Crazy Texas Mommy

Mother on the edge.

noreply@blogger.com (Candance) — Tue, 18 Jun 2013 22:00:00 +0000

I've tried really hard to raise good, respectful children. Not out of some righteous, "train up a child...", belief.

It's because no one likes an asshole.

In my attempt to raise these good kids who do not feel the need to rebel and act like they were raised by wolves, I give them things I never had as a youngster.

Like trust. I figure I've raised them with a good enough sense of right and wrong I can trust them to make good choices without setting a bunch of strict rules to make them toe the line.

The benefit of the doubt. I don't assume every time they walk out the door it's to go to some drug and alcohol fueled orgy. Max is 10, so I really hope that's not what is going on when he goes to play at a friend's house. Seriously, if you accuse your kid of doing some horrible thing every time they walk out the door, eventually they're going to say to hell with it and start doing all the crap you accuse them of. Trust me, I know this for a fact.

The ability to be who they want to be and not who I want them to be. I don't feel like I have to break my kids and force them to be something they're not in order to make them good kids. My path may not be the path they choose (God, I hope not), so I want to let them explore and experiment to figure out who they are and what will make them happy. That's not to say I don't have boundaries, because I do, but I give them the space to figure out stuff on their own.

Yes, we do have certain, basic rules. They center around the Golden Rule (I just learned last semester that's from the Bible. I just thought it was something somebody not all powerful but pretty darn clever made up). I figure by using the Golden Rule, I'm pretty much instilling some good beliefs in their heads.

No, I am not a perfect parent. I'm barely a good parent and, about 50% of the time, I dream of what my life would be like if I could go away and get a new identity. The NSA can probably back me up on this if they're checking out my google searches.

I am sometimes too blunt with my children about their behavior, attitudes and the fact they are on my last damn nerve and I'm not even remotely scared to go to women's prison. I think that makes them stronger.

Or more screwed up. Depends on who you ask.

In the past few weeks something has become abundantly clear, though.

It doesn't matter how hard you try to raise good, respectful kids. It doesn't matter what values you instill in them, or how strict or lenient you choose to be, teenagers turn on you.

And they morph into gigantic assholes.

And the closer they get to getting out of your house, the bigger assholes they become.

Which may require you to lock them out of your house when they decide to run off in the middle of the night.*

Because if you don't lock them out, you're going to slap them in their smart mouths.

And because they need to learn they can't just get pissed off and leave and think there won't be any consequences.

It's only the beginning of the second week of summer break and this is where we already are.

Oh good.

*This is probably only a good idea if you live in a really small town, know exactly where they're going and if your town has a curfew for the kids and cops with nothing to do but harass kids out past curfew before delivering them home.

I feel a little like I need overalls and moonshine.

noreply@blogger.com (Candance) — Sat, 15 Jun 2013 15:14:00 +0000

Last night Grace and I returned home from a quick trip into town to find a stray cat stalking our chickens.

Oh, hell. to. the. no.

We raised six chickens (of which I'm terrified) from babies everyone told us not to get attached to because we'd be lucky if three survived to being within about a month of being ready to lay eggs.

Ain't nothing killing my chickens.

Grace and I ran outside screaming at the cat to get away from our chickens and, I guess all the flailing of arms and high pitched, panicked girl screams freaked it the hell out because it went running under the shed. So, I tried to grab the hose and flood it out, while Grace and Mocho Loco Ya Ya Hey Kitty Soul Kitty watched me in thorough disgust. You know what? They don't get to judge my cat eradication methods if they aren't going to help.

Knowing said feline would indeed return now that it was aware of the huge meal awaiting it in my backyard, I sent my ex-hubs the following text:

"Ask Max where he keeps the pellets for his air soft gun. We have a situation over here I need to take care of."

He still hasn't responded, but probably because he's really busy and not at all scared of me being armed and on the loose in our neighborhood (yes, we're neighbors). I mean, hell-o, he went to war and I'm thinking armed me is way less scary than armed Iraqi insurgents.

Probably.

This morning as I stumbled to the kitchen to pour myself a cup of ambition (Can you name that song? I won't give you a prize or anything, I just want to know if you know it.), I saw that asshole cat jump over my fence and head towards the chicken coop again.

I threw open the backdoor and yelled, "NOT ON MY WATCH, ASSHOLE!!!"

That cat hightailed it back over the fence and I conducted a police-with-a-warrant type search on Max's room until I found this:

It only has one pellet in it right now. I figured out how to put in like four, but they all disappeared except the one. I'm sure they're in there somewhere. Maybe.

Point is, it's sort of loaded and it sitting beside me on the sofa with the container of pellet things and if our cat friend decides to pay my chickens another visit, I'm going to give it a little scare*.

*This is mostly a lie because I couldn't hit the side of a barn if my life depended on it. Probably because I shoot with my eyes closed. I just want to sound like a bad ass.

The great college debate

noreply@blogger.com (Candance) — Wed, 12 Jun 2013 17:42:00 +0000

Grace is a junior now. An eleventh grader. One year from graduating from high school.

I was very young when I had her.

Obviously.

We've had a plan for Grace's college since she was in middle school. It started off very general-she could go to any school in the SEC as long as it wasn't Mississippi State. Then we got more specific-she was going to go to Ole Miss and not be a moron like me and have to finish up school elsewhere. This was our concrete, set-in-stone plan until December.

In December, her dad got her paraphernalia from the college where I actually earned my degree and he started trying to convince her to go to school there because she wouldn't have to pay for the dorm or pay out of state tuition. I don't know exactly why he decided to try to talk her out of Ole Miss other than he was afraid he'd have to help pick up the tab and his wallet was having a panic attack.

Around this same time, Grace decided she did not want me to help her pay for college at all. She didn't want one dime from me so I couldn't "hold it over" her head I'd helped pay for her schooling. I think "hold it over her head" really meant telling her what she can and can't do with my money. When she started doing the math, living with daddy and going to college in state sounded really good, so she started backing off her dream to go to Ole Miss.

Which pissed me off.

For the record, I love the school I graduated from and I feel like I got a really good education despite the fact I was not pursuing a degree in agriculture and it was an agricultural school. I also had the best bunch of sorority sisters on the planet, a couple of whom I still hang out with when he can make it happen.

I guess I should also be happy my kid isn't going nine hours away from home to college and will be living with her father, where, ideally, she'd have adult supervision (yeah right) unlike she would at Ole Miss. But, unlike my mother did with me, I have not made anything forbidden or "sinful" to Grace. I've been very honest with her about drugs, alcohol and sex and I have realistic expectations about what she will and won't do (although I'd prefer boys keep their penises away from her for a while longer), so getting away from me isn't getting away from a controlling, psychopath of a mother like it was for me. I lost my damn mind because I was finally free from the miserable hellhole that was my childhood home (think all the religious parts of Carrie without the pig's blood or my ability to move things with my mind which is really disappointing) and I did anything and everything my mother forbade.

What pisses me off is that Grace is letting her stubbornness (she totally gets from her dad) stand in the way of fulfilling her dreams and I want better for her. I don't want her to be 37-years-old regretting not getting her head out of her ass and doing what was best for her future when she was young. Of course, the more I try to push her to go to Ole Miss, the more she's determined not to because, as it turns out, I don't know anything and she knows everything so I shouldn't even speak because I am a moron and she's going to do what she wants when she wants because she doesn't even need me and I'm also a bitch.

I wonder what percentage of the women's prison population is made up of inmates who are serving time because of their teenage daughters? Someone should do a study.

I'm a let-the-kid-touch-the-hot-stove-and-learn-their-lessons-the-hard-way person. I'll try to offer guidance, but once it becomes obvious the kids are going to do what they want anyway, I back off.

