Girl Meets Boy Part II

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I arrived first at the restaurant. We had agreed to wait for the other in the lobby. I watched him as he walked up to the restaurant. His size held my eye, as it had the night before, until he stepped in the door and looked at me and that’s when he smiled. Dear sweet jesus is all I remember thinking. How is it possible for a simple smile to hit me in the solar plexus like that? The next thought was do I stare at the smile or the eyes? Those incredible, piercing blue eyes that shine unlike anything I have ever seen before. This was going to be one helluva fun evening. As luck would have it, the restaurant was full. He quickly decided we wouldn’t wait, but rather walk up to another restaurant. As we’re walking, he crosses behind me to walk along the side closest to the street. I gave him a quizzical look and asked what he was doing. He proceeded to tell me that it was a chivalry thing, back in Victorian times it was considered good manners when walking with a lady, to walk on the outside to prevent her from getting covered in shit should someone happen to lean out their window (I’m paraphrasing here…he said it much more eloquently) to dump their latrine bucket. You can guess what went through my mind, “Is this guy for real?”

This guy was interesting. I was not expecting interesting. Good looking, charming, funny I was expecting, interesting was a different ball game all together.

We got to the restaurant, ordered dinner and chatted. The usual vital stats were exchanged, talk of our respective jobs. No matter how hard I tried, my eyes were constantly drawn to his mouth; I desperately hoped he didn’t notice. After dinner, where I, like the idiot that I am, ordered the hottest dish on the menu and then carried on as though my mouth wasn’t burning like the deepest bowels of hell, we walked up to the coffee shop and went for a walk around town. We talked about his son, childhood memories, blah blah blah. Short term memory, I don’t remember everything we talked about – he would. I do remember him telling me he was going on the road for 2 weeks the following morning. My immediate thought, “I can’t let him go before I know more” so I suggested a drive and he quickly agreed. I’d love to know what he was thinking at this time, perhaps I’ll ask him.

Most of you know I drive a boxy little car. I told him we could take my car and he could drive. He asked, “What kind of car do you drive?” With a devious smile I replied, “You’ll see”. Keep in mind the poor man is 6’1”. He was a good sport about folding his legs in four and pouring himself into the driver’s seat of my car. We drove aimlessly. I remember both of us singing along to the music, I remember grinning like I hadn’t grinned in a long time. I was relaxed enough with him to have my feet planted on the dashboard as he drove. I was completely comfortable with this man. We drove to the beach where I fully expected him to wait five minutes before making an attempt to get me out of my clothes. Again, I couldn’t have been more wrong.

We walked down the boardwalk to the water and stood there talking. He put his jacket around my shoulders because I was cold, and he stood freezing in his tshirt. He spoke of not liking the ocean, how it made him feel lost. It was in incredible night and the roar of the surf was almost deafening. We walked back to the car and sat in the parking lot, at the beach, talking. After almost two hours, he asked me to hold my hand up. I did and he pressed his hand against mine, and then closed his fingers around mine and ASKED me if he could kiss me. It’s about goddamn time, I thought. When I responded yes he ever so gently pulled me to him and kissed me.

When that first kiss ended he said: “One of those isn’t going to be enough” At that point a tiny tiny crack formed in the six inch veneer I’ve managed to cover my heart with over the last three years.

We kissed like a pair of teenagers in the front seat of my car for hours. We would stop kissing, he would put my face between his hands and then we’d kiss some more. At one point around 3am, he suddenly turned the music up, opened all the windows, got out of the car and came around to my door and tugged me out of the car. He wrapped his arms around me and we stood under the moonlight dancing. I don’t think my feet were actually touching the ground at this point. It was one of the most incredibly romantic things I had experienced in a really long time and I just wanted to stop time. I wanted to remember every detail of the way he smiled down at me, the way his arms felt around my waist, and how we seemed to fit so well together. My lips were sore when we finally stopped at six am and I felt as though I had been hit by a freight train, if it’s possible to feel really really good after being hit by a train.

I had told him earlier in the evening about my troubles with Monty: the accident, my bone deep fears, the grandmother buying him a car, Monty moving in with his father. As we drove back to town that morning, a news story about a teen getting killed in a car accident that night caught my ear. As I reached over to turn it up he said, “It happened in the western part of the island”. He knew without me saying a word….

Prior to dropping him at his truck, in an effort to be cute, I tried writing my cell number on his hand only to discover I was so damn tired I couldn’t remember what my cell number was. He had me call his cell. We parted ways with a long kiss in the parking lot. I hopped in my car and drove away. I’m not sure if I was out of the parking lot before I got a text from him, “Wow” is all it said. When we had been chatting the day before I had asked him what he was looking for and his response was, “I just want to make a connection you know?” So I responded to his text with one of my own, “Click”.

What followed was the most intense two weeks of my life. How is it possible to miss someone you’ve known for less than 24 hours? Miss him I did; with an intensity that forced me to sit and analyze my emotions for hours on end. He told me that first Monday evening that he was twitterpated. I didn’t get the Bambi reference and he explained it to me. It was like being on a roller coaster that went from absolute terror to sheer joy in 2.5 seconds…every damn five minutes. He felt the same way. We sent hundreds of text messages to each other, spent hours on the phone. It was one evening, a few kisses, how did that equate to what we were feeling? It wasn’t possible, was it? We were blowing the evening out of proportion in our minds; it had not been as intense as we remembered it.

By the following week I had a small part of myself convinced of exactly that. I had to spend three days at a conference and though we communicated back and forth as much as possible, I had convinced a part of myself that I was overreacting. That I was being silly acting like a teenager with a high school crush. Then he sent me a text on Wednesday, saying that he would be home on Thursday, a day earlier than expected. The wait was over. It’s a mighty damn good thing I was driving a van load of ladies home the next day…the 5 hour drive kept me from going absolutely insane with the thoughts that were running through my head.

At 7:30 that evening he pulled in my driveway. I stood waiting for him on the deck, and as I watched him walk toward me I knew that I was a goner. Cupid had hit with flawless aim. Deny and lie to myself all I wanted, whatever this was between us – it couldn’t have been more real and was every bit as intense as I remembered, if not more so. Then he looked at me and smiled, and my world dissolved so that it was only him. The kiss made me close my eyes in pure ecstasy.

We spent Thursday, Friday and Saturday night together. We fit together like pieces of a puzzle.

As I sit here writing this there has been another weekend spent together and he’s back on the road. In the month since we’ve met, we’ve logged over 4000 text messages back and forth to each other. His smile, the sound of his laugh, the way he looks at me, his touch…it all has me enthralled. I don’t recognize this woman; this soft, mushy, romantic woman isn’t the hard ass bitch I’ve known for 37 years.

I’m scared shitless and excited all at the same time. The fear is sometimes overwhelming. It’s all too much too fast. I did not want this. I wasn’t looking for love, or the one, or a heart stopping romance. I wanted light, casual, and meaningless. None of those words can be used to describe the last six weeks. I have had to force myself several times over the last two weeks not to walk away out of fear. He scares me, what I feel scares me. I’m counting sleeps until I see him again for fuck sakes people!! He sends me texts before I go to bed, “Good night ma petite”. I think of him and smile.

And that is what has been keeping yours truly away from the blogging world as of late. I hope you can forgive me!

Girl Meets Boy

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As many of you know, since my break up in June, I have been hell bent on having fun and living life to the fullest. Dating, dancing and drinking with every man that peaks my interest, committing to none of them. Of course it’s all been done in the most responsible manner possible (she says gleefully, tossing her hair over her shoulder).

