I Miss You, Baby Tina!

When I was a wee lass, I had an imaginary friend who went by the handle Baby Tina. Baby Tina was a disastrous bitch from hell, let me tell you. She did awful things like the time she pushed me off the top of the flight of outdoor stairs at our apartment building (she promised me I could fly. I couldn't. It hurt). Or the time she painted the bathroom sink with hooker-red nail polish while I watched in horror, cowering from the voice of my mother shrieking at me through the locked door. Mom could smell nail polish. She got a screwdriver and took the door off the hinges. Baby Tina ran for the hills and I got a wooden spoon upside the ass, repeatedly.

Once she took my mother's brand new Avon demonstration kit, uncapped every last lipstick sample, and painted my face clown-style. It took four days of repeated scrubbing to wash off. I was blamed. But I made sure to rat the crazy bitch out, no way I was going down alone. Of course she skipped off to wreak havoc elsewhere while I was spanked, again, and grounded from watching Land of the Lost. Also, I got sent to therapy. What a scrunt.

For many years, Baby Tina got up to bad girl shenanigans and I took the fall. It was easy for her to get away with it; we looked exactly alike. Also, she vanished any time anyone else was around. So I looked liked a lying, delusional dumbass when I explained, very patiently, that it was Baby Tina who poured a bottle of dish soap into the coffee maker, cut the curtains with pinking shears and scratched the paint off the rollbars in my grandpa's Jeep, not me. My mom never bought it. There were many spankings. It did no good.

Somewhere along the line Baby Tina hitched a ride out of my life for good. Hopefully she landed herself in juvie hall and got her shit straightened out. I really could have used her in high school, though. She would have come in handy. Like, "Oh what's that? You think I made out with your boyfriend? Nah, that wasn't me homegirl, that was Baby Tina. That bitch a playa."Or "I swear to God officer, this is NOT my bottle of purple death-flavored Mad Dog 20/20. I'm just holding it for Baby Tina!"

My kids have never had a Baby Tina in their lives and I kind of can't relate. I guess they just blame each other for stuff instead (Grady), or sheepishly admit their transgression and beg forgiveness (Fletcher) or flat out deny it and call you bad names for accusing them even though all evidence points to them (Gwendolyn). Perhaps I should enlist Baby Tina's help in parenting. She could be the one who "forgets" to buy Toaster Strudel at the grocery store (as if I'm gonna get 'em that. Pssssshhht!) or ruins their favorite clothes in the washer or decides that brownies and popcorn are actually a fine dinner when served with milkshakes. Perhaps I'll summon her, dress her in my pajama pants and a grey pocket t-shirt with no bra and see if my family notices the difference. Then I could go crash some cars or fly off stairs or.... well, the possibilities are just endless, aren't they?

Reticence and Redemption

When I think about the differences between 19-year-old me and 39-year-old me, it's sometimes hard to believe I'm visualizing the same person. But then there are the similarities: The young woman I was and the mature woman I hope to become are both on the brink, the precipice, the cliff, the diving platform, the edge of something so great and so huge and monumental, yet there we are, both clueless and hopeless and fragile and as messed up as a sack of cats.

Nineteen-year-old me would go on to become a mother at 20. She would make terrible decisions and take way too long to complete her college degree. She would helplessly cower in abject sadness when friends turned evil, wear her heart on her sleeve, and laugh loudly, head tilted back, with great joy and enthusiasm. Wow. It kind of seems like I'm talking about 39-year-old me. Because I am still that silly, fragile girl, but with a 20-spot of combat duty under my belt and a better understanding of how to cope with my crazy frizzy hair. Yes, that is a real issue.

On the edge of 40 (ok not for six more months, but still), I have a husband and three children (one almost 19!) and a house and cars and issues and bills and Wi-Fi and sadness and hypertension and stress and a stalled career and all the suckish stuff that adults have to deal with. I waffle between the definition of my current precipice: old age, or mid-life crisis? Real issues, or imaginary shit trying to kill me from the inside out? What to do, what to do.

I was thinking earlier today that I so wish I could go back to 19-year-old Amy and slap her around a little, tell her to grow a pair of ovaries and go kick some ass. But I know I wouldn't listen. A good indication of this is a conversation I recently had with my almost-19-year-old daughter who was bitching about her appearance. I find this truly ridiculous, as she is hot as hell yet walks with the dejected slump of an 85-year-old farmer. If I was her, I'd be out doing some damage.

"But you're my mom. You think I'm pretty but you have to," she said.

That's when it occurred to me that no matter what I said to my past self, I wouldn't have believed my future self, anyway. At that time in my life, I had the benefit of having friends that were a great deal older than I was. Friends who knew things. And I listened politely and believed what they said. I believed it was true for them, but not for me. After all, isn't that what youth is all about? The cocky confidence to do everything for yourself, yet the disabling insecurity and nagging feeling that you constantly suck at whatever you do? No? Maybe it's just me.

So what would an aged me tell 39-year-old me? Don't sweat the small stuff? Let it go? Live and let live? None of this will matter in 100 years' time? If you're an ass to people, people will be asses to you? All this I already know. But there's a huge difference between intellectually knowing something and emotionally owning it. And there's the rub. And also the reason I'd never, ever want to be 19 again for anything in the world.

It's Mother Fuckin' Fall, Y'all

This weekend was the first really cold snap we've had so far this fall. Or maybe it wasn't that cold and I'm just an elderly d-bag. I tell you though, the crispiness is out there. On my nightly walks this weekend? I could almost see my breath. And I wore a sweater with my shorts. I also tripped, skidded and twisted my ankle on about a billion f'ing fallen nuts. Walnuts and pecans. Yup. It's mother fuckin' fall.

