Merry Merry!

 

I've got up both my Christmas tress, the stockings are hung by the chimney with care, the village is nestled in the snowy cabinet, the reindeer are precariously perched from above, and thousands of Santa's are silently glaring and judging from the entry hall table.  Perfection!  Only prob:  I ran out of steam and didn't put up the nativity.  Which even made Mr B a little nervous around all those glaring Santas...  Looks like baby Jesus is just gonna have to chill in his sock this year and let the santas win this round... I swear I am gonna put extra in the offering plate this season.  SWEAR!  It's just that I am D.O.N.E. decorating.  For realzzzzz.

Life is actually clipping along over here at a steady pace.  Mr B has joined the ranks of the employed and is dealing with the daily grind of brutal commuting, packing boring leftover lunches, and ignoring bitchy, moody co-workers who punish others for their problems at home.  Ain't getting a paycheck great?!?!

Life at home is sweet and easy.  Lil brother swears he NEVER has homework... and I am totally getting on his bandwagon... the report card is prob gonna be a brutal b*tch slap, but oh well...  Big kid is being chill and mostly mature but is still throwing all his sh*t around the house like phones, books, shoes, pencils, balls, belts, as if they were honest to God Israeli missiles over Gaza... What's up with that??? ...And he also turns on every light in this house and then immediately leaves that room because.... he can????  What's up with that????

On the GDMFC! front-I am D.O.N.E. with radiation!   WOOHOO!!!!  It' is such a relief to not have to show the titties to er'yone all the time.  I could never be a band groupie, that's for sure.

Of course I'm now entering unchartered menopausal waters, but gah, y'all...  That's even MORE boring than GDMFC.   Sheesh...  So here' the wrap up:

Big kid:  Hey, mom, what is menopause?
Me (striking a Victorian pose: pointed toe, nose in air, wrist on forehead):  It means I'm dying.
Big kid:  Oh.  Ummm-kay...  So what's for supper???"

Yeah...  And that about does it for over here at the UBB headquarters!

Boyless

Since all the fellas at Unabashed Blather Headquarters (The UBH-sounds terrorist doesn't it???) were zombie camping this weekend, I totally had a slacker-girly weekend.  Meaning all my clothes from my closet are busted out and thrown in discarded, drunken piles, jewelery and hair bands are sprinkled like dead cockroaches all over the house, the sink is full of dirty dishes, and half consumed diet cokes in dirty cups have sprouted on my nightstand.  Basically I talked on the phone for hours,  trolled the Internet for eons, smoked cigs in my PJ's with wild abandon, and spent my grocery budget on a facial/massage.  Who needs well balanced meals when there's a stale box of Cheez-Its in the back of the pantry behind the ice cream salt???

Oh, but I also had a fun girl date!  Hence the busted out closet...  I finally opted for big sparkly earrings and a gray/black ensemble with suede boots and a turquoise scarf.  By the end of the night the earrings were lost, and I was drunk as a skunk on four glasses of Chardonnay.  A perfect therapy session with a smart, beautiful friend who refuses TO KISS ASS!!!  Ever.  For anyone.  How hottttt is THAT?!?!?

The boys are returning soon, so I have to hang sh*t back up in the closet, load the dishwasher, take out the trash, and flush the butts.... totally worth it...  even if that means I have to turn into a kitchen slut for my real life.  I can totally sympathize with Cinderella...

Oh! Oh! Oh!  CELEBRITY SIGHTING ALERT!!! 
Winona Judd sat at the table behind us, and I totally caught her checking us out...  for REALZZZZZ!!!

For now, I am sitting amidst the chaos totally feeling the peace and contentment. 

What happens at the UBH-stays at the UBH!!!

Mental Health

I finally asked the cancer doc for some depression meds.  Due to my imminent 5 yr rounds of medically induced cancer menopause, I only had one option....that gave me chronic morning sickness, dizzying head spins, and the spitting pukes.  So I wiped my mouth with my sleeve, blew my nose, and flushed that option down the tank.  And am now man handling my own sour disposition with gritted teeth and narrowed eyes, just double dog daring a b*tch to come have a piece of this.  And people think zombies are scary...  Oh yeah, and winter is closing in, and we will all soon be trapped inside.... together.

I am supposed to be working with a trainer on physical/mental wellness.  Well, f*ck that.  I texted her a terse message that I needed to cancel our appt.  And what then does she sweetly do???  Why, texts me back trying to set up another appt for next week, "same time???"  I have now decided to text her that I have a pinched nerve in my lower back and will be "resting".... indefinitely...while smoking cigs and burning calories channel surfing .  What the f*ck's up with people not getting the f 'ing brush off these days???  ....  sheesh!

But I do have a facial/massage scheduled for today and am seriously considering pulling the trigger on purchasing a new Fossil handbag...  which is making me all twitchy and stoked about planning outfits around my uber trendy new bag...   Retail therapy is my new drug of choice.  Because being financially responsible and physically healthy is for douche bags...

Ranting and Such an All

I have been doing my daily radiation and fighting exhaustion and a bad attitude to boot-hence my blog slacking.  Basically I've been in my bathrobe hunkered down watching those trashy, slutty Bravo Housewives act the fool for to our endless delight.  Not a pretty picture, mind you... of me or them, frankly.

But I did have a recent resurgence of my former sharp tongued glory when I found myself picking a fight with a couple of preachers over gay bashing and pulpit politics...and then hit the send button on a scathing email which totally made me look like a liberal, gay loving, yellow dog Democrat.  Sigh...  And that's pretty much the truth of it although I generally try to keep my political vitriol off the Internet.  Well intentioned preachers have been banging the pulpit and waving the bible in futile attempts to keep blacks and women out of the voting polls for ages-all in the name of the High and Mighty.  Yet, look where we are now.  Baby, we've come a long way...!   I just want to punch stupid white men in the head sometimes-while smoking a Virginia Slim, mind you.

I even told Mr B that I might even put a gay rainbow sticker on my car just so the gays would know that I've got their back in the upcoming election-and to piss off those snooty, small minded preachers!  Mr B was wise enough to say nothing-which means that I currently do not want to punch him in the head.  Miracles can happen...

See you at the polls!

Fall Break Project

Our big project for fall break has been mucking out the boys' bonus rm/man cave.  Laws...  what a dusty, dark, nasty hole!  So I give Mr B fair warning, grit my teeth, ask my MIL to pray for her son and heirs' safety (this kinda project makes me wanna go all Roman and crucify deserving folks), and pull the trigger.  Natch'rally.  And it is a catastrophe-with fair results.  Mr B and I bicker the whole time; lil brother goofs off and doesn't listen or help much; big kid turns every job into a throwing athletic contest while mosey-ing around oblivious that his padre is snarling and foaming at the mouth and his mother has turned into a vampiric ice queen with psychotically narrowed eyes.  Mr B did eventually apologize (vaguely), and I did eventually warm up (slightly).  And the boys continued to be clueless that their parents nearly d-i-v-o-r-c-e-d and moved into one bedroom apartments on the wrong side of town. 

Big kid said it best: "Hey mom, did you know that 98% of marriages end in home renovations?"

Big kid (who's getting a lil big for his britches) keeps at it: "Hey dad, remember in that movie when that guy said, 'Marriage is like a rickety bridge.  Just don't put any stress on it and it'll be fine?' " 

Hells bells!  Ain't that The Truth?!?

After I have my chuckle over this touchy (yet truthful) metaphor, I banish big kid to the bonus rm/man cave.  Natch'rally.

D-Day

Sonofab*tch!

It's time to put down the cigs and get this gdmf'n radiation show on the road.  I am a day or two away from having the trigger pulled, but whatcha gonna do but do it...  Sigh...  That's called being a grown-ass woman, I guess...

Of course 'mokin' is sooooo tenth grade...and stupid, stupid, stupid...  Not even I can deny that.  ...Sigh...  So in that vein, I'm totally rockin' the tenth grade attitude
bout it-as in eye rolling, mumble b*tchin' and the like...  i.e. being a TOTAL BRAT.

