braden: “I’m going to take the heart road instead.”
Me: “Oh? What is that road like?”
Braden: “It has lots of heart patterns on it. Red ones and pink ones too, and I like them. And lots of heart rocks. And heart shaped trees.”
Me: “How does that make you feel?”
Braden: “It makes me feel so happy.”
Me: “And where does this road lead?”
Braden: “It leads to everywhere you want to go. And there are stars racing in the sky.”

My friends, the heart road is paved with red and pink heart patterns, strewn with heart rocks, and lined with heart shaped trees. It will make you feel happy, stars will race in the sky overhead as you travel, and it leads to “everywhere you want to go.”

I guess being happy on “the heart road” is better than being miserable while struggling to learn rolling your r’s in the long run, huh? This kid kind of totally disarms me every damn day. And he really has no idea how brilliant these things he says really are.

I’m still a firm believer in trying for the things you desire, but I’m glad to have someone in my life who reminds me it’s not always a bad idea to voluntarily take the heart road.

For the record, it’s not like Nostradomus has done any better at this point.

Braden’s personality is this incredibly intoxicating blend of sweet, joyful, and smart mixed up with volatile, demanding, and loud.  I’m going to go ahead and claim responsibility for passing on/modeling the former behaviors and blame my husband for the latter.  Not because it’s true, but because I’m mostly an asshole and I like to say anything I can to make myself look good.

My son is not shy. He is unafraid to let you, and everyone around you, know exactly what he thinks and feels at any particular moment.

His thoughtful observations and questions ["If the bug is dead, we should just recharge his batteries." / "Why is the sun sleeping?"]

strange ideas ["My penis is on backwards."]

silly, quick quips [Him: "You need to get me a new eyeball!"  Me: "Just call me Frankenmommy."  Him: "You're not green."]

and even his demanding and frustrated exclamations ["I CAN'T GO PEE, I HAVE TO DANCE FIRST."]

are equally interesting and enlightening, often funny.

He’ll make you think and also laugh.

But did I mention that he’s loud?  Holy crap, he’s LOUD. As John put it the other day, “He goes to 11. And often stays there.”

It’s so true.

Because of this, I was both excited and somewhat scared (okay, more than somewhat, possibly a shitload at times, when I considered it too carefully) about Braden’s very first time on an airplane.  In fact, as soon as I found out we were going to get on an airplane with him, I started punching myself in the face no less than 10 times every 30 minutes to toughen myself up.  I asked John to make airplane noises and then start screaming directly into my ear at random times when we’re in public to help condition me.  For some reason he made the same face he made that one time I asked him how long he thought it would take for a mouse to explode in the microwave and whether or not that time would be altered by getting the mouse really drunk first.

I think he’s just so in love he doesn’t know what to say.

Of course, other than the idea that Braden might morph into a slightly more insane version of himself in-flight, causing all the other passengers to gang up on us and tape us to the wings, I was really excited about our trip home to North Carolina.  My father pulled a super-awesome act and purchased the three of us plane tickets to come for a visit while my sister and her family would be in the States. (They live in Switzerland. Incidentally, I love my sister very much, but I’m kind of mad at her because she has yet to introduce me to Swiss Miss and I just KNOW she’s been blowing that giant horn on the mountain with the Ricola guy, but she hasn’t so much as invited me to join them.  I also expected her to bring me a likeness of myself sculpted entirely out of the best cheese and chocolate in the world, but that has nothing to do with where she lives, it’s just a tradition we have.)

Anyway, we accepted the tickets my father offered in a heartbeat – no way were we going to turn down such a generous offer. We love seeing our extended family. Where else can you drink too much, raid the fridge for pickled beets and cow tongue, set off fireworks when it’s not even July 4th, and fart at the dinner table? (I know you are dying to hang out with us now. Please contain yourself.)

In order to make the trip go smoothly, I spent the weeks leading up to our trip thinking of ways to keep Braden busy on the flights, hoping to keep his roar to a minimum so that nobody would start fashioning voodoo dolls in our likenesses before we even disembarked the airplane at our destination.

I came up with some great ideas, like packing his favorite toys, a notepad and pen, new books for him to enjoy, and DVDs to play on my laptop with headphones just for him.  So we went shopping and I picked up some supplies of that nature along with a brand new roll of extra-strong, soundproof quality duct tape.  You know, in case our luggage got damaged.  And I swear that I only measured the width of the tape against the height of his mouth while I was in the store selecting the right roll because everyone knows that luggage tears generally only occur in the exact dimensions of a 3 year old boy’s facial orifice.

If you don’t believe me you can contact The Official Luggage Tear Association of America Aimed At Defending Moms Who Needed To Tape Their 3 Year Old Spawns’ Faceholes Shut.  OLFAAADMWNT3YOSFS for those in the know.

I have their mailing address around here somewhere.  You can email me if you need it.

Anyway, in the car on the way to the airport, Braden was in a good mood, excited. I was only punching myself in the face a couple of times an hour at that point, so I was mostly able to enjoy the ride.  I did happen to remember that it was Friday the 13th.  While I tried to decide how we were going to die that day, I made sure to address the issue on Twitter.

You know, for good luck.  And to remind everyone else that it was Friday the 13th, in the hopes that I could inspire all the superstitious people who follow me to be fearful and miserable for the rest of the day.  And because I secretly hoped all the rabbits on Twitter would get the message and hide their poor little paws.  I love rabbits, so I wanted to try my best to keep them safe.  I’m a giver like that.  Besides, they look like total dumbasses with peg legs.  Not cool at all, like pirates.

By the way, I’m not really all that superstitious, but I did decide that at some point that day either:

a) we would die a horrible, flaming death after our airplane plummeted from the sky and crashed in a heap of charred and twisted metal because I packed one too many pairs of shoes in my luggage,

b) we’d be chopped into a million pieces by a deranged madman who got pushed past his breaking point because he HATES TO BE ASKED TO TAKE OFF HIS SHOES IN PUBLIC much less be chided for not laying his carry-on bag down flat in the plastic bin, and besides, only assholes who hate their jobs would nitpick at you like that. So it’s really quite understandable why he’d then lose his mind and kill us all with the machete that he somehow managed to get through security. (After they confiscated his nail file, of course.)

or

c) I would die from laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe anymore after Braden got excited at correctly reading the word “frog” and decided to start yelling it out on the plane over and over again and by the way? This is how that sounds: “FUCK! FUCK! HAHAHA! FUCK!”