Besides the icy breath, the cursed nut piles, the four batches of cookies I baked in the last two days, the furnace coming on at night and the pile of hoodies in the chair by the front door, I can tell it's fall by the needs I've been experiencing. See when the seasons change, it's like a primal alarm clock goes off in my brain, and there are things I must do or I'll not survive. 

The first thing I do in the fall, as though on autopilot (and I like seriously have no control over this): Hoard yarn. I buy yarn. Lots of yarn. Even though I have lots of yarn left over from last year. And the year before that. Because I must make hats! And mother fuckin' scarves! Usually all for my daughter Gwendolyn, who is not a hat and/or mother fuckin' scarf person. But I make them anyway! Because I must! I can't even knit. I crochet because it's the only "craft" my grandmother was ever able to pound into my block head. And if the thought of me with a crochet hook scares you, then you're probably smart. Because I'm way more likely to wield a crochet hook as an eye-gouging weapon than as a craft implement. But I digress. This year the insanity has grown to epic proportions.  My need to crochet is so big and so violent and so insane, that I have so far woven 23 skeins of really fat yarn into this epic blanket of doom. Afghan? That doesn't seem like an adequate word. This fucker weighs so much it's arduous to move on my own and it's only half finished. You could snare small children under it. Seriously, like if I tucked my little boys in under this thing? They'd not be able to lift it off themselves. Moohoohahahaha.....

Rambo helped me with this project. He's awesome like that. 

Also? The need to snuggle. This season is the reason why I have a king-sized bed. I'm freezing cold, miserable and unhappy unless I'm sleeping in a dogpile of heavy quilts, flailing children, the cat, and approximately 100 pillows. Until of course I end up at the bottom of this hot, sweaty mess of arms, legs, blankets and the cat, at which time I cuss and bitch and pry myself loose and go sleep alone on the frosty leather couch. Because seriously? Leather couches are f'ing cold in the winter.

Incredibly important: Movie marathons. Every single film Wes Anderson has ever made, including the really bad first ones (sorry Wes). And of course all six Star Wars movies. Yes, even the embarrassingly bad prequels. Including Jar Jar. Seriously. And the Goonies. And popcorn. Lots of it. And Donnie Darko. And lots of other movies, too. Movies and snuggly children. And this is the reason, I do suppose, for the need to crochet the blanket of infinite largess. I want a blanket that will cover the entire couch and every body snuggled on it.

There are other rituals. Pies to be baked, soups and stews and squash and roast beast and football and apple picking and scenic drives and shit like that. Hopefully I'll be over the insanity soon and we can move on to Christmas/Kwanza/Hanukkah/Festivus/etc. After the harvest is in, everything is canned, pickled, dehydrated and otherwise perserved for the winter season, what do you do with your free time? What, dear readers, are your autumnal rituals? I'd love to hear about them. Till then, Mahalo for listening!

The Trouble With Being Earnest

Alternate title? The Problem With Amy That Keeps Her From Functioning Productively or That Thing That Lives In My Brain That Tries To Kill Me. Do you have depression? No? Lucky you. Now take your happy ass away from here, for this post at least, because you are not going to "get" this. Still here? Then hang with me for a moment as I meander into the foggy bog that is my September, which gets worse with each passing year of aged, befuddled hell. My life! Welcome to it!

The dark night of the soul. That's what I like to call it. I have a friend who calls it the dark muse. Whatever you call it, it's the "thing" that sucks out all your hopes and dreams and leaves you an empty, bloodless husk that may or may not crawl back into the light when October rolls around. Depression sucks, my chemically imbalanced friends. And it can literally kill you if you let it win. So don't. I raise my bottle of Celexa to you, fellow frumps: Let's get through this shit together.

Just this very day I feel as though I've been burped back into the damp chill of autumn after having slithered and slumped my way through the darkest, most odious valley I've ever known. You don't want details, I won't share them. This isn't group therapy and the little shit, none of it matters in this forum. Getting caught in the bog of the minutiae of your pain - that is the very definition of depression to me. And I choose not to dip my toes into that quicksand till I'm shoved in again involuntarily next time around.

The thing I hate most about depression is the way it robs my words. It takes them right out of my fingers so I can't release them. So they fester inside, infecting all my systems, till my skin is stretched so tight a pin prick will burst me and then every thing spews out in a volcano of choked-on verbiage. Or worse, the infection goes on and on and never comes to a head and my words muddle and disintegrate and form disjointed nonsense that struggles and burns and hurts without meaning. I hate that the most.

What does this mean for the people that love you and watch you struggle? Some days it means that your children are a little quieter around you, a little more docile and trepiditious, a little bit compassionate to your struggle. Some days it means they are much, much worse. A noisy chorus of need banging on attention-seeking drums. Or perhaps they sense your distraction and become furtive, plotting disaster as you lie on the floor in a heap of despair. So you must get up.

And that, in summation, is my plea, my wish, my prayer for me and you and all of us who are the afflicted. The trouble with being earnest is depression. So let's rise up and kick its ass. I am your cheerleader and you can be mine. Let's do this shit together. It's almost October. We fuckin' got this!!

The Heat of the Moment

Do you know what it feels like to lay down on a trampoline, warmed by the sun, on a chilly spring day? It feels like Heaven, especially if you get to cuddle quietly with someone you love.

My sunshine, my little King, my love: Grady James. What a beautiful, crisp, green day. I hope you've all enjoyed it as much as we have!

A Poem, For You

Well all one of you that used to read this blog have probably long since given up due to my once-a-year posting style. And that's ok. I needed time off to follow other pursuits like, you know, raising three kids and such. I have a new blog - a real one! - over at the Moberly Monitor Index website. It certainly doesn't have as many bad words as this blog, but it's pretty entertaining.