People who prefer exercise and yoga and healthy eating and meditation for stress relief can just go FUCK OFF.

GDMFC!

Bow Chica Wow Wow!

Mr B has got the crazy eye.  And I mean crazzzzy eye...  Poor man-he has been as long suffering as a  Jewish grandmother while I have been dealing with GDMF! cancer.  Essentially I shut down the bow chica wow wow shop at even the threat that folks were gonna be stabbing me in the boob with needles-which indeed did happen.  Having your boob filleted  and charbroiled just dampens the mood-like for eons.  So I had to recover from that....  then I started back to work....  then I started my period....  then I got a sinus infection...  and then...  y'all, I just lost my nerve, honestly.  Knowing that I was going to have to perform the most biblical and epic BJ of all time for a man who has been as patient as Job... well, laws y'all, that takes courage.  I'm just gonna have to take a page outta of Moses' book and free the people and part the seas...  Pray for me!  I just hope to survive the rug burns.

Hero

Lil brother had to write a hero paper for homework.  So he and Mr B had a convo about what makes someone a hero.  Mr B said he was a little worried that lil brother was going to chose some assassin hero from a video game, and he was gearing up to veto that idea when lil brother announces that he's choosing.....big kid!  How cool is that???...considering that lil brother likes to torture, tattle-tell, and otherwise drive him crazy on a daily basis.  According to lil brother's paper, big kid is his hero because he wrestles and plays video games with him.  Lil brother acknowledges that he often loses to his big brother and gets mad (natch'rally) but not for long.  It's nice to see lil brother appreciating his big bro who will hopefully have his back for life. 

Speaking of heroes, those men and women who lost their lives on 9/11 are trapped in our hearts forever.  Their sacrifice is unimaginable, and I am so glad that lil brother (who was born on 9/11) will always have these Americans as his role model.

God bless the USA!

Back to Normal

My hater-rade is in full lather.  And my friends are thrilled (one is terrified).

My bff commented on this at 7:42 AM on Thursday after I had already labeled three misinformed folks "IDIOTS!"-all before even quaffing my first cuppa joe.  "Thank God you're BACK!" she rejoiced.

And sure enough, I was foaming at the mouth the next afternoon over a STUPID! STUPID! email.  And this time the f-bombs were flying with GD force.

My crazy eye has also warmed up.  I found myself scanning a group of squirrely kids while little clicks and whirrs and buzzing sounds prepared a WTF! torpedo launch.  Saved by the bell... by a nanosecond.

This whole going-back-to-work gig is just irritatin', y'all.   Evenly applying my Cover Girl foundation e'ry freakin day, accessorizing for the younger crowd, packing boring lunches, and frantically kicking the copier's ass and deleting stupid as f*ck emails while politely answering 97,251 questions every 3 minutes through clenched teeth ain't no lil thing, y'all.  I guess I got a little too comfortable with lounging in my bath robe, cradling my left boob with pillows, and popping oxy's while watching Housewives from 10 AM-9 PM.  Cancer does have its perks, is all I'm sayin.' 

Mr B is gonna have to buy me a lottery ticket...  TODAY.  Or I just need to be a chain smoker. 

Whatev...

Dating

I took lil brother on a lunch date to practice his "dating" skills.  He chose Olive Garden (which I hate!)  because he says its "romantic."  I'm not sure my having to drive and pay for a place I don't like is very "romantic," but he did beg to pump gas which I was more than happy for him to do (I hate gas stations!).  And he casually remarks, while coolly leaning on the car's bumper, "I'm working on my man card!"  ...INDEED! 

So to prep him for our lunch "date," I ask him to tell me three things he needs to remember on a "date."  "Give compliments.  Have manners.... and das it."  And I can live with that-three is such an overrated number anyway.  In the car I prod him a little-just to get the "date" rolling along.  "So how do you like this outfit?" (flowy yellow paisley shirt with cuffed jeans and brown/gold leather sandals-totally cute!)  And he turns in his seat to intently study me.  "Your shirt really goes with your hair and your eyes," he seriously concludes.  I'm not sure what that means, but it is an awfully nice and sincere thing to say and I can tell he put some effort into it, so I'm totally taking it!

The rest of the "date" was sweet and lovely, and we had interesting conversations that covered about 5,792 topics that only a mama could really enjoy.  But whatev...  he's all mine for long as I can keep him-even If I have to keep going back to Olive Garden and pay a pirate's ransom for a plate of tepid lasagna. 

Silly, stupid girls can just stay away!

Kid Score

I am pressing lil brother for compliments this morning and ask him to rank my mom skills on a scale of 1-10.  "SIX!" he promptly responds-no thinking involved-natch'rally.  Of course I am miffed that I barely pass the average mark.  So I insist he explain his reasoning...  Come to find out he's not a fan of vacuuming or putting away dishes-which I make him do.  "And then you ask dad to do stuff, and then he makes me do it!"  OK-I am guilty of trickle-down chores.  Resisting the urge to pinch his head off or squeeze his arm, I ask him to explain the negative long term effects that vacuuming and putting away dishes is gonna have on his emotional and psychological well being in the future...  But he's totally bored now and already channel surfing.  So I do what any mom would:  I pin him down and tickle him like it's Judgement Day....for at least SIX minutes.

HA! .....brat!

Oh, and btw-he screamed like a little girl.

Kids and Cancer

Y'all, I am embarrassed to say, that my kids don't see the down side to cancer.  E'ry night they're like:
"Where we eating out tonight!?!" 
"Cool!  Who made that cake?!?" 
"What's in that card!?!"

Big kid was like,"Whoa!  Your friends really like you, mom!  Do they ever just give you money???  And I assure him, cancer is not like your birthday ...dummy!

Mr B actually brought lil brother to see me after surgery while I was high on drugs and desperation.  And of course the kid proceeds to open cabinets, touch and successfully operate medical equipment, turn on the TV and find Sponge Bob (which will make you want to die right then and there), bounce on my bed which he put at a weird angle, and roam the halls loudly spying and reporting on the weird, sick person in the next room (who wants to die because Sponge Bob is laughing his pants off)-even though Mr B is hollering, snarling grim death threats, and giving him the crazy eye for all his carrying on.  I couldn't get outta there fast enough.  Having your family perform their usual antics in a "serious" place is well, just...awkward.

Mr B went with me to my radiology appt yesterday.  Mainly because I prefer to be carried places- driving is for commoners, in my book-but mostly because he says I am irresponsible about cancer and can't be trusted.  And he's pretty much right...  I am a slacker in the cancer department. And I have been known to tell a lie... or two... 

So the sweet lil nurse is going through my health history and is quite delighted about how generally healthy I am when Mr B pipes up, "Don't be too impressed, she cusses like a sailor."  Sweet lil nurse is naturally horrified and in disbelief that someone as charming as myself (I brilliantly translate as angelic when folks first me...) could have such a rotten, foul mouth.  At which I inform her that, "I am married to a liar-and she can put that in my chart."  And I smile in such a sickeningly sweet manner as to convince even the wall paper that indeed Mr B is quite correct...

Next I meet with the doctor-who is a distinguished Chinese gentleman.  And for the next 30 minutes, he will only look at Mr B while talking about my boob.  Poor thing, he couldn't look my homegrown southern boobs in the eye.  But I love him anyway, especially when he clasped both my hands in his while bowing and assuring me that he would take care of me.  I just adore Chinese knights in shining armor!  Even if big boobs creep them out...

Which is another odd perk to cancer.  It just makes you love everybody....seriously!

Nursing Home

I swung through the nursing home to drop off some flowers for grandmother and decided to snoop out the daily activity board before handing over my goods.  Hmmmm.... some pretty interesting options at the ol folks home, if I do say so.  Take for example the movie premier where the first part of the movie will be shown before lunch.  That's right-who the hell cares about the movie's conclusion anyway???  All the good endings have already been taken.  Screw it!  Watching 1/2 a movie in the morning sounds ultra-glam, like you got more important sh*t to do than wait for an overpaid actor to finish his lines.  After lunch is for napping and gossiping anyway.  E'rybody knows that.