A “relationship” a “fixation” a “thing” was at the very bottom of the to do list. I was not looking for anything beyond casual and actually ran from it with a couple of dates. Live for the moment had become my new modus operandi. The energy and dedication required to make a relationship work wasn’t something I wanted to commit to.

And then he came along, tipping my world on its’ axis.

I have been using an online dating site for a few months. I have had a few great conversations, a couple of interesting dates, nothing serious. Almost five weeks ago (I can’t believe it’s only been five weeks) I was out with a friend at a dance club. We were up on the dance floor shaking what our mammas gave us when I spot a really tall guy standing by the bar. His height caught my eye and when he turned around his eyes shone from across the room. I’m not being a drama bitch here people, the blueness of his eyes could literally be seen across a dark, crowded bar. I recognized his face from a profile on the dating site (small community) as someone that I had traded casual messages with. So at one point during the evening as I’m walking down to the bar, I met him on the stairs. Never being one to let an opportunity pass, I turn my head; look him directly in the eye and smile. He hesitantly smiled back and kept walking. Ok, I thought, not interested. No big deal. Not every guy is going to fall at my feet in a trembling pile of lust, right?

Anyway, the night proceeded. I drank too much, was kissed by a girl on the dance floor while her husband stood by laughing and fun was had by all. In my drunken wisdom, when I got home that evening I sent him a message, “Hey, you wouldn’t have been at the (insert bar name) tonight, tall guy, black leather jacket?”

He replied the following morning: Yes, I was. I am guessing you were there as well. Did you enjoy the band? Have fun?

Me: You have a great smile. lol Yes, we passed right by each other and smiled.

We proceeded to talk about music, favorite foods, pastimes, kids. I asked him if he remembered me, described what I was wearing and he responded:

I think I actually remember the exchanged smile. lol --- Its not often I make eye contact in a bar, but you looked right at me! What could I do?

Yeah, that’s me, always the brazen one.

He asked if I was sorry I had smiled at him. I replied that I wasn’t, not at all. His bashfulness intrigued me. It was contradictory to his physical appearance – tall, rugged, cowboy boots, leather jacket. The email messages turned into an instant messaging session that lasted about three hours. Around 5:30 he asked me to have dinner with him. He quickly decided on where to meet (loved the take charge attitude) and a time. I agreed, expecting to spend an amusing evening with a cute guy, have a few laughs and a story to tell the girls the next day.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Stay tuned for part II. Ohhh c’ don’t think I’m actually going to give it to you all in one dose do you?

I Used To Have A Handle On Life, And Then It Broke

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A bend in the road is not the end of the road… unless you fail to make the turn.
Or some such shit…..

Another good one: Live each day so that when your feet hit the floor in the morning Satan shudders and says, “Oh shit…she’s awake”

I’ve been doing a bit of living like that. Have you missed me? I didn’t mean to disappear. I have been so wrapped up in living that my blog just got pushed aside like the ugly stepchild. I know, I know, feel free to reprimand me.

So do you want an update – all two of you that are still here?

On the home front – you’ll remember the last time I wrote Monty and I were having issues. He hasn’t spoken to me since the second week of September. My heart breaks when I think about it so like all well- adjusted members of society I just don’t think about it. Though he’s almost 18 years old I’m just about at the point where I’m going to physically force him into the car with me and hold him there until he talks to me.

Here’s the kick in the ass folks. My house….since he chose to stay with his father all the time, my house has never been so peaceful. I didn’t realize how much he stirred the pot and kept things in a constant state of turmoil until he wasn’t there doing it any longer. Nora and Jimmy never fight, they actually play together. There is no bickering or arguing or sullenness. It’s like I suddenly have a different family and it kills me to admit what a shit storm my darling eldest caused on a regular basis. I sat the other evening looking at old pictures. The kids were 9, 7 and 3. I sometimes long for those days when my children looked at me as though I hung the moon and stars.

Work – still doing the two jobs, some weeks working 70 hours a week. It makes me tired just thinking about it! How is it possible to work that many hours and still be fucking broke? I just don’t get it.

Romantic life, oh jesus where do I start? So much has happened since we last spoke. I get giddy just thinking about writing it all down. I’m a 37 year old, separated, hard ass, mother of three – I’m not supposed to be damn giddy people! Twitterpated even! I’ll write an entire post about the cause of this twitterpation soon.

So yes, I’m alive, all is relatively well and I miss you guys like crazy.

An Anne Landers Moment

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As many of you are aware, I've joined an online dating site. It's rife with lunatics and 21 year olds looking for their Mrs. Robinson. I actually added an addendum to my profile last week that said, "If you're under 25 years old, please don't message me. I'm sure you're a great guy, but I have no desire to be your Mrs. Robinson. Don't know who that is? Google it".

Yeah it's that bad.

I work at the senior management level of a community College in a relatively small area. People love to talk. Our front page news includes articles about emails sent by the wife of a local politican. Yes, THAT small. We have no crime to speak of so what else are people going to talk about really? I'm going somewhere with this, give me a minute.

I'm very aware of what I do and say - and how it reflects on my employer. No one at work knows I'm a member of an online dating site. It would fuel the gossip mongers for days. No, I do not have an inflated ego, I just know how people talk. I have no desire to be gossip fodder for the crowd in the staff room.

So last night I'm online surfing through profiles of various men and I get an instant message. I respond and we go back and forth for awhile. This guy is CUTE and YOUNG - 27. This puts him 10 years younger than me. I have not figured out where my boundaries are with regard to dating and age. Is 27 too young for an almost 37 year old woman? I don't know. But we're chatting and there's no harm in that, right? This whole online thing is hit or miss. I sometimes get IM'd by guys who will sit there expecting me to carry the entire "conversation". That doesn't fly with me. Or guys who are so incredibly boring that my eyes bleed and I cannot fathom how they would actually hold a conversation in real life. This guy wasn't like that, he zinged the replies back as quick as I fired them out. He had a biting sense of humour which always attracts me.

And then I found out he's a student. Not only is he a student - right at this very fucking moment he's in a classroom beside my office. I saw him walking by earlier this morning. It was bound to happen, right?

He asked me to go for a drink this weekend (he moves fast which I like).  I had to explain to him that I work at his College. That I wasn't sure if I was comfortable going out with a student. I couldn't even give the poor guy my first name, considering the fact that there's no one else in the organization with my first name. He has no idea what I look like and here I am checking him out as he walks by my office. I must admit it kind of amuses me. He was surprisingly ok with my hesitation, he seemed to understand it.

There are just so many pitfalls that this could lead to, me becoming the top item on the gossip circuit being just one of them.

What do you think? Is 27 too young? Am I just asking for trouble by going for a drink with a student? To my knowledge there is no policy against staff socializing with students. That does not mean there isn't an unwritten policy. I don't know, it's never been an issue in my world. Up until now. If I wasn't in the position I'm in, I probably would not give it a second thought. But I am.

Did I mention he's incredibly cute and funny?

Football and Roundabouts

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That One Mom

Playing along with PINT for the first time since it moved to it's new home over at That One Mom's. Click above if you want to play too.

This is me trying valiantly to look at the positives in life.

I'm considering trying to convince a doctor to insert a permanent IV so I can start mainlining wine 24 hours a day.

Finally...Recognition for the Diversity of This Word

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Watch it. If you don't laugh I'll refund your money.

The Ongoing Saga of the Teenage Driver

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I need you to talk me off the ledge because I'm about fucking ready to jump.