There's a drawback to having a "real" blog though, and it is this: I have to self-edit my mouth. Like, all the time. I can't just go off and say whatever I want to say. And anyone who "knows" me knows this is the hardest thing for me to ever possibly do. Although as an adult, I've learned that self-editing is pretty much ALWAYS a good thing, but still. I really hate it.

So. That's why I am making a return to here, my OWN real Internet home, where I can say whatever the fuck I want and the only trouble I'll get in is maybe offending a reader or losing a reader - which I hope never to do - but this blog is all about honesty and I am honestly feeling like dropping some bad words today. So. Here, a poem, of the welcome back to my bad mouth variety. I've missed you all.

My Dick Is Much Bigger Than Yours

My dick is much bigger than yours,

even if I don't have one for real.

If I did have a real dick, it would thwart your tiny dick

like a conquering dick thwarting machine.

You are nothing to me now

but a bad memory.

Maybe if you'd had a bigger dick,

there would be something better to remember.

But no.

Your tiny, forgettable dick

is as lame and useless as anything about you.

You grow more flaccidly useless with age.

More useless than you even were before,

which was pretty fucking useless.

Your small, sad dick is tucked up and away.

My huge dick is beating you angrily like

A big dick beater with hydraulic mega super dick beating abilities.

The only thing bigger than my dick

is your ego

And for no God-given reason

should it be.

You are a tit-less man-lover

in Wal-Mart clothes.

A dirty low whore fucker with a protruding gut

and a gay woman's haircut.

Do you even still have a dick?

I bet you don't.

I bet if you do, it's tinier than a gherkin

and covered with dill pickle warts.

You dick.

Go brine yourself and die.

~Mahalo for listening.

Well Hello There!

There's something about winter that makes me tight-lipped and furrowed-of-brow, hibernation-prone and cross at nobody in particular. The titular tidings of the holidays piss me off. The endless cold, the thousands of tea bags sacrificed for those hard-to-hold moments of fortification, the God-damned Clementines being pawned by every grocery outlet; it all leads to madness I tell you, madness!

Having grown up in the flippin' Upper Peninsula of Michigan, what with it's nine months of winter a year you'd think I'd be breezing through this easy-peasy Missouri winter with aplomb. But that wouldn't be me. I don't like to talk, I don't like to write about it, I don't like anybody or anything, particularly in January. So now that January is behind us, let us start our relationship anew. Relationships are what I'm all about these days.

The madness that is winter seems to get worse with each year passing. The older I become the more ancient and crusty I seem to get in the cold months. I am like an old bear in a cold cave. I have burrowed in and wallered around and want nothing more than to sleep off the bitter cold whilst dreaming of summer's berries and beaches, stone fruits and sunshine. Fuck the coldness of the winter soul.

Winter zeitgeist is all-powerful and all-encompassing in its annual energy-suck. It slams my head back into the pillow when I try to get up in the fucking cold morning. It makes me punch in telephone numbers so hard I hurt my fingers and burn the toast. It makes me ashamed to be seen in public and too grumpy to be nice to other people. It makes me want to swat a giant, ancient paw at my rowdy cubs, who suffer winter in a different way: they have the dreaded cabin fever. As much as I want to hole up and never venture out of my venerable quilts, the young ones are ready to make a break for it. Fuck that, I say. Stay inside where it's warm and full of quiet toys.

So back to the relationships part of this fucking winter. Thank you, friends. You may not know it, but I am here in spirit. The part of me that is too self-absorbed to speak asks for forgiveness. This is the part of me that is frozen and still, talking to dead family in my head, and I don't know when I'll be warm enough to speak out loud again.

But thanks to those of you who care enough to wonder, there is a little green sprout protruding from the center of me. I think by the time spring rolls around, I will be ready to be transplanted outside. And maybe my lips will thaw enough to talk out loud and maybe my fingers will defrost from the ice encrusted claws they are right now so that I may type freely again.

~Mahalo for listening

Terribly executed craft projects!

So awhile back (last year? This summer?) I promised you craft projects and lots of 'em. I promised MYSELF that this year would be full of finely crafted Christmas presents for all my loving family and friends and the neighbors and teachers and etc. Yeah right. So far, I have a head full of ideas (still) and TWO, count 'em, projects finished.

One has already been wrapped and given. And while it was pretty tremendously cool (good job, me!) it became an epic fail when the recipient unintentionally melted it near the hot-air-spewing floor vent of a mini-van like 3 seconds after receiving it. I give you exhibit number one, the milk chocolate and butterscotch mustache lolly-filled inspirational coffee cup:

The cup says, "Write your own story" if you couldn't read it; I thought that was super cool. So cool, in fact, I really wanted to keep it for myself but that really wouldn't be very Christmasish of me, would it?

Oh God, the next project is so lame and turned out so painfully shiteous I don't know if I can bear to post a picture. It was undertaken in the name of love for my sweet little toddler who is OBSESSED with Yo Gabba Gabba. And since he gets a mom at home with him every day vs. a mom with a huge paycheck, he does not have a ton of 'Gabba schwag. Plus, I love the D.I.Y.ness of doing it yourself. Egads woman, spit it out! I tried to paint two modern-art-sort-of pictures of Brobee and Muno, his two favorite YGG characters. Tried. EPIC fail, dudes, as my teenager has informed me (while laughing and pointing). Gulp, ok, here's the pic. Please cover one eye and squint with the other whilst viewing so as not to sear the exposed cornea: Okay, never mind because for some reason I can't get the damn picture to post here so I'll have to try next time, I'm sorry.

So before Christmas I have to at least make some iced Star-Wars themed sugar cookies (I promise to post pics!) and some white chocolate mustache lollies (Santa's mustache? Hmmm). I wanted to make some wooden Star-Wars toys (an AT-AT Imperial Walker and R2D2 mainly) but since it requires the use of power tools that I haven't learned to use yet and every time I mention this to Matthew he gives me this sort of vacant, far-away look like he's trying to think of a scenario in which teaching me to use said power tools does not involve a trip to the ER, it doesn't look like that's going to happen. Sigh.