I confess to Mr B (who is unwillingly tagging along with me even though it is his grandmother we are there to see) that I kinda like the nursing home.  You can park your wheel chair in the hallway and out right stare people down without any remorse or shame.  You can speak if you wanna...or not-while staring.  You can also watch those young, hottt orderlies working up a sweat while swabbing the deck...all the while peeing in your Pampers, if you so choose while wondering about how that movie is gonna end...  And just imagine all the gossiping about those sour relatives and negative nurses and slutty social workers and bored cafeteria staff... Why, that's more interesting than the conclusion of  East of Eden.  I could live on that for decades.

Mr B says he hates the ol' folks home.  E'rybody is always talking loudly to you, asking you irritatin' sh*t, only showing half movies, and making you go to recreation to bat around balloons with half strung badminton paddles.  Mr B is gonna be a terrible grumpapatomus with big ears and a bad mood when he gets to the ol folks home.  I can assure you that when he is not kicking up a fuss about missing the movie conclusion after lunch because he was taking an ol man nap, he'll be talking dirty to any nurse over the age of 57.

Let's just hope they put us in separate rooms...  and our grandchildren like badminton.

Slacker

Sorry, y'all...  I've been slacking.  I guess I could blame it on the cancer...  but honestly, I've just been a slacker.

*On the boob front-I am cancer free! Woo hoo!!!  I still have radiation therapy to slug through, but all in all, I consider this a blessing.

*Mr B gets bonus points for being a surgery trooper.  He was cool, calm, and collected the whole time-a reg'lar cancer cowboy.   He even called an asshole doc who stabbed me in the nipple with a big ass needle "a cruel son of a bitch!"  And I certainly agreed with him through my hurricane of tears.  Mr B also made sure I had my lipgloss the entire time and even insisted that I get some waxing done pre-surgery.  I had the best eyebrows, hands down.  And that's no lie.  He's also been a pill popping-Nazi making me knock back my oxy's like clock work.  It's been groovy, man...

*This week I've been recovering like a sorority girl at a Panhellenic lock-in:  messy ponytail bun, naked face, men's boxers, tank tops, and toothpaste.  That's about the extent of my personal hygiene or fashion efforts.  But hey, my eyebrows are perfectly arched.

*Most importantly-I've eaten like a queen this week.  One of the perks of being a southerner is just how seriously folks take feeding the sick.  The menu has been amazing.  Here's a lil taste for all you foodies out there:  lasagna, salad, pot roast, fruit tray, brownies and ice cream, pizza and cookies, alfredo chicken spaghetti bake, Nacho casserole, Mexican cornbread salad, homemade chicken noodle soup, and crock pot chicken and dressing...  And it ain't even over yet!  Laws!!!  I'd say that was almost worth getting cancer for!

Count your blessings, gals!  I sure am...!

I've been high on oxy for a few days while my boob has been hanging out doing...whatever boobs do...  Not only has the oxy helped me sleep off the trauma of surgery, but it's also emboldened me with another super power:  the crazy eye don't lie!  I'm hoping that this phenomena will last beyond my drug usage and work in e'ryday scenarios as well.  Nobody messes with the crazy eye.  And mine is pretty epic.  No lie.

Today my boob drain comes out.  I'm a little apprehensive about this procedure seeing as how Dr Asshole who harpooned me initially was completely unaffected by my fetal position crying jag when he casually speared me.  "It feels like a bee sting for just a minute," he drawls in a bored, I need another cuppa coffee voice.  Bee sting, my ass!  I seriously want to harpoon him in his balls-asshole!  My crazy eye is already warming up.  Hopefully my sweet, perky lil surgeon with hands like sparrows will make this process easy-as possible.  However, sometimes you gotta just grit your teeth and chew an f-bomb to dust and carry on...

No Spring Chicken

At my recent sojourn at the local hospital, I was proverbially thumped in the forehead for forgetting that I am no longer a spring chicken.  As if I needed a sour side dish of that with a serving of lumpectomy....  Anyhoo!

My first medical act upon check-in is to pee into a cup to see if I have a bun in the oven.  When the nurse peruses my negative results, I joke to Mr B, "Well, at least we aren't leaving here with a baby!"  And Crusty Nurse Cruella grimly confirms, "No, of course not dear, that test is really for girls who are still in their 20's and 30's," as she efficiently goes back to her business....  bitch!

Next I am wheeled into radiology when who should appear but Barbie's longtime boyfriend Ken-blond, golden, perfectly proportioned, and eternally youthful.  "Hello! Miz B!  My name is Corey!  I'm gonna be looking after you this morning!  So how are you today?!?"    ....for fuck's sake....  Are you kidding me?  A kid named Corey is now the boss of my BOOB???  ....for fuck's sake...  Anyone with the name of Corey cannot be a day over 15 years old...  for fuck's sake...  So Corey is undressing my left boob and appears to be puzzled and concerned, "Miz B!  What do we have here!?!" So I patiently explain to Corey in my best I am talking to a 15 yr old voice, "Corey honey,  my boob is covered in numbing cream and seran wrap BECAUSE THE DOCTOR TOLD ME TO!"  Despite my piss-n-vinegar tone, Corey breezily proceeds to wipe down my lotioned, numb boob...  ...for fuck's sake...

Corey may have been young and dumb, but I'm gonna give him pretty.

Laws...

Cancer Fashion Flare

Whew!  I survived the lumpectomy and am now at home higher than a cat's ass from all the pain meds Mr B is stuffing down my throat.  Truth be told:  I think he's doing it more for his pain, than mine...  Anyhoo...!  I'm looking a little road hard and put up wet at this point, but watcha gonna do when people have been chasing you through hospital corridors with a chainsaw???  I suspect that's what really happens when the anesthesiologist comes in to "drug" you.  It's all just a big horror story, for sure.

On a more positive note, I had some really cute boys taking care of my boob during my hospital stay.  However, once they start jamming you in the titty with giant needles and such, they're all just a bunch of sons of bitches  Pretty, my ass (spit! over the shoulder).

Now, on to the important stuff:  what does one wear for breast cancer surgery? 

Here's the break down:  a pink-plaid flannel shirt with cuffed sleeves, fitted black yoga socks, and pink and black booties to tie it all together.   Oh!  and pigtails and clear lip gloss just about wraps it up (always moisturize with SPF-even if you're planning to die on the operating table) .  Now that I'm home, I'm wearing the same pink-plaid flannel shirt with grey plaid men's boxers rolled at the waist-and a messy bun on top of my head and light foundation to even out the post-surgery blotches.  I might be inspired to switch it up and wear Mr B's red plaid man robe at some point.  Less is more is my cancer fashion philosophy.

Whew!  I've just about run out of steam...  I'm off now to go pop a few pills and then slobber into my pillow.  What could be more fashionable than that???

Y'all stop by again soon!

Mystery

Big kid is now a high schooler.  Weird, right?!?  So I ask him, "Have you picked out your outfits for the week?"  And he looks at me like I'm a creature from the deep.

People with penises-there ain't no understanding them. 

Laws, y'all...

Little Pitchers Have Big Ears

I remember eavesdropping on my momma when I was young-and foolish.  She would spend hours on the phone trash talking neighbors and husbands and church ladies and school teachers and irritatin' relatives for hours in hushed tones punctuated with bouts of raucous laughter with her best friend Gladys Carrier.  She would talk so long that she would lie on the floor, tangled in the mile long phone cord with her feet propped up on the counter and a watered down TAB drink in her hand.  It would make my father furious that he could never call his own home and talk to a solitary soul.  His only compensation-a chronic busy signal.  The more my mother whispered, the more desperate I became to learn her secrets.  I knew that whatever she was talking 'bout was important... and juicy...  and likely sacrilegious (even though she was a devout Southern Baptist).  To my great dismay, my mother had ears like a cat and could hear the whisper of tippy toes on carpet.  Indeed-she must have been a ninja.  No matter how careful I thought I was, I always got caught and suffered (willingly) a stinging slap to the behind for my poor detective skills and trying to mind my mama's business.  This is the greatest sin a Southern chile can commit.  Lying can be forgiven.  Listening to your mama's inner most secrets-NEVER. 

