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What the Water Gave Me

August 13, 2016 was when it happened. The rains came, the river rose, and we lost everything.

 

I began weeping as we drove through our devastated city. I began sobbing as we turned onto our street. By the time we forced the back door open and I got my first look at my home and the chaos and devastation the flood waters had left, I was fully hysterical. TWH held me up as I clutched at him scream-sobbing at what lay before me.

 

We spent a full week cleaning out and gutting our home. Trying to salvage what we could.

 

The water took everything but it gave me so much too.

 

It gave me the friends who took us in without question or reservation. Who watched the crackhead dogs without complaint and rearranged their lives to make ours easier those first few weeks. Who made their home feel like our home. Who introduced me to a little blonde haired, blue eyed boy that I fell madly in love with and would do my dead level best to see every single night. Because bedtime was at 7:30 and he gives the best goodnight hugs.

 

It gave me the friends who, after I posted a picture of a house in my flooded neighborhood with the caption “SO…. This happened…”, immediately came together and flooded my inbox with messages of support and love. Articles on what to save and how. The name of my contractor (who was an absolute Godsend). My home is filled with the little happies that were sent to me in the mail and given to me in person.

 

It gave me an army of women who rallied around me and propped me up when I didn’t think I could stand on my own. Cheerleaders who cried with and celebrated with me. Who treated every milestone like the major accomplishment I thought it was.

 

It gave me the gift of Love and Support. People I have known for years, people I barely knew, and complete strangers on these here Interwebz offered words of love and encouragement along the way.

 

It gave me the knowledge that I CAN HANDLE SHIT. I may not do it well, or with grace, but I CAN do it. I can do the hard stuff. I can push through the tears and sore muscles and the exhaustion. I can make ALL the decisions (TWH currently lives in NC. Being a decision-making committee of one has it’s perks here) and that they WILL be the right ones.

 

It has shown me that I am so very fortunate in who I have in my life.

 

So while the water took away all I had, it left me with so much more.

 

It left me with a very strong sense of my Tribe and my Family.

 

For that I am humbled and grateful.

 

 

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It’s JUST HAIR

Okay, so. most of you know that The Boy has a head full of GLORIOUS curls. His hurr, to be quite honest, is not just huge, it’s HURGE. And HE LOVES IT.

 

Here’s the thing…

 

I get no end of shit about my kids hair. As if his sporting his glorious mane somehow makes him a juvenile delinquent and me a shitty parent.

 

My question: WHO THE FUCK CARES AND WHY DO PEOPLE THINK THEY HAVE THE RIGHT TO COMMENT!?!?!

FAQ: Is The Boy unaware of what you do for a living??

A: The Boy is WELL AWARE of what I do for a living thankyewverymuch. What I do for a living keeps a roof over his head, clothes on his back, and food in his belly. Not to mention gas in his car and Vans on his feet.

 

(Aside: Making a snide comment about ANYTHING and couching it as a “joke” doesn’t make it any less offensive. It’s still a shitty comment and you’re still an asshole)

 

Here’s the thing…

 

His Dad and I have made a conscious decision to let our kid dress and groom himself as he sees fit. THIS INCLUDES HIS GLORIOUS MANE.

The Boy is an Honor Student who is respectful roughly 85% of the time, responsible, thoughtful, courteous, and as far as I know, an all around decent human being.

Which is so much more than his being an asshole with short hair. In my humble, honest opinion.

 

So the next time you look at my kid (or anyone’s kid for that matter) and decide to judge them based on something as trivial as their HAIR (or shoes, or clothes, or whatever) take a minute and really LOOK at that kid. Do they appear clean?? Well loved?? Are they polite?? Are they respectful??

if you can answer “Yes” to any or all of these questions, then how about you compliment their parents on raising a decent human being and keep the rest of your bullshit to yourself.

 

Just a thought.

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Dress Shopping… Oh GAWD

Okay, so. I live in South Louisiana and Mardi Gras Season is fast approaching.