Okay also, I got the most beautiful wood at Lowe's for my project - it has these tiny little curly burl things all through it - and I don't think I can bear to cut it up. It would be like double homicide, once for killing the tree in the first place and again for defacing its silky, satin inner self, man. Like I can't justify ripping through those perfect tree guts with a saw just for my piddly project. I know, I know. Just imagine how exhausting it is to be me.

And don't even get me started on the sewing projects. My mother bought me a beautiful brand-new sewing machine for Christmas last year and there it sits, pristine in its box, mocking my no-skills-havin'-ass. Oy. Speaking of mom, when we visited for Thanksgiving, she gave us an entire crate of hand made jellies, jams and blueberry cardamom pancake syrup made from the tiniest hand-picked-by-her Michigan blueberries you've ever seen. And the thimble berry-peach preserves? Fuggedaboutit. How the hiz-ell do you compete with a woman who picks 50 gallons of berries herself, then whips them up into jam, jelly and sauce in her hell-hot summer kitchen, all while battling cancer, because she loves you so much? I want to slap my own face every time I slather a biscuit with her homemade generosity-in-a-jar. Again, Oy.

So. That's what I've been up to, more or less. I hope every body's Christmas craft projects turn out lovely and giveable. Merry Christmas. And may you all find the droids you're looking for.

~Mahalo for listening.

Mashing the pause button

Hello reader(s)! And how have you been? It has been the type of October that I have wanted to stop and smell. You know, tick-by-tick-off every single scent of autumn, from the spicy crush of leaves to the smoosh-and-seedy mouthful of a perfectly ripe persimmon just touched by the first finger of frost. Every conversation is quaintly picture-perfect start to finish, school photos have come home, family hobbies have been indulged. I have savored many Brach's Mellowcreme Pumpkins, I have baked many cookies. I have hiked in the forest and chased a squealing toddler 'round the block and back again on dozens of days. I have not wanted to commit butt-to-chair and write about it all.

My family has grown by one perfect, silky-haired, clenched-fisted, cherished baby girl. Who I don't have any pictures of. Because she lives in Michigan and I don't and I have to wait until Thanksgiving to meet her! But I am so proud of my baby sister for sharing this gift of life with our small family. What a blessing a new baby is! I can't wait to inhale her sweet baby smell and kiss her tiny round cheeks. All four of them.

My sweet, darling mother has indulged us once again with the incredible gift of a 100-pound Halloween care package. Ok, maybe not quite that big, but I think it took two mailmen and a hand-truck to plop it on our porch. Every year gramma sends us this amazing Halloween gift and it is the most highly anticipated event of the year, even better than Christmas what with the 15 pounds of candy per person, costume supplies, toys, games, haunted cookie mansion and new this year: bags of cereal instead of packing peanuts! My mother is amazing and generous and we love her so, so much.

So as we gear up for the end of October and its grand finale Halloween night, I share these photos for you. May all your fall days be memorable, and may your All Hallows' Eve be filled with as much candy as you can carry. More to come soon. Mahalo for listening.

Orange Puffle pumpkin for Fletcher. Sadly his face fell off the following day.

He has since been composted.

Painted acorn pumpkins. Fletch and I gathered these on a forest hike then painted them during commercials while watching a Harry Potter movie. It was an excellent night.

An annual tradition, thanks to lovely and generous grandma, the haunted gingerbread house. It has been mostly devoured already, and man, it's tasty!

Fletcher's "ghost pumpkin with many faces."

The coolest donut EVER, from Casey's General Store. I brought this home for Fletcher the other day and he was so affronted he whispered to Matt,"WHY would she bring me something so terrible and think I'd like it? WHY???" So I had to remove the toe before serving it to him. I tried to eat the toe. But it tasted like a real toe. It sure looked cool, though!

Equalizing the Force

Whoa it looks like time has gotten away from me again and weeks have passed with no discernible change in the F-Bomb and Mom universe. Sorry people, sorry. This mom has been a busy Mo-Fo. But...

But Friday my little F-Bomber was an unhappy boy. First grade had gotten him down. Too many friends turned frenemies, too many math homework assignments, too many goulash, soup, stew and assorted brown goo days of school lunch. Blech. We needed some perking up. We needed something fun in our lives. What we need was The Force restored to balance.

So I decided to throw a Star-Wars themed dinner party for my sad little Padawan. Did it help? Oh yeah, I think it did. Check it out:

Lord Vader was there.

Boba Fett fell into the Sarlacc-pit dip (garlicky hummus).

There was Pizza the Hut (A nod to Spaceballs, also a great film what with the Star-Wars spoofing and the naughty words and hey, any movie with Rick Moranis is awesome, am I right??)

There were Luke's lightsabers (pretzel rods dipped in white chocolate and sprinkled with

tasty sugar sprinkles).

Here they are arranged in the digesting Boba Fett's helmet.

The Dagobah swamp water was my freakin' favorite, all limey and melty and ooooh so green!

And of course, there was Aunt Beru's blue milk.

I was going to make some Han Solo-in-carbonite Jell-O jigglers but ran out of time. Oh well. Next time, next time. Fletch was cheered up and we all had fun gorging on fun food as a family. I might make this a Friday tradition, we'll see.

Promise it won't be as long between posts next time. There will be updates soon on our new geeky family hobby (featuring constant testing of my navigational skills! Which don't exist!) and poorly-executed-but-well-intentioned craft projects! Can I get a woo hoo!?!

~Mahalo for listening~

Douchebaggery

Hi. My name is Amy and I'm a douche. No, this does not mean I'm a feminine hygiene product. Wikipedia says: Douchebag, or simply douche, is considered to be a pejorative term. The slang usage of the term originated in the 1960s. The term usually refers to a person... with a variety of negative qualities, specifically arrogance and engaging in obnoxious and/or irritating actions, most often without malicious intent.