Which is why I have retired Blither Blather Bitchin' to a more secure location where the young and the restless aren't minding my bid'ness.  Of course, I forgive them for their sordid and perverse curiosity.  I'd probably do the same in their shoes...  Laws, y'all- who wouldda thunk that lady chat could be so dang...interesting???

Anyhoo....  WELCOME TO UNABASHED BLATHER!!!  I hope you will appreciate the face lift and the botox, but just a friendly warning:  just the same ol' drivel posted here.

I am thrilled you stopped by and would love it if you'd take a moment to become an official follower (see side bar).  It does a blogger's heart and soul wonders to know that there's an audience out there who is never too busy for a bit of vulagarity or absurdity-my personal preference at any rate.

Y'all come again, here?

Blessings!

Today I saw a little yellow goldfinch dodging pattering raindrops as it flitted through the trees, and it gladdened my soul.

Perks

Cancer is mostly a hassle:  ... the appointments ... the paperwork ...  the pamphlets...  not to mention constant discussions of grody body fluid...  Laws...!  I need an extra Xanax just to forget 'bout all that...

Mr B also pointed out another cancer phenomenon.  Whenever anyone mentions the dreaded word "cancer,"  they instantly lower their voices three octaves and look over their shoulder and take a step backwards.  Indeed-it is a creepy word...  kinda like the word "plague!"

Recently, however, I discovered a cancer perk while talking to an irritatin' sales guy on the phone.  "Excuse me!"  I rudely interrupt his rehearsed pitch.  "I have cancer!"  Y'all, I almost felt sorry for him seeing as how he couldn't apologetically scramble off that phone fast enough.  And that's when it hit me:  I just pulled THE CANCER CARD.  Who knew the power of that one lil phrase???

So here's some other ways I plan to pull THE CANCER CARD in the near future:

Pass the salt??? Excuse me...!  I have cancer!
Me first!!!  Do you have cancer???
I'm not interested in your bullshit...  I have cancer!
You talking to me?!?  I have cancer!

As y'all can see, the potential for abuse of power is pretty darn great here-like 110%.  And what fool what turn away from that??? 

...B'member-  I have cancer!

Update

I guess it's time to return to my day job since the sounds of cartoons are starting to rake across my one frazzled nerve, and lil brother has become even lazier than even I thought possible-which is pretty epic to begin with.  I'm pretty tired of seeing him slumped shirtless on the couch with freaky hair wrapped up in a raggedy blanket, circa 1978.  I feel the same way about Cartoon Network that vampires feel about silver...  Egad!   Make it stoppppppp!!!!

My B was a little shocked recently when he picked up my cancer folder and saw the letters GDMFC! boldly scribbled on the front cover.  "It took like .7 seconds for me to figure that one out.  You're not gonna carry this around are you?" he muses.  And yes, I assure him, I AM.  It's my GD cancer folder, and I can write any GD thing I want to it on it.  I also assure him, that should he ever need a cancer folder, I will decorate his folder with butterflies and rainbows and HELLO KITTY stickers...  Pardon me if  GDMFC! is not very politically correct and makes others uncomfortable. 

My lumpectomy surgery is scheduled for Aug 14th, followed by 3-6 wks of radiation.  And honestly, I am just sitting around tapping my toes ready to get this show on the road.  August is a real sh*t storm for me with my day job slamming around like a raging, drunken tornado sucking up the innocent and evil alike.   Laws...  Where is lil brother's blanket???  Think I'm gonna wrap up in it and watch another Housewives episode....  or two...

Last night I went with a group of gal pals to a murder mystery dinner tour and then afterwards to a local piano bar.  It was a rollicking good time with some sassy ladies who totally rocked the MILF looks.  FYI:  I wore a short blue/green dress with stacked heels, silver bangles, and lottsa, lottsa green eye shadow.  Even the lavatory  bar maid said I looked HOTTTTTT!!!!  And she would know after watching all those hoochie mamas stumbling into the piss pots...  Anyhoo...!  The French Canadian piano player and the Sex on Beach (dranks, y'all!) were just what the doctor ordered.

Speaking of docs... Today is the day I go listen to my "options."  Y'all know I hate technical talk.  And of course the doc is expecting me to come to the appointment with "questions."  Seeing as how I 've not given much thought to GDMF cancer,  I'm gonna have to pull one out of my ass so as not to appear to be an uninterested, uninvolved, slacker cancer patient-which is what I am, btw.  So this is my token question:

Can I have bionic boobs?  I want boobs that can rotate and zoom and upload pics to Facebook.  Oh, and I really need red infrared sniper boobs that can pout a bead on someone from a mile or so away-just to encourage folks to straighten up and fly right-or else.  Oh!  and how 'bout water gun nipple nozzles that squirt unsuspecting f*cktards in the eye???  But please, oh please, can I have a pair of disco titties that spin and change colors and play Stayin' Alive! Stayin' Alive!  Ah Ah Ah Ah  Stayin' Aliiiiivvvve!!!!...  Can I???  Please???  Oh, and I'd like a wireless remote with that too.

Now, if I can have all that,  I'm IN!!!

I'm counting my blessings!

Drama

Y'all know that I love drama: real drama,  made-up drama, speculated on drama, barely there drama.  I'm not picky.  It's probably the reason I watch every Housewives franchise on Bravo TV.  There is no drama too small or too inconsequential that could make me look away.  I'm IN, baby!  E'ry time.  So in the wake of receiving the "cancer" verdict, it was only natch'ral that I would feel entitled to some home made drama.  So I went there-gnashing, arm flinging rage was my drama of choice.  And my victim???  Why, Carnival Cruise Lines, natch'rally... 

And it went a lil sumpin like this:

"REFUND MY GODDAMN FUCKING $$$ BECAUSE I HAVE GODDAMN FUCKING CANCER!!!"

And the very nice lady, of course, is sorry to hear this (which makes me want to kick her in her GODDAMN FACE-natch'rally).  But this is just not company policy.  Can she schedule a cruise for me at a better time, perhaps?

"THERE IS NO FUCKING BETTER TIME THAN NOW TO GET MY GODDAMN MONEY, LADY!  FUCK YOU!  I HAVE GODDAMN CANCER!"

Conclusion:  So, it would appear that I will be taking a Carnival Cruise sometime in the future, should I care to use my credit.  For fuck's sake....

Tip of the day: The next time you loose your freaking mind, call Carnival Cruise Lines.  They are infinitely polite, amazingly conciliatory, and persistent in finding you the perfect cabin that can contain your FUCKING DRAMA.

C-word

Alright:  The biopsy is positive for cancer.  Dammit...

So taking the bull by the horns I decide to tell the boybarians right away.  I plan to say something eloquent, inspiring, hopeful... "I have breast cancer..." is all I can manage before bursting into tears.  They freeze.  Big kid has glassy eyes.  Lil brother stares wide eyed, alarmed.  They look from me to their dad.... breaths held.  The moment suspended.  And even I glance at Mr B who simply stands as a sentinel, resolute, not rushing the moment or pushing it forward with useless words.  We simply sit in this fragile moment-together.

I am sure there will be more of these moments.  And there has been.  As I explain to lil brother later, "I am mad and sad."  "At me?" he worries.  And I chuckle.  I assure him, no, no-he's off the hook-for now...

And indeed real life does eclipse the "big moments."  I did several loads of laundry today, emptied the dishwasher, and within 17 minutes of my major revelation, the boys were fighting, had spilled a cup of Ramen noodles on the carpet, and had already used 18 plastic cups that were spread on the kitchen counter...

A friend said to me today, "Our love stories and our tragedies are never as elegant as we plan." So true. So very, very true.

On Friday I will meet with the doc to discuss "options."  We caught this early (Mr B is feeling righteous and justified about this) and the cancer is small-a blessing, indeed.  Our little world is going to have a few bumps in the road, but we will take them one hurtle at a time.

Blessings-as always!