This means Parades and Bals and all manner of fun.

This means I have to buy  several Fancy Schmancy Dresses.

 

Lemme tell you what that experience is like for me.

 

I am what is affectionately refereed to as “Curvy”. I call it “Chubby” but why split hairs??

 

I enter a department store and proceed to the Fancy Dress Section. I am awed and a little giddy at all the satin, sequins, and beading.  I”M GONNA LOOK LIKE A BEAUTIFUL FAIRY PRINCESS!!

 

I select several dresses in the size I wear EVERY GAHTDAMNED DAY OF THE YEAR and proceed to the fitting room.

I try on dress #1. Doesn’t fit. Okay… Don’t lose hope. Maybe it’s just THIS designer. On to the next dress!! It’s so pretty!! I love this one!!

Try on dress #2. Doesn’t fit. What. The. Fuck!!?!?  Did I grab the wrong size?? Nope. it’s the SIZE I WEAR EVERY GAHTDAMNED DAY OF THE YEAR. Huh..

Do you see where I’m going with this??

I continue this process blindly, until at last I’m left awash in a sea of sequined, beaded, satin and tulle wadded up on the chair and the floor of a dressing room, close to tears, with some of my back fat most likely caught in a zipper.

 

Then I come stomping out in a foul mood muttering “Fuck this. Fuck all that. Fuck this place. Fuck my life. Imma bedazzle a motherfucking SHEET and wear that bitch with a fancy belt. There!! I have something to wear!! Where’s the nearest bar??”.

 

Because nothing makes you feel like a fat assed heiffer more than having to size up (more sizes than I’m willing to say) for the “perfect” dress.

 

Guess what I’m doing tomorrow??

I’m gonna bring my flask.

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I Can Always Get Skinny…

Okay, so. In the not-so-distant-past, I had words with someone and the argument culminated, as they tend to do, in a very nasty exchange on our opinions of one another. The final volley being that I “Could stand to miss a meal” and that I needed to “Take a look at myself” thus implying I was, well, fat.

 

Y’all, I am 5’8′ and wear a size 10. I gave birth to 3 kids, none of which weighed under 8 pounds and I used every single pregnancy as an excuse to eat everydamnthing. All the time.

 

So no, I’m not tiny. I’m not built to be tiny. None of the women in my family are. It is what it is.

 

But this…. This stung. I actually moped for a few days. I wore all my big, shapeless clothes. I toned down my makeup and flattened my hair.

 

I tried to be invisible.

 

What. The. Fuck!?!?!

 

Here’s the thing. I am NOT the number on the scale. I am NOT the number on the tag in my pants. I forgot that for a minute and let some hateful bitch who is miserable in her own skin make me feel like less.

 

Then… THEN I got pissed off.  And it all came back.

 

The fitted tops.  The big hair. The crazy eyeliner. The bright red lipstick. The heels and patterned Converse.  I brought it ALL back.

 

Because I’ll be damned if I let some hateful twat dictate who I am or make me feel like less.

To paraphrase Kasey Jones. “I can always get skinny but you’ll never not be a bitch”.

 

Will someone else say something hateful and hurt my feelings?? Probably. It happens.

 

Will I shake that shit off like an ugly blazer?? You’re damn right I will.

 

Because let’s face it. Life is pretty damn sweet and not everyone has to approve.

 

 

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Sixteen

My chirren.

 

The Boy turned 16 today.

 

Tonight I broke down in big ol’ snotty, gasping tears and commanded TWH in hiccuping sobs to “Go down the hall RIGHT NOW and MAKE HIM STOP”.

 

It happened so fast.  My babies are (mostly) grown. They are their own people who are making their own lives.

 

I know this is what every parent works for and hopes for. That they will grow into incredible, funny, happy, responsible people.

 

Shit on that!! I miss my babies.

 

Somebody build me a fucking time machine.

 

Because it all happened entirely too fast.