It has not been two weeks since Monty almost killed him and his brother. It will be two weeks this Saturday. I'm still having nightmares.

When I went to pick the kids up from their Dad's Wednesday night only Jimmy and Nora came out to the car. Where's Monty? Jimmy explains that Monty is staying at Dad's for the night because Dad is taking him to look at a car.





So I sat there pondering what to do. Do I go in the house and force my 6'2" -200 pound, 18 year old son into the car? Yeah, I didn't think so either. Do I sit there waiting for Ex to get home and have a calm, rational discussion with him about this? Judging by the way my blood was pounding in my veins I'm not sure how calm or rational the conversation would have been.

So I left. I took the two kids who I won't be writing out of my will home and proceeded to worry, stress, and fume for the rest of the night. By yesterday morning, I had myself convinced that I was overreacting. They were, after all, just going to look, right? No harm in looking. I knew Monty didn't have nearly enough money in his account to purchase any type of vehicle so no harm no foul, right?

Keep in mind I have told you countless times I'm very good at deluding myself.

A million dollars to the person that can guess what was parked in Ex's driveway yesterday morning when I dropped the kids that I don't want to hang from their fucking toenails off. That's right, a sparkly, rust colored, four door Sunfire.




In the house I go. Did you hear the results of that conversation clear across the country? That's what I thought....

Let me tell you something about Ex. He does not argue with me. He does not raise his voice, he does not shout, he does not get emotional. It makes me want to punch him in the fucking face. Goddamn fight with me would you!!! What ensued was without a doubt the worst fight I've had with Ex and Monty. They do not understand my fear, they do not understand my anger over not being consulted about this purchase, they do not get that as a mother, it's my god given fucking right to be hysterical at the thought of my son killing himself because he's too arrogant and cocky to drive defensively.

As I stood there looking at the two of them I realized I was fighting a losing battle. Monty is his father's clone, it was like arguing with two Ex's. It gave me chills. In their mind, it's absolutely necessary Monty has a vehicle (I know, makes no good goddamn sense to me either) and I am the irrational, overprotective mother.

Accept the things you cannot change? That's always been a difficult pill for me to swallow. So I left Monty with his father. Not only because of the car issue but because I'm tired of being treated like a second class citizen by my son. I'm tired of being told that I don't know what I'm talking about, that my opinion does not matter, and that essentially I'm stupid. I know all teens think their parents are stupid. I know this. Thinking it and saying it are two different things. I don't have to listen to it in a house that I work two fucking jobs to pay the mortgage on.

Yeah, I'm angry. I'm hurt. I'm frustrated.

But mostly, I'm scared. I'm scared of when (not if) that phone call comes, or worse yet it won't be a phone call, it will be a knock on the door telling me my son isn't coming home again.

It's not an irrational fear (is it?). I feel this to the very core of my being. It's a sense stronger than anything I've ever had before in my life. And it scares me. He tempted fate once, what if he's not as lucky the next time?

Ok, you can proceed to talk me off the ledge now.

Miscellaneous Crap You Probably Don't Need to Know About

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I think I've finally stopped shaking from the near death experience of my boys. Working 14 hour days on last week kept my mind from constantly focusing on the accident. It did not however keep me from seeing the truck everytime I closed my eyes which in turn made me not want to close my eyes. It's difficult to sleep when you don't want to close your eyes. So no fucking sleep, which makes me a little crazier than normal.

The only thing that kept me going on was knowing that I had 5 whole fucking days off with no work whatsoever. None. Zilch. Zero. And boy did I make the most of those days.

I've pretty much pickled my liver and my body is crying out in protest for sleep and non-alcholoic fluids. We all know yours truly loves her glass of vino but I rarely imbibe in more than a glass or two. I think I drank a whole fucking vineyard last weekend. There were large quantities of wine consumed on the beach until 5:30 am. A spontaneous date with motorcycle boy saw the two of us heading to the beach at 10:00 on Thursday night - memories that I will have with me when I'm old and shitting myself in a seniors home let me tell you. Laying on a blanket with a gazzillion stars overhead, the sound of the surf pounding against the shore, vino in hand in the company of a beautiful boy who makes you laugh until you want to pee. Those are good times people.

There were large quantities of wine consumed on the dance floor of a club, where I danced until I looked as though I had been at the beach. There were large quantites of wine consumed while sitting at my place watching movies. I seem to be really good at making up for the fact that I've lived for almost 3 years as a nun.

Of course none of this helps me forget the huge, angry, black bruise that covers my boy's chest and stomach. The image would not leave my mind, even though he was out at his father's house.

I partied like this knowing that yesterday, the world must right itself on it's axis once more. The early morning routines have started again. It's time to be the responsible drill sergeant who manages time in micro-seconds rather than hours. The start of another school year (both at home and work) brings with it the ridgid routine we as Mom's must follow to ensure our kids have the food they need, clean clothes, drives, homework, and projects completed. Yeah I know kids always need to eat...but during summer holiday if supper isn't ready until 7:00 rather than 6:00 it's not the end of the world. If there's no clean clothes for the morning well they just wear their pj's until noon. What? You don't let your kids wear pj's till noon?

It also means the influx of a brand new group of 1600 students at work. It means instructors will be back from summer holidays. It means alot of chaos and trying to make alot of people happy when I just want to stab almost all a few of them in the jugular with a pencil. It means the end to days of the boss coming into the office at 2pm and saying, "Let's close up for the afternoon". Sigh

This school year will see my oldest child graduate from high school and start another chapter of his life. I imagine him crossing that stage, knowing how much work and tears it has taken for him to get there, and it gives me goosebumps. I'm so incredibly grateful that he is alive to turn the page.

Nora came out of her room this morning in her new jeans and t-shirt and my mouth fell open in complete astonishment. Nora is 12 and over the summer she's completely lost all traces of her little girl physique. At 5'5" she's just a hairs breath away from being as tall as her mother. Her face has thinned out and she has these beautiful cheekbones. She has an ass. When did my little girl get a booty?  When did her life stop being about dolls and giggles?

Time, please slow down. Just a wee bit. Kthanks.

I'm A Witch or Self Fulfilling Prophecy? You Decide

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Do you remember this post. Probably not. It's the one where I went on like an irrational nutbar about my 18 year old getting his license. I have been told by countless people in countless different ways over the past two months that I need to gear down on the worry about the boy driving.

Yeah well fuck all of them because I was right.

Saturday noon I'm reading email, drinking coffee and deciding whether to go for a run or go shopping. My phone rings, the caller ID shows a name I don't recognize. I normally don't answer the phone unless I recognize the name...something twigged at the back of my neck and for some reason I answered this call.

Me: Hello (said in my phony office voice)
Stranger: Hello this is (insert stranger name). Your sons have been in a car accident.

Before she could get "They're ok" out of her mouth I was throwing up in the kitchen sink.

Sometimes it's no goddamn fun at all being right.

So I get directions to where they are after making this poor woman assure me I'm not going to drive up only to find their heads detached from their bodies. I assure Nora that everything will be ok, call their father, and hop in my car.

They are on a back road about 10km from the house. As I pull up both boys are standing on the side of the road. There are two guys standing with them. The truck.....

The truck almost snapped in two. The engine was practically sitting in the front seat. The airbags deployed, the front tires were sideways. It was a culvert that stopped the truck. A fucking culvert. And my boys were standing their alive.