B Day...no, not my Birthday...

Biopsy Day:  It's noon and I am higher than a cat's ass, dancing in the kitchen as Mr B badly sings a rendition of...   ???   ....  Oh hell,  I can't even remember.  But it was groovy.  And I didn't want it to stop...  I can see why folks might be trolling street corners looking for a hit of this...  The doctor has given me a Valium to knock back my nerves a notch before harpooning my boob with a giant forked needle (this is what my brain is telling me-not the doctor). 

And FYI-I am not afraid of cancer.  I am terrified of needles though.  I beg Mr B to not make me do this. I am totally comfortable with not knowing.  But he stoically insists that we deal with this now.  Which figures since it's unlikely his boob is cancerous, and it's ever so easy to sign someone else up for a giant needle through her boob.  So I grimly threaten him,  "Just wait until I have to make a decision about your balls!  Oh, yeah!  No mercy, mister!  I'm gonna REMEMBER THIS."  He just compassionately squeezes my knee and makes the appointment anyway.  "Bastard!..."  I acidly think.  And btw:  I hate pink.  I am not wearing pink.  No matter what...

Mr B, who is my keeper while I'm high off my ass, is taking his job seriously.  "Hey, I watched this show about a man with a 160 lb scrotum that he carries around in an upside down  hoodie, and his home health nurse, her name is Precious, comes by to wash it everyday..."  And he graphically goes into detail how Precious has to wash out the penis folds that are inches deep..  Gah!  I thought my job was bad...  And as planned, I am revolted and oddly amused and cannot stop thinking about a 160 lb scrotum... 

Finally, it's time to go, but I'm piddling around the house picking sh*t up per my usual, putting on more lip gloss.  "Goddammit! Get in the car!"  Mr B barks.  "...Please???"  he amends.  Looks like I'm not the only one nervous about boob harpooning...

Once there:  I have on my comfy pink (sigh...) slippers, yoga pants, and open in the front gown.  I take one more look in the mirror to check on my make-up.  "Damn!  That green eyeliner is really working for me,"  I think, before putting on my sleep mask which a wise friend has given me.  If you want to lead an ornery old mare out of a burning barn, you'd better put blinders on her...

A few hours later:  It is done.  I have survived.  I am bleary eyed and trussed up like a turkey with a cold pack on my boob, but my make-up still looks good and the green eyeliner is still working for me.  Triumph!

Once home:  The boybarians cautiously check on me, so I tell them that the doctor has special boob orders for them:  if/when the boob falls off, big kid is to pick it up and toss it to lil brother who will hold it up for a pic while his brother uploads the picture to Facebook.  Of course, everyone will LIKE the pic, and they will be boob heroes!  They are horrified. Naturally...

And y'all, for what it's worth, I am feeling strangely blessed by this lil life hiccup.  The support of my friends and family, well, it's enough to make even an ol' belligerent battle axe like me blink back a tear or two...  And honestly, at least I don't have a 160 lb scrotum to carry around in a hoodie.

Blessings to you ALL!

Stuff

Big kid says to lil brother:  "You should write a book and title it STUFF MY BRAIN TELLS ME. Probably be the best fiction book ever."

Sarcasm is totally the domain of 14 year olds.  They OWN it.

We're off to see the new Dark Knight Batman later.  Christain Bale OWNS this smoldering role.  He's one of my fav super heroes.  Probably because I think he's a tortured soul in real life.  Love, love, love his craggy Highlander look, too.  Can't wait to be alone with him and my popcorn bucket in the dark!

Life in the Fast Lane

Mr B and I were having a parenting argument the other evening:

... blah
....blah blah
... blah blah blah

Mr B summed it up this way:  I'm MS RIGHT and he's MR WRONG.

And that pretty much closed the barn door on that.

...evil grin!...

Cra-Cra Part Deux

I had to run an errand at the butt crack of dawn yesterday, and on my way through town I spot a homeless man sitting on a guard rail smoking a cig.  And I think to myself, "Now that's the life..."  Detoxing is kinda still happening.... mostly.

Later that afternoon I call the therapist for an appointment-after coming home from the pharmacy with a crate of tampons. Yeah.. I know-Midol is cheaper.  Anyhoo.... "Yes, I will take the next available appointment!"  It's not like I need another person to tell this same 'ol same 'ol BS too, or even that I'm searching for answers or clarity.  I just need a pill.  And the b*tch had better hand one over....  OR. ELSE.

In the meantime Mr B keeps running bubble baths the size of Lake Michigan for me and doling out my tightly controlled daily ration of "peace and happiness"-keeping one eye me at all times and never turning his back to me.

Smart man, I think.

Follow Up

OK.  That last post was a lil weird.  Even for me-who's living it. I would like to reassure you that the smoke is clearing over here at BB headquarters and my bouts of Silence of the Lambs is getting (slightly) better.  Now I understand why Hannibal Lechter liked eating spleens... with foie gras.  Sigh...

In order to help clear my brain, I have been trudging off to my local YMCA for zumba classes with a couple of gal pals.  Let me tell you what...  You cannot be a Serious Sally while taking these hip thrusting, pelvic grinding classes.  And, ahem...I'm afraid I've been slacking a lil in this department...  Anyhoo!!!  Of course, there is the whole awkwardness as you are are an entire 8 count behind everyone else while huffing and humping and fist pumping.  But the Latino-fabulousness of this class is just so joyful!  So, I plan to continue this embarrassing social experiment to purge my demons while humping my way to happiness (let's hope Mr B doesn't read this post...)

Y'all have a good day!

Battling Demons

I have been arm wrestling demons over here at Blither Blather headquarters, and it hasn't been pretty.  About three months ago I picked up a nasty lil habit-in the form of Marlboro Lights 100's.  Sigh.... I know (eye roll)...  That's sooooo 10th grade.  But y'all, I loved every click of the well oiled lighter, that sweet first suck and draw, and every pull and puff thereafter that transported me into the hazy ether known as WhogivesaF*ckitland-a lovely, idyllic country of peace and tranquility.

'Moking is my siren call.  She is an Indian princess floating down the sacred river...  the mermaid's sigh...  the dark eyed Lilith casting that tempting glance over her bare shoulder...  the opium den madame reclining on a silk couch with legs sprawled and robe hiked up with one hand in a bowl of sugared figs while the other hand tenderly strokes the hookah pipe...

Yeah.  I have a problem.  Clearly.  So I pulled the plug...  and sobbed like a forgotten child all day on Sunday, paralyzed with grief.  On Monday I was an empty, numb shell with screaming, razor sharp nerves.  Tuesday I was brittle and haggard and calculatingly vicious.  The haze had lifted and I could see clearly for the first time in months...  I was living in a F*cktardnation...and Mr B was THE KING of the F*cktards...  By Wednesday, the pain and longing was a dull, tender throbbing with spikes of agony. 

And so the world turns...  Mr B finally insisted that I shower, gently strapped me into the car, shoved sunglasses on my face, and silently drove me through town-a bag of loose bones with no will or thought or soul...  And whatdoyaknow???  People were still doing irritatin' sh*t out in the every day world-and I could feel the imperceptible thaw and shift as my reptilian brain began to be mildly, slightly.... interested.  So Mr B bought me an iced tea, and I sipped that lemony, caffeinated goodness waiting, just waiting...

Several months ago I had the grand idea of actually executing some of those fab ideas from my Pinterest food boards and trying some new recipes.... Well, I have been idly adding more pins to those boards. But as for actually rolling up my sleeves and pulling out a food processor.. Well, let's just say I've been saving the pizza coupons in the mail fliers. Please don't return hoping to see some cute pics of adorable meals gracing the Blither Blather dinner table. C'est a vie...

Mr B has made a laundry request: "You don't have to do the laundry," he wisely clarifies. "Just move the piles so we don't have to climb over them in the hallway." A reasonable, yet unlikely, request...

