Words Hurt

There’s the F word. And the C word, the N word, the R word, and the G word.

Nigger, Cripple, Faggot, Retard, Gay.

Not “the” words you thought I was talking about.

They are not adjectives to describe something you find stupid, wasteful or that which upsets you. In those senses they are the words of someone small of mind, weak in constitution, and full of ignorance and laziness.

They are words that crush, wound, suffocate, drive insane and kill.

Yeah, words can kill.

Sticks and stones are good and all, but we are an evolved society, and most people don’t fight each other physically.

It used to be just gossip in the girls room, the lunch table, notes in class, but then the internet was born and with it words like cyber bulling came into being.

Bullying by true cowards. People who aren’t brave enough to face others and fight them, or spew their verbal assaults eye to eye engage in a war with the goal of utter devastation. Not just a mean name, not just a funny butt of the joke and then it will pass, eventually, but in a ruin your life, enlist in witness protection, and pray their teenage hacking abilities that rival Anonymous don’t find you and ruin your new life.

That seems extreme. It’s not.

She killed herself one month later


Amanda Todd is dead because of words.

And no, none of those words were the ones I mentioned above. Amanda was straight, beautiful, intelligent, and white. By all measures, she had it all.

And yet she didn’t.

And what about those who don’t have it all?

What about those that are gay, mentally challenged, black, physically disabled. As much as the word Nigger causes me, a white girl, to recoil in disgust and pain, it must be even more so to those that are black. What about retard or retarded. What about gay?

Unless your friends’ actions really were happy, they were never gay. And I can’t think of a legitimate circumstance where retard is acceptable.

And unless you like to bully people (in which case, what the hell is wrong with you?), stop it. Your bright, intelligent individuals come up with some other creative words to use; ridiculous, stupid, idiotic, moronic, bupkis. None of those doing it for you try this one, thesaurus.

And if you disagree with me do me a favor, read this.

And watch this:

And now re-evaluate your words. In this digital age, where we are isolated much of the time, and people are more brazen than they are in person, let’s try to ease the burden. Lets think about how our words affect others, rather than crudely getting a point across. Lets rise above, and instead inspire rather than expire others.

Lets raise up a new generation, one that doesn’t use slanderous language to drive home a point. Lets be accepting and try to not make love be the exception. Lets stop the discrimination, because discrimination, in this sense, is just another word for hate.


Because I love you, I give you screaming goats.

I’m not dead, only mostly dead. School work is consuming every bit of spare time I have, and Mad Max has no pill for that. One more week until spring break and I should be a posting fiend during that time. Until then (or the next time I push off a test to write even a few sentences for pleasure), I leave you with this. Yes, it’s a real thing. My kids find it totally awesome. I’m not going to lie, I’m thinking about making it my ring tone.

Where I can’t remember the funny that was said

The bad thing about blogging about going on a date a week ago is I can’t remember what I wore. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t sweats or those maternity yoga pants that the crotch is one good stair climb from giving out on. I mean really, I should just give them up, they are maternity and I’m not, nor have I been recently, nor will I be again, pregnant. But they are so comfy and they don’t get all judgy and up in my face when I’m having a fat day. They are also the perfect weight to sleep in, you know, for the nights I need to sleep with pants on, like when my kids have a sleepover. I feel that’s just the grownup thing to do.

But yeah, I didn’t wear them, thankfully.

I do remember what we did though.

We ate at a place called Tokyo sushi, which by the name would make you think it was Japanese. But if you thought that my friend, you would be sorely wrong. It was Korean. Didn’t see that coming did you.

Matt and I dined on a shared appetizer of salmon skin, squid bul go gi, and a tray of sushi, pretty much heaven in the form of food. I was brave and ate mackerel, which I’ve never had in sushi form. I’m pretty much having a love affair with it now, and looking for ways to slip out and spend some time, gorging my face on it.

There was plumb wine and warm sake, and everything was delicious.

There was also shopping, Old Navy and Target.  And hot tea at a local coffee shop.

We talked about both of our goals to look better and spend more time on ourselves. Even though that is crazy hard with four kids. I mean right now I sit here typing this with my head cocked to one side, and a knot the size of a date in my neck that I’ve been trying to work out for two days now. It’s made driving really fun. I mean it’s fine, until I have to back up, or look to the left to switch lanes, or make a turn. I can’t find the time to work in taking an ibuprofen, much less seeing a chiropractor or get a massage. But I’m spending time doing things like not just throwing on the same old pair of jeans, the first shirt I come across and calling myself dressed because I put a bra on. I’m making an effort to try new things, new trends, wear jewelry, layer, and be creative, and so is Matt.