The story I got out of the boys is that Monty had the window open and a bug flew in the window. As he tried to swat the bug out of his face he jerked the wheel of the truck, the truck went off onto the shoulder of the road and he couldn't get it back under control. They went into the ditch, travelled about 15 feet and hit a culvert.

There's no doubt in my mind he was speeding. You don't do that much damage to a vehicle if you were only travelling 60 km an hour.

According to the tow truck driver - if they hadn't of had their seat belts on I'd be planning a double funeral today.  I don't think he realized that I had already played that whole what if scenario through my head a dozen times. That I would spend the rest of the weekend seeing that truck every time I closed my eyes and playing the "what if's" through my mind.

Both boys were white as ghosts. Monty had somehow scraped the shit out of his arm, Jimmy had a severely bruised chin. Monty is devastated over the loss of his new found freedom. He's too young and too stupid to realize how much worse it could have been. He was lamenting the loss of his truck yesterday and I looked at him and said, "M how much worse would you feel right now if we were burying your brother?" Perspective boy....perspective.

It scared the shit out of Jimmy. He was very quiet all weekend and I would force him every once in awhile to talk about it. If you've ever been in a car accident you know how frightening it is to know that you're going to crash. I can't imagine how it feels to a 16 year old. I wish I could somehow take the memory of it away for him.

Everyone keeps telling Monty- a truck is replaceable. As long as I fucking live and breathe that boy will not own another vehicle before he's least. Going out to buy the bubble wrap and duct tape today to insulate the two of them against further catastrophe.

You Can Thank Me Later for Making You Cry

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So yours’ (your’s yours…which one is right Zgirl?) truly received an email. I know, astonishing right? Anyway, the email was from a dude named Denny Chapin (Denny, let me know if you object to my splashing your name all over my blog). Anyway Denny is involved with this place. It’s a website that gathers and links information on addiction for states all over the US. He said he stumbled across my blog while doing some research (me thinks I may post too much about wine drinking) and he said in his email to me:

I was impressed by your expressive and unabashed voice; it's great to read a few honest, 'all-out' posts every once in awhile (seems harder and harder to find these days). Your kids also look like a ton of fun (and work, hah)!

Oh you know compliments will get you everywhere with Dual Mom, right? I’m still wondering if “expressive and unabashed” is his way of saying I’m opinionated and swear too much? So of course after these flattering words he wanted something (don’t they all). He asked if I would place a link to his website Arizona Treatment Centers on my blog…dude even offered to pay me. Crazy right! I declined. In my response back to him I said “My blog is the one thing in my life that is completely about me. I don't do it to pay the bills, or for the benefit of the kids. I do it because I love to write, I love to make my readers chuckle once in a while and I love the feeling I get when I know I've made someone smile.”

However, Denny’s mission strikes a chord with me and I agreed to do a post highlighting his efforts. Since I'm all about serving my community and making the world a better place (don't laugh arseholes) here goes nothing.

You see, I wasn’t always the fierce, strong shit kicker that you all know and put up with love. I’m the product of a severely alcoholic, abusive father. Don’t get your tissues and sympathy cards out yet, I’ve obviously lived to tell the tale and besides severe issues with letting my walls down it hasn’t altered me too much.

But when I sit and think about it…when I really sit and think about it…it still makes me sad.

My father was a wonderful man. He was warm, caring, beautiful, strong - when he was sober. When he was drunk, he was angry, hurtful, god so angry. I remember the anger most. You know how people talk about wonderful childhood memories, memories of doing fun things with their parents/siblings. Memories of great holidays and loving times spent with family. I don’t have those. I have memories of being afraid, knowing that it’s Friday night and that Dad got paid. At 5, 6, 7 years old, I have memories of being afraid. Because when Dad was drinking, home was not a fun place to be. My most vivid childhood memory was of my 18 year old sister’s going away party. She was leaving for Toronto to go to school. The night before she left my father got drunk and threw my aunt across the room because she said something that made him angry. I was 8. The aunt in question had cancer at the time. Those are the childhood memories I have.

He went for treatment after that. He spent 3 weeks in an addiction facility. When he came home he was a new man. God I remember that month he was sober. I remember not being afraid, for the first time in my life. A month, he had the strength to last a month before he relapsed.

Children of alcoholic parents blame themselves for their parents addictions. If I was a better child he wouldn’t drink. If I clean my room he’ll come home sober. If I make him laugh he won’t need that beer. It is without a doubt, one of the most incredible fucking burdens you can place on an innocent child.

My mother finally found the courage to kick him out of the house when I was 11 years old. I remember it vividly. The last straw, so to speak, was him leaving me on the couch the day I got home from a tonsillectomy. My mother was working a night shift, left me - thinking Dad would be home in one hour to look after me. He came home, grabbed his beer, gave me $5 to get treats (yeah because that did me a lot of fucking good when I couldn’t eat asshole) and left to go drink with friends.

When he got home the following day I remember my mother standing at the counter peeling potatoes. He came in the door and she said, without looking at him, “Your bags are packed in the bedroom, get them, and get out. I’m not arguing with you, you left our daughter to potentially choke to death on her own blood, get your goddamn bags and get out. If you don’t I’ll call the police, but right now I’m not sure if I’ll call before or after I use this knife”. He came back in after taking his bags to the car, “I need my boots.” he said. I went to the closet and got his boots and rushed them to him. I wanted him to leave that badly. I was 11 years old and I couldn’t wait for my father to leave.

I remember it like it was yesterday. This man had terrorized my mother for over 20 years. There were times she feared for her life and the life of her family. And she finally found the courage to stand up to him.

Go Mom!!

He moved to another province after that. He would call periodically when he was drunk. Ranting and raving about how much he loved us. As we grew up we stopped taking his calls. The last time I spoke with my father was 3 days after my mother died. I was 22. He called, not knowing mom had died and started into his drunken diatribe. He called my mother a bitch. I responded, “Mom is dead, as far as I’m concerned I have no parents. Do not ever call me again because as far as I’m concerned, I’m burying both my parents today.”

Dad has eight grandchildren he’s never met. He has four grown children he hasn’t seen in over 20 years. He has an entire family filled with loving, awesome people that he’ll never get to know or love, or be loved by. Because he loved alcohol more. He’s 70 years old and has an entire family that would love nothing more than to love him, have him here with us, have him as a grampy to our children, but he made that impossible.

It was not my responsibility as a child to make my father want to be sober. It was not my fault. It was not my fault. It was not my fault. How many times do I have to repeat it before I believe it?

So if you know someone in your life that has an addiction, I truly believe as an adult, you have a responsibility to try and help them. If that person has children, then know that those kids are going through a shitstorm of really gross emotions, even if they don’t show it. No one in my life knew what I was going through, teachers had no idea, friends didn’t know. I became incredibly adept at hiding everything. As I sit here typing this at 36 years old, the thought of my father doesn’t fill me with love, it still makes my heart race with fear.

So yeah, addiction is an incredible monster to try and fight. I get that. But aren’t the people who love you worth the fight? That’s the question I still struggle with. Why wasn’t I enough? Why wasn’t our love enough?

I was a great fucking kid Dad. I was funny and smart and I loved you so much. I’m an even greater adult, my bloggy friends say so. You are missing so many awesome things in life. YOU threw it all away.

Please, please, don’t ever force your children to be asking themselves those same questions. If you or someone you love has a problem with addiction, get help, just do it. Please.

Those links in case you missed them the first time:

Arizona Treatment Centers
All Treatment

Office Dynamics

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My boss just walked into my office, handed me this and said, "Here this is for you." He chuckled and walked out to his meeting.