 

 

 

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My Rock Star Life

Okay, so. I have been a Mom since shortly after I turned 21. At this point in my life, HALF of it has been spent raising other people.

 

Which obviously limited my free time.

 

There were very few clubs. There were no spontaneous road trips. Dating was… Different.

 

I was out a few months ago with my friend Stacey O and her Darlin’ One when she said to me “You know, when we first met at soccer, you used to talk about all the stuff you wanted to do and all the places you wanted to go and look at you now!! You have a Rock Star life!!”.

 

This weekend I was invited to attend a Mardi Gras Bal. Some of my friends were Royalty and I was really excited to go and see them have their Moment.  TWH & I walked into the hall where the ball was being held and had no seating assignment. The sweet little teen girl was leading us to our seats aaaaalllll the way in the corner when I spotted my friend Joseph, who was/is the Duke of Fun for this Mardi Gras season. When he heard of our plight his first response was “NO!!”. He had two spare seats at his table we were more than welcome to.

 

We found our seats and a few more friends and were agog at all the “swag” that made up our place settings. Joseph left no detail unnoticed. No one did. All the tables were impeccable.

 

We ate, drank, chatted, caught beads, drank some more, danced, congratulated our friends, danced some more and by 1AM, we were showered and in bed watching a movie and eating snack food.

 

Because we know how to party.

 

And in 3 weeks we’ll do it all again because I was invited to ride in Orpheus which is the big Lundi Gras (Monday) parade.

 

In the 10 years since I first met Stacey O and shared my dreams on the sidelines of a soccer field my life has changed dramatically. Some was good, some was not so good, and some is beyond what I ever imagined it would be.

 

I just might have a Rock Star life.

 

The best part is the Rock Star FRIENDS I get to share it with.

 

THEY truly are the VERY BEST PART.

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Sorry About My Tits

Okay, so. A week or so some guy walks into the shop and takes a seat. I’d never seen him before but several old-school barber shops have closed recently (we’re a dying breed) so that wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.

 

I finish with my client, turn to the guy and ask him if he’s ready to get a haircut. He responds with “I’m waiting for the guy”. and indicates T. No biggie, I figured he’d been in the shop before when I’d been out and he’s had T cut his hair before.

 

That was not the case. The guy sits in T’s chair and proceeds to tell him “Yeah. I’m new here and I’ve always had a man cut my hair so I wanted to wait for you.”

 

Ummmmmmm…… Excuse me, Fucker??

 

So, lemme get this straight. You chose T over not just me but the other woman who works in the shop because we have TITS!?!?

 

Do my mammary glands and vagina somehow make me less capable than my male counterpart??

 

Or are you just somehow intimidated by an intelligent, confident woman who’s able to hold her own in a male dominated profession??

 

I’m guessing the latter. And since that was most likely the case, you decided to try and “humiliate” me by announcing loudly that you were waiting for “The Guy”??

 

Slow. Golf. Clap. For. You.

 

You misogynistic asswipe.

 

To his credit, T told him that any one of us could have cut his hair.

 

Sadly, now only one of us actually WANTS to.

 

Well, only one of us wants to give him a DECENT haircut anyway.

 

I’d love nothing better than to give him a reverse mohawk so he can look like the jackass he actually is.

 

Life is hard. It’s even harder if you’re a dick.

 

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If anyone needs me…

Okay, so. We are having some work done to our house. Today we are having all new windows installed.

 

In AUGUST.

 

In South Louisiana.

 

Because we OBVIOUSLY thought this through.

 

Anyway, there are contractors walking in & out of my house. The air conditioning is running non-stop (because, yes indeed, we ARE air-conditioning the ENTIRE neighborhood today, thankyouverymuch), and I desperately have to pee but I’m afraid to leave the dining room table because I have absolutely no idea where the strange men are in my house and there are giant, gaping holes in my walls, and one of those holes may or may not be in our master bathroom.

 

Yes, we have another bathroom but it is the domain of a teenage boy. Need I say more?? Really??

