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 30....at 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 people...it'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 losingmyfuckingmind@sisterhoodofthetravellingpants.com

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.