I'm surrounded by smart asses.

Is that a condom she has on her head?

JM2C or Just My Two Cents - For Those of Us That Speak In Full Sentences

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When did this freaking become a blog about my dating life? How the hell did that happen? I blame it on you, and you....oh yeah and you had a part in it too.

Seriously, since the blogging world has become my go to when matters near and dear have me stumped I need your help.

You see, I suck at online dating.

There I said it. Hi I'm Dual Mom and I suck so badly at online dating. Is there a support group? Like suck dirty monkey balls I'm that bad.

Let me back up a moment and say a few things non boy related. My middle anklebiter turns 16 today. Why yes, I was 14 when I had him. Ok not really, fuck. While I'm glad my kids are growing up into semi well adjusted, non serial killer types, every birthday makes me nostalgic for the days when they were small and I didn't really like them that much.

And school starts in two weeks. What the hell? Yesterday, my daughter presented me with a list of all the "things" she needs before starting Junior High. Yeah, junior high, I know it made my fucking head spin too. So now I'm going to have to work the corner every night for the next two weeks just to get her half of the things on her "needs" list.

Ok onto the dating segment of the joke that is my life.

I joined an online dating site. I know, right?

Because I'm a smart ass my profile includes details regarding my internal debate over the whole cat lady/cougar scenario, the fact that acronyms drive me completely around the fucking bend (it's YOU not U people) and boys with beer bellies need not apply. Not that I have anything against beer bellies, some of the most wonderful guys I know have bellies, however, I'm in the shallow, vain I just want you to be pretty segment of my life and that's what I want. I make no apologies for it. I also state that if you can't start a sentence with a capital letter we probably won't have much in common.

Bitch, right? Mehhh

Anyfussybitch, for your reading pleasure I have saved some of the messages I've received to share with you. It's all about you's all about you.

This one came from a 29 year old male who's profile included a picture of him drunkenly hanging off of two females (at least I think they were females), and his passtimes included (and I quote) "haning out wit freinds and drinking"

hi i no what a cougar is lolol but what do u mean by the cat lady thing. r u a cougar

I wanted to respond: c'mere till I chew your fucking head off and do the whole world a favor.

I get the whole millenial generations need to simplify everything to fit into 60 characters or less. But when someone explicity states that acronyms drive them crazy and capital letters are a must and yet they still send THAT type of message, there's bigger issues there than just a need for simplicity.

I've received multiple messages that said:

hi, wanna chat

About what, your lack of proper punctuation, or the fact that since you just sent me a message trying to get my attention and you used THREE FUCKING WORDS, chances are the chats going to be pretty onesided. And I'll want to stab my eyes out with a fork because you don't use capital letters or punctuation.

So here's where I need you to weigh in. Should I just get over myself and stop being so critical about the proper use of the english language, should I embrace the u r's and brb's and AWHFY and CWYL? Should I learn to live without question marks and proper punctuation?

One more thing, did you know there's a text acronym for oral sex? I know, I didn't really need to know either.

A Tale of Body Snatchers?

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I think I know myself pretty well. I mean obviously there are days I like to delude myself into thinking I'm a calm, nice, rational person but really, it's bullshit. Even more so lately. I think I've been possessed by the spirit of some Lolita that's forcing me to hit on complete strangers in parking lots. I think I need an exorcism.

Hold onto your hats for this one people. Aren't you glad Dual Mom's single?

So yeah, I hit on a complete stranger in a parking lot. Ok, truthfully I didn't really hit on him. I commented on his bike (after checking out his ass as he was bent over said bike). I told him he had a nice ass bike. Totally innocent, right? He asked me if I "ride" (oh look- there goes my mind rolling into the gutter) and I explained that I leave the driving to those that know what they're doing but that I did enjoy riding shotgun.

He then said, and I quote, "I have an extra helmet, want to go for a drive?"

I don't shock easily. After I picked my fucking jaw up off the floor I sort of stuttered and may have actually spit on him in my efforts to get words to come out of my vocal chords. Oh  yeah, Dual Mom can impress the boys with her suave comebacks and spit. But really, what's a girl to do? It's 28 degrees, the sun is shining, the birds are singing, I've worked 42 hours in three days, I've been up since 4am and I'm single. I didn't even give myself a chance to talk myself out of it, I mean how completely fucking moronic is it to hop on the back of a bike with a total stranger? Yeah, he's cute, he's got a smokin ass, and he obviously appreciates the finer things in life (he is driving a Harley after all) but still....moronic with a capital M people.

So I locked my car, put on his helmet and what followed was probably one of the best evenings I've had in a very very long time. It was obvious that he was an experienced driver. Both ex hubby and ex boyfriend had bikes. I've spent my fair share of time on the back of a motorcyle. This guy knew what he was doing. So as we're driving across the bridge into town my sunglasses go flying off my face. He leans back and asks me if I want him to turn around and all I can do is laugh. I have my arms wrapped around this beautiful strange boy, I'm riding on the back of a Harley and I'm laughing with complete and utter abandon.

We drove and drove and drove. Fuck I think my hair was even blowing like you see in one of those corny commercials. Every few minutes he would turn his head slightly to ask if I was ok. He told me his name, I told him mine. He's chatting with me whenever we pull up to a light or stop sign, whenever we slow down for traffic. He asks if I'm scared (pffff scared? I hop on motorcyles all the time with strange men),  he tells me that he's been driving motorcycles all his life, he asks me what I do, he asks me if I'm single, (ha pretty sure if I wasn't I would be after my little escapade). All I can do is sit there dumbstruck, with this shit eating grin on my face. I'm staring at his hands as he operates the gears. He has a beautiful silver watch on his left wrist and his hair curls beneath the rim of his helmet. 

We laughed at the absolute insanity of what we were doing.

And you know what? As I sat on the back of that bike, with my arms wrapped around beautiful strange boy (did I mention how much I liked having my arms wrapped around beautiful strange boy), I felt free. I mean, I've heard people say how they "felt such a sense of freedom" but I never understood what it meant. At that very moment, I was free and I have no words for how glorious it felt.

When you have children as a teenager, you're freedom is cut very short before you have the knowledge and means to really enjoy it. Any mother out there knows how children have a sneaky way of infiltrating into our lives and souls. We live for our children. They are the very substance of our existance from the moment they are placed in our arms, and often well before that. This evening, I was just a woman. I was a woman on the back of a bike with a complete stranger and I have never felt more free.

He took me for nachoes and beer. Seriously. We ate nachoes and drank beer at an outdoor restaurant. I had two, he only had one. We laughed. My sides hurt from laughing. I told him I was recently single and had joined an online dating site (more on that later). He teased me that I wouldn't be able to keep them all straight, that I'd be mixing up names and vital statistics of all my paramours (his word). He suggested the proper thing to do was to get a white board and start a flow chart. I laughed until tears rolled down my face.

Then we walked around town because he said he wasn't taking me back on the bike until I walked off the beer. For an hour we walked, laughing some more. We stopped and he bought coffee and we walked more, talking as though we were the best of friends. We stopped and listened to an outdoor jazz concert. It was surreal. I wish I could describe how it felt, the craziness of it mixed with the sheer joy.

We exchanged contact info. I hope to hear from him again, but if I don't I have to tell you I won't regret a minute of it. He gave me one of the best evenings I've had in quite awhile...and yes, I include the evening spent with boy toy (more on that later too).

As he drops me at my car, he gets off the bike and unstraps my helmet all the while smiling at me (yeah, the shit eating grin was still on my face).