Three guesses which of my predictions was the closest to the truth. (Apparently I can laugh for a long time without expiring from lack of ability to breathe properly.  So I was wrong about the whole dying part.  Not all of us can be Nostradamus, okay?)

As usual, Braden found groupies all throughout the airport.  Having had his ego filled to bursting, by the time we got to our gate, Braden was already tired and hungry, and demanded sustenance.  Then he had a minor drama queen moment with head to the table, lots of sighing, and talk of feelings like “too sad” and then he ended up telling me he did not want to be at the airport.

I was all, “Suck it up, dude, we’re going to wait here for awhile and then we’re getting on the plane.”

He told me I was a world class jerk and then wouldn’t share his fries with me.

So I peed in his apple juice when he wasn’t looking.

Okay, I didn’t.  But I thought about it.  I actually decided the opening to the bottle was way too narrow and it would make more of a mess on my pants than it was worth.  Not having a penis is so unfair sometimes.

While the (clearly) cutest boy in the world ate his fries, John and I knocked back some pre-flight refreshments.

We boarded our first flight with no incident. Braden was almost humming with excitement on the way into the plane and arriving at our seats.

We got settled and waited. I could hear, across the aisle, the murmuring of John and Braden talking to one another.  Braden was a bit fidgety.  I suggested John tell Braden, using his toy airplane to illustrate, what was going to happen when the plane took off.

I saw the airplane sliding across the tray table, heard the quiet explanations. Braden was smiling, nodding. Suddenly he exclaimed, exuberantly, “The airplane is going to fly high, high up into the sky! *short pause* AND THEN IT’S GOING TO CRAAAASSSHHH DOOOWWWWWNNN!!!!!”

I swear I didn’t laugh.  I’m not a complete liar, either.

We were an instant favorite amongst our fellow passengers.  I flexed and readied for my best one finger salute, just in case.  Luckily, nobody said anything, which is really kind of awesome, because I’d choke a kid for something like that if he wasn’t mine.

Braden really liked the feeling of take-off and landing.  I had to suppress the urge to tell him that he only likes it because he doesn’t know that we could die at any minute. (Okay, to be honest, I like it, too, and I do know. But turbulence can go right to hell.)

I wish I hadn’t complied with the Flight Crew’s requests to stow all electronic equipment during take-off.  And not just because I like to get in trouble and possibly taken to jail by TSA officials. (Though it is a favorite past time.) The photos and video I could have captured of Braden would have made you all smile and laugh.  (My life’s sole mission.)

Other travelers laughed and grinned as he exclaimed, “THREE… TWO… ONE… BLAAAAAST OFFF!” It kind of made up for the whole “suggesting we were all going to die during a fabulous crash landing from hell” thing.  Plus, not even one person called him a dumbass for saying “Blast Off” about an airplane / thinking we were in a rocket.  Those were the nicest people ever.  I would have bought them all vodka drinks, but then there wouldn’t have been enough for all the Bloody Marys that John and I needed.  Yes, needed.  There’s a medical reason.  No, I can’t talk about it with you. Not because I don’t trust you, but mostly because I’m a liar but I can’t think of anything right now because I’m too tired.  Shhh. Don’t tell.

Luckily, Braden had only momentary discomfort with ear pressure, alleviated by noshing on helpless little gummy rabbits.  I pretty much felt like a genius for packing them, since he can’t chew gum yet.  Well, I mean, technically he can chew gum, but he can also probably choke to death on it because he doesn’t know how to not constantly laugh and yell, drawing in great amounts of air.  And I kind of like having him around because he can still eat for free at some restaurants and he makes me laugh.  Oh, and don’t even act like I’m contradicting myself on the whole “love rabbits” thing from above, because those gummy rabbits were made of 100% fruit juice with no more than 10% actual rabbit flavoring.  See how superior you think you are? I showed you.

During the flight, I made a new friend, only 4.75 years old.  She was very adamant that I recognize how close to 5 she was, and even instructed me to be ready for her birthday.  Someone is a little too obsessed with herself, if you ask me.  She wouldn’t even shut up and let me talk about myself any of the 50-some times I tried to tell her about my blog or all my funny Tweets.  How rude.  I mean, really.

She talked more than Braden does.  A LOT MORE.  She told me quite a few stories about her squishy pink lizard.  She said it can swim! and do flips! but I think she was full of shit because during the entire flight, the thing didn’t move EVEN ONCE.  You know what I think, though?  That thing is conning her for her sweet little girl love.  It’s not right.  I made sure to sneak it off of her before we deplaned and flushed it down into that blue death in the airplane toilet.  Lying lizard toys are one of the main things about this country that’s causing the whole place to go to hell in a handbasket, and I, for one, will not stand by while nothing is done about it.  It’s true.  I’m an amazing activist for important causes.  Don’t be jealous, we can’t all be so inherently wonderful.

My new friend (I don’t remember her name, but it’s not my fault, she didn’t even have a cell phone number I could add to my contacts list) also regaled me with stories about her little sister, cartwheels, the color of her carry-on luggage (it matched her dress), and her mother’s age.

LOUDLY: “My mommy is 33, almost 34! She’s old. How old are you?”  I told her I am 5 – clearly better than her because she’s only 4.75.  Then I asked if she also knew how much her mom weighs. Her mother just looked at me with glazed eyes.  I don’t know much ALS, so I could be wrong, but at one point I think she signed “Please just take her, I won’t tell anyone.”

I don’t need a girl, though, since Braden already lets me paint his toenails and put styling product in his hair, so I declined.

By the way, I think the little sister was totally trying to hit on Braden.  I think it’s a chicks dig cars kind of thing.  Or maybe it’s his keen fashion sense.  Maybe the killer blue eyes.

Watch out, mothers of daughters.  No, really, watch out because if we don’t have this kid fixed (can you do that? will they do that at the Vet?) we are SCREWED.  Please to be fitting your female children with chastity belts.

Anyway, the flights went fairly well.  Nobody died at all and my fears of Braden losing his freaking mind were unfounded.

Well, unless you count the times that the Shrieking Banshee of Death emerged when seatbelts had to be buckled and tray tables returned to their locked positions.

Airplane windows really do need to be lower.

Can we redesign all airplanes to accommodate my tiny son’s desire to look out at the amazing sights around and below us as we ascend/descend? Surely that’s not too much to ask.  IT’S JUST MONEY AND TIME, YOU ASSHOLES.