He reads men’s fashion blogs, and I’ve gotten him hooked on thrifting after a couple Brooks Brothers sport coat finds, vintage wing tips, and a $160 tie score for $1.99. It’s really nice to have a spouse who makes an attempt to look nice for me, so I should only return the favor. Even if that means I have to wear clothes that sometimes get all up in my bidness and get all judgmental about my eating habits.

So yeah, the date. I know there were funny things said, things I’d planned to write here, but honestly, it all fades away in comparison to just spending time with the person I love. That and the fact that I never remember to write anything down in the moleskin I carry around with me. Damn it.

Robbing Starbucks

I’ve been debating how to write this story for a few days now. Do I write in my usual self-deprecating, tongue and cheek, dry humor, or do I tell it straight up, emotional and serious. Is there a “right” way to tell it? Will being funny make me seem like I don’t know that what could have really happened?

So I’ve decided just to write.

I’m not going to over think my words, or try to say things the right way. I’m going to say them my way, and hope the funny and the serious can cohesively meld here.

Thursday afternoons are one of Matts “weekend days.” Usually Alex and I get everyone off to school and work, and we cuddle for a couple episodes of Dora, Bubble Guppies, Diego, or Umizoomi, and then ready ourselves for the day. These last few weeks have we have been heading out to do something that he can enjoy while I work on additional class work I was unable to get done because I’ve had to run taxi to doctors and dentist appointments during my usual work hours, ie- when Alex is in preschool.

Afternoon’s are when Matt, Alex and I do something fun together, like run errands, get things waxed, pay bills, you know riveting things that are so much easier to do with just one kiddo in tow.

Last Thursday we needed to get Matt a few things for his ensemble for his date night with Reese to the Her Knight dance, so we headed out to grab lunch at Jimmy Johns then poke around at the mall.

Alex decided he didn’t like the location of our table at Jimmy John’s, didn’t like the chairs, didn’t like life, so we were forced to pick up our stuff and leave. Matt wanted to head home, but I insisted the wild beast boy was just hungry and would calm down once he ate. We parked at the mall and stuffed down our sandwiches. Alex did indeed change his behavior.

We managed to check out several places in the mall, Alex was so good walking around and being pleasant, I bought us an order of cinnamon pretzel sticks, and we headed to Gap.

Alex loves Gap. Our store has displays that resemble the set up of a crazy cat lady’s house on Bunco night. Tables and displays everywhere to hid behind and run under and in general have the best time someone less than 3 feet can have.  About 5 minutes into looking around the monster within Alex return and he began running, diving under things and refusing to respond to me in an attempt to “get lost.”

I talked him into looking at the accessories clearance while we waited for Matt to finish looking for an oxford. I’m flipping through belts asking Alex to help me find one and I see him run by and dive under yet another display and then head in the direction of Matt. Being more than 3 feet tall, I had to weave my way toward the direction he ran, calling Matt as I walked. That day was not a day Matt had been aware of anyone, and for like the 60thbillion time, I was yelling his name over and over trying to get his attention to tell him to keep an eye on Alex until I got there.

And he didn’t hear me until I got right where I thought Alex would be, standing next to him, giggling from having successfully hidden from me for close to 30 seconds.

Except, when I got there, Alex wasn’t there. He wasn’t under any table. He wasn’t trying to climb the wall of shirts. He wasn’t peeking out from behind Matt. Immediately, I began searching the store. A minute goes by, but it seems like way longer that I haven’t been able to find my baby, and I’ve asked people and searched everywhere. Matt has looked out front of the store. He’s not there. Matt tells the front counter, and I begin to feel my chest tighten. I’m not breathing, I’m not thinking, I’m nearly rooted to the floor.

My baby is lost and I don’t know where he went or if someone took him.

The employees joined the search and begin to notify security as I begin to break down.

And what feels like years since I’ve taken a breath, has passed.

And then the employee who had begun to search outside the store yells from the front, “They found him!!!”

But I still can’t move, because I’m not sure it is him, and what if that’s not what he said, and what if it’s not Alex?

So I yell from the middle of my panic, out of the muddy waters that have filled my ears and the metal taste that has risen in my mouth, “You found him, are you sure?”

Yes, your husband has him.