He hugged me before hopping back on his bike and riding into the sunset. A real, genuine hug.

I think someone should pinch me because I have to be dreaming, seriously.

Do's And Don'ts of Being A Houseguest

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Consider this my PSA for the week. I swear to fuck my head is going to explode and brain matter is going to come spewing out of both my nose and ears. As you all know the famille is home (insert long, drawn out, hyena like scream). I've written before about my sister, and the time she came home and both she and her daughter had lice and she thought I was overreacting when I sprayed everything with 120% proof insecticide and washed the bedsheets twenty eleven times a day.

So do's and don'ts of being a proper houseguest.


Pick up behind yourself, and your daughter. Yeah, the 11 year old's underwear on the kitchen floor? Pretty fucking sure it's going to get shoved down her throat.

Wash the dog shit (or what looks like it) off your feet before curling up on  your hostess's couch. Better yet, how 'bout washing your entire body? What a concept, I know.


Allow your child to walk around the house carrying your hostess's laptop by the screen. What sort of fucking neanderthal does that?

Wait until your hostess gets finished working a 14 hour day and then tell her you're too tired to make up the air matress for your daughter to sleep on. Oh and you probably shouldn't FUCKING STAND THERE AND WATCH as your hostess inflates the air matress, digs out the linens and makes up the bed. You know you're just asking for an elbow to the jugular bitch. You'll find yourself out in the woods with the rest of the damn wildlife.

Don't fucking sigh when your hostess tells you she gets up at 6:00am to get ready for work. It's just too fucking shitty pants for you if the noise of your hostess making 1420 pots of coffee so that she can stay awake to work another 14 hour day wakes YOU up in the morning. Proper etiquette does not entail you then lamenting about the fact that you want to sleep in especially considering you've been off on holidays all fucking summer.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuccccccccccccccckkkkkkkkkk where's my gun?

Oh and let's not even talk about that goddamn skinny arse brother of mine, who each and every year manages to have a blissful, sister- free summer. Bastard.

Feel free to send your questions regarding proper houseguest etiquette to

Fawk You Friday

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BWS tips button

I'm playing along with the fabulicious Boobies today. Click above if you feel like joining in on the fun. Nothing is more fun than flipping the bird to those that piss you off, in my humble opinion.

  • To whatever it was that caused a huge gaping hole in my tire. I fucking love getting up in the morning only to discover that my front tire is completely flat. Know what's even more fun? Having to tow your car to the dealership to the tune of $125 smackers. The cost of replacing the tire was just icing on the cake really.

  • To the mosquitoes that seem to feel that my yard is the only place in the neighborhood adequate enough to set up housekeeping and multiply....fuck you. It's wonderful to sit in the livingroom watching my neighbors frolic on their deck in the evening, knowing that were I to step forth outside my house, I'd be carried away to neverland by you blood thirsty motherfuckers.

  • To my well-meaning older sister, who sent me an email saying I sounded "stressed and sad". Really? I can't imagine why I would sound stressed or sad. After all I have your visit to look forward to, I'm broke, I'm working two fucking jobs and I'm still broke and you need mussels and won't share your prozac. You'll land here full of piss and vinegar wanting to jaunt off to do this and that thereby making me feel bad because I can't frolic with you because I can't seem to gain entrance into the same fairy tale universe where you reside. (Pity party for one, anyone? It's ugly, I know.)

  • To the grass on my beautiful acre of property that won't stop fucking growing. Do you see the mosquitoes? Do you know how hard it is to cut you with the fuckers flying in my eyes and mouth? I look like I have a severe case of tourette syndrome with my head jerking everywhere and waving my hands ceaselessly in front of my face, all the while cursing FUCCCCCKKKK every two minutes.

  • To the doctor at the walk-in clinic who told me my blood pressure was high and attributed my chest pains to stress, then proceeded to advise me to "reduce the stress in my life" and to folllow up with my family doctor. Oh sorry, I didn't mean to spit on you as I laughed hysterically in your face. That's some funny shit there doc...reduce the stress in my life. You've got a magic wand stuck up your ass that you can wave? You obviously read that little sheet on your clipboard with my stats very carefully, you know, the one that indicated I DON'T HAVE A FUCKING FAMILY DOCTOR ASSHAT.  Let's not talk about the fact that I pay almost 46% of my yearly income in taxes, a large part of which is supposed to go to health care so that we as Canadians have such frivolous things like family doctors.

  • To my coffee maker. For dying on me this morning, leaving me to fall to the floor in an oscar worthy show of hysterical tears and blubbering mass of emotional despair. Why, oh why this morning of all mornings?
Is it a bad thing that I'm seriously considering drinking at 12:30 in the afternoon? Do I need an intervention? Have I asked that question before? Never mind, please don't answer.

No worries folks. This too shall pass, right? RIGHT? I have my health. Wait no, apparently I don't. I have three beautiful children. Ummm well no, they're really not that cute anymore and quite frankly full of attitude that is fugly. I have a wonderful job that I love that pays the bills, well no not .......ahhh fuck it.

I'll be back later with a list of all the sunshiny, glorious things. After a drink or two....

I Love My Family But Is It Really Necessary for You To Visit?

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 Lice story here. I know you're all dying to read it.

Hey, can I come stay at your place for a few days? I shower, I swear.

Why? Why Do You Have to Be an Asshat?

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Please be forewarned - I've had several (okay 5) crantinis and I'm mad as hell.

Break-ups aren't fun. I mean you never hear anyone say, "You know, just for shits and giggles I think I'll break up with my partner tomorrow". Unless of course you're a psychotic, narcissistic asshole and then all bets are off.

Though I have several narcissistic tendencies that scare the shit out of me when I dwell on them for too long, I'm not psychotic. I have the papers to prove it. My recent break up was the result of months of sleepless nights, agonizing conversations with myself and friends and alot of deep deep soul searching. It broke my heart to end the relationship. I hurt him. I don't like hurting people unless they deserve it.

Ex-boyfriend has been emailing me for the last week, hounding me to tell the kids about our breakup. He argued that they had a right to know. I argued that I was their mother, and as their mother I had final call as to when to tell my kids. The kids have not seen him in over 6 months. They have long ago stopped asking when they would see him again. Ex sent me an email today telling me that if I did not tell them, he would. He talks to Nora quite frequently on Facebook about farmville (don't ask...that's a whole other issue) and ipods.

This afternoon I'm in the kitchen and I hear Nora shout, "Mom...what the hell is going on?". Nora shouting is one thing, Nora saying hell means that something of an apacolyptic nature has happened. She comes out to the kitchen with the laptop and shows me Ex's facebook page. He has changed his status to "Single" and put "blank is now new and improved, 100% Dual Mom free".

Blink blink.

So I'm essentially forced to explain to Nora what has happened. You can only imagine how your's truly likes being forced to fucking do anything. Son of a bitch.

Wait it gets better.

My sister in law called me this evening - "Have you seen Ex's facebook?" I said that I had, that he's angry, hurt and lashing out. There was silence on the other end of phone. SIL said, "Wow, I can't believe you're being so diplomatic about this". Wait what? Long story short I check fb only to find that he's essentially had a full on conversation with my daughter about our relationship on FUCKING FACEBOOK for all the world to see.

So I fired off this in an email:
Do not speak with Nora about our relationship ever again please. I have no problem with the two of you discussing farmville or ipods but I will not have my personal life displayed for all the world to see on fucking facebook. I haven't been 14 in a long time and have no desire for this type of display. I thought you were alot more mature than this.