And then I do the I-told-you-so dance when things turn out exactly the way I told them it would.

So, that's what I'm doing right now-backing off and letting her try to do it all herself. Washing my hands with the situation. Taking a backseat. Not offering input.

And very begrudgingly putting on my dancing shoes.

Cause I'm right.

And she's wrong.

Na-na-na booboo.

It frightens me families exist in this world that make mine look normal. That makes them look downright boring.

noreply@blogger.com (Candance) — Sun, 09 Jun 2013 17:11:00 +0000

This morning, around 10:00, I received the following text from someone I know very well who is currently attending a family reunion with her father's side of the family:

"K-just informed me her dentist in in prison. She said that's why she has to have someone hold her tooth when she gets in fights. Because her dentist is in prison."

In that moment, I realized my fighting-at-funerals-gluing-tennis-balls-to-goat's-horns-beating-up-people-with-our-shoes family was practically the Cleavers.

And I was thankful.

Now, this is a fun and creative way to start summer break

noreply@blogger.com (Candance) — Sat, 08 Jun 2013 18:09:00 +0000

A long-time loyal and wonderful reader (I think since we've communicated in real-life that makes her more than a reader) left a comment on my post about the start of summer break making me want to stab myself in the neck and left me a link to a video some of her students made. I love seeing kids use their mad video skillz-yo-for something cool and creative rather than something hateful or trashy and I knew her kids would make something great because she's a great teacher (and also, she wouldn't send me to a video of something moronic). Her kids exceeded my expectations so much, they earned their very own blog post!!

So, without further ado, here are some very talented young adults from FloMo rapping about mandals:

Enjoy while I'm off hunting down some WWII memorial I saw a sign for on the way to the casino and made the mistake of telling my kid I'd take him to "sometime" this summer.

And if you don't hear from me again, I've disappeared somewhere on the Texas/Oklahoma border and it's probably not in Winstar since they don't even serve free booze.

Summer's coming. Woo-hoo.

noreply@blogger.com (Candance) — Thu, 06 Jun 2013 02:08:00 +0000

In a day and a half, school is out for summer.

Yay.

Hold on, let me try that again.

In a day and a half, no more waking up angry humans early in the morning and getting them off to a place they hate while often also getting myself ready for work.

No more coming up with new and exciting lunches that will neither poison or bore them.

No more projects requiring 1000 hard to find supplies put off until the night before it's due.

No more mind numbing school events that eat up my evening and my will to live.

No more eight hours a day without having to cater to people I birthed.

No more watching what I want when I want on the television.

No more hearing my own thoughts for more than 10 minutes at a time.

For almost three months.

Yee-effing-haw.

Yeah, you don't get to judge me for saying exactly what you've been thinking for weeks now. Plus, there is no way in hell you can be judgier than this one mom who apparently believes it's a sin not to want to spend every waking second with your kids.

An actual sin.

So save it.

(I tried to find the article again so I could link to it, but I couldn't find it and googling "not liking kids is a sin" brings up all kinds of craziness. Also, Google suggested "I don't like my kids" as a search term. It's like Google knows me.)

Look, I get that Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world and that red, yellow, black and white, they are precious in his sight. I also know He was a really good carpenter and could turn water into wine. I'm pretty sure He doesn't think the fact I couldn't hammer a nail straight to save my life and that the only thing I can turn water into is lemonade is a sin. I do lots of other things He probably thinks are sinful, but not that.

Or admitting the idea that spending every second of every minute of every day for the next almost three months makes me want to cry a little and may or may not make me have small panic attacks. Because, you know what else Jesus doesn't like?

Liars.

So, yeah, summer is coming.

Yay.

I joined a gym in order to get an hour a day all to myself. It doesn't open until mid-July, but, seriously, the idea of bringing sexy back while also avoiding women's prison may just keep me going.

Or not.

They really love it at the doctor's office when you call to schedule an appointment using the words, "So, I was watching Dr. Oz..."

noreply@blogger.com (Candance) — Tue, 04 Jun 2013 10:24:00 +0000

I rarely watch Dr. Oz. I always leave feeling like I know too much about his rides on the number two train. Poop makes me uncomfortable, so I try to avoid talk of it as much as possible, especially when it's a stranger's poop. But, six weeks ago Sofia Vergara was his guest and Modern Family is seriously the funniest show on television, so I decided to tune in.

Okay, for even more back story you just can't live without, I've had some weird physical stuff going on for like two years. I guess the first thing was the fact I was packing on weight and it didn't seem to matter what I did, I couldn't keep it off. It came to a head in the last two months when I gained, and I shit you not, 20 POUNDS! 2-0. And that was with me running everyday because I was going to do a mud run with Leiah's daughter, Katie. I was pissed the hell off because, helll-o, if I'm going to run and no one is chasing me, I expect my ass to get smaller, not bigger. In addition to taking on a striking resemblance to the Michelin Man, my hair became this big fried, frizzy mess. I could use expensive hair products to try to treat it, and it didn't matter. By the time I figured out what was causing all this mess, I hadn't worn my hair down in about a month because I couldn't get it under control. Not that I was really going anywhere if I didn't have to due to being exhausted all. the. time. Not even like a regular tired, but I felt like I was underwater and would sleep for hours and hours and hours. I know, you're super jealous of NJ right now because he got to hang with a frizzy haired, Michelin Man sloth. It's hard being this sexy.

The last couple of months, I got so freaked out I got all the processed food out of the house, started taking about 10,000 (fine, four) vitamins a day, working out even harder and making my own lotion and make-up. I just knew getting all natural up in here would make the problem go away.

Nope.

Back to Dr. Oz. I was watching that day and Sofia was talking about having thyroid cancer and then they started talking about what happens when a good thyroid goes bad and gives you hypothyroidism. I think Dr. Oz listed like six symptoms and I had all of them except being extra sensitive to cold (instead I was sweating so bad at night I was getting up and changing clothes at least twice every single night). He was like, "If you have three or more of these symptoms you should call your doctor."

I do have a dull-blank expression quite often,
but that's mostly due to being beat down.
Photo source.

So, I called NJ. He was all like, "I'm not a doctor." Uh, duh. If he were, I'd be driving a BMW, not a VW. I just thought he might like to know the possible cause of my frizzy haired Michelin Man sloth appearance. He was all insistent I call the actual doctor. He's very demanding.

I did call the doctor's office, though. There's nothing quite like starting the conversation with the receptionist with the words, "So, I was watching Dr. Oz..." and hearing her crack up. At least she didn't burst into laughter as soon as I said my name because, seriously y'all, I never fail to entertain at the local health care practitioner's office.

When I was playing internet doctor and self-diagnosing (I should know better by now), it never occurred to me it could be my thyroid because, aside from having thyroid cancer, I was one of those asshats who rolled my eyes at people who said they were chubby because of a bad thyroid. I was all like you have an I-see-the-all-you-can-eat-buffet-as-a-challenge problem. Don't get your collective panties in a wad, because God is totally getting me back for being judgy and hateful. I mean, hell-o, did I mention I'm a frizzy haired Michelin Man sloth?

Turns out, though, that's exactly the issue. And it sucks. Well, at first it didn't because I was relieved and I'm sure the people in the exam rooms next to me were wondering why I was hollering, "Thank you, Baby Jesus! I knew wasn't insane and my innards were totally broken again!!" I bet they're thinking the jury is still out on that insane thing because, seriously, what sane person is stoked for more broken innards?