Hot and Bothered

Well, I did indeed attend the Million MILF March to see Magic Mike with a group of saucy ladies.  The kid at the popcorn counter (with raised brow) asks us what movie we're going to see...  And of course I pipe up, "Spiderman!"  "Yeah...umm-hmmm," he smirks.  I guess all the make-up and bangles gave me away, so caught in an embarrassing lie, I wisely deflect. "My friend is making me go see Magic Mike."  And I am positive he believed me.

Of course, MM is er'ything it's hyped up to be-writhing butts and pulsating penises for sure.  I kept waiting (and hoping) that one of those douche bag male strippers was gonna get a cap in the ass or shot in the head.  We all know that's when the movie really gets good.  But (sigh...), no such luck.  Just more writhing of clean shaven butts and jutting penises...  But I am gonna confess that Channing Tatum was, well, adorable and even endearing as he fought the epic internal battle over whether "to be or not to be" a Miami stripper.  Shakespeare would have approved.  ...Seriously!

Although the male eye candy in MM is impressive (and unrealistic),  at the end of the day men shaving their legs and wearing gold panties... is just not, well... manly.  Today at the fish fry as I check out the men in khaki shorts and polos holding a cold beer while keeping one eye on their pesky kids and the other on their unpredictable/needy wives as they man those fryers and hold down the fort...well, now that's gonna be hotttt.

But at the end of the day, and to be fair to the spirit of MM, every generation deserves a Marky Mark.  And folks, that's hotttttt!!!

Enjoy the show!!!

The 4th of July was strangely quiet in our hood since our city sensibly outlawed fireworks due to the drought.  I really missed watching the redneck firework show with folks blowing off fingers and losing an eye, all in the comforts of your own front yard.  Even the boybarians are asking when it's gonna rain again...  Nevertheless, we grilled dogs and burgers and made it to the pool for a restful and uneventful 4th.  No complaints.

I am reading a fabulous book right now:  Diana Gabaldon's The Scottish Prisoner.  It is wonderful and rich in language (Gaelic, French, etc.), impressive vocabulary (e.g. pusillanimous!), historical detail (1700's), and political intrigue surrounding those pesky and rebellious Scottish Jacobites who refuse to be put to the sword by the ruthless English.  I especially love the male protagonist, the earthy Scottish Jamie Fraser who is a man to be reckoned with-if you dare.  The opening scene of Jamie in the barn desperately missing Claire is, well, hotttt.....  Puts 50 Shades to shame, frankly-without gory bodily fluids, I might add.  At one point in the novel Jamie has to confess to a monk about his temptation for fornication and the monk, in all his wisdom, prescribes, "Cold baths.  And reading..."  Mr B just rolled his eyes when I helpfully suggested this remedy. 

Later today I'm off to Target to find some turquoise nail polish and a few MILF accessories for my walk of shame to see Magic Mike as well as to rethink my wardrobe options for a fish fry on Saturday.  Not sure how MILF'ish one should be for greasy hush puppies, But I know the competition is gonna be stiff ... and stylish.  I am carefully mulling my fashion statement...

Well, I'm off for my morning constitutional with the four footed Good Child. 

Stay cool...and pray for rain!

BOOB Report

Although I am walking around with a mysterious lump in my BOOB that has resulted in unplanned (and irritatin') doctor's visits, no one over here at Blither Blather headquarters really seems to be all that concerned (i.e. interested) in my BOOB issues-except Mr B-who is trying to prescribe for me some ridiculous sex'shal therapies that got nuthin' to do with nuthin'.  So feeling beleaguered by all the oblivious penises at my house, I rally the gal pals into prayer circles but tell them to hold off on casserole deliveries seeing as how I'm not quite dead... yet.  Anyhoo, Mr B is with me at the doc's office, and I am on the table with the gown open in front, bracing myself for whatever the universe is throwing my way, when my phone rings.  Big kid is on the other line and wants to know when I will be done.  "What's taking so long?" he queries before asking me if I can pick up his friend on the way home because they have some video gaming to do.    Clearly, I need to get my priorities in order.  Sigh... 

Once home, I over hear Mr B on the phone in the kitchen.  "Yes, I'm calling about my wife's vagina-gram.  Sure...yes, she can answer some questions for you..."  And I am incredulous that any one man on the planet can be SO PREPOSTEROUSLY STUPID AND F'N IRRITATIN'!  I want to punch him in the head as he hands me the phone and chases me through the living room to discuss my "vagina gram"  with an imaginary caller...  sheesh!

Later I find lil brother curled up in my bed watching cartoons, and I'm thinking I've finally found a concerned citizen who might wanna have a BOOB convo with me.  "Hey, lil brother!   Can I tell you about the BOOB procedure where the doctor is gonna stick a giant needle all the way through my BOOB?"  I earnestly ask, hoping that bizarre medical stuff will appeal to his macabre 9 year old sensibilities.  "Nah..."  he shrugs, eyes glued to TV.  So I resort to my final tactic: pinning him down and furiously tickling him like it's Judgement Day.  "SAY YOU CARE ABOUT MY BOOB OR I WON'T STOP!"  And he is a shreiking, sweating, red faced, desperate, bucking bronco of a wild man.  But I show no mercy until he jackknifes and shrieks, " I CARE ABOUT YOUR BOOB!"  At which point I hop off the bed and look back over my shoulder as I hustle on out the door, "Good.  Now that I know you care, I'm gonna post what you said on Facebook."

And I am certainly feeling the love now...

This & That

Not much to report over here at Blither Blather headquarters.  It's a total den of slackers.  The boybarians are actually begging me to do laundry.  Go figure...  I'm pretty much pants-optional this summer.  Who needs socks and underwear in the summer time anyway???  That's so passe...  I tell them to think creatively... and go dig sumpin' outta the dirty hamper.  Now that's ol' school thinking for ya.

Oh, and I've stopped cooking too.  Looks like somebody is slackin' on laundry and kitchen slut duties and will probably be on strike until....whenev.

I've decided to take one for the  lady team and join my gal pals on the Million MILF March of Magic Mike.  Honestly, getting all glammed and bedazzled to hoot and holler over 'ol long in the tooth Matthew McConoughey is a tad embarrassing...and pathetic...and desperate.  But hopefully there will be some drinking involved to help me numb the memory, and we will manage to keep our $1 bills in our wallets...

Lastly, I have an appt with a boob expert on Monday.  You would think that I would get a little extra attention over here at BB headquarters. Ho no, sirree!  Mr B just keeps trying to feel me up (all in the name of science), and the boybarians just keep talking about video games and ninja stars.  This crew is oblivious to the Victorian vapors....sigh!

Dropping my Basket

I've been dealing with some pesky stuff lately.  And I thought I was holding it together pretty well, until I wasn't...  I'm not saying any one thing broke the camel's back.  It just happened, and my dependable bad ass-bravado scurried into a dark corner and could not be coaxed or bossed back (and that's saying sumpin').

Here's some of it:

1.  The doctor found a lump in my breast.  "Does this hurt?"  she asks as she stabs and holds her finger into one tender spot.  I"m a little confused.  "Well, yeah, now it does," I think to myself.

2.  Judy TAMPONelli has been on a 6 wks rampage over here at BB headquarters.  You woulda thought I was hosting an ax murderer for the summer.

3.  Which meant that I had to have a boob and vag sonogram.  Did I mention I HATE procedures-or having machines driven through my personal space???    This totally weirded me out and made the lil terror monkey in my brain trip the light fantastic and run amok.  The only thing that helped me keep my barely there sanity during the whole procedure was thinking that I have friends who actually pay good money for these kind of "probing procedures"-batteries not included...

And I could go on...  But honestly, it's just real life happening-like it does for us all.  As my grandaddy used to say, "Sometimes you get the bear.  Sometimes the bear gets you."  And ain't it the truth???  So, I'm sure I'll be sick of myself sooner than later and put on my big girl panties...eventually.

On the good news front:  my new floors look great, and my powder room is temporarily free of boybarian pee splatter.  And for now, that's ALL that matters.