I ran to the front of the store, throwing down the clothing I had been absently carrying around, and there was my Alex in Matt’s arms, clutching a chocolate milk. He looked at me and said, “I’m firsty, I go to Starbucks!”

Now, here’s where you have to wonder, my kid knew EXACTLY where Starbucks was located in the mall from Gap. Like knew which way to turn out of the store, and that he’d have to walk about 100 yards to the stand-alone kiosk. Then you have to wonder how the Starbucks employees didn’t notice him putting his grubby little hands in their drink cooler, and walking away with a milk box. If you want to load up on freebies from Starbucks, just send in your under 3 foot high accomplice and they will just have to chalk it up to shrink (shrink is a retail term about disappearing product for those of you not in the know. I am because of my prestigious history in children and women’s departments of Old Navy here in Lexington).

He was spotted by two ladies who work a kiosk and are immeasurably more observant. Partly because they hawk pashminas and that dead sea salt stuff that you get attacked with and no one buys, and partly because it’s quite odd for children to frequent Starbucks and the Mall alone. They are too short to drive or carry their own car seats onto the bus, so they usually have to harass someone else to drive them inorder so they can practice petty theft.


They walked right behind Alex to try to figure out where he was going and make sure no one shady took him. I tried to write a joke here about people and the important things they had going on that didn’t lend to noticing a small child walking the mall alone, but honestly I’m thankful no one else noticed him. It frightens me to think of someone who didn’t want to see him back to where he should be, noticing him.

Alex made it almost all the way back to Gap before Matt spotted him when he was searching out front.

I of course thanked the two women profusely and hugged my baby. Everything was ok, and the only crime was his stolen milk, which completely confused the girl at Starbucks when we went to rectify that situation.

On the way home I made Alex cry.

I told him what he did was wrong and asked him how he would have felt if someone bad took him when he didn’t have mommy or daddy with him.

No, no one take me!

But what if they did, what if they made you do things that weren’t fun, like clean their house all the time and you couldn’t play anymore. What if they wouldn’t let you watch Bubble Guppies or Dora ever again?

I watch Umizoomi!

No, what if they wouldn’t let you watch that either, and you couldn’t see Berkley or Nate,Reese and Teddy ever again. And Mommy and Daddy wouldn’t be there and you couldn’t see us anymore.

* tears *

But I wan a be wif you! I no wan a go wif bad people!

And then we talked about not running away and all that.

And really the whole thing is funny, except that it’s also not.

Indignities of the Male Kind

I like to pull the “I’ve had a baby so suck it up,” card a lot with Matt. Basically, half the time it’s not serious and he’s over reacting, and the other he tends to get hurt/sick at really annoying times. Like getting his appendix taken out 2 days before our daughter’s huge class birthday party at a roller rink. So freaking inconsiderate.

I have a headache; I can’t bladdy blah blah blah, right now.

 Suck it up, I went through hours and hours of labor without drugs, you can deal with a headache, wuss

 Ugh, I think I’m passing kidney stones; can you drive me to the ER?

 I mean, yeah, let me get dressed, put on some make up, get the kids dressed, pack some snacks and activities for the kids and then we can head over at a leisurely pace, since this will be the second time you’ve asked me to drive you in 12 hours and last time you refused to get out of the car because you felt better when we got there. DON’T YOU DARE PUKE IN MY CAR!!! Here, take this bowl with you and suck it up.

 I cut the tip of my finger off, can you drive me to get stitches.

 UGH, fine. You know I wouldn’t go in, I’d just apply pressure and then butterfly bandage the siz-nits out of it, but if you’re such a wuss you can’t suck it up, I’ll take you in.


Sympathy is not my strong point, ok.

So, when Matt started complaining about what amounts to a swollen left testicle, something that’s happened before last year (not sure if it was the left in that case, it doesn’t really matter I guess), I just told him to make an appointment and proceeded to poke said nut just to see him scream.

We were pretty confident it was from a condition I like to call pussy butt. That’s what mature 30 year olds do.

Matt suffers from prostate infections, which are apparently more common in dudes than one might think. They are like the yeast infection of the male world I guess, except not itchy and Monistat won’t do much, not to mention dudes have nowhere to stick a cream or ovule that would be helpful. Apparently, stress, lifting heavy loads, riding a bike, and all sorts of harmless activities can cause, well I’m not really sure how it all happens, but it does. I don’t really want to Google it, which I would with most anything else, but honestly I just don’t care to have the random knowledge behind prostate infections.