Now that I'm over the relief I can honestly say the hypothyroidism totally sucks. I mean, in the big picture of conditions I could have, it's not a bad one because it's not going to kill me and I don't really have to make any big changes in my lifestyle. Hell, I'm healthier and more active now than I've ever been before, so it would be kind of pointless to change since I'm doing everything right. I take a pill on an empty stomach everyday (for the rest of my life) and wait thirty minutes to eat. It's that simple. Except that it's not.

Getting the dosage right on the medication can take months and it has to be adjusted over time. Then there's the self-esteem thing. Weight loss is insanely slow which may be the hardest part for me because I have always been thin and maintained a size six or smaller figure. Now? I weigh as much as I did when I was eight months pregnant. It's killing me. Also, my hair is getting better, but the damaged hair is falling out in handfuls. I'm glad the damaged hair is being replaced with healthy hair, but it's unnerving to get out of the shower and it look like the cat hacked up a fur ball in it every single day (sorry for the visual, GunDiva). I just feel like I look yucky all the time and I really don't want to go in public until I resemble my old self at least a little. Of course, I have to go out due to my children needing food and junk, but I don't like it. I guess I just want to see immediate results now that I know what the problem is.

But, on a totally different note, now everyone around me has a new reason to make fun of me. If Dr. Oz comes on the television, everyone scrambles for the remote and hollers things about me not being able to watch or I might diagnose myself with another condition. Even my daddy gets in on it. Yep, everyone's a comedian.

That's alright, though. See if I use my mad self-diagnosing skillz on them.

That'll learn 'em.

After you've spent part of your morning trapped under a trampoline, you have to assume your day can only get better

noreply@blogger.com (Candance) — Wed, 22 May 2013 15:56:00 +0000

Mocho Loco Ya Ya Hey Kitty Soul Kitty has been having emotional problems since we moved the chickens into their coop. She used to love to spend afternoons in our one tree stalking all the birds in the yard, but now that birds actually live in our yard, she's been banned from her special place. She stands at the backdoor or sits in the window sills, angrily looking at the window and cussing us in cat language when we walk by. I really have felt bad for her and, this morning, I decided to get back in her good graces.

I hadn't let the chickens out yet and, since they were in their coop, out of Mocho's view, I decided to let her out for a few minutes. Everything was fine for about 10 minutes. Then I heard the sound of hysterical chickens. I ran to the door to see what was going on and apparently the girls had found an opening to their chicken run and let themselves out and Mocho was giving them a nice workout. When I opened the door to stop Richard Simmons kitty from chasing the chickens, one flew in the house. My neighbors heard this:

"Mocho, stop!! OH SHIT, GET OUT!! GET OUT!!! I CAN'T TOUCH YOU!!!"

I soon found myself in quite the conundrum. I had to get the chicken in the house out, the chickens outside back in their coop and the cat back in the house. Suffice it to say, there was much running and screaming on everyone's part trying to make it happen. Because I am a badass, I summoned all my courage, picked that chicken up and ran out the door with her. Sure, I was hollering, "Your talons are FREAKING ME OUT!!!" the entire time, but I still picked it up.

And I found rounding up the chickens was much easier than rounding up the Chicken Hunter, which is how I got trapped under the trampoline.

The chickens pretty willingly went back in their coop, but Mocho wasn't ready to give up the hunt, so every time I ran towards her, she'd run somewhere I couldn't get her. Cats are smart like that. Apparently. My cat is also apparently smarter than her human.

After running around and around the yard from me several times, Mocho ran under the trampoline. I thought I totally had her trapped, and I kind of squat/crawled under after her. Right as I was about to reach out and grab her, she took off running again. When I tried to quickly squat/crawl back out after her, I found not only was I further in than I thought, but the 10 minute chase around the yard coupled with the pain I was already in from a killer workout yesterday made my legs shoot me the finger and not work. So, rather than assuming my very technical squat/crawl position, I landed flat on my ass-still under the trampoline. Mocho stood just on the other side, as if taunting me. I think she even smirked a little.

She really is a bitch.

I'd be lying if I didn't panic a little about being trapped under the trampoline. I tend to do that when trapped in any small space (which is often bathroom stalls for some reason) and had to regroup in order to hoist my big ass out. I guess all the running wore Mocho out, too, because she did one final lap around the yard before laying on the porch and letting me grab her.

Y'all, all this happened before 9:30.

I have to believe all that WAS NOT the high point of my day.

I'm pretty sure this seals my fate.

noreply@blogger.com (Candance) — Wed, 22 May 2013 01:07:00 +0000

This afternoon, the skies got really dark and the air outside got really still and super muggy. I think we're all pretty shell shocked over what happened in Moore, OK yesterday because several school districts around here closed early due to the weather and I picked my kids up early-just in case. After the storm passed and my daddy called twice to ensure we weren't dead and didn't have any damage (hell if I know), my mom called. The following is a re-enactment of our conversation:

Joy Fay: I just called to make sure the chickens got in their house before the storm hit.

Me: Yeah, but I had to herd them back to the coop because I was letting them free range in the backyard.

Joy Fay: Ohhh, was it raining? Don't ever try to get the chickens in the coop when it's lightening. I've been meaning to tell you that.

Me: It hadn't started raining yet, but I do try to avoid outdoor activities when there is lightening due to it being dangerous and all. Plus, I feel it's best not to tempt fate.

Joy Fay: That's how your granny got struck by lightening that time.

Me: By being outside when it was lightening? That's the leading cause of lightening strikes.

Joy Fay: She was outside trying to get the chickens in the coop and got struck. It nearly killed her! We had to call the doctor and everything. She had trouble with her back and neck for the rest of her life because of it.

Me: GRANNY GOT STRUCK BY LIGHTENING PUTTING AWAY CHICKENS?!!? Wait, of course she did. This is our family. Why am I even surprised? And, if I ever do get struck by lightening, even if you think I'm okay, please call a doctor because, you know, that's volts of electricity going into my body so I'm probably not really okay.

After learning this new fun fact from my mother, it's like I had a crystal ball and could see my future. It involved lightening and chickens and, with my luck, probably death.

But it would make for an interesting death, which in turn would make for an interesting obituary. Y'all know how much I love a good obituary.

If it makes the obituary and, with a death like that, it totally can't be left out.

So, who volunteers to make sure, should I die as a result of herding chickens in lightening storm, my cause of death is accurately included in my obituary?

Rosa?

SGG?

Jody?

Y'all got my back?

The clouds are rotating and yet another person knows I'm going to be on the news one day.

noreply@blogger.com (Candance) — Thu, 16 May 2013 02:14:00 +0000

When the name of my town actually makes the news, it's never because of things that are good. For example, we once made headlines because nude photos of a former mayor were found in the attic of city hall after one floated down from the ceiling during a city council meeting. Right now, they're saying our name due to tornadoes all around us and, at one point, headed right towards us. Because I have the greatest friends ever, everyone started texting me to make sure the kids and I were okay. We are fine except that it's hailing right now. Luckily, my patio table spontaneously combusted earlier today so I don't have to worry about it shattering. Now.

Okay, back to the texts. Everyone was making sure we were okay and I told my friend teacher Lindsay (she's my local partner in crime) I made Grace and the cat get in the bathtub and I was thinking about going outside to see what was going on.

Her response?

"You might should hop in, too. You're the crazy lady who gets blown away in the storm because you wanted to see it. I've seen people like you on the news."

She made me snort.

But she's not the first person to tell me they've seen people like me on the news.

Or that I'll be on the news.

And not for anything good, just like my town.

The fact he's a WWII buff should've been a tip-off to my Gracie

noreply@blogger.com (Candance) — Tue, 14 May 2013 01:08:00 +0000

Max is in a major WWII phase right now. He studies it constantly and also recently announced he's a Jew. Seriously, he walked in the living room one night and said, "Mom, I think I'm a Jew." He's asked for a copy of the Torah. I'll probably get him one. The next time I'm at Barnes and Noble?