If you asked my 16-year-old daughter, Gwendolyn, me having included a definition of douche from Wikipedia on my blog about douches makes me a douche. *Sigh* Gwendolyn, aforementioned teen, frequently invokes this moniker. For me. Recently we were discussing what it means to be a douchebag. Though our personal definitions differ somewhat from Wikipedia's, several characteristics are agreed upon between us. These characteristics include, but are not limited to: Arrogance, whether righteously deserved or not; unwarranted spewage of expertise on any random topic; and especially 'abusing' others with pedantic attention to/recitation of details.

Picture this scenario, borrowed loosely from Family Guy: A guy in Starbucks, publicly writing on his laptop. That's a douche. Or more precisely, that's our brand of douche. Gwendolyn has a predilection for folk music. And folk singers. This makes her a douchebag. I enjoy reading and writing poetry. Therefore I am a douche.

Can you follow this? If you're having a hard time keeping up with all the douchebaggery, lemme school ya with the following multiple-choice quiz, with examples from my real life (BTW, writing this quiz using examples of being a douche based on my real-life makes me a douche). Here we go:

1) I consider myself a part of the slow-food movement, and also strive to be a locovore whenever feasible. Because I espouse these ideas (or even know what they mean) this makes me:

A) Socially conscientious.

B) Boring.

C) A douche.

2) I enjoy photography, both digital and film-based. I have had many photos published professionally over the course of my journalistic career. I often photograph my children and believe they are excellent subjects. Because I have taken photos professionally, I take umbrage when referred to as an MWAC (Mom With A Camera). Therefore, I am:

A) Defensive about my photos 'cause I currently don't bring home a paycheck and take lots of pictures of my precious babies.

B) Ridonculously pissed at no-one in particular for no good reason because technically no-one has ever actually called me an MWAC, but I know they're thinking it.

C) A douche.

3) I write this blog. Frequently, okay, always, it is "about" my family. But it pisses me off when I get called a "Mommy blogger" because to me this is so, so much more, it is way more, it is ME, in the raw, uncensored, pouring my soul into cyberspace. Because... because I was born to write and right now, this is my platform. And you are here reading this, so you feel it too, don't you? This blog is the Rainbow Connection, motherfuckers. But that's a topic for another day. So. I am:

A) So self-aggrandised it is vomit-inducing.

B) Willing to do anything to get out of folding another load of laundry, including baring my soul to any curious passerby of this blog spot.

C) A douche.

Answer key: The correct answer for every question is, of course, C. I'm a douche. But you know what? I own it, man. I wear that shit. I come by it natural-born and it's my steelo. Can I get a hollaback? If you're a douche too, lemme hear ya say it!

~Mahalo for listening.

Corn! And other stuff.

Corn! Corn is awesome! Have you seen this awesome corn? Have you seen this awesome baby eating his awesome corn?! Adorable!

Awesome baby attacked this beautiful corn as I was putting away groceries this morning after an early a.m. market trip. After carrying sacks into the kitchen and putting things up, Fletcher yelled for me to come quickly! See what that horrible baby is doing! And this is what I found. My beautiful boy, still in jammies, bathed in a sunbeam peeling and subsequently gnawing on his favorite thing, uncooked corn still on the cob.

I actually took many more photos, but since he was sitting right by the front door with the morning sun shining through the beveled window panes, it was impossible to get a focused shot. Except, for some reason, this one jewel in the whole rest of the unusable pile.

So F-Bomber is home with a temperature today and we are having a pajammy time, or, in Fletcher's case, an underpants-only time. There has been donut eating and video game playing and Yo Gabba Gabba viewing and whining about boredom and talking on the phone to grandma and a recitation of fake answering machine messages, all involving a certain sister and hilarious scenarios she's involved in which require immediate parental attention.

So about that certain sister. I would love so much to share with you, dear reader, some detail of this enigmatic being's life and times. But alas, when the subject was broached at a recent dinner, all possible topics were shot down. In flames. So, here is a brief synopsis of my daughter: She is 16, soon to be 17. She is gorgeous. She goes to high school. She drives Fletcher nuts but he's crazy about her in a good way. That's all you get to know.

And after posting about Fletcher last time, I realized there are some very important things I have omitted from his snapshot, so here they are: He hates bears! The only thing he hates more than bears is meatloaf! And the only thing he hates more than bears and meatloaf combined is cilantro! He has vowed to beat up every bear he ever meets, run away screaming form any meatloaf at any time, and obliterate cilantro from the world forever.

And one more thing: Thank you to husband Matt, who has designed the new F-Bomb and Mom header. Okay. That'll do for today. Back to enjoying donuts and video games in my underpants. Er, pajamas.

~Mahalo for listening.

Lucky 7

This is what it looks like to be seven years old

and the member of an elite team of military action heroes.

My main man, the F-Bomber himself, has turned 7-years-old on me and I cannot believe how this impossibly impressive person has grown from a chubby toddler with unspeakably cute curls into the above incarnation, this firstie, the most damnably funny and cute kid to ever grace the state. Ladies and gentleman, I introduce the King of New Franklin.

So this post is for posterity, this is for my Fletcher. Fletcher, this is a snapshot of you, my firstborn son, turning seven years old:

Today at lunch I had to spoon-feed you macaroni and cheese while you held your eyes tightly shut because you said you had seen too much yellow this day, and all the yellow was nauseating, but the mac and cheese delicious. Your favorite color is orange, which I know you'd say is an obvious thing to write, but I felt it had to be included.