And I get this back:

So the point of your note is that you're pissed off that I did exactly what I said I was going to do. I was no secret that I was going to let my friends know on Friday. (So the only way he could let his friends know about our break up is via FB?) It was no secret that if your kids asked I would tell them the truth. (They would never ask about our relationship unless something provoked them to ask) I'm really not sure what the problem is here.(The problem, you limp dick fucking asshole cocksucker is that your using my children to hurt me) You had advanced warning and now you're embarrassed. To bad. What bugs you is not in any way or form my problem. Be angry at yourself.

So here's the thing. I'm not going to post anything disparaging about you online and I have not done so. (Ummm how is it not disparaging to have a conversation with my 12 year old daughter about our relationship online you stupid fucking bald bastard) That's as far as it goes. I do this for your kids. (You do nothing for my do this because you know the only way to hurt me is through my kids because I stopped caring about you a long fucking time ago) Not for you. At no time will I lie to your kids if they ask me questions about this.Feel free to send more email demands to see what weight they have with me.

Here's the thing, I get anger. I get that he's angry, I do. But this, this is just beyond anything I ever thought he'd be capable of. I did not want this breakup to end in our slinging names and insults. I'm obviously not going to respond, it's exactly what he wants. However, if he continues to use my daughter to get to me, he's going to wind up with his penis shoved down his throat, and not in a feel good way either. I will fucking hurt him like he's never been hurt before.

Bastard, you would think he'd know after 8 years not to fuck with me. Who's going to bail me out when I'm arrested for assault?

Share A Spoon Salad Style

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Think Tank Momma

You would never know it from my rapidly expanding midriff, but I love me a good salad. Pair it with a glass (or six) of a light white wine and you have yourself a perfect summer meal. So I'm playing along with Zgirl and posting not one, but two salad recipes. No need to thank me, I live to serve. Should you be inclined to want to play along also, just click the pic above and all the fabtabulousness of the one we know as Zgirl shall be revealed to you.

Ok enough bullshit, on with the salads.

First off we have a thai mango salad. If you are a lover of sweet and spicy than this is a dish for you.


This recipe serves 6 people. Or if you're like me who loves thai food it serves 3.
  • 1/3 cup chopped peanuts
  • 2 unripe mangoes
  • 1/3 c fresh cilantro
  • 2 tbsp lime juice
  • 4 tsp sugar
  • 4 tsp fish sauce
  • 1 tbsp vegetable oil
  • 1/4 tsp chili sauce or hot pepper sauce
  • 1 sweet red pepper, thinly sliced
  • 1 cup thinly sliced red onion
Throw it all together and hope for the best.


Toast your nuts in a skillet (that's what she said...sorry I couldn't resist) - about 6 minutes.

The mango part is important. Don't be getting all slipshod and buy ripe mango. You'll fuck the whole recipe up. The mangoes need to be UNRIPE people. Firm, not squishy. Got it? So peel the mango and then cut it into thin (I repeat thin) strips. If you know how to "score" a vegetable all the better. If you don't...well google it, it's complicated. If you don't want to google it just cut the damn thing in thin strips.

In a bowl, whisk together the coriander, lime juice, sugar, fish sauce, oil and chili sauce. Add mango, red pepper, and onion and toss it all together. Sprinkle with the nuts and ta da....a beautific salad that's so yummy it's almost orgasmic.

Special note: Though the recipe doesn't call for it, I often grab a handful of baby tomatoes, cut them in half and throw them in. Adds color and a nice taste. Another thing I add, (can you see that I don't like to follow recipes?) is red pepper flakes. Be careful though, a little goes a long way.

Of course I've made this look harder than it is. It's not hard. Cutting the mango is the most difficult part. Seriously, I've had people offer to pay me for this recipe after I've served it at drunken parties sophisticated gatherings.

On to recipe two.

Spinach Blueberry Salad

I have no measurements for this salad because it's one of those things I make that sort of happened by accident.

  • 1 bag of baby spinach
  • 1 pkg fresh blueberries
  • a bunch of crumbled feta let's go with a cup
  • a handful of chopped walnuts
  • balsamic vinegar salad dressing
Throw it all together.

I'm serious this time.

You'll love it. And it's so easy. I'm all about the easy.

30-Something Single White Female

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Holy fuck.

It dawned on me last night that THAT is exactly what I am. Sunday evening while sitting around drinking wine with my brother and his family (we were drinking the wine, the kids were having juice), he said to me, "Hey T, you could be a cougar now". After calling the paramedics to remove my fist from his face I pondered his statement for a bit.

I'm not one to shy away from a challenge, but hell it's been quite awhile since I have been single. I sure do hope being single is like riding a bike because me thinks I've forgotten how to do it (and it I think I may subconciously mean IT). Can I get a tutor?

So I googled cougar.

BIG mistake.

If I wasn't scared before, I am now.

As per urban dictionary, a cougar is defined as:

 An older woman who frequents clubs in order to score with a much younger man.  The cougar      can be anyone from an overly surgically altered wind tunnel victim, to an absolute sad and bloated old horn-meister, to a real hottie or milf. Cougars are gaining in popularity -- particularly the true hotties -- as young men find not only a sexual high, but many times a chick with her shit together.

A young man's drug of choice. Great.

Why am I even talking about this? Well, aside from the fact that I'm fucking retarded, it has been playing on my mind since my brother so delicately pointed it out to me. I've never gone for the younger guy. My husband was 4 years older than me. Recent Ex boyfriend was 5 years older than me, and we all know damn well how those relationships turned out. So I think when I'm ready (and honestly I think it's going to be a long time) I may have to change up my modus operandi.

The way I see it, I have several choices.

  1. Remain single. Purchase several cats and become the crazy cat lady who is seen walking the neighborhood in her "house dress", wearing bright pink lipstick smeared all over her mouth -  while talking to herself. Many years later I will be found dead in my home with half my face eaten by said cats.
  2. Hunt for some stud to fulfill my sexual requirements and throw him to the wayside when I've drained him of all life sustaining fluid (I'm obviously watching too many vampire shows).
  3. Become a cougar. Find a boy 10 years younger than me (would that qualify me for cougar status, do I get a membership card?) that I can mold into the perfect companion. All the while having my friends laugh behind my back at what a stupid OLD fool I am.
  4. Become a lesbian. Hey, I'm not ruling anything out at this point.
  5. Wisen the fuck up and quit worrying about how my tits sag and are bound to get lost in my back fat the first time I have sex* and just go with the flow.
So grrrrrrrrrrrrr??? Somehow I can't see it......

*I can't take credit for the hilariaty of that statement - Betty White uttered those words on a tv show I was watching last night. It was as though she was speaking to me.

Three Minute Update

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What are you looking at? It's only been two weeks - ok dammit closer to three but seriously - do we need to be that specific? Did you even notice I was gone? Ok -  I know some of you have because I've been getting emails that say "Where the fuck are you?"

I'm here I'm here. You'll have to forgive me. I live on an island people. It's summer. Do I really need to explain myself? This time of year means endless days spent laying on the beach (I fucking refuse to heed the warnings of doctors and stay "inside" between the hours of 11:00am and 3pm to avoid the sun at peak strength.....yes I fully realize I'll be laughing out of my asshole when they have to cut my face off because I have skin cancer). It also means it's watermelon margarita season.

So what have I been up to aside from slothing around the beach and drinking too much tequila (let's not bother mentioning the fact that not two posts ago I swore never to touch the stuff again....thank you).