No? Oh well. I’ll just keep knockin’ these back.

And making Daddy sit next to Braden.

You know… if he can handle it.

Because it’s been far too long since you questioned my sanity.

<rambling post of awesomeness>

I have had way too much fun lately. In fact, I told John that I was pretty sure I’m going to die soon and this is The Universe’s way of saying, “Oh, hey, sorry about that…” ahead of time. A lot of times The Universe is a total dickhead, but I can imagine that maybe sometimes it gets bummed out about what a shit it is and tries to be cool to you to make up for it.

It’s kind of like how I pretend to be nice to John every once in a while when I realize I’ve been a total hole for months on end. Cause, you know, a few hours of not actually saying anything derogatory and smiling a lot can make up for endless weeks of torture and passive aggressive quips blended with just out and out aggressive combativeness and demanding, controlling, and manipulative domestic behavior.

God help him if he complains though; then I’m all, “DO YOU NOT REMEMBER THE TIME THAT I HANDED YOU A NAPKIN WHEN YOUR FACE WAS DIRTY? I BLEED FOR YOU, INGRATE.”

Or something. But, basically, I know not to push The Universe and all, because it’s just doing the best it can, damnit. Ya dig?

So. Yeah. The Universe is clearly trying to be nice to me because it feels bad about my impending doom.

Either that or it is going to plan such a fiery, explosive and painful ending for me that getting me all complacent and mellow first will make things that much funnier for the bastard when it all goes down.  The Universe is probably sitting in a dark room rubbing his hands together, and he’s all, “This stupid bitch has NO IDEA what’s in store for her, man.  It.is.going.to.be.EPIC.  I am totally going to photograph the look on her face and Twitpic it when she gets hers. MUAHAHAHAH.”

Um. Wow, The Universe just went from being a maybe, kind-of dickhead to a completely sadistic psychopath in my mind. I can’t say I’m surprised. I’ve been into the caffeine again. Also the wine. Maybe a little of the blow powdered sugar.

What the hell was the point of this post? Oh, yeah. I’ve been having fun lately – making new friends in our neighborhood, going out with girls I actually like, and generally, well, not being locked in my house like a socially inept, loser ho-bag.

That is, I’ve been pretending I’m not a socially inept, loser ho-bag, and nobody is on to the deception yet, so clearly I am up for the next Academy Award. (note to self: do not marry Jesse James any time soon)

Last Wednesday, in another installment of Happy Fun Times I Should Feel Guilty About (don’t worry, I got mine) I went to an Open House at Beleza Medspa with some lady friends: Blythe (Aka @Bejewell) and Leigh. We needed to learn about ways you can change what nature does to your body, and instead, make it all fake and HOT.

Apparently, Blythe and Leigh were getting drunk for free while they were waiting for me to arrive late (people start drinking to cope with the fact that they miss me, I’m that awesome) (either that or they drink to cope with the fact that I’m about to arrive) and once I got there, we went to a back room to find out about the process of having your facial skin turned from haggarific to Goddess Sheen of Awesometasticness.

This process is also known, to lesser degree, as Let’s Burn Your Ugly Face Off. You’ll only have to hide in a cave for about 4-6 days while all the skin flakes off as if you have some horrible and contagious disease. But after that? YOU WILL BE BEAUTIFUL. It’s a metamorphosis. You have to let your inner butterfly out… by KILLING THE SHIT OUT OF THAT CATERPILLAR we like to call your real face.

I kind of started getting scared as we were led down a hallway to a back room. Partly because we were walking in the opposite direction of the free wine, but also because I was worried about what was really about to happen. What if we ended up in a deep well being told “it puts the lotion on its skin?” IS THIS HOW THEY REALLY GET THE NEW SKIN THEY PROMISE TO PEOPLE?

It turns out we were just going to hang out with Nathan in a small room, drink, act like complete morons and listen to him tell us about all the products he could sell to us that are totally made of Fairy Dust and Unicorn Shit, and will therefore MAGICALLY MAKE YOU PRETTY. The before and after photos were really impressive, especially the one where the woman was definitely dead in the before photo and was just about to receive the crown for Miss America in the after photo.

What I’m saying is that this stuff that comes in a 1oz bottle and costs only slightly more than a new car (okay, maybe I’m exaggerating JUST A LITTLE BIT) will totally bring you back from the dead.

I bet Jesus used it. I mean, have you seen photos of him? His skin was far too lovely for a 30 something who was out in the raging sun without SPF all the time. Also, you know damn well that he was wearing color contacts – blue eyes, MY ASS. Easter should really be celebrated by rubbing expensive liquid shit on your face. (Or hiding colored eggs, maybe, because we all understand how that has anything to do with Jesus.)

*blank stare*

After we annoyed Nathan for some time by making sex jokes, asking if he could just make us pretty and skip all the intelligent, scientific explanations and photos, and just all around being obnoxiously hilarious, Nathan rubbed random products on us. I’m not sure exactly why, maybe to prove that it wouldn’t melt our skin on contact? We giggled a lot and then smelled it. Don’t you smell everything that a strange man rubs on your skin in the back room of a place where they ply you with alcohol and ask you for your personal information the moment you arrive? No?

Well, I don’t get you at all.

Anyway, I’m pretty sure that we were the most awesome people who were there that night, as evidenced by:

• our inability to just listen to Nathan, rather, interrupting every few seconds to make drunken jokes
• Blythe making her fingers kiss and say “I do” when Nathan put eye cream on them
• Leigh commenting about the hookers we were going to pick up later (what?)
• my responding to Nathan’s question about our lifestyle habits by saying (in a very charming manner, I’ll have you know) “I don’t smoke, my diet is good, I use SPF, but I drink LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER!!!, is that bad?”
• the fact that we considered just shoving the product in our purses and RUNNING LIKE HELL
• our inability to get more than 2 feet away from the place without loudly proclaiming over the Size XXL lips on Mega Procedures Woman (I may have thrown up in my mouth a little. I mean, really, your lips are NEVER SUPPOSED TO BE LARGER THAN YOUR ASS.)