He really is smarter than the rest of us.
Combined.
Not that it's all that hard.

Anywho, as part of his WWII obsession, he wants to watch good movies about the war. He wants movies not focused on the action but that really tell the story of the people involved. As part of his quest, he decided to ask Grace and me for our movie picks. The following is a re-enactment of our conversation:

Me: Why don't you watch Pearl Harbor?

Max: That's a Michael Bey movie.

Grace and Me: So????

Max: It'll be too focused on the action.

Me: Okkkaaaayyy. What about the one about the Tuskegee Airmen?

Max: It's called Red Tails and it's not on there.

Grace: Yeah, Mom, do you think he can spell Tuskegee? I can't even spell it.

Me: As a matter of fact, I do. Spell it, Max.

Max: T-u-s-k-e-g-e-e.

Grace: Shut up.

She knows I say I have a pretty kid who sings well and a smart kid. I thought she knew which one she was.

But, then again...

I think I need a Little Orphan Annie decoder ring for this mess

noreply@blogger.com (Candance) — Fri, 26 Apr 2013 13:58:00 +0000

I normally wouldn't do something this petty, but because I love y'all and this crap is too good not to share, I'm going to let you read (or try to decode) a series of e-mails I received from NJ's ex-wife last evening. Why in the world she thought getting a message to him via me was a good idea is beyond me, especially since he's been ignoring her calls and texts over the situation for a couple of months. Apparently, she has trouble grasping no response =I don't want to talk to you. This is not surprising because, as you will see, she also has trouble grasping the English language. Example 1 (my comments are in red beside it):

Jennie Price

hello
I'm sure you're shocked to be getting a message from me... but I need you to get a message to Nathan (I need you to look up the proper use of an ellipsis).
I have recently found two large boxes... containing item that has I believe he would want... that may be worth some money or at least sentimental value to him. I need to know if you wants these items (The fact he hasn't responded to your numerous calls and texts would indicate a no, methinks.). I have no use for them or room. so I need an answer soon so I can mail them. or I will be getting rid of them. please and thank you. he has my number have him contact me. (Capitalize much?)

My response was actually pretty nice. I even took the co-conspiritial girl approach and said his stuff from MO is kind of tacky, so if the box never made it here, I wouldn't be sad. I guess she took offense to that. Probably because she helped decorate their home. I give her credit for figuring out that was a dig against her. Her response:

Jennie Price

Ok well it isn't trash.. Was trying too be nice..I wouldn't like to see my husbands ex"s number on his phone if they don't have children. I wasn't being a Bitch (Now she decides to use a capital letter?) so please stop being that way to me..I know u love him and he loves u so I am not going to expect a response from him and figured since u love him u would want him to have his things that have nothing to do with me..and if him talking to my family bothers u ..u may want to evaluate your maturity level..cause it has nothing to do with me...but apparently if u do not want to act ur age I need not bother respecting my elders(Ahhh, yes, play the "you're old, I'm young card)...have a wonderful night..either u respect him and will tell him or u don't and won't...last time I take ur feelings into consideration...God bless (Really?)

I was sad she didn't realize what it was when I am really a bitch, so I let my bitch fly on her. It felt good.

Are you kidding me? When the hell have you ever given anyone's feelings other than your own a consideration? I need to act my age? Does repeatedly squeezing out offspring by a married man make you mature? Spare me, Little Girl. You have no idea what it is to be an adult, and don't pull the whole bs about how you've been to war. I went through it with my ex-husband and being an Officer's wife isn't exactly a walk in the park, especially when you're a pacifist. Call Nathan. Text him. E-mail him. I care way less than you think I do about what he does or who he talks to and I could care less whose number is in his phone. Why would I waste my time looking? My life doesn't revolve around him and actually has very little to do with him other than having his last name. I had no issue with your parents disrespecting your boyfriend/husband/ father of however many of your children by staying in constant contact with Nathan until your mother wrote some asinine letter to Him regarding telling me stuff so I'd "feel better." You people are barely a blip on my radar. I wasn't surprised to hear from you. My initial thought was that you were one of my former students because I didn't recognize your name. Don't contact me again.

Apparently she has comprehension issues as well, because "don't contact me again" was lost on her.

Jennie Price

Ymmv (Due to my extreme age, I am confused. Is this some code the young kids use?) .thats why I have a masters degree (obviously) and have a engineers certificate I aviation at 26..and don't have to work but get to be with my babies cause a great man UN like u will ever meet loves me and my babies...sucked to be u. Texas is great unless ur old dry and fat...so Fuck off Bitch..stop hate"n on me cause ya jelous..cause God loves me and my woman parts still work..God gives the diserving (I think she meant deserving, but diserving is kind of funny) the ability and gives the great the means to continue...sorry your so angry and couldn't just tell him..instead u had to show ur hate..and stupidity and jealousy..now go cry itself (Is my uterus supposed to cry itself to sleep or my ovaries?) to sleep because it's the only thing that can still self lubricate....(Her obsession with lubrication and my lady parts in a tad disturbing.)

She left the door wide open for me to be petty.

You have a master's degree! That's hilarious. Not with that atrocious grammar. You couldn't spell dissertation, much less write one, Spare me your pettiness and, so you know, using the unladylike "f" word while simultaneously talking about God blessing you makes you look even more stupid than your inability to use punctuation and capitalization, bless your heart.

And that went over like a fart in a church:

Jennie Price

Sorry I talk to my stupid.phone( Wrong. You're phone knows the proper use of an ellipses because it's a SMART PHONE)..cause IM defiantly not gonna put forth the effort to text with my hand for u..i help all gods creatures but no u..dont think u qualify...u defiantly made it past the evolution jump by mistake...ur mothers ass was apparently to big to shoot over (Yeah well, your mama's so fat...wait, are we on the playground?)..now go talk to the other low life beings u call friends..thank God for the future...that's why u can't procreate (Just because you can doesn't mean you should and, uh, I think these two younger smaller people who live with me are children.)...and I just can't stop...a higher being..I shall sleep well..do us a favor and put ya self down....bye honey..yall havs a real goods times there in texass..dumb add hooker (Are we rapping now?)

There's a reason I had him first and u had him last (technically I had him in fourth grade, which was before she was even born but there is a reason she married him first-he moved when we were 11)..and even though u climbed out of the shit u call ur mom (Ohhh, she's talking about my mama.) first I will die last ..just remember that..I left him (The leaving was kind of inevitable since you had someone else's baby in your belly)...u knew I had better( Uh, don't even know ya. But, I think since he left his three or four kids and wife to be with you, y'all are evenly matched)..and ur the one who looked at my trash and saw gold..go Fuck urself..

As I re-read these this morning, I couldn't help but laugh. First, I have no idea what the hell she was saying because I speak English and second, the parts I did make out were so childish I didn't know if I was sparring with a grown woman who has like three kids (and plans to keep producing which should make us all nervous because she's too drunk to be a mother most of the time) or a third grader who is stomping their feet and throwing a temper tantrum.

I finally blocked her, but not before I told her thanks for all the revising and editing bellwork she just provided me once I edit out her potty mouth.

And her strange obsession with lubrication.

If you bet we wouldn't last a year....

noreply@blogger.com (Candance) — Sun, 21 Apr 2013 15:40:00 +0000

You owe somebody some money.

That's right-NJ and I have been married one year today and no one has died of natural (or suspicious) causes as of yet (other than my FIL, but we knew that was coming). It hasn't been easy not to kill each other and, with all we've been through in the last year, it seems more like 10 years than one. But, I don't hate him, even though I do like to remind him constantly that he married above himself this time and that I don't need him, I choose him and I'm prone to change my mind.

