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.