Camping Report

Mr B took lil brother to Cub Scout camp for the week and called me this afternoon to report that there is a mom there tottering around on high heel wicker shoes.  "You mean wedges?" I clarify, clearly disgusted that he has no fashion vocabulary to speak of.  "Uh, yeah, if they look like wicker shoes, " he grunts, unsure why I have such a pissy tone over such an inconsequential detail (...only in man land).

He continues...  This mom who is tottering around in high heel wicker shoes is wearing those short pants above the ankle.  "You mean capris?"  I inform him in my most sardonic tone.  "Uh, yeah, I guess so," he concedes.  According to Mr B she is dressed for an indoor scrapbooking convention at the Holiday Inn-not a hot, dusty, humid, stinky campground for boys.  But most importantly he continues, she has her shirt unbuttoned and is continually rubbing and rolling her BIG SWEATY BOOBS in a towel she keeps around her neck, and every boy scout there is desperate to help her pitch her tent and carry her luggage.

So I ask the million dollar question:  where is lil brother???  And of course Mr B has no clue...  he's had his eye on wicker shoe lady and her BIG SWEATY BOOBS.

Clearly the cub scouts are gonna have a freakin'  blast this week since the camping staff & chaperones are otherwise engaged.  Stay tuned for incoming details on lil Miss Wicker Shoe's prancing camping antics.  Pffttttt....  I hope she breaks her ankle.

Interview

So I decide to interview lil brother and record his responses for posterity-or at least my own amusement.  Little brother is in his boxers with spiky morning hair eating cold pizza on the couch and already appears bored with this convo because Mom questions are notoriously BOR-ing!

Mom:  So what three things do you most like about yourself?

LB:  Everything  (as I suspected, he wants to get this over with)

Mom:  What else (giving him the beady eye)???

LB:  My hair

Mom:  Why don't you describe your hair... (more beady eye action)

LB:  short....  (Mom laser eye is warming up, honing in) ...and brown... (he nervously avoids the beady eye)   How many more???

Mom:  One more!

LB:  (long pause)  I'm athletic....  and competitive.... (understatement of the century)...  and I like to run.

Mom:  No you do not!  That's A LIE!

LB:  (grinning and stuffing more cold pizza into his face)

Mom:  OK-so why don't you tell me three things you need to improve on.

Lil brother hustles off the couch, puts the cat and the quilt around his neck, and saunters upstairs to the boybarian quarters so he can join his brother in the Zombie Apocalyspe that is raging on the XBOX.

Mom:  Well, I guess the interview's over....

I saw this link on Pinterest and immediately had a giant *eye roll* moment.  What husband wants to do a 101 things with his wife???  Poll a 101 men, and the response will be unanimous.  Husbands only want to do ONE THING with their wives (or wives in general), and I'm pretty sure the Pinterest Police would come get you if you posted THAT on their crafty-DIY lil wall.

Pfftttt....  Some people are just so stupid.

Job Search

Mr B is currently job searching.  One of the jobs he applied for is a Peace Corps. position.  The PC was surprisingly quick to respond to his application.  "Great!  Just great...  I'll probably be sent to Uganda and end up with a case of Bingy-Bingy fever," he snorts.  Clearly Mr B is not fist pumping over this opportunity for racking up frequent flyer miles, experiencing exotic cultures, or saving the world.  I mean, who wouldn't want to sit in a sweltering hut wearing a greasy loin cloth and eating goat eyeball stew with your hands from the same bowl as the village elders???  Encouraging as ever, I assure Mr B that a case of Bingy-Bingy fever is favorable to being a single parent hustling his kids all over town for never ending sporting events and honking band concerts, daily vacuuming of tornadic pet fur, suffering through lil brother's lies 'bout never having homework (or worse, actually having to help with it), and having the stress of deciding whether to order cheese or pepperoni pizza seven days out of the week-cause we all know that I ain't gonna have the energy to cook or empty a dishwasher after all that.  Mr B actually kinda changed his tune 'bout having a case of the Bingy-Bingy fever-which is testimony to my indefatigable ability to make you feel better about your tragic circumstances because clearly, I have it worse.

FYI-good luck Googling "Bingy-Bingy Fever."  Just because Google ain't never heard tell of it is no indication that Mr B will be safe from it.

Returned

Big kid is home safe and sound from his Key West camping adventure!!!  And I am so happy to be able to stop worrying and prayin' over him long distance.  I also have to give Mr B kudos for training him on returning-to-mama-etiquette:  "You go see your mother first thing!  Answer every question she has.  It doesn't matter how dirty or tired you are."  That's right!  Who cares if he hasn't slept in 36 hours or taken a shower in 72 hours???  I have important questions to ask like, "What did you eat?"  and "Did anyone get mad?"  I know. I know...  These are the stupidest questions ever in boyland-but I gotta know even if the answers are (shrug) "I dunno..."  We are thrilled and relieved to have him back in the nest in spite of the fact that he has plans to head right back out the door...  as soon as he has some clean laundry.

Balance and order is restored in blither blather land.

Souvenir

Don't y'all just love spontaneous, from-the-heart gifts???

Mr B bought me this metal picture from a tacky lil store while on vacay.  It made me belly laugh out loud!  I plan to proudly display it in my kitchen.  Which I need to add to his honey-do list...

Now that's romantic-and right on the money, frankly.

Traveling Show

The blither blather crew took to the road this past week so lil brother could vacay at a kidtastic water park while big kid was otherwise engaged in a Key West camping expedition.  So Mr B and I made a pact:  I wouldn't be a nagatha if he wouldn't be a grouch-a-potamus.  And we pretty much hit the skids on that deal before passing our own mailbox.  Anyhoo...!!!  The important thing is that lil brother had a FAB time on all the slides, rides, rope courses, arcade games, etc. We even ordered room service for him one night and took him to the Ripley's aquarium the next day.  And he didn't stop chattering the whole time.  He even talked in his sleep!  Although we  certainly missed our big kid, it was fun to be elbow deep in 9 year old fun.  On the last night, lil brother says to me, "You've got a disease!"  And I cock my eyebrow at him, laser eye warming up...  And he gives me a toothy grin, "It's called pretty-osis!"  And for that alone, he got to stay up 30 more minutes, be the boss of the remote, and eat more Oreos under the covers with me!!!

But folks, just to keep it real:  there's no place like home.  Even if that includes 9 loads of laundry after the fact.

Hope you're  having your own fun family adventures and keeping it REAL as you roll!!!

50 Shades...of Puke & Barf!

Mark Twain on reading novels:

I have no liking for novels or stories -- none in the world; and so, whenever I read one -- which is not oftener than once in two years, and even in these same cases I seldom read beyond the middle of the book -- my distaste for the vehicle always taints my judgment of the literature itself...and also of course makes my verdict valueless. Are you saying "You have written stories yourself?" Quite true: but the fact that an Indian likes to scalp people is no evidence that he likes to be scalped.
- letter to Bruce Weston Munro, 15 March 1887

I tried, people.  I really did.  I wanted to be in the ol' S&M Fifty Shades lady club who ohh'ed and ahh'ed and giggled and simpered over this stupid, stupid, stupid series.  For God's sake, I read the Twilight series in week!  Popular and poorly written is usually not much of a barrier for me.   But here it is:  I HATE FIFTY SHADES!  It occurred to me after skimming through 157 pages of the tedious 3rd novel that I had only read perhaps three pages but had rolled my eyes, gagged, and convulsed like 9,271 times.  So I am doing something I don't ever remember doing: I am tossing this drivel on the burn heap.  I will not read another word.  Done. Finit! 

Ok-so what's my complaint, you ask?  Weak character & plot development is a biggie; vapid and sophomoric dialogue that is so 8th grade-like, for realzzz; a gluttony of material possessions that not even billionaires aspire to; unrealistic and chauvinistic sex-capades that no man or woman could perform even with the aid of a genie in bottle; and a docile, spineless heroine who whispers and casts her eyes down and questions nothing ever!  I want to kick her in the head.  Seriously??? 