I think this is where I'm supposed to say something mushy about marrying my best friend, blah, blah, blah. Yeah, I've had the same best friends since I was seven and 14 and I have the SGG. He's not my best friend. He's a boy. But he makes me laugh. Granted, it's mostly at him, but whatever. We just aren't romantic people. We know how we feel about each other without getting all flowery and poetic at each other.

However, he is driving 14 hours home as I type this after working all night so he can spend our first anniversary with me. He totally surprised me last night with this info, after leading me to think he wouldn't be coming all week. Now I have to go buy him a present. But, I think it's pretty damn cool he'd do that and I guess I'll probably be nice to him for 24 hours.

So, yeah, no romantic mushy crap here. We made it a year. He can be a pretty alright guy sometimes, so he's worth another year.

Maybe even two.

If the process of obtaining the permit is an indicator of future events, we are in for one helluva ride.

noreply@blogger.com (Candance) — Fri, 12 Apr 2013 18:56:00 +0000

*When your girl child has just earned her learner's permit and you're looking for a catchy title to the post about this historic (not in an MLK Jr. or JKF way, but in more of a Bonnie and Clyde or Jesse James sort of way) event, don't google "songs about driving". Most of them are less about driving and more about what one can do inside the car, which will cause one mother who is already on the verge of a nervous breakdown to go slipping right over the edge.

This girl now has a driving permit:

My hope for everyone is that she will
drive with her eyes open, regardless of how
excited she may be to be on the open road.
I'm not counting on it-just hoping.

She could've had it a month ago, but I lost her birth certificate and all this other, really important stuff kept getting in the way of me going to get a new one. even though all they had to do was print it out. I had to train for my new job. And crochet penises.

Fine, I was stalling.

Anyone who has read this blog for any amount of time or knows us in real person knows exactly why. I have a smart kid and pretty kid who sings well. Guess which one she is.

Need help?

Yesterday, when I went to check her out of school, she was all, "Did you look at the checklist and make sure you have all the documents we need?" Uh, yeah, and we don't, which is why we're going to get your birth certificate. Turns out, we were missing two forms, which resulted in many tears and a hateful 15-year-old-hormonal-asshat-girl meltdown.

The two forms? Were her responsibility. So, in retaliation, I had a hateful 37-year-old-hormal-asshat-woman meltdown. Mine was way better due to years of experience.

While we waited for the two forms, I made her take a practice test. She quickly became confused and said, "This test is asking me about driving in cities. I don't drive in cities, so I only memorized the parts about driving in small towns and on farm roads."

Come again?

"Grace, the test doesn't know you live in a small town and you will drive in a city at sometime, so you have to know all the rules."

She was dumbfounded.

I was terrified.

Of course, not as terrified as I was when the lady next to us at the DMV was getting her picture taken and, after the employee had to re-take the pic three times because she wasn't "looking at the camera" the person with her finally said, "She's looking at the camera. She's just a little cross-eyed." The lady working with us and I looked at each other, looked at the other employee and then looked at the cross-eyed lady to see if she was, in fact, that cross-eyed. Girlfriend was, but she drove out of there with her freshly renewed license.

After Grace took her test and passed, sending me into heart failure, she confessed she barely passed it. "I'm glad they had all those street signs on there, because I don't know anything about speed through certain areas or distance. I can just eyeball when I need to dim my brights when another car is coming."

"Really? You can eyeball it? Cause you've been driving for so long?" I asked, wondering exactly what the distance was to dim the lights because I always just eyeball it, but I've been driving for 21 years, so I can do that and wondering what speed zones threw her off. School zones? Neighborhoods? The areas with the sign posted with specific numbers she thinks are merely a suggestion?

"No, but I've been a passenger for 15. I've picked up a few things."

Oh good.

Leiah did manage to make me feel a little better when she said now the SGG has another designated driver. Between the petites and our SGG-in-Training, we're up to three. I never thought Grace might be what was standing between me and a jail cell.

I always figured she'd be what put me in one.

The next six months? Are going to be bumpy.

And scary.

And something tells me really expensive.

I took a muscle relaxer so a real post is kind of hard right now. I really just wanted an excuse to post a video of Grace singing. Again.

noreply@blogger.com (Candance) — Fri, 29 Mar 2013 03:08:00 +0000

gEarlier today, I decided to mow the front yard. The John Deere isn't working (surprise, surprise), so I used the push mower. Not that I wouldn't have anyway because I like the workout and the quiet time I get while using the push mower.

As I was mowing and admiring my work-okay, fine, thinking what I lack in skill I totally make up for in enthusiasm-I realized when NJ puffs his chest out and say he has the biggest lot in the neighborhood (this pleases him because our house and lot are bigger than the ex-hubs' who lives three streets over), he ain't kidding. I also realized the part on the side of the fence, that I thought was flat and a nice place to plant my garden if we get the chickens since I won't be entering my backyard ever again, is actually a hill. It may not be steep normally, but when you're pushing a lawn mower up it, it may as well be a mountain.

(Max just said a bunch of words to me and I couldn't tell you what they were, but now he's listening to ZZ Top, so I wonder if the two were connected?)

Anyway, a couple of weeks ago, I strained a muscle or something on my rib cage doing push-ups (I can do 45 on my toes). It hurt like a mofo. Today, as I was pushing the lawnmower up Mt. Everest, I felt the searing pain down my side, across my middle and in my back again. Not gonna lie, my quality of mowing really declined after that.

(Why does Max care if I forgive Arnold Schwarzenegger? He didn't get it on with my maid and hide a kid from me for 10 years. But, no, I don't. Not only did he cheat, but he probably caused them to have to fire a perfectly good maid. Selfish bastard.)

NJ is a good husband and left the pills here Grace calls Bin Ladens and led her declaring her Geometry teacher was a sexy Asian man when her appendix broke. I guess people steal them or something crazy like that.

Whatever.

Point is, I can't feel my side anymore. Or my fingers. Or my lips. I can feel my eyelids. They feel like someone taped tiny little barbells to them.

I just wanted an excuse for y'all to have to listen to my kid sing again. I mean, I guess you don't have to if you don't push play, but this time it's Loretta Lynn, so you know you want to.

OMG, it was really hard remembering how to get videos in here. I'm going to go sleepy time now and I'm not proofreading this or linking stuff. I'll do it tomorrow when I'm not under the influence of Bin Laden.

The obituary PaPaw would've wanted.

noreply@blogger.com (Candance) — Wed, 27 Mar 2013 03:10:00 +0000

*I've postponed writing PaPaw's obituary he totally deserved until we actually had him in our possession. Well, as of yesterday, we have him. He's hidden somewhere in the man cave because I told NJ if he wouldn't take him on the road with him he needed to hide him where a) the cat wouldn't knock him over and b) I couldn't see him. So, now he gets the killer obit. That was a horrible choice of words.*

Dennis "Superfly" Johnston passed away December 26, 2012, at the age of 59, after a battle with liver cancer, with his son by his side. The family was very glad the hospice nurse who came two days prior to his passing changed him out of his "You can kiss my country ass" t-shirt because, although it was among his favorites, the family felt it was much more dignified for him to pass in his Popeye shirt.

Dennis "Superfly" leaves to cherish his three concubines, Leiah, Michelle and Christy, whom he wooed with his possession of both a man cave and his very own mini-fridge. He also leaves three children, a son NJ, who married way above himself, a son JM whom was recently shot in a motorcycle gang "incident" and one daughter, AJ who is a crack whore. Literally. He also has three granddaughters and one grandson.