Your favorite television show is Adventure Time (which I find wildly inappropriate but hilarious). We love watching the Stay Puft marshmallow man scene from Ghostbusters together over and over. You said the best day of your life was when gramma came to stay with us and the worst day ever was when she left. You love root beer and The Very Hungry Caterpillar and just yesterday you asked me to not hold your hand in public anymore.

Steak is your favorite dinner and you told me tonight, "I'd rather eat steak than anything else in the world. Except for shrimp, I'd rather eat shrimp than anything else in the world, too."

Your best friends are Clint and Anna, the brother and sister next door. The three of you spend endless hours playing "military", jumping on the trampoline and constructing Lego monuments that I unwittingly injure my bare feet on pretty much daily. You are hot tempered yet sensitive. You can remember a personal affront from as far back as infancy and carefully plot your revenge.

Fletcher, you are funny. Imaginative, glorious, messy and hilarious. I am thankful every single day that God gave me your lovely soul to look after. And even though it is embarrassing when I hug you in front of your friends, every day at school drop-off we still blow each other kisses. And eat them.

Thank you for being so amazing. If you were anything less than the perfect little dirty dog cutie pie that you are, it would suck.

Love, your momma.
Mahalo for listening.

Holy Molars!

We are cutting teeth over here at F-Bomb and Mom, premolars to be exact, and the world is a squirming, wiggling, wailing, sleepless mofo right now. Being my third child, Grady has the benefit of my years of experiments - oops! I meant experience - with his older sibs. So basically that means I realize "this too shall pass" but that somehow doesn't make it suck much less.

Actually, cry, fuss and scream as they did while cutting teeth, neither Gwendolyn or Fletcher had the misfortune to be cutting four freaking premolars at once, as is baby Grady. His poor pink little gums, top and bottom, are knotted with marble-sized lumps of ouchy painful bastard teeth, just barely poking pearly tips through. At night he "rests" in fitful half-slumber, rolling, wallering and whimpering even though he has been adequately dosed with baby Tylenol. During daylight hours, he roams the house fretfully, wild strings of Anbesol-laced drool soaking his shirt like a geezer gumming a pork chop.

He doesn't want a Popsicle or a teething toy. Occasionally he half-heartedly bites me but it seems like it takes too much effort. Mostly he brings me board books and wants to snuggle down under the covers on my big bed and read or watch Yo Gabba Gabba (which is kind of starting to get on my nerves, since it's his favorite show and we watch it A LOT).

Basically I am not getting much of anything at all accomplished, but that's okay. Years of living with children has taught me that not only will this pass, it will pass so quickly that 10 years from now it will seem like five minutes ago and I will be crying on Matt's shoulder wondering how my baby got so big so quickly. And he'll laugh at my grey hair.

In the meantime, we have gone back to school. I say "we" because with all the hustle, bustle and responsibility that comes with having a first grader and a freaking junior, it feels like "we" are all involved! Gwendolyn did not allow a first-day-of-school photograph this year, but here is a picture of lovely first-grade Fletcher, in all his mowhawked cuteness in the car on the way to his big first day:


Hope all your adventures are memorable, Mahalo for reading!

And now we are 14 months old

My beautiful Tator Tot is 14 months old today. I feel immensely blessed for the honor of being his, Gwendolyn and Fletcher's mother.

Extreme naked cuteness

Grady James!

This is a picture of my belly just days before giving birth to lovely Grady James. I can't believe how time flies! Love you, Grady! Love you, family!

Addendum

So baby Grady was "helping" me clean off a book shelf - he basically just threw everything on the floor in his helpful baby way - and in the clean-up I discovered an old folder from college. Within the folder was - ta da! - the poem I was referring to in my second-to-last post that horrified classmates in my poetry seminar class. I thought I'd like to share it with you here.

Please note that that this poem was written 10-11 years ago, and I currently enjoy a much closer relationship to my then-husband than I did previously. He has graciously given his nod of approval to the publication of said-poem, realizing that he was my inspiration but I mean him no ill-will.

Also, Matthew was relating a story to me in which he was reading my blog at work *ahem* and a co-worker read my poem over his shoulder and said, "Oh my, I don't think I could ever even write words like that." And that is my point. I have a certain audience. You may not be in it. But I write for the people who cannot say these things aloud. I write for the people who want to say "fuck you" but can't. There are so many people who are so nice they don't speak their mind. I am not one of them. So these poems are for them.

Here is my poem. Mahalo for listening.

Hellraiser

It's 3 a.m. and I'm staring at him
naked and fragile and
with the comforter stripped away
looking like a small, killed thing.
He is dreaming of someplace better
where kinder women live and frolic.
He is kicking his leg like a tired old dog.
I
I am waiting to gut him
slice him
hurt him
with my Cenobite grapple hook finger nails
if he rolls the wrong way
or snores.

I am the woman
he says
who can skin a man with words,
invasively inhabit a mind
better than Pin Head.
My mind
he says
is the puzzle box
and even though there's no easy solution
to find the last button
is so irresistible
that he'll surely die trying.
Loving em is sudden death,
or perhaps eternity as
CD head.

It delights something naughty
inside me
to feel his futile struggling
even in dreams
to grasp who I am.
I sense the onset
of his soul departing
even as he sleeps.
My icy hook nails
scritch-scratch his throat
and cloying death scent
blooms from his open mouth.

I think someday soon
I'll know what it's like
to miss him.
Maybe I should have been
better.
Maybe tomorrow,
I'll sprout a heart.

Military Man (In flagrante delicto)

This is what happens when you leave your toy, affectionately dubbed "Military Man" on the bathroom sink in a house full of smartasses.

My literary opinion and poetry with bad words

I felt it was time to address something extremely important to me: the freedom to write what moves you - the real you - not censored propaganda for public consumption. I did it for years, you know, writing for newspapers. The things that get left out - that's the heart of the real news. That is what is chopped from the story, that is where the art is. And I am all about the art. I have felt the sting of censure as a young and giddy reporter, telling the entire truth and paying for it. The gleaming kernel of fact removed by an adroit editor felt like an amputation. It hated it. Writing the news sucks ass.