Of course, then we went to a restaurant and ordered more drinks, because we were clearly far too sober to exist and more alcohol was necessary. Of course, just as we were all having the best time EVER I got this image as a text message from John:

at which time I immediately starting crying right into the nachos and possibly Blythe’s Margarita as well. There may have been snot on the fried green beans when it was all over. In case you were wondering, being notified of your child bashing his head apart all over your favorite Chik-Fil-A is just about the best way you can SOBER YOUR ASS RIGHT UP.

Leigh was all, “Uh, uh, I have to go pee!” and almost knocked the table over as she ran uncomfortably away, and Blythe was mostly like, “OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. OH. MY. GOD.” Later, we all decided that John was a total shit for sending me that image with no text attached, and we all plotted his death.

[Watch your back, dude. These bitches don't play.]

Have I mentioned that I love Blythe and Leigh? No? Well, I do. They’re beyond awesome.

As we were leaving the restaurant, Blythe was all “I know you bitches are tipsy, neither of you has any kind of sense of direction, and you don’t really know where you are, but I hope you get home somehow, love ya, mean it” and dumped us in the parking lot and took off laughing. I was totally feeling like I might want to marry her right in that moment, and I’m sure you can understand those deep feelings.

And when Leigh was taking me home and suddenly said, “OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT, A PEACOCK?!” I knew that she is just classy enough to be my new crush. (But yes, it was a fucking peacock. Have I not told you about the peacocks that live right by us? No? Well, guess what. Peacocks. Right across the street. And they are LOUD. There. Now you know.)

I am a little pissed off, in retrospect, because the whole reason I went to Burn Your Facial Skin Off So You Can Be Prettier Palace was so I could learn about having lasers shot at my armpits and vaginal area. And NOBODY TOLD ME ABOUT LASER BOMBING MY HAYHAY.

Totally robbed.

So, in summation:

• The Universe is a dick but at least it throws you a bone every now and then.
• The Universe is a dick and it will smash your kid’s head in while you’re having fun.
• Your lips should never be larger than your ass. NO, REALLY. (If they are, I DEMAND you start sitting on your face.)
• My cooter is still in need of laser action.
• Jesus wore color contacts and used skin care products.
• My blood is probably at least 90 Proof.
• John should really be sleeping with his pistol under his pillow.
• Blythe and Leigh = awesome and I might have sex with them some day while a peacock watches.

So, how have you all been lately?

</rambling post of awesomeness>

photo credit: Dan Kamminga / CC2.0

A transformation.

It’s a ring.

When I’m asked what Christmas gift I remember the most, this ring is the first image that surfaces in my mind. One of the most beautiful opals I have ever seen sits like a regal queen atop a shining, golden band. On each side of her, like ladies in waiting, is a tiny diamond, twinkling playfully.

I am not obsessive about jewelry. I appreciate things of beauty, and with these types of decoration I tend to gravitate towards simplicity.

I had never before received expensive jewelry from a lover. I had never really desired it, to be honest. Regardless of that, I found this piece perfect. When I opened the box, I was floored and pleased.

It is beauty, basic and true. I loved it immediately, and still do.

A person special to me worried over the selection of this ring. He had labored over this choice, and this ring had spoken to him.

While it is certainly true that the ring is stunning, that is not why it is my most memorable gift. There is magic in my memory of this gift, but it is not because I received the ring on Christmas day.

The real magic lies in what it later became – an engagement ring. The man who painstakingly chose that gift for me did not know that later I would switch the hand on which the Queen Opal rode, as promise to marry him.

My most memorable Christmas gift was a pretty, shiny adornment that later transformed into a symbol of love, basic and true.

Beautiful.

******

Today’s post is my answer to The Gift, a writing challenge at {W}rite-of-Passage.

The following people took the challenge, too.

Pain and joy mingle.

We purchased this year’s tree on a Sunday while John was home for a day.  That night, I put the lights on it.  The smell of a real Christmas tree is something I love so much that I don’t exactly know how to put it into words.  The olfactory sense can trigger some of the strongest sense memories we have, and I think this smell is linked into the magic and joy that laces my memories of Christmas as a child.  We never had a fake tree, so when I smelled this smell – a real pine, cedar, or fir – it meant Christmas was coming.  And that meant magic, love, and light.  It meant my soul would lift and float for awhile.

This year, before we bought our tree, I went in search of something I’ve had in a cabinet all year long.  It is a glass spice bottle with a black plastic lid.  The glass is very heavy, and the plastic is thick and sturdy.  It appeals to me in some way, and so I saved it to use for something when the spice ran out.  I had no idea when I put it aside that later I’d be gathering fallen needles to place inside.

Last year, I lost a baby (Davin) right at three months into the pregnancy.  It was my second miscarriage of the year and, for many reasons, it throttled me in different and harder ways than had the first one (in April).

I found out on December 9th during a prenatal appointment that he had died.  A D&C to remove Davin from my womb was scheduled for December 16th.

I had carried him for a week, knowing he was no longer alive.  It was both maddening and oddly comforting.  On the one hand, I felt insane knowing he was inside of me and he was not alive; my body was incapable of doing anything to help him.  On the other hand, I got to be with him and say goodbye, come to terms with him being removed.

On December 15th, the day before the surgery, I asked John to go get a tree.  I didn’t tell him, but I wanted that tree in the house with all 4 of us.  That’s how it was supposed to be, and in my fractured state of being, I was going to have it that way, regardless.

When last year’s tree came into our home with all of its wonderful smelling glory my child was still inside of me.  The next day, he was all the way gone.  I was sedated for some time after that.  When the pills ran out there was still wine and liquor.  I got tipsy regularly; I ate crappy food.  No matter what I ingested, I was empty.

I was empty in more ways than the one that made my uterus ache as it healed.

That tree sat in the living room with me.  I watched those lights flash and dance through my bleary eyes.  I sat here, numb, with that happy smell.  Each day rolled by and I tried whenever I could to enjoy them, even if it was an altered, forced experience.

I cried a lot.  I was angry and sad.  A lot of days I was just nothing.

The tree was there.

At some time way past Christmas there came a point when I had to admit that the tree was dried out and needed to be taken away.  I cried about that, too.

When that tree came into my house, I still had my baby inside of me.  Now the tree was about to leave, and I had to keep a part of it, because somehow, it was the last thing I could hold onto about Davin.  Is that crazy?

I got down on my hands and knees with that damn spice bottle and I gathered up fallen needles until it was full.  Then I put it in one of my kitchen cabinets.