"Superfly" was born December 11th, 1953 in GP, TX where he was raised by his loving grandparents. He is not a man who will be remembered for his great contributions to society, his super great career or for being an amazing dad. He was a flawed man, who spent most of his adult life fighting demons that were put in place before he was even born. But he spent the last six months of his life trying to make up for those mistakes and, in the Johnston home, he became an adored father and PaPaw to three people who really needed that space filled in their heart.

He was a man of few words, but he was an amazing listener. He was the type of man you could tell your deepest, darkest secret and all he'd say is, "It happens," or "We all make mistakes." That's it. No lecture or advice, just acceptance of you and all your flaws.

Superfly found pleasure in watching old movies, collecting Civil War memorabilia, threatening to beat up boys dumb enough to date his teenaged granddaughter and teaching his grandson dirty jokes. He also loved Patsy Cline, Conway Twitty and held out hope until his last breath the south would rise again. He would like his ashes placed in an urn bearing the Confederate Flag (I am too scared to even google that).

There will be no services for Superfly. He'd want it that way. Instead of mourning him, he'd want everyone who reads this to raise a glass of Bourbon in his honor and smoke something. He wouldn't be too picky about what that something was, as he enjoyed smoking a variety of things, some of which are only legal in Colorado and Washington.

Superfly's warm laughter, Ninja-like quiet walking skills, dry sense of humor and good listening are missed very much, especially by his super-smoking-hot daughter-in-law and teenaged granddaughter. But he will always be in their hearts.

And apparently hidden somewhere in their house.

It's kinda hard being G-R-A-C-E.

noreply@blogger.com (Candance) — Mon, 25 Mar 2013 03:05:00 +0000

Yesterday, my lovely girl child texted me to let me know she'd be home later if she came home at all. I was like, "Cool, I'm home alone for the first time in ages, so take your time."

The following is a re-enactment of the rest of that conversation:

Grace: Yay! Did NJ go back to work?

Me: No, he went to pick up PaPaw.

Grace: Uh, isn't PaPaw dead?

Me: Nope. We've just been messing with you since December. Yes, he's dead. NJ went to get him from the funeral home.

Grace: Oh cool.

Me: Yep. Now we just need to get a nice vase for him.

Grace: A vase? For what?

Me: His ashes. We're not just going to throw him in a shoebox, Crazy.

Grace: You got him cremated?!?!?

Me: Yeah. What did you think was being picked up from the funeral home? His body?

Grace: Oh. Well, why don't we put him in a Yeti Cooler? I think he'd like that.

I'm not really sure exactly how many ashes my child thinks
a dead body creates, but it's definity not enough to fill a Yeti Cooler.
Maybe a chopped up body, but not a cremated one.

Bless her heart.

So, what do you think of prostitutes?

noreply@blogger.com (Candance) — Sat, 23 Mar 2013 02:47:00 +0000

Today, when I picked Max up from school, I went into the kitchen to make him a snack and he stopped in front of the television, his backpack still on his back, transfixed by whatever was on the screen.

When I left home at 2:30, it had been one of those cold case shows, so I just figured it was still on. Until my 10-year-old walked into the kitchen and asked, "Mom, what do you think of prostitutes?"

Uh, do what?

I was like, "Why, Dude? Have big plans for the weekend?"

He looked confused. "No. I was just wondering if you think they're bad people."

Well, there's a fun conversation to have with your young son moments after picking him up from school.

So I told him I had mixed emotions about prostitutes. I feel really sad for a lot of them because I think circumstances in their life have made them feel like that's the only way they can make any money; like selling their body is all they're worth.

After looking at me kind of stunned for a second, he said, "I understand, Mom. I hear they are very friendly. You know, sexually. And Dolly Parton seems real nice in that one movie you like."

Finally, I was like, "What the hell are you watching?"

"Something about a ranch with prostitutes and mustangs."

Lets just hope if we get the chickens he doesn't start
referring to our house as the Chicken Ranch. I soooo
don't want to have that particular conversation with
his teacher. And everyone in town. Attribution.

He meant Mustang Ranch.

Apparently the cold case show wasn't on anymore.

And my son pays a lot more attention when I watch his mamaw in Best Little Whorehouse in Texas than I originally thought.

Just what every girl terrified of birds needs.

noreply@blogger.com (Candance) — Thu, 21 Mar 2013 13:28:00 +0000

So, as most of you know without me linking back to many posts pointing out the fact, I am TERRIFIED of birds. They scare me the way snakes and spiders scare other people. Of all the phobias one could have, this one is kind of a pain in the ass because, in case you haven't noticed, birds are everywhere.

This phobia has rendered me unable to enter pet stores with birds just chilling out on perches, free to claw my eyes out at their leisure. I also can't take the kids to the zoo without a companion because they like to go in the aviary. I think this is mostly because they hate me and are willing to see how much I really will sacrifice for them. Well, not my eyeballs, you ungrateful little bastards, so put that in your pipe and smoke it. I can't go to the Dallas Aquarium due to the birds just flying around unsupervised and any trip to Target is increased by at least 20 minutes while I wait for all the grackles to stop chasing me (yes, they are chasing me).

All that being said? Guess what we're thinking about getting.

That is a chicken. The children and Nathan want
six of them to live in our backyard. They
are obviously trying to kill me. Attribution

I have agreed to the little chicken experiment only because we have a new store in town that buys fresh eggs, so I can be like Caroline Ingalls and tell the kids I have to run into town to sell eggs so I can buy fabric to make them new summer frocks.

I'll be selling the eggs the children gather.

Grace told us we need to hurry and get our chickens before they go out of season. Apparently, after Easter all baby chicks, ducks and rabbits cease to be born. Oh, how the Cadbury people have poisoned her little pea brain.

Anyway, I've researched and researched the least aggressive kinds of chickens. Y'all, some chickens are assholes that have the audacity to not only get all pissed off, but also to fly. FLY. At your face and peck your eyes out. But, according to various chicken raising websites, the Orbington is not so much of a jackass and is supposedly nice, which I take to mean will only peck out one of my eyes. Well, actually the children and Nathan's eyes because I will not be going near them.

Or in my backyard, which is going to be difficult since that's where the large organic garden will be growing. Maybe I can be classy and move that to the side of the house. My God, it's not like we have any zoning out here. If we did, we wouldn't be considering chickens.

So, by the end of the summer, we very well may be growing our own eggs, our own veggies and our own fruit (we already have strawberries). All we need is a goat to throw back there and we could get our own milk and not have to mow the yard.

We're basically pioneers.

Or urban homesteaders.

Or lunatics.

I have no ability to crochet things that wouldn't horrify my granny.

noreply@blogger.com (Candance) — Wed, 20 Mar 2013 14:05:00 +0000

With all this new found time on my hands, I've taken to crocheting quite a bit again. That's after organizing my "home office" which is really a corner in my room with a desk and alphabetizing everything we own. I've been working on a really cute stuffed animal and headband for a very precious little girl two lucky folks were able to adopt, but making a bathing suit for a hippo is harder than one might think, so it's taking longer than expected.

In the meantime, I've made this:

Because, you know, if I'm going to make a variety of themed Boobzies, I feel it's important I create a spring line. I'm just like Vera Wang in that sense.

But, my inappropriateness doesn't stop there, because my family is only partially shamed by my drink cooling boob creations. Remember when I said I could crochet a penis complete with balls? Someone asked for a picture. Well, here ya go:

But then, I was like, "Why would anyone just want a crocheted penis that didn't do anything? The boobs keep your drink cold. Well, the penis:

Holds your lipstick. Or mascara. Tampon. Whatever you want it to hold that will fit. Much like putting a swimsuit on a hippo, this was not easy to create. However, I now know I can write a pattern, so that's exciting news.