So Matt suffers through pussy butt for a couple days, goes in for his appointment for confirmation, much to my delight. To confirm or even just inspect the prostate requires a glove, lube and a one-finger salute up the old rectum.

Women have to endure all sorts of indignities, pap smears, cervical exams, birthing in front of total strangers, speculums. So I figure this is just a small, small taste of what I have gone through. Except it was better than that this time.

I had instructed Matt to call after his appointment.

So, yeah, it was my prostate.

 Ok, that’s nice, just meds and it’ll be all better?

 Yeah, and well, he gave me a prostate massage, which sounds much nicer than what it actually is. It’s like hell. It felt like it went on for 15 minutes; I thought I was going to puke.

 Oh, really, so you got a massage, that sounds awesome.

 No, it wasn’t. It was horrible. It hurt really bad, and I peed myself. And he said there’s really no way to prevent this, it just happens, more often to some people, and it’s been a year since my last one and if it happens again he’ll give me another massage because that usually clears things up. It’s not fun or relaxing. It’s the first massage I’ve ever gotten and it sucked.


At this point I’m dissolving in silent laughter. OMGeeeee you guys! Ok, ok, I’m getting a grip, hold on.


 Ok, so while your horrified, I would take pleasure in my husbands pain, it doesn’t make me happy, it’s just that all I can think off is how dogs have to have their anal glands evacuated. It’s so gross, but holy crap as part of a medical HUMAN procedure a doctor actually has to insert his finger into a butt and give a massage. I mean I guess for the $50 co-pay that might be a bargain for some people, but it sounds like something you’d have done over on the shady side of town.

Plus it’s like when dogs have their anal glands expressed, but on humans.

Come on, it’s funny.

Homework, errands, and photo edits

I’m still really digging colored pants. And tall boots. People are starting to recognize me by these ensembles. Not in a “HEY I’M FAMOUS!” way, more in a “Why the hell does she always wear that stuff?” kind of way. They are so jealous they can’t rock it like me. Or just weirded out. Although I don’t know why my clothing would be the thing that weirds people out of everything about me. Whatevs.

Homework, errands, and photo edits

Of all the Gin Joints in the World {No Ones Getting Laid}

When you go to New Orleans there are things that you just do.

Visit Bourbon Street, check.

Walk the French Quarter, double check.

Get beignets at Café du Monde, well, no because I was on a vegan diet to lower my cholesterol, but I smelled them and they were nearly irresistible, if it weren’t for the fact that I’d spent the 2 weeks prior making vegan beignets at home and thusly gorging myself on them so I was pretty much ok not having any at that point.

Eat a veggie burger at a bar off Bourbon Street at 1am. NOooooooooo.


Matt had a client in New Orleans that invited me to come down and they’d cover the airfare. I hadn’t been away from our kids, well ever (that’s 11 ½ years if your counting), and my family offered graciously to help out, so I was all like “It’ll be just like the MTV Spring Break I never got to participate in!” and jumped at the chance. It was going to be a quick trip; we worked most of the time, Matt doing his thing, me photographing the city, the church and their services, and a couple families and in general just being my awesome/awkward self.

We did go out on the town the night we flew in, which btw, I did fine on the plane despite instructing my sister on who to call to raise the kids when our plan when down. I’m really fun when my psychosis paranoia responsible side kicks in. Anyway, once in New Orleans, we hit our beautiful boutique hotel’s bar, and walked the town at night; through the CBD, the French Quarter, down Bourbon street, and eventually around 1 am, to some place off Bourbon Street known for it’s salty, sticky, cholesterol raising, peanut butter, bacon burger, sure to send your heart into palpitations the moment your teeth sink into it’s bun.

Except being on a strict vegan diet, I went with the guacamole veggie burger without cheese or mayo.

Now, first of all, the person who escorted us to this, uh, well quite frankly hole in the wall, was completely unfamiliar with the fact this place even had something that wasn’t flavored, infused, stuffed, or possibly even sautéed in meat. This was the first sign I should have just stuck to french fries and eaten something later.

The second sign should have come when in response to my order of said veggie burger; the bartender said “What? I didn’t even know we had that.”

Ok, so, the menu contained like 5 sandwiches, including the veggie burger. It wasn’t some buried treasure some where on the menu; it was like the third item down.

Do I listen to that tiny nagging voice that says, “SLOW THE FUCK DOWN, something’s not right.”? No, because it is 1am and I haven’t had dinner, and I’m about to eat the freaking coasters under our drinks.