Only a couple of times during the year, when my heart ached the very most for Davin, I went and opened that bottle.  I held it, smooth, cool and heavy, in my hand.  In my fingers, it felt strong when I felt weak.  I stared at the needles.  I opened the bottle and smelled.

Pain and joy mingle together in that smell for me now.

Not long before we got our tree this year, I went for that bottle for the first time in quite a while.  When I smelled it, I wept for my lost son.  The smell was still very strong and crisp.  It wrapped me up; it sang to me of both sorrow and delight.  Afterwards, I felt a sort of peace.

I put the bottle out as the very first Christmas decoration in our home this year.

I will think of them both every Christmas: the baby who we thought would be born in December 08 as well as the baby who died in December 08.  I don’t think I’ll ever smell that happy smell or watch those dancing lights again without a twinge of sorrow.  But I believe I will always still smile at them, as well.

Pain and joy mingle together, and that is not such a bad thing to experience, or acknowledge.

It is far better than pain sitting in the heart by itself.

About menstruation, armpit hair, floaters, etc…. oh, and writing well.

So, I’ve been quite brilliantly not writing near as often as I used to here for some time now. I’m perfecting this art I like to call “Ignore Your Blog Until It Dies.” I think I’m doing a *really* good job. Only, I keep popping back into frame and, you know, it’s because I love you. And because I like to run my proverbial mouth write. Also, a little bit because of how good you look in those jeans, and that you’re kind of slutty. But mostly the thing about how I like to write. Yeah.

I used to post something every day – and while I’m not interested in pushing myself to a “per day” schedule anymore, I do want to get back to writing more often. And because she’s awesome like that, Leslie (aka Mrs. Flinger) has been thinking of this whole “let’s get back to writing” thing, only she actually wants it to be GOOD WRITING (oh, shit) and after several email brainstorming sessions with a group of amazing women (I think someone added my name to the email list by accident, but I wasn’t going to rat myself out) there’s a little movement, or community, going.

Leslie has launched a Ning site to fuel this, and it’s called {W}rite of Passage: taking the challenge to write well.

So I’m jumping in. I’m going to take the challenges and post my shitty drafts in answer to them here for you to look at and laugh while you point and say, “this shit is supposed to be good writing? BAHAHAHAHA.”

Of course, instead of just being a turd, you could join the network and get your ass in gear, too.

Today’s Challenge? Embarrassing story.

And you know, I am having a little bit of difficulty coming up with a topic because I never have embarrassing things happen to me, and I never do embarrassing things.  I have a hard time even understanding what this whole “being embarrassed” thing is like.  I am poised, confident, and graceful.  Whether by luck, chance, or higher power, I am immune to awkward situations.  All of the stories of my life are calm, without incident, and there is truly a spirit of class and dignity that surrounds all that is moi.

Also, pigs fly out of my butt and there’s a unicorn eating rainbow striped cotton candy on my back lawn, right next to the leprechaun who is counting out all the gold he’s going to leave on my front step later today. Now, excuse me, because it’s time for me to go climb on the back of my friendly, neighborhood dragon and go for our regularly scheduled flying playdate with Peter Pan and Mary Poppins.

I am having trouble because I’ve already written here about all the most embarrassing topics that come to mind immediately.  Like when my mother announced that I’d started my period in front of our male, European house guests.

Who do you tell?  If you’re like me, you tell your mother.  And you don’t enjoy it.  But you get it over with, and then you expect it to go away.

You don’t expect to be washing the dishes after dinner, minding your own business, and have your mother practically float into the room on her Mommy Pride and gush about it to the two MALE, European house guests sitting at the kitchen table.

They speak very little English, but you quickly see that they have perfected that Creepy Guy Look Of Knowing And Thinking Ew Things, because they are aiming it right at you.  Picture it, right now.  If your skin didn’t crawl, you don’t know what I’m talking about.

I.Couldn’t.Believe.She.Had.Done.That.

She CLEARLY hated me. I was SURE of it.

I just wanted to DIE.

Or the story of my first pit hairs.  Yeah.

I remember when I first started getting armpit hair.

I was mortified.

My mom?  Was excited.

I was sitting on her bed, with my hands behind my head, all chilled out, leaning back.  I can remember her noticing the armpit hair and pointing it out, smiling and gesturing.  The expression on my face had to have been one of complete and total terror.  She, on the other hand, was dangerously close to suggesting we should have a parade for my pit hair.

I could see myself on the lead Pit Hair Parade! float, my arms strapped up and to the sides.  Large spotlights would aim at my pits and flower adorned arrows would be positioned to point right at the tiny hairs there, in case people were not aware that LOTUS.HAS.PIT.HAIR.NOW!!!

I slapped my arms down, and tried to change the subject, while mentally willing with all my might that time would just stop.  Maybe God really did exist and I could pray to him right now to erase this?

Because it was embarrassing.

Or maybe you’ll remember when I talked about how I made sure that John would truly fall madly in love with me, one day becoming my husband.  I had a foolproof plan, really.  All you dating ladies should try this out on your man.

John told me that when we were first dating, he had an interesting experience. He was visiting me at my apartment in Winston-Salem, NC. We had been hanging out, laughing, having fun, etc. He had to pee. He got up… walked down the hallway, and went into the bathroom. Closing the door, he turned around, and lifted the toilet seat.

And witnessed a large, brown floater.

Sexy or what?

And you’re probably thinking that I *forgot* to flush.  Ah, foolish one.  Everyone knows that Surprise Shit is the way to a man’s heart. It’s either that or food. Or blowjobs. Or something. Clearly I’m an expert.

When it comes right down to it, a great many of my embarrassing situations don’t really stand out because they are the majority of the strands that weave the I’m A Dumbass Idiot tapestry of my life.  It all just blends together to create the badass that is Loter.

So what if I’ve puked on the side of the highway in my underpants?  Big deal if I drove a car up past the parking space and actually right into the wall of a building once?  No problem if I leave my wallet at home when I go shopping, hold bows up to my crotch in department stores, lose my car in parking lots, say horribly stupid things to people in practically any social situation, walk into doors and fences, or melt my food processor in my oven because I was too lazy to clean it and instead shoved it in there so I wouldn’t have to look at it anymore and then forgot and preheated the oven for dinner while it was still inside, like a completely idiotic assface? So what if I write long, run-on sentences just because I like the way they sound in my head and think you should, too?

So what? I am still awesome.