All of this is on Etsy, of course, because where else would one sell their totally obscene crochet?

I wonder if I'll ever be one of those grandmas who makes doilies and blankets or if I'll horrify my grandchildren with stuffed boobs they can cuddle?

I guess I'm below average. Again.

noreply@blogger.com (Candance) — Wed, 13 Mar 2013 05:00:00 +0000

As is generally the case in my life, I've been trying to get in better shape. This time I have a goal-my high school reunion is coming up in October. It's not as big as my father's last one where he mentioned many people were unable to attend due to death (their own), but it ain't a little number. Lets put it this way, me, the Fresh Prince and kids from Beverly Hills 90210 all graduated the same year.

In order to make the getting in shape fun, I decided I wanted to do a mud run. With the SGG. I mean, seriously, how could they say no to a mud run called the Pretty Muddy Women's Mud Run? One where they give us beer at the end? Turns out they can say no in a variety of interesting ways, but, because we're a gang, they are going to cheer for SGG-in -training, Katie and me while we rock this thing. And, they will be cheering in heels, blinged out shirts and tiaras. We will have the best cheerleaders EVER.

Having never run a 5K, much less one in the mud with obstacles I didn't want to make an (bigger than usual) ass of myself. Therefore I googled, "how to train for a 5K mud run."

Uh, yeah, apparently there is a belief in the running world that most people can easily run 3.1 miles, so when training for this type of race, it's best to focus on building upper body strength. I think they might be high-maybe on all those endorphins or stench of the sweat pouring from every part of their body-or else they've never met the majority of my friends. Or most people I know.

Dude, I can't run 3.1 miles yet. I don't think I've ever run 3.1 miles on purpose. Well, except for when I was a kid chasing the kid in the neighborhood Rosa and I used to beat up everyday. But he didn't even run fast, so it wasn't a challenge. And I was 10-years-old. Ten-year-olds don't even think running is hard. They aren't real smart, but they have a killer metabolism. Little bastards.

I'm only on day 2 of C25K, and I actually got slower today. This may be due in part to the fact as I rounded the AG barn at the high school (we're also supposed to run off-road) I smelled a skunk real close. I figured it was best not to go running up on it if I didn't want to get sprayed. NJ wouldn't let me in the house if I did. He's already told me. Repeatedly. Like, he almost wants it to happen so he can lock me out. I also tripped on an empty bag of goat feed. No, I am not making that up. Hell-o, this is me we're talking about people.

Don't even get me started about upper body strength. I mean, I can do 25 push-ups on my toes, but it ain't pretty. That's why I hide in my bedroom to do them.

So, I can't run 3.1 miles, although most people can do it with ease and I have no upper body strength (although I've been told I can punch really hard). I'm either really below average or an overachiever since I fail in both areas. Just depends if you're a glass half full kind of person, I guess.

Thank God Katie and I have 80 days to prep for this thing.

My husband's logic sometimes makes me look real smart.

noreply@blogger.com (Candance) — Thu, 07 Mar 2013 14:50:00 +0000

Just a few minutes ago, as I was piling slice after slice of French Toast on NJ's plate because he is still gimpy from knee surgery and I'm trying to convince him that letting me stay home until school starts back next year is the grooviest idea ever, we began discussing filing our taxes. The following is a re-enactment of that conversation:

Me: Mine are almost done. All I need is some community property thing.
NJ: It's in the mail in there (and he pointed in the general direction of outside, the man cave and the laundry room which is way helpful).

(Pause five seconds while he butters his French Toast.)

NJ: I guess that old lady died.
Me: I'm sorry, I'm going to need you to be more specific. What old lady?
NJ: The one who does my taxes.
Me: Why do you think she's dead?
NJ: She hasn't called me to remind me to come in and get them done this year.
Me: Maybe she just changed jobs.
NJ: No, she was old and shook. That's why she had bad handwriting.
Me: Awww, yes, old and shaking is a pre-cursor to death. Or retirement.
NJ: It really sucks she died because I was going to get a discount this year.

I just shook my head as he took his French Toast and sadly trudged towards the man cave where he has been convalescing since his knee surgery.

I'm not even arguing it with him anymore, even though we don't have a body or obituary to confirm her death and that she didn't just get sick of doing taxes and moved on (not to Heaven) or retired (also not to Heaven).

This is Clemens Vonnegut Sr.
He was a tax collector. We have
actual proof he is dead. Not so
much with the shaky elderly lady
at H&R Block.
Pic attribution.

Spring is in the Air

noreply@blogger.com (Candance) — Wed, 06 Mar 2013 15:14:00 +0000

Which basically translates to, "It's the time of year when the neighbors no longer have to leave their house for entertainment because NJ and I working in the yard will provide all the entertainment they need."

Aside from the occasional dead body being removed from our home via the garage, we've mostly managed to be respectable neighbors. We've even made neighbor friends. We're like Ozzie and, well, probably Sharon instead of Harriet, but whatever. Sharon has lost a ton of weight on the Atkins diet and Ozzie is just a doll.

Anyway, we've been having really nice weather and I've had this time on my hands lately, so today, while NJ was in a drug induced coma, I decided to tackle the daffodils that have taken over our front lawn. I got out my weed puller that, last year, resulted in me threatening to kill him as the people at the church next door to our old house were entering to get their weekly dose of the Lord and a bottle of vinegar because on the interwebs it said if you pour it in the holes after pulling the daffodil weeds, they won't grow back.

Minutes into Operation Daffodil Murder, I realized the small bottle of vinegar I had wouldn't put a dent in what I was facing, so I had to go to the Dollar General for more. When I got back, NJ was awake, sitting in his truck. Waiting for me.

His words?

"When I saw the gardening tools out, I wondered what in hell you thought you were doing?"

"I think I'm pulling daffodils with my weeding thingy and putting vinegar in the holes so they don't grow back." Like it wasn't totally obvious.

"Oh, you've been on the internet," he said, with mild disgust.

So, he left and when he got back he brought me a Diet Mountain Dew and another "present". Spectracide. He then felt the need to tell me to make sure I wasn't downwind from it so it didn't blow in my face. Dude, it was like way windy and I don't know how to figure out the downwind thing, so the odds of blinding myself were like 100%. Plus, I was trying to go all organic.

And, right as the neighbor across the street pulled up, he decided to tell me I should pull as much of the weeds with my hands as I could and then use my tool, to which I replied (possibly loudly), "Peg Leg, I didn't ask for your help and I started this project while you were sleeping for a reason. Since your gimpy ass can't help, take it back in the house."

But because I was raised right, I waved to the neighbor and said, "Hey, Girl!" She was laughing too hard to really respond, so I told her she won't have to leave the house for entertainment anymore. She and her old man can just get a drink, sit on their porch swing and watch NJ and I duke it out over him thinking he's the boss of me and being wrong.

I think she appreciated our willingness to save them so much money.

Before being wise enough to leave the house a second time, bitch ass told me I missed a spot and only had about 45 minutes of day light left. Yeah, cause I was going to finish all this in one day:

Unfortunately, the ex-hubs and wifey numero quatro pulled up a few minutes later and when she looked down at me while caking on more make-up, I cocked my weeding tool at her menacingly, like it was a gun.

I'd be lying if I said using my garden tool to intimidate her didn't make dealing with NJ totally worth it.

Or think maybe the entertainment the neighbors get this summer will be less about me trying to be a gardener while also threatening to kill my husband and more about me using my tools as a weapon to chase her off my lawn.

Man, I'm excited for all the prospects spring has in store this year!