That is why I love to write poetry. Because to me, poetry is all about the feeling: the feeling of words formed and written first on brain, the roll of the tongue, the weight of pen in hand, the exact pressure of finger on keyboard. My poetry is not usually kind or sweet. Tho I love to read sweet lolly poetry from other people (Yeats comes to mind, with his bean-rows on the Lake Isle of Innisfree) I am loathe to write that way.

I am a poet of guttural hatred and unbridled fury. I write about what pisses me off, depresses me, makes me withdraw from society. Sometimes it's all happiness. Wait, no, that never happens. The verbal vomiting is my way of soul-purging. I can write terrible things so I don't have to DO terrible things. This is what art is, yes? I have a feeling I'll never receive accolades while I am still breathing. But that's okay. Someday someone will study me and think wow, she was really pissed off.

Here's the thing: It takes incredible courage and moxy to say what you really mean in poetry just like it does in real life. While I am never one to shy away from confrontation, I have been guilted into keeping my trap capped for fear of alienating my audience. The thought of losing those of you that read my blog scares me, but being artistically dishonest scares me more.

In college I had many, many poetry writing seminar classes. I think these classes suck and if I ever taught poetry writing, I would not ever approach it in the way it was taught to me. Apologies to my previous teachers. Oh wait, no, I meant to say suck it. The writing of the rosy lines, the xeroxing of the many pages, then the ultimate betrayal: sharing your rough cut diamond in a 'peer group' setting. Fuck the peer group. What the hell do they know that you don't?

I remember a particular session with a particular peer group. Of course my poem was 'about' watching my ex-husband sleep (we were still married at the time) and wanting to murder him. One of my peers read some hippy-esque dream of Pablo Neruda making love to her, another poet shared a tale of swimming in Lake Michigan and being in tune with nature. And so on and so on and then there was, to me, the worst of the worst: A rosy-cheeked teaching major reading her poem 'about' apple picking with her rosy-cheeked family and the ensuing pie making, etc. I wanted to slit her wrists for her. And I said that. Out loud. Because that's the way I rolled back then.

I try not to roll over someone else's work these days; I am largely supportive of anyone writing anywhere at any time. This shit is hard!!!! Writing is soul-wrenching, hair pulling agony! Or it is easy as apple picking and pie baking. But I digress. The purpose of this post is to share, honestly, a poem I wrote a few days ago because it is the way I felt at that moment in time. It has lots of bad words. It is not 'about' you, or you. It is not in any way real, or something that ever will or ever did happen. Because it is a poem. With bad words. Because that's the kind of poet I am, more often than not. And poems aren't right or wrong per say, but they can have a right or wrong audience. So I am feeling you out.

Fuck You Michelle

Fuck you
and fuck me
and fuck the world.
I will fuck you up,
murder your children
knife your grandma
fuck your grandpa
then stab out his eyes
with a stainless steel fork.

I will rape your husband,
slice your belly,
shatter every window in
your windowless house
you bitch.

I'd fuck the moon
if it pissed you off
then slit its throat and laugh
as burble-bubble-grunt-and-moan
moon beams spill
from dead neck hole
a milky silver pussy death.

Fuck you all
but fuck you the most.
I fucking hate you.
~
Mahalo for listening! ~Amy

Hey, it's me again!

Will you forgive me for being gone so long if I tell you a secret? Please? Okay *gulp* truth is I've been a little nuts. Like feeling crazy. Like it has been a really long time since I've written because I've been a little bit not okay. Too much stuff has happened to roll out the dough and cookie-cut a story for you, but suffice it to say there were good times, bad times, and some really depressing times.

Like my dear sweet mother had cancer (she is well now, thank you) and I spent a month back home caring for her early this summer, which meant I had a nice break from being "mom" non-stop but also meant I missed an entire month (the 8th one) of my baby's life. As in when I came back home, he wouldn't come to me. For about a week. He screamed every time Matt left, since he took care of him when I was away and I felt like the shittiest shit-head to have ever breathed.

And while I was home, my mother's best-friend of 30 years, her soul sister, passed away. Suddenly and unexpected are two words that fit the situation; tragic and life-altering also work. Nobody will ever be the same after the loss of this dear auntie.

Two weeks after I came home, my uncle, mom's brother, and my life-long best friend died. Also totally unexpectedly. That was May 18, a very bad day. He was only 10 years older than me, more like a brother all my life. We shared the same birthday, April 19. We went to college together, and when I lived back home we spent every weekend together. After I moved away we talked on the phone almost every single day. He was wonky and weird and perfect and I will never be that close to anyone again, ever.

It is still hard to breathe most days and I don't know how I will ever get over this. I have some of my sweet uncle Baboo's "cremains" in a sweet little urn necklace that I will wear on my neck every single day of my life as soon as my baby boy stops trying to rip necklaces off me every time I put one on. It is hard for me to even look at one of the dozens of photos I have of Baboo, though I see his face in my mind almost constantly. You can read his obituary here: http://www.dailypress.net/page/content.detail/id/519290.html?nav=5004 Don't know what else to say about that.

Other than that, my plans for taking my two little boys to Michigan for the summer were derailed by my two back-to-back emergency trips back home and the subsequent financial drain that came alone with that. I am still an at-home mom for now so we are relying on Matthew's hard work to pull through and it is tough going sometimes indeed. But we survive. And when I look at the faces of my happy little ones I think yeah, this is what it's all about. Not Disney World or a new Wii or whatever the heck it is we think we're missing out on. Life is about this, this beautiful family.