And I’d love to delude myself talk about that in detail, but I really have to go now.  I need to put on my magical, vanilla-scented Invisibility Suit and take my pet dinosaur for a walk down our gold-paved street.

*******
Here are more people who took the “Embarrassing Story” Challenge today.

Join up at {W}rite-Of-Passage and then add yours, too!

Reason number 39756385 why renting a house blows.

And when I say “blows” I am not thinking about bubbles or dandelions.

Or even that hot guy I saw standing in line at the grocery store the other day. Rawr.

I’m referring more to hairy ballsacks, possibly even diseased ones.

I have a good running list of reasons (39756385 items long, clearly) for this particular brand of Makes You Want To Vomit All Of Your Meals From Ever suckage, but today let’s talk about:

“When Shit Breaks And Doesn’t Get Fixed In A Timely Manner”

When shit breaks and you own your own house, the reason why it sucks is because you have to FIX THAT SHIT YOSELF.  So that means, get off your lazy ass and determine the cause of the problemage and then do something about it.

When shit breaks and you rent, you’re often NOT ALLOWED to fix that shit yoself, nor are you allowed to hire someone else to fix that shit for yoself.  Because, of course, when you signed the lease you did no less than admit that your judegment is not to be trusted, m’kay? And you signed an agreement that says “I am a dummee and cannot fiss thingies goodlike and also I can not has enough smart parts in my head to find any other good peoples to help me fiss thingies eether. ever.”

I swear that’s what the thing said, and normally I wouldn’t sign a document rife with such horrible spelling mistakes, for chrissakes, but if I remember correctly I had diarrhea that day so I was kind of in a hurry to get things wrapped up, because there is really nothing worse than sitting in a realtor’s office with a hot wet ass that ISN’T just a euphemism for how damn sexy you are.

But I digress.

So, basically, we’re not allowed to fix broken things.  Instead we have to call and report them to property management, and they will send someone to the house to fix what’s broken.

Wait, no.  I wrote that incorrectly.

They will THINK ABOUT HOW THEY ARE SUPPOSED TO send someone to the house to fix what’s broken FOR ABOUT A WEEK, but they will not do anything about it.

Then when your husband calls them and says, “Uh, did you get my two messages about how the kitchen light is broken and my wife has already set 4 fires in there trying to cook in the dark because she’s an idiot, and could you please just go fix it before she accidently builds an atom bomb trying to make Mac & Cheese in the dark? I know it sounds improbable, but really, you don’t know her. And it is not at all improbable.  That kitchen light is SO MUCH MORE important than you realize” they will be like, “Huh?”

And then they’ll be like, “Oh, we need approval from the owner since it’s just lightbulbs.”

This is the part of the story where I tell you how I almost threw the phone across the room when John was relaying things to me.  Because I was in the room the day that John called them and left a message, and I heard him saying, “Hi, our kitchen light is broken and we thought it might just be the bulbs, so I went out and bought new ones, but it still won’t turn on, so it’s not the bulbs.  We need someone to come out and have a look at it and fix it.”

And:

1) See that part where he said IT’S NOT THE BULBS? Yeah. I HEARD THAT.
2) John hasn’t been home since October 16th.  I just want to go ahead and point that out.
3) As I type this, the light is STILL BROKEN.

After he set them straight in a much more polite way than I’d ever be capable of, they promised him someone would “be out tomorrow” to have a look at it.

BAHAHAHAHAHA!

“Be out tomorrow” in Property Managementese CLEARLY means “sit around with a thumb up one’s ass.”  Either that or “laugh at your dark kitchening ass while we pretend like we care about you and your broken thingies, when if fact, we so very much do not. Buy a lamp, asshole.”  I’m not sure, but it’s definitely ONE of those.

A WEEK LATER he called again to find out if they would prefer that we:

A) Burn down their building.
B) Set bull weavels loose in their office.
C) Poop in a box and send it to them instead of next month’s rent.
D) Get H1N1 first and then poop in a box and send it to them instead of next month’s rent.

They asked if there was an option E, and while I told John to say, “Yes, All of the above, you sons of bitches,” instead he just asked if they could please come fix the light in the kitchen.

He is such a pussy.

So finally, someone came the next day and looked at the light.

(Technically, they said someone would “be out tomorrow” again and so I got all pissed off because I AM LEARNING THEIR LANGUAGE. But they decided to mix things up to keep me on my toes.  I am on to you, anyway, Property Management.)

On Friday, a nice man came to the house, stood on one of my chairs and looked at the kitchen light fixture.

He told me it was broken.

I almost had a hysterical breakdown at the delivery of this news because I had no idea the kitchen light was broken and I thought frantically, “Holy crap, how am I going to make dinner now, in the dark???”

But really, he said the ballast is fried and that he’d have to remove it and replace it.  Then he took it off the fixture and he left, saying, “If I don’t see you again later today, I’ll see you Monday!”

It’s Wednesday.  I have not seen the friendly Ballast Replacing Fairy yet.

I’mma gonna go into the kitchen later and whip up that atom bomb.

Hope you fuckers liked your lives. Some shit’s ‘splodin’ tonight.

****

UPDATE: So after I wrote this, but before I could publish it, the friendly Ballast Replacing Fairy actually showed up, except it was the same guy who came before and told me the ballast was broken, so I was a little bit disappointed.  I was hoping for something with wings and a tutu or at least a glittery wand or a Pegasus waiting for him in backyard while he was inside working.  Regardless, he had a new ballast with him and the knowledge necessary to install it.

Fortunately, while he was working, Braden made sure to point out loudly to me that “that’s not Daddy!” saving me from making the horrible mistake of pestering the poor guy to rub my feet.  Of course, this is nothing new from Braden; he’s always screaming that information at random times, like when I’m on the couch making out with boyfriends, and also sometimes when my pimp comes to collect.

Duh, Braden, DUH.

Oh, but apparently the Ballast Replacing Fairy IS a fireman.  Braden said so.  Which clearly means he needs to be reported to the fire chief for his Fairy Side Gig.  I’m 97% sure that there’s a “No Fairies” rule in the Fireman Job Requirements.  It’s right next to the part that says you have to have really big muscles and the ability to grow masculine patterns of facial hair on command.  I’m not sure whether it’s more or less important than looking sexy while you slide down a big metal pole in a hurry.  Anyway, he’s breaking the rules.

I’m telling.