Living with a cat in heat rocks. You know, like nails on the chalkboard rock.

noreply@blogger.com (Candance) — Wed, 06 Mar 2013 02:12:00 +0000

My current foray into cat horniness is by no means my first. Not by a long shot. You see, while most people know spring is in the air because the flowers are blooming and baby animals are starting to be created, I generally know when a cat looking for love in all the wrong places makes his need for some Barry White (I always type Barry Green instead of White) and candles known outside my window. This generally occurs at night, when I am in a dead sleep. There's nothing like a cat screaming in that horrible high pitched scream, "Come and you get you some of this," to make you sit straight up in bed and fear for your life. Or being molested by a feline.

However, when the horny cat lives in your own home, it's like 5000 times worse than just some random cat outside your window because, once the random cat realizes yours is not a cat house (Did you see my play on words there? I'm hi-larous.) it will usually go away. The cat in your house will not go away unless it is the victim of an unfortunate accident. Each day of screaming increasing those odds greatly.

Mocho Loco Ya Ya Hey Kitty Soul Kitty's desire for love was not really all that annoying at first. That's because, in the beginning she just loved her mama and wanted to be held and cuddled and she slept at my feet without trying to murder me every night. She was a sweet angel, so I should've known something wasn't right in the universe.

Then she started doing this weird thing where she sprawled out and rolled around on the floor. NJ was like, "Someone's going into heat."

I was horrified by such an accusation and may or may not have said, "She is not. She's only five-months-old so she is too young for the s-e-x."

He was like, "Did you just spell sex?"

Uh, yeah. I don't want her getting any ideas and I haven't taught her to spell yet, so she doesn't know what I was talking about. Duuuuhhhhh.

But then came the screaming that I guess was supposed to bring all the tomcats to the yard. The constant, "Hey come and get you some of this, Loverboy!" screaming that made me want to kill her. Granted, it only last for about four days, but those were four annoying damn days. Annoying enough, young Max was going around the saying, "Dear God, Cat, stop trying to make sweet love to everything in the house."

Friday we called the vet and she told us to bring her in today to get spayed because Tuesdays are 20% off at our local clinic.

Cha-ching.

This morning we wrestled her in her carrier and all cried on the way to the vet because she was crying. I tried to give the kids the speech Bob Barker used to give on the Price's Right about spaying and neutering your pets, but it didn't pack quite the same punch. Maybe I need a tan and microphone to pull that message off.

MLYYHKSK is home from surgery now and she's pissed the hell off. Not only did she have surgery, but they also trimmed her claws so it's way harder for her to try to claw our eyes out when she's having a "moment." I'm not sure which one she's more angry about, but I know she's angry because usually when I tell her to pose for a picture for mommy, she looks up at me lovingly. Today?

She wouldn't even look at me. When Grace tried to pick her up a second ago, she did look at her. She looked her straight in the eye and never said a word. It was like a kitty death stare.

So, if you don't hear from us for a while, it's not God doing you a favor. It's because we're being tortured to death by a pissed off cat with no claws or uterus.

Grace said once I got rid of my uterus I was much nicer.

Guess it doesn't work the same way in cat world.

When the drug dog attacks your purse in a classroom full of tenth graders, you have to assume your day can only get better.

noreply@blogger.com (Candance) — Thu, 28 Feb 2013 03:38:00 +0000

A couple of weeks ago Grace tried out for The Voice in Houston. The entire SGG was there to support her and, if you follow me on my regular Facebook page, you know she didn't make it (again) but Leiah almost punched someone in the trachea.

My big plan had been to blog about the entire adventure (and Lord was it) when we returned home, but I was so freaking busy grading papers I didn't have time to do jack shit. Luckily for y'all I unexpectedly have some free time on my hands. Enough that I may or may not now know how to crochet a penis-complete with balls. My new time has nothing to do with the drug dog. I only wish it was something that cool. I will save that story for another day.

The Friday we set out for our trip/SGG reunion/audition, I went to work for half the day. My big major goal was to leave early enough we could beat traffic because I honestly thought being caught in traffic was the worst thing that could happen to us. Until second period.

That's when the drug dog showed up.

Some authoritative looking lady I now know is an assistant principal arrived at my door right in the middle of a great lesson about Duck Dynasty (it was relevant to writing, dammit) with a police lady and her German Shepard. She told us to leave our hoodies, purses, jackets, backpacks and all other personal belongings and step into the hallway. I was pleased none of my little angels looked nervous while the dog sniffed around.

Not even when the AP lady came out and asked, "Whose big gray bag is that by the teacher's desk?"

Probably because a) there was no gray bag and b) it didn't belong to any of them.

No one made a peep, so she threatened to search the bag, but before doing so, she stepped aside to let me see if I could identify the owner of the bag. I was like, "Do you mean the big brown bag?"

Affirmative.

"Uh, that's my bag," is not a statement you want to make in front of a class of sophomores when the police, an AP and a drug dog are involved and you are their teacher, in case you were wondering.

For a brief moment, I reached a new level of cool with those kids because they thought I had actual I'm-going-to-lose-my-teaching-certificate-and-be-someone's-bitch-for-the-foreseeable-future drugs in my purse. Then I had to explain it was anti-anxiety meds and medicine to keep me from offing someone due to the occasional hot flash and I threw them in my purse because I was headed out of town in a few hours.

There went all my cool points.

But the AP totally looked like she got it.

So, when my phone had major problems and when my ex-husband didn't pay child support and when my dad met us to give us "spending money" before the trip, and then we were almost back home because the GPS stopped working only to magically start working right when we were about to take the exit to town, all putting us on the road right at 5:00, on a Friday, in Dallas, I wasn't remotely surprised. I was just like, "Yeah, the drug dog attacked my purse, so you know, what the hell else could I possibly expect but for everything to get wonky?"

I thought I'd outsmart the traffic, though, and have the GPS take us the fewest highways route. It said we'd be arriving at our hotel in about six and a half hours, which would've been the same amount of time if we'd set in traffic.

About two hours into the trip Grace was like, "Mom, isn't this the way we go to Mississippi? I don't think Jackson and Houston are the same direction." It's cute how she likes to pretend she knows directions. Or even what state Houston is in. God love her.

Grace was really concerned, so when we made a pit stop in Lone Oak, where they were having a free Christian rap concert that seemed to be attended by a lot of cowboys, she double checked the GPS just to make sure we wouldn't be showing up at my aunt's house, even though she totally knew the garage code, so we'd be able to get in if she was out of town. By the way, we didn't stop for the rap concert. We stopped to pee.

We were, indeed, headed in the right direction and then Grace and I had a long talk about why she knows everyone's garage codes because, seriously, she doesn't know her address, but the kid can enter garages in multiple states.

We had plenty of time for a long talk about a lot of things. She said I am her best friend and gave me a Little Debbie cupcake, which made me love her more. But why so much time, you ask? Because my GPS is a lying asshole.

Remember the six and a half hours?

What the old girl really meant was eight hours. Which, coincidently, is the same amount of time it takes us to get to Jackson.

When we finally got to the hotel, Grace went right to the room and crashed, only to be awoken by the drunks next door screaming, "I'm a calm drunk and you're a crrrrraaaaazzzzyyyy drunk!!" She had to call and tell us that, because Leiah, Katie and I had killed a bottle of wine in about three seconds and were, at the moment, hanging out with scandalously young boys from Ole Miss and crap-tastic Mississippi State.

Those stories will have t come in multiple posts from Leiah, Katie and I because it was a lot. A lot of scaring the hell out of those poor little fellas and stepping in someone else's vomit in the bathroom.

But the moral to the story is this-if the drug dog attacks your purse in class, you can be pretty sure the rest of your day is going to be weird, crazy, and unforgettable.

Hell, it might even be ten kinds of fun, despite the vomit stuck in the grooves of your tennis shoes.