Nor did I pause when the burger actually came to me and I swear to all things, it looked like a guacamole smeared, crusty, brillo pad. I’m pretty sure I was the first person to ever order one in the history of the establishment, and it had been sitting in the back of some freezer, probably defrosted and refrozen a multitude of times.

And yet, I put that thing in my mouth, and chewed it up and swallowed. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t even ok. I don’t even know where to begin with it. Actually I do, but I’d prefer not to get into it, least it’s ghost begin rising from the pit of my stomach to revisit me. Haunting by vegan burger is not the way I want to spend any part of my life.

Eventually we made our way back to the hotel, tipsy, exhausted, and generally reeking of eau de New Orleans, a mixture of pee, sewer, stranger sex, and cheep booze. Despite this being the first time we’d had a night away from the kids, AND being in a lovely hotel, there was sadly no hanky panky to be had. Because by 3 am, I was quivering in front of the porcelain god, cold sweating, delirious, and seeing that awful veggie burger once again. and again, and again. Until about 7am, when I fell into bed, exhausted, having dry heaved my way into oblivion.

I’m used to having a sensitive stomach, and if there is contamination to be ingested, I will undoubtedly be the one to do it. I know what food poisoning feels like from meals from such places as; the bbq place out of a trailer, the steamy, slightly ghetto, Chinese place by my moms, the nouveau American place we ate for my birthday (there was no indication this was going to give me the pukes), the thai place that has since been torn down, the pizza place that was in a gas station, actually I’m thinking maybe it’s my choice of venues. Either way, this was a very mild case. I only felt that queasy, I’ve been impregnated less than 12 weeks and should subsist on saltines and ginger ale and wear an airplane barf bag around my neck, for the rest of the day.

And yet, despite this experience, I have come to realize I’m apparently a glutton for punishment from food. Because by lunchtime, I was ordering a veggie dog, from a place that specialized in a dish called the “Garbage Pail.”

I make poor food decisions.


There’s a rabbit running loose in our house. I mean it’s our rabbit, not a wild rabbit, but he’s running wild and leaving Hansel and Gretel like bunny nuggets so he knows how to get back to where he came from. That, or he just likes shitting all over the house. It’s much cuter if you think about it as the former, rather than the latter.

I had a rabbit growing up. Actually I had a total of 4, but really only one longer than a few months. I don’t like to talk about it. Anyway, my rabbits name was Sadie, and she was no bigger than my 10 –year-old palm when I got her. She was fluffy, and friendly, smart and perfect. She easily trained to go back to her cage to use the bathroom, and allowing her to be left out most of the day. I loved her for the 3 years she was mine.

Flip-flop is Reese’s rabbit. He was about the size of my (adult) hand, was incredibly fuzzy and sweet when we got him, but smart he is not. He eats odd things, like wood, curtains, and MacBook cords. He humps everything, about every 90 seconds, and most disgustingly, he poops. Everywhere.

So he’s running loose in our house, eating the kitchen table and pooping, little rabbit chips, and humping the dog and I’m pretending it’s not happening.

Did you know rabbits can live to be 10 years old? That’s 10 years of destroyed, VERY EXPENSIVE lap top power supplies, chewed up furniture, calf humps, and lots and lots of poop. Poop that I have to clean up. I just finally freed myself from changing diapers for the last 11 years, and I’m still cleaning up poop. I mean, sometimes I still have to clean up my kids poop, but that’s mostly not on a regular basis.

This was however the better alternative to getting another cat. Cats are like babies to me at this point. They are cute and all as long as they just want me to hold them, but when it comes to feeding, cleaning up after them, entertaining them, or dealing with their poop, the downsides now out way the rewards.

It’s what happens when you start getting old and have lots of kids. People have babies and cats and you don’t even care to hold or pet them. People think you’re all stuck up and that you think their baby/cat isn’t as cute as yours, and get all irritated and pissy, when really your just so over anyone’s babies at this point you’d cut your own arms off with the safety scissors you confiscated from your toddler who was cutting his hair, just to avoid the “do you want to hold him/her/it?” question.

I mean I just finally get to leave the house and only have to worry about snot and food from someone else on me, and not leaky shitty diapers and regurgitated milk products, do I really have to hold your baby and chance all those things again?

So, we procreated lots when we were young, we got past the poopy, pukey stages, and now, there’s still lots of poop everywhere. I’m adding “Fecal Management Specialist” to my resume.


I really should have talked Reese into a pet rock. Those things are awesome.