PS: You’re a bunch of lucky bastards. There’s light in the kitchen now, so I probably won’t be blowing up the earth tonight.

Probably.

Why I haven’t written my Blogher 09 Recap.

Yes, I know that it has been a freaking month now, and I have not yet written about Blogher 09.

In my defense, here is a list of excuses.  Please pick and choose from them the ones which you find most pleasing:

• I am not really a human being; I am a robot and I have been programmed not to write my opinions on conferences I attend in a timely manner. This is making it really hard to, you know, write my opinions on conferences I attend… in a timely manner. Like Blogher 09, for example.  If you are a robot programmer, please get in touch with me. I need your help.

• Blame Alcohol.  I had so much to drink that weekend that really, people, come ON.  I might as well just write: Got to The Chicago Sheraton. Heard ear splitting squeees echoing off of the walls in all directions as people saw one another. Stuffed swag bags. Party. Drinks. Party. Drinks. Naked woman? Wow. Stumble, stumble, sleep.  Sessions. People! Party! Someone handed me a drink. And another. Another. Another? Sure! WHY NOT. Etc. *drink train ensued* Blur blur, Party, Dancing, blur blur, static, room spinning, I’m falling, oh God, I’m falling. What is that? Slur slur slur. Static. Someone cut me off, Good Lord why is no one cutting me off? I think I just ate my own hair. Is that a moose?  Blur blur. Laughter, sleep of some sort, passing out? Blackness.  Dog turds in my mouth. Hangover. Hangover. Hangover. Hangover. Bowling? Sleep.  I got on the plane with perfume bitch and came home. But that wasn’t very fun to read, now was it?

• Jim and Loralee were SO DAMN CUTE hiding under the table that I can’t remember how to type.

• Swag Issues are to blame.

a) When I tried to enter The People’s Party, the crushing sea of people almost did me in, but somehow I survived! Unfortunately, then someone elbowed me in the head while they were trying to OMG GET THEIR FREE SHIT HURRY BEFORE IT’S ALL GONE AHHHHH, and I forgot everything that happened. (and well, no, that didn’t really happen. not to me, anyway.)

OR

b) While manning the Room 704 Party opener, handing out drink tickets with Dawn, Victoria, Leslie, and Heather, multiple women killed me with their death stares of angry entitlement and hatred (I’m not bitter about this, I’m NOT.) because I (we) wouldn’t give them their swag imm-effing-ediately (free vibrators bring out the best in us all!) and dead people CAN’T EVEN WRITE BLOGS, PEOPLE.

• Your mom.

• Every time I try to write about the conference I get all verklempt and I can’t even get halfway into anything decent because my Emo tears are rocking me to sleep.  I think about all the wonderful people I finally got to see in person.  I spent time (not enough, never, never enough) with so many wonderful people over the weekend of the Blogher 09 Con and I can’t believe that it flew by so quickly.  I didn’t get to talk to all the people I wanted to talk with.  I didn’t get to spend enough time with those I did get to talk with.  I missed out on doing some things with certain people over the weekend, and I kick myself and/or spank myself with a rolled up piece of paper (oh, baby) almost every day now because of it. (By the way, there is a nasty bruise now and it hurts, oh man it hurts.  You should be thoroughly ashamed that you didn’t try harder to get me in on that stuff. Yes. YOU.)  But overall, the chance to see so many people I know, admire, respect, and want to hump enjoy talking with was so awesome that I have a hard time putting it into words.  I got to touch people who live inside my computer!  I got to touch them and know that YOU GUYS REALLY ARE REAL (so there! to everyone I know in real life, my “computer friends” are NOT just deranged guys in prison trying to trick me into sending them my nudes. They are just the real people they SAY they are… trying to trick me into sending them my nudes. I totally win. You must be so embarrassed.  Hahaha. Losers.)  Also, now that I am home again I MISS YOU ASSHOLES.  So, yeah.  It is all too emotional for me to recount for you, and when I try to, I cry in the way that the unpopular kid on the playground who got pushed down in the dirt for the eleventy-seventh time this week cries.  Yes, with sand in my eyes and a booger on my face.  But then I pour myself a drink, put on some black nail polish and write poems deep into the night, until the meaning of all things becomes so clear that I don’t even understand who I am anymore.  And at that point, I can’t be writing blog posts about blogging conferences.  I am deeper than that.

• Mishelle snored so loudly next to me that one night that the contents of my brain were wiped clean.  Good thing she’s such a doll. It was totally worth getting to sleep next to her.

photo courtesy of Angie

• I am a seriously lazy douche, and there is just no way I can ever really get anything done that I’m supposed to get done.  I even have a tattoo on my forehead as a disclaimer, so you can’t exactly be mad about it, can you?  I mean, did you even take the time to look at my forehead?  If not, then you are really to blame for all of this, aren’t you?  AREN’T YOU?  You can’t even admit it, can you?  When did things get so messed up between us that you can’t even tell me the truth?  How did we get here? I don’t even know you anymore. *sobbing*

• When I got to the airport in Chicago, I not only got to have an Airport Hump Date with Angie, Shash, and Mel, but I also ran into Elizabeth and Lindsay at the baggage carousel.  I had never met Lindsay before, even though we live in the same town.  So I shook her hand and told her I was happy to finally meet her in person, since this was the first time.  She exclaimed, “But I know your BEWWWWBSSS!!!”  The old woman to my right made SUCH a foul face that her head almost fell off.  In hindsight I should have just shown them to her, so that she would GET IT. Can’t resist the power of Bewbs.  I am not smart in real time, though, and instead, it turns out that she’s a Gypsy and she put a curse on me that delays all writings about Blogging Conferences.  This is really going to slow things down for me After Type A Mom Con, too.  (Am I going to that? I forget.) So just go ahead and expect it.  Damn Gypsy curses are the worst.  I’m actually jealous of that guy from Thinner.  Not only did his curse cause him to lose weight without trying, but he earned it by getting a Road Blow.  And no one at the airport even OFFERED to blow me.  The Universe hates me.

• I did write it, I published it, you all read it already and it was AWESOME.  It was SO AWESOME. What? You don’t remember? WTH is wrong with you? It might be a tumor.  You need to have that checked.