I understand the allure of fantasy and using fiction as a means of experience or escape.  And I confess, I am a literature snob on many levels.  But at some point, characters need pores, texture, and frankly...to struggle and muddle through the muck and grime of life-or else why bother to spend $12.95 and three or more hours of your life with them?  So I am returning to some tried and true writers who deliver some entertainment bang for the buck:  Diana Gabaldon, Phillipa Gregory, Pat Conroy, Anne Rice, Stephen King, Ken Follett, and good ol' Twain himself, to name a few.  So I will be hitting the library or book store soon and looking forward to sinking my teeth into something juicy-or at least to avoid the scalping that Twain so eloquently references.

Happy reading-whatever it may be!

Birthin'

The only metaphor that I can rightly compare home-reno to is birth.  It's gory, unglamorous, graphic, embarrassing, agonizing, and tedious.  You get the idea...  The list of adjectives is endless.  Having strangers parade through your spread eagle home is probably the worst though.  Anyone who wants to snap on a rubber glove filled with KY can have a feel or a peek at your private parts-in all their humiliating glory.  And you know they are judging.  I wanted to die a thousand-gazillion deaths when one of the lady workers needed to use the boy-barians' bathroom.  I knew the toilet was ba-scusting.  That weird orange ring around the inside rim was proof enough.  I was so humiliated that I cowered and cringed in my own bedroom-kinda like Eve in the garden when God was shaking his finger at her 'bout that damn apple.  I really wanted to blame it on Adam!  I never could look that poor (rightfully traumatized) woman in the eye.  And yes, I understand that construction workers generally use a porta-potty, and what could be more ba-scusting than that, right???  Uhhhmmm, well....that would be blither blather facilities.  I wish I were more of an avenging-cleaning-angel wielding her righteous toilet brush aloft, but honestly I more closely resemble a slutty slattern with legs akimbo reclining on a sagging sofa.  I just can't bring myself to feel inspired...  Plus God made boys to pee all over ery'thing, right???  Who am I to interfere with the Almighty's plan???

Like birth, no one can do home-reno for you.  There are no willing surrogates.  You just gotta grit your teeth, take as may legal drugs as possible, and remember the Queen as you perform your duty to God and country.  As you can tell, I am desperate to wrap this baby up and pull down my proverbial nightgown over my lady parts.  This process has been quite unladylike. 

Laws, y'all...!

Quips

Norman Rockwell's Saturday Evening Post

Blither Blather headquarters is in full chaos mode with the demolition of our flooded floors (sigh...!).  The dust and trash is downright tragic.  Not to mention all our possessions are stuffed in random rooms and the odds of finding items like toe nail clippers, the cereal, Ben-Gay back rub, or stamps for the bills is nigh on impossible.  This too shall pass...  The nice worker man greets me at the butt crack of dawn with an embarrassed apology.  "Sorry ma'am, I meant to call before coming on over, but my mama was on the phone..."  And he squirms uncomfortably.  I assure him that's THE BEST excuse I've ever heard.  I'm even impressed, frankly.  E'rybody knows that when mama's on the phone, back the f* off!  She was pro'bly speculatin' and trash talking bout some of her relatives or neighbors.  And that sh*t is IMPORTANT.  Clearly my boybarians need more training in this department.

At lunch with lil brother the other day, he asks me what kinda job I would pick if I didn't have my current one.  I tell him I'd like to be a librarian since I LOVE books and organizing.  He is clearly unimpressed that anyone would care about such.  So he pressures me some more.  "OK-well, then, I would like to work in real estate since I love houses."  He quizzically assesses me and then says, "You need to work on your people skills then."  WTF???  I assure him I DO have people skills-which is rich coming from a barrel roller like him.  PPPfftttt.....

Today we are having lunch with the grandma brigade at the nursing home.  We plan to be there early.  Like 10:45 AM.  Cause the old folks ain't playing.  Grandmother assures us they serve real food there-with taste.  None of this healthy nonsense.  And the best chocolate pie...  Trust me:  I will be elbowing my way in.

Hope y'all are enjoying your local watering holes and the easy-breezy pace of summertime!

So it begins...

Lil brother is already riding my @ss, and summer has just begun.  I mean, he's no fool.  He knows that I'm the go-to-gal who makes sh*t happen over here at blither blather headquarters. I even hid behind a door today so just he'd leave me alone.  And don't think that having a year end zombie sleepover party with swimming and pizza and a camping tent gets me any points either.  This kid has plans.  And I'm supposed to execute them-chop chop-and on his timetable.  Laws, y'all...  Our annual summer time come-to-Jesus meeting with Mr B as resident hard @ss is on the horizon.

I got my summer time pedicure off my to-do list today.  This is one of my least fav chores.  Tiny Asian women with sharp implements and dead behind the eye glares really creep me out as they mutter guttural oaths and exchange sly glances over your poor, abused feet.  But I survived and managed to grit my teeth through the callous attack and cuticle stabbing procedure.  The result is a lovely, shiny red that Mr B thinks is super hottttttt!

On other news:  the house is a wreck; my bedroom looks like a teenager had a rave party in it;  I am on a quest for the Jergen's SPF/tanning lotion; I am having Mr B order the first season of Justified for our summer entertainment; and it took me 20 minutes to do a complete swim suit shave today.  Not sure why the female gorilla look is not en vogue this season...  Sigh!  Hope y'all are working on your vitamin D intake and applying lots of sunblock.

So that's it for now.  Hopefully I will have some poolside drama to report soon....stay tuned!

Joie de Vivre

All is groovy over here in blither blather land these days seeing as how I will be on hiatus from my day job very soon.  I am just leaking joie de vivre!  Kinda like an old, incontinent house cat with fresh catnip...  I get it:  this is not my usual bitterfest blather, but I'm gonna run with it after such a piss-n-vinegar fall/winter...  Bear with me, bitter friends:

Mr B and I had a lovely lunch date on Saturday (both boybarians were otherwise engaged-SCORE!).  I wore a new blue, over the knee, sleeveless cotton dress with yellow sandals and peacock earrings.  And my hair totally ROCKED!  Think Wonder Woman with her gold crown...  We had a lovely lunch at an Italian bistro and then went home so I could fulfill, ahem... a debt...  I will leave you with the ol' curtains flapping in the breeze imagery, but I will say this:  Afterwards Mr B was all "Holy sh*t!  Where'd you learn that?!?"  with a look of utter shock, mistrust, and new found respect.  And I just nonchalantly shrug and lean in so he can light my cigarette. 

FYI-

I never reveal my sources.  And I always pay my debts. 

Happy Freakin' Summer!

I'm ready to get my freakin' summer ON!!! Aren't you???

FYI-I'm gonna sneak-smoke cigs, read naughty books publically, take a few trips here-n-there, party with some groovy friends, stay up late watching mindless TV, lay by the pool trash texting, and mix up my fav party bevs while Mr B is the boss of the bbq. 

What could be better???

Happy Mother's Day!

Big kid:  "Mom's like the Supreme Court.  No one trumps her."  Isn't he gonna make a good husband one of these days???  Love that kid!

Lil brother to big kid:  "Mom says I'm winning the Mother's Day competition cuz I give the best hugs!"  Sure nuff.  He's the BEST hugger EVER.

Mr B and the boy-barians did a bang up job for Mother's Day.  We went out to lunch at Olive Garden which is one of their favorite places not necessarily mine-but I just didn't really care.  It was nice to be on a date with 3 groovy dudes.  We also stopped in at the bookstore so I could pick up Fifty Shades of Gray which is getting a lot of female attention.  I suspect it's gonna be a stupid and steamy S&M sappy romance novel (puke and barf), but I'm jumping on the wagon for a ride anyway.  This novel even inspired one of my MILF friends to enact a scene with her hubby-outside-in daylight!  Clearly, I gotta see what all the fuss is about.  If it's stupid and sophomoric, I promise to tell you so.  And if it's, ahem, inspiring-I'm sure I'll be too busy with Mr B to blog 'bout that.

Lastly, my fellas bought me a pink knock rosebush with some stained glass glow balls for my landscaping.  I am looking forward to appreciating my patio and yard all summer long!

I hope all you groovy moms have had lots of hugs and surprises from your own crew.  Happy Mother's  Day!

Projects

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