I'm being audited. These goddamn fucker assball shitholes (if you actually work for RC I'm not talking about you....obviously) can't seem to accept the fact that I've been seperated for 10 years without actually getting divorced and that my ex and I actually share custody of our children without having a million legal documents stating the fact. This is the THIRD time in 10 years I've been asked to provide proof that a) my children are actually my children (I'm considering taking pics of my fucking stretch marks and sending it along to them). b) that ex and I do actually reside in seperate residences

What makes this audit especially fun is that I can't find the kids birth certificates. I have tore the house apart and they are no where to be found. I'm thinking I must have tucked them away someplace "safe" when I moved two years ago. Obviously my  hiding spot was really damn safe. This means I have to get new birth cerfiticates to the tune of a gazzillion and one dollars.

I called time of death on my relationship. It was worse than leaving the father of my children.

Spending time with this little imp who is growing up much too quickly for my liking. The other two imps only require my presence when it's time to belly up to the trough or they need a drive somewhere. They don't deserve to have their pictures on my blog. Kidding, I love them all equally. Actually it has more to do with the fact that oldest child is working his arse off so it feels as though I haven't seen him in a dogs age and middle child never leaves his room so I sometimes forget that I actually have a middle child.

Working and fretting about paying bills. Aren't we all? Cursing the fates that I wasn't born into a disgustingly filthy rich family so that I would in turn be able to live the life of materialism I was meant for. This having to be a person of substance because I'm poor really sucks. I'd be so much better at being shallow and superficial.

There's other blah blah blah and yammer yammer's mundane shit. I've been catching your posts here and there but be sure to tell me if I've missed anything really juicy. I like juicy shit.

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I'm drinking the tequila kool aid and hooking up with Supah for Post It Note Tuesday. Everyone knows PINT ... I'll not bore you with the 411 on how to play along. Yes, I'm kind like that.




Speaking of fucktards - is it supposed to be really difficult to get these little sticky notes placed correctly...or should I be riding the short bus?

Second Jobs

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I have posted before about getting a second job. It's also one of the reasons for my scarce presence in blogland these days.

I haven't said what this second job entails, what it is I'm actually doing. I spent two months scouring the job boards. I had to find something that worked around my insane schedule. One week I'm foot loose and fancy free after 5:00pm - the next week I have kid pick up and everything that goes with having kids afoot - cooking, cleaning, homework blah blah blah blah. Retail was out because of scheduling. Waitressing or bartending was the same. I couldn't work till 1:00 in the morning and then get up at 5:00am to get ready for my real job. Working as an escort was out because I don't have the temperment. Don't laugh, I actually considered it.

So what am I doing? Market research, via the telephone, from home. I'm one of those annoying people that call just as you're sitting down to supper asking you to complete a survey.

(Hangs head in shame and listens intently as her followers drop like flies)

The thing is, I have never ever worked at a job that I'm not proud of doing. Let's be real though, no one likes a surveyer. I refuse to call myself a telemarketer because the company I work for does not sell shit. They do surveys for large companies and business - mostly customer satisfaction surveys. However, to the general masses, there is no distinction between what I do and a telemarketer.

Do you know what the other kick in the arse is? I'm really fucking good at it. I've been told by several people at the end of a survey that I have a "lovely voice" and "if every telemarketer (See? No distinction) that called sounded like you do I'd complete more of these surveys". That comment actually made me think I should be doing 1-900 calls instead of surveying. The comment was made by a woman.

The job allows me to work from home, there's no travel and I make up my own schedule. If there's days I can't work, I simply don't. Shift start and end times are at my discretion. For this reason alone the job is ideal. The pay is really decent. But I'm still ashamed to say I'm doing this. A very select few of my friends know that I have this second job.

Here's where you come in. This secrecy around this new job is playing on me. Am I being retarded? Ok ok - we all know the answer to that but am I being retarded when it comes to this? I need your HONEST opinion. I keep telling myself I could resort to theivery (I do look good in black) and prostitution to make my car payment and that would be a helluva lot worse than surveying, right?

Also, the next time you get one of those annoying phone calls at dinner, keep in mind that a "I'm sorry I really don't want to do this" is so much nicer than a "fuck you". The person on the other end of the line could simply be trying to feed her kids or make her car payment.

If There's A Medal For Being a Fucktard...I Have It In The Bag

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That would be the sound of me falling off the face of the earth. I know. I'm such a fucktard.

So while trying to catch up on the 463 posts in my reader, I found Zgirl's post from today (okay I have to admit...I started this post last week!!!) and I'm stealing her idea. Don't worry, I warned her I was going to steal it.

So rather than bitch and complain about the multitude of people that make me want to stab them in the eye and kick them in the crotch on a daily basis - I'm going to bitch about myself. Fun, right?!!!! Let me clarify - I'm going to bitch about my drunk self. You see, happy hours have recently been turning into happy entire evenings that see me completely inebriated and saying totally inappropriate things to whomever passes within hearing range. I need to stop. Of course any armchair psychologists would tell you that I'm using alcohol as a means to escape my shitty relationship issues. Really though, isn't that one of the wonders of alcohol?
So let us begin shall we....10 things I hate about Drunk Dual Mom.

Brain/mouth filters. I struggle with this at the best of times. Add alcohol, mix gently, and the resulting chaos will be talked about for WEEKS to come.

1. The fact that when you are drinking - you don't see anything wrong or inappropriate talking about blow jobs with the Executive Director of Programs. To go as far as to offer such a service to this man if he cut your grass - yeah that might NOT have been one of your finer moments. Albeit the grass is really long and such a drag to cut. Yes, he was laughing with you, but upon sober reflection, he had to have been a tad bit shocked.

2. While laughing and joking with a group of contractors about the possibility of running for Mayor is good clean fun - suggesting to that same group of men that sleeping with all the male prisoners at the local jail to ensure votes probably wasn't such a classy move. To then proceed to put parameters around your whorishnish by stating the following: "But they can't have beards and they have to have large dicks". Oh Dual Mom....oh oh oh, there are no words.

3. Tequila is not your friend. Make a t-shirt, put it on a sticky note, tattoo it on your ass, whatever needs to be done to ensure you remember this.

4. The fact that when you get going, you have no idea when to stop. The absolute retardedness of mixing red wine, tequila shooters AND whisky is beyond comprehension. Grabbing the bottle of Crown Royal and filling a tumbler...yeah that's going to hurt the next morning. On the plus side you highly amused a friend when your reply to her saying to you, "Ummmm you don't want to do that" was "Oh wow, you're absolutely right...this drink totally needs ice".

5. Your ability to hear what you want to hear when inebriated. Pretty sure the waitress did NOT actually want you to so emphatically appoint yourself a member of her rugby team. When you turned to the girls and said, "Wait, when she refers to a SENIOR rugby team...she's using the word senior to mean really good at rugby rather than middle age, isn't she?" it caused them to fall off their chairs with laughter.

6. Bringing down a really expensive chair while holding onto it trying to balance yourself. Again, classy. Who knew wood and flesh made so much noise hitting a marble floor? Defending your actions by saying you were practicing for rugby tryouts probably didn't fool anyone.

7. I hate the fact that friends remember EVERY last goddamn word that I utter. Why can't they drink until they I do?

So just so you know, I am alive and kicking. I figured I had better let you know before someone sent out search and rescue. All is well. I just seem to be in a writing funk...ya know what I mean? Obviously this writing funk hasn't impaired my drinking abilities.

Ok c'mon dish....I want to hear tales of drunken debauchery. Please?