 

So… If anyone needs me, I can probably be found hiding under the dining room table in a blanket fort. You’re welcome to come in but you’d better bring an adult beverage. For yourself, of course because I’m not sharing mine. I NEED that shit y’all.

 

Ooooohhh!!! Some pastries wouldn’t hurt either.

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Do NOT Poke the (Mama) Bear!!

Okay, so. Earlier today I was at work when I received a text message from TWH that read ” (Blank) thinks you are a drunk… We were talking about ComiCon and I mentioned that we were staying (in New Orleans) overnight. (Blank) asked why we weren’t taking the kids. I told (Blank) that we ARE taking the kids. They’ve stayed in hotels before, it will be okay. (Blank) was concerned for their safety because we are over-nighting in New Orleans and will probably go out and get sloshed…

I assured (Blank) that you ARE NOT a drunk, despite you’re Facebook posts, that our kids are 15 and 18, have seen us have a drink before, and that it’s not really not that big of a deal.”

 

What the actual fuck!?!?  Aside from the fact that this person ONLY knows me from a few work functions with TWH and my Facebook pages, WHAT RIGHT does this person have to judge me. my husband, and our parenting choices. Especially considering they have NO children of their own??

 

I posted a small rant on my MBM page that read:

 

Here’s a PSA. What I post both here and on my personal page is in NO WAY the sum total of my life. Either as a person or as a parent. If what you see here causes you to have some butthurt or some “concerns” about my life choices as they pertain to myself or my family, you are more than welcome to fuck right off and please GAWD let the door smack you on the way out. Maybe it will dislodge the stick that’s wedged firmly in your ass!! <end rant>

My Fambly and friends came to my defense, for which I am thankful.

 

But the question that stuck with me is Who is (Blank) to judge me?? Which led me to the bigger question… Why judge at all?? We’re all parents. There is no manual. We’re all doing the best we can, with the knowledge and skills we have, to raise these people and if they grow up to be anything other than whores, drug dealers, or serial killers, we’ve done okay.

 

Having said that, if you poke the Mama Bear, I will come at you screaming, rip your arms off, and beat you to death with them. I am a Mother.I am the single most dangerous animal on planet earth and I will DESTROY YOU!!

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Breaking Up Is Surprisingly Easy to Do

Okay, so. I’ve mentioned on Twitter & my MBM FB page that I’d had lunch a few times with this guy who turned out to be a gigantic asshole.  He made inappropriate comments while we were out to lunch once, then he sent me a few text messages I wasn’t too thrilled with.  I decided to just try ignoring his texts at first because I thought if I didn’t engage, he’d get the hint and leave me alone.

 

Not so much….  Sadly…

 

THEN I went to Cancun for the weekend with my ECB for her birthday. I came back to daily text messages. DAILY.  I finally responded with “What??”.  At this point, guy demanded to know where’d I’d been and why I hadn’t been answering him. I stated I’d been out of town. He then demanded to know why I hadn’t spent my hard earned money for $1.99 or so per text (or more) texting him back.  I didn’t even text TWH on this trip y’all!! I shelled out $30 for interwebz for 5 days so I could email him but texts were NOT happening.  Asshole guy responds with “I rank higher than your husband and am well worth the money. Remember I’m your boss and I pay your salary”.  Oh yeah, he was a client.  WAS.

 

Mother fucker crossed a line. He didn’t just cross a line, he slid across like it was his JOB then jumped up, dusted himself off, looked around at his new digs in Whatthefucklandia and declared himself The Asshole King.

 

I was DONE. Which is pretty much what I told him. I send back “Are you trying to be a dick or do you think you’re actually funny. If it’s the first one, you’re doing a bang-up job. If it’s the second one, you’re failing miserably. Either way, I’m 500% done with your bullshit and I think it’s time for you to stop texting me”.

 

I think he got the message.

 

Breaking up is hard to do my ass. It’s surprisingly simple, depending on how pissed you are.

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