And this morning at 3:30 a.m. when Grady decided he was up for the day and I reluctantly agreed, he took my hand and led me to the kitchen, where there is always a nightlight on and a radio always set to a rock station and there is always a fresh bunch of bananas for him to choose from. He wandered around munching a banana while I scrambled a couple eggs. I watched him dancing and eating to the Toadies "Possum Kingdom" and I was struck by just how incredibly cool this almost-14-month-old person is and how much I have to be grateful for and how it's time to get back to sharing it all with you, dear reader.

So here I am and I promise, I am making the commitment, to updating here at least once a week for as long as, well, as long as is possible. Till my fingers fall off and my brain doesn't work anymore. On what day you say? Ha! That's a surprise! (means I don't know and refuse to be pinned down!) So, welcome back to me. And to you. Please drop me a line some time, I'd love to hear from you!

The Food Stamp Foodie

So lately I've had a major case of Velcro Baby, otherwise known as Baby Who Never Wants To Be Put Down, which makes it hard to write. I posted a pic of this sweet little Velcro dumpling this morning one-handed as he held fast to my hair with both fists and chewed my cheek. Ah, motherhood. I have never enjoyed it so much in all its precious fleeting glory. As Dear Daughter is turning 16 next month, the F-Bomber is now 6 and tiny boy is the last of the fleet I feel, I don't know, exhausted, happy, confused, lonely already. The other night the two older children were gone with friends and baby was napping. Hubby and I actually had dinner together, neither of us juggling a grabby, crabby tot or refilling milk glasses or cutting meat, etc. It was WEIRD I tell you! Strange and outlandish! I felt my mortal clock ticking loudly as I was reminded: Good God woman, this is what old age will be like. Just you and Matt. Listening to each other chew. And my GOD did he always eat like that or is this a special night because no kids are around? The noise was unholy!

Anyhow, as per the title of this post, I am now embarking on a sideways kind of mini-feature of F-Bomb and Mom: a periodic posting that will ponder the issues of feeding one's family while feeling poverty's pinch at the supermarket but still feeling the keen desire to eat well. In this mini-blog, blog-ette or bloglet, as it were, we shall examine issues such as: Is it ethical to purchase luxury items such as brie, balsamic vinegar or toaster strudel with food stamps? (Uh, probably not); How can I feed my family of five on pennies a day (and still make them feel that they are still enjoying their favorite meals, with each food group represented); and cheap food product reviews. The latter I will tackle today in my first Food Stamp Foodie post. And please, if anyone out there is offended by the name of this post, please feel free to ream me a new one. I do realize that people are struggling and hungry and trying really hard to make ends meet. Rest assured, I feel you. I am you.

So. Lets talk ramen. Yes, these starchy turds in cellophane have been a staple of the broke for, I don't know, centuries? When I was a kid we once lived in a rented duplex alongside a very motivated, interesting and mainly non-English speaking Korean family who ran a home sewing business. The children, first generation Americans, were wonderful playmates. Their daughter, Ami (pronounced Ah-Me) and I were instant best friends. We even started our own neighborhood newspaper which is remarkable, since I was only in first grade and she in second and it was hand-printed in both English and Korean. My pen name was Jade Snow and we covered the north side of Escanaba like pros. Anyhow, I digress.

The neighbor children, which included Ami and her two young brothers, introduced me to ramen for the first time. It was their favorite after-school snack and I saw them eat it often. They were eager to share and after an initial period of doubt I gave in and tried. Salty. Weird. Starchy. What's really weird? They didn't cook it. Ami and her brothers would sit on the back stoop, peel back the crinkly wrapper, extract the silvery little seasoning packet, rip it open with their teeth and sprinkle it over the hard crispy noodles. Chomp and repeat, crispy white bits flying everwhere, the tiny curls collecting on their clothes for later, I guess. I didn't know that ramen was eaten cooked until high school, when it became a dietary staple after a night of, um, 'recreational smoking' with my friends.

The other night I was discussing ramen on the phone with my mother. Ramen is poor food, but it is a nourishing, hot meal that, for about .19 cents a package, fills up your tummy and your cupboard for a very reasonable price. But what about when company comes over and you're pinched for an entree? Enter the cup 'o ramen complete with freeze dried veggies and shrimp or TVP. Fancy! Still cheap! Same quick cook time, but clean up is even more of a breeze because it cooks and is served in the same container! Woo Hoo! My mother thinks I'm hilarious. And for about .48 cents a serving, your guests will be full, satisfied, and impressed that you stepped up your game for them.

But what about date night, you ask? What happens when you're still on a ramen budget but you have a special someone coming over? Not to worry. I have recently discovered the Holy Grail of ramen, the defacto champion of cheap noodles, nay, the GOD of all ramen: Nissin chow mien. Can I get an Amen?

My dear uncle Baboo turned me on to these sweet eats and I am eternally grateful. At about .78 cents a pack for these tasty num-nums, they reign as the most expensive ramen, but as you can imagine, the most delicious. They require more cooking time; five minutes compared to the standard three. Instead of one spice pack to open there are three to fumble with and they do not exhibit the curliness of regular ramen but by God, these are the most fantastic cheap noodles you will ever imbibe! I swear, they are WAY better than the noodles at my favorite Chinese buffet and an ocean apart from any other ramen, ever. The terriyaki beef is by far my favorite - it comes with a little veggie pack, seasoning pack and flavored oil. Yumm-O.

According to the Nissin website, there are 15 flavors, though locally I can only source three, the beef, chicken and shrimp varieties. I have had all three and all are delicious. Since I have discovered Nissin noodles, I have eaten them for lunch every day; I am sure my doctor would be so proud of me (not so hot on the sodium content, like all ramen)! So try them, for real, you will thank me, your date will thank me, your wallet will thank me, your doctor, not so much. And that's it for this post. I am tired and it's late. Over and out.