• I passed out over the Blogher 09 Weekend, so drunk that I didn’t even make it back to my room before the black curtain of no return fell inside my head. Though I was in the care of people who don’t write “PENIS!” on your face in black Sharpie while you’re sleeping, or even take pictures of you, while you are blacked out, with genitals somewhere in the shot near your general face area and then send them to Post Secret or post them to TwitPic, I still feel really, really stupid and OMG I don’t want to talk about it at all. Because the next day people were all OMFG LOTUS IS DEAD and APBs were going out over Twitter to find out if I really was dead or if I was just sitting in jail with a black eye and ripped fishnet stockings because I was whoring on the streets of Chicago to earn extra money for meals (you have to eat when you drink that much, people) and the pimp was all “Bitch better have my money!” and I didn’t. Which of course ensued in a public beating where I was loudly screaming, “Get your Pimp Hand off of me!” And the cops were not sympathetic to the whore because she said, “Where’s my free drink, Pig, THIS IS BLOGHER WEEKEND, DON’T YOU KNOW YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO GIVE ME FREE DRINKS?”  But luckily it wasn’t either of those things (I’m no whore) and I had to get up in the morning and apologize to Twitter and then tell my husband I wasn’t dead/in prison for hookin’, take a shower to wash away the shame of being such a miserable loser, clean the dog turds out of my mouth and sleep all day.  And I really don’t want to tell you guys about any of that, so I’m not going to write about Blogher.

• I had such a fabulous time that I can’t imagine waiting a whole year to do it again, so instead, I’m going to keep talking about how I’m JUST ABOUT to write my recap, because if I keep being JUST ABOUT to write my recap, then maybe it will seem like no time has passed at all and even a year later, I’ll be all, OMG I JUST GOT HOME FROM BLOGHER AND HAVE NOT EVEN WRITTEN MY RECAP YET BUT IT’S ALREADY TIME TO GO AGAIN!? SCORE!

• You should be paying me for my opinions on things like this and NONE of you has posted your payment to my PayPal account yet.  Really, this whole delay is your fault, and honestly, I don’t appreciate it one bit.

• Over the course of the weekend, I actually had my ass smacked more times than I had my bewbs grabbed. (Just in case you were wondering, women at blogging conferences are HANDSY.)  Which is kind of perplexing to me. I didn’t know how to approach that fact in the whole retelling of things. Does this mean my ass is way hotter than my bewbs? Or that bewbs are just way less hot than I thought they were?

  Blogher Bewbs

  This has been keeping me up at night. It is very important to consider. I can’t think of anything else in the world that is more important than this, actually.  Until I get this figured out, I can’t write the recap.

• Every time I try to type my Blogher09 post into my WP Text Editor, the whole system crashes and I get locked out of my own website.  Apparently, the quota for Blogher Recaps has been met for 2009 and trying to write another one causes a fatal error.  (This lockout is also why I haven’t been writing much else.  It’s not just because I suck and don’t deliver quality content on a regular basis.)

• I have to get really drunk to write about the times when I have been really drunk, because being in the same state of mind allows you to recall information much more accurately.  And I have been completely sober ever since I left Chicago. In fact, I’m definitely not drunk right now.  Really.  I swear.

• If you question me again, I will cut you, bitch.

• Twitter.

• Your mom.

• Canada.

• My bewbs.

• Other random nonsense. Like popsicles, bumble bees, and Andy Samberg.

• Mmmmm. Andy Samberg.

• What?

• Also, while I was at Bowlher being all “I’m still hungover even though it’s the next night, so I’m going to go hide on this couch in the back of the building, in the dark, and eat chicken on a STEEEEEK while I drink Mr. Pibb,” these people (a nice couple) came and sat down next to me.  (side note: every time I tried to order Dr. Pepper in Chicago, I got one of two responses:

1. “We have Mr. Pibb.” (Implied: “dumbass.”)
2. *look of disgust and hate* “You are not in the south anymore, you damn HICK. Just leave.  Leave now.”

For the record. SCREW MR. PIBB. Uneducated bastard.)

So, anyway they (the couple) were nice and all, but they were on a completely different plane than I was at that time, like, marketing and business and stuff.  And, to reiterate, I was all I AM STILL HUNGOVER, WHERE CAN I HIDE? And so, anyway, when I was asked about what kind of things I do, and I talked about the photography part, I said “I am not a professional photographer, but I have a real passion for photography and I thoroughly enjoy sharing that.” And the guy was all, “You shouldn’t say you’re not a professional, you should just say that you are a passionate photographer…” (and some other stuff, but I don’t remember, because in my head at that point I was all “Are you fucking serious?”) And when he stopped talking I was just like, “Oh. Well. Thing is. I’m not a professional photographer, but I have a real passion for photography and I thoroughly enjoy sharing that.” And then I just looked at him.  (Here’s where some people will roll their eyes and be all “You are such a bitch and why are you so mean to people? Whore.” To which I have a two-part response:

1. I abhor to be told what I should say or do when it’s really not anyone else’s business and I didn’t ask. He was a perfectly nice guy, really, but he was just in a totally different state of mind about all this with the marketing and such, and I get that. But overall?  I was over here (hand gesture) and he was over there (hand gesture way far away from first hand gesture) and I had no desire to build a bridge.
2. I am not a whore. I’ve never been paid. I’m a slut. So there.

What does this story have to do with the reason why I haven’t written a recap yet?  Well.  It’s because I knew I would have to tell this story and I’M SENSITIVE TO BEING CALLED A WHORE AND LOOK AT WHAT YOU DID.

• While I was at the pretty damn awesome Nikon’s Night Out Party, I got to have my photo taken with Carson Kressley.photo courtesy of Angie

  Now, this is not embarrassing for ME but for HIM, and out of respect, I didn’t want to hash it up again by writing the recap.

• Anissa also licked my bewb while I was at that Nikon party.  But it really has nothing to do with why I haven’t written my recap. I JUST WANTED TO MAKE SURE YOU ALL KNEW. Because I’m proud of that.  Don’t act like you’re not impressed.

• My pen is out of ink.  What? Nobody else writes all their posts with an ink quill first and then transfers them to the computer?  WHEN DID YOU ALL LOSE YOUR SENSE OF ART AND BEAUTY?  When did you lose your appreciation for the elegance of the CREATIVE PROCESS!? I am ashamed of all of you.  You don’t even DESERVE my recap.

• The drugs. And the booze. And the mental infirmity.

• The sheer fact that this is the kind of crap I’d be publishing when it was all said and done.

• The large number of you who will probably unsubscribe now. (I can see you, damnit.)

• Your mom.