I have a DAMN good idea...

Actually, Badass Geek had a damn good idea, and I am taking the liberty to expand on it a tad. He wrote something bad-ass and I truly, truly, from the depths of my being believe we should all copy, paste, insert our various names, print it out on actual paper, put it in an actual envelope, press an actual .42 on it and send it off. Prepare yourselves dear Internet, this will be an action requiring you to briefly (oh-so-very-briefly) take our fingers off the mouse/keyboard and maybe turn slightly to the side...some of you might have to make a trip to the post office, or the junk room to find the stamps and an envelope that doesn't have the window from some bill you paid online instead of using that window endowed envelope. Although, by this point in the post you might be rolling your eyes thinking "dadgummit, didn't I just have to do something like this for my candidate of choice? and to get 'my' senator to vote down that fucking highway-robbery, reverse-robinhood-bailout-bullshit?!" But listen up y'all, this is IMPORTANT. Do it for your children, who just want a fucking hot-fudge-sundae and a little red slide action, do it for your sanity on a busy Tuesday morning when you're hungry enough to eat a horse and they're danglin that breakfast burrito riiiiiiiight under your nose, do it for my red-headed mother who nearly lost it last week and has staged a one woman boycott that's costing her tremendous stress and suffocating guilt every time my children beg for "I-tce-crwm, Meemaw, peeees?" Do it for her dammit..do it because it's just the right thing to do!

*If you are reading this from some nice ass neighborhood where the public schools rock and the social service office-workers are bored because things are gravy and the fast food service is spectacular..you should immediately STOP.READING.THIS.BLOG. because, to put it mildly, I hate you. (giving you the Stanley look (from the office idiot - you've never had to 'work' have you? Get the fuck out of here before I knock your head clean off your shoulders!))

From now on, we'll just call it "the Stanley"

The source of my irrational anxiety..

This chick asked me to guest post...yes, that's right..her..one of the coolest bloggers I've encountered..mm hmm, and after happily agreeing I immediately shifted gears into neurotic-not-good-under-pressure-OMG-what-if-it-sucks!-mind-going-blank-stomach-turning-and-churning-must-rock-or-hopes-of-blog-popularity-will-plummet mode. Then, the theme came to me and I was extremely happy with myself and in total bliss..for a few minutes. The first few times I got stuck I went back to her blog and researched..cruised for inspiration. Then I stumbled upon the fact that her family's from Arkansas...now the pressure was really on, on as in the weight was crushing.. Bone by bone, I began snapping under the weight. By yesterday afternoon I was seriously considering doing away with the blog altogether, pretending that you super cool, smarty-pants, heart-warming, hilarious, awe-inspiring, feeding my soul, awesomely supportive, infinitely interesting and informative, fancy-writing, kick-ass people with your moving determination didn't even exist!....kind of like college. After chewing on that old nasty, stale piece of gum for a few days..I plum spit it out. done. Fuck it.

Then, I wrote this, hope y'all like it.

Honey didn't..

So, last weekend I had the pleasure of attending a Honey-do for some old friends who are FINALLY getting married. (I'm not sure if this is exclusively a Southern-redneck thing, but for those of you who don't know what this is, let me elaborate: A honey-do is for those who wish to trade the stuffy, frilly, silly wedding shower with all the china and cloth napkins for a good old fashioned guy/girl party..usually held outside, no honey-do is complete with out a bonfire and large quantities of alcohol..mostly BYOB alcohol, which requires crowds carrying ice chests and lawn chairs.. Rather than fancy china and crystal vases - the honey-do invites gifts of a different sort..Any item that might assist your spouse-to-be (honey) with household, and or, outside chores that you might ask them to do (do) is acceptable. I brought towels..which might be used for any number of chores..and will surely be laundered. Then my old friend Jim and I became reacquainted..

Have you met Jim? He's the best. He makes me feel so alive,..and young,..and beautiful,..

so free. I don't let him come around much anymore - I'm afraid he's going to make me look stupid in front of my kids..but when Mama gets a night alone, we make up for lost time. Coke gets to come along too..but to be honest, I give Jim most of my attention.

Anywho, this was one of those sacred occasions. Events like this are the stuff of movies, and thirty-something. Now, there are different approaches to said occasion: There are those who have shown up with the intentions of showing everyone how far they've come in life and how responsible they are and exactly how 'grown up' they have become. Then there are those that have come to forget exactly how grown up they have become, who delight in checking that heavy coat of responsibility at the door. They don't want to talk about how far they've come in life..they don't want to discuss potty training or weddings, or heaven forbid work! eck! What we do want to talk about is that time when you did that thing and so-and-so laughed and then what's-her-name smacked him and then he jumped out the window and landed on that cop car and then we had to run half-naked through the woods and then...yeah, we're all about discussing that.

And getting a little googly eyed..

We also want to laugh at the irony of things..we want to soak up old friends and quirks we have missed. Like wearing weird gypsy scarves and needing to put one's head inappropriately close to other people's heads..









We want to pretend we really are at a luau..we wear our flowers and stupid hats with pride dammit!

Because we know that all this crap about 'honey' doing jack squat because 'honey' was asked is a load of shit! We know that a week later we're going to be drowning in a tidal wave of laundry..we're going to wonder how we missed the giant crowds of people simultaneously stripping off their clothes and leaving them for us in miscellaneous foul smelling piles all over the house - as if it's been discussed and decided that yes, indeed, you are the person..the laundry person..from now on, from her to eternity. We know that gasping for air and struggling to get to the turkey meatloaf before it burns we will ask that doomed question: "Honey, would you put up this little bit of laundry..it's already folded, I just need it to be off the dryer to make room for the 50 loads I have to do tonight" (hint,..cough,..hint. hint.) We know we'll be a fool for even asking, but most especially foolish for expecting a result from the asking. We know that 2 hours and 4 meals and 3 baths and 2 clean mouth fulls of teeth and 1 late bedtime later we'll be racing through the room looking for the most valuable edition of "What was I scared of?" and dropping off a couple pair of clean underwear in 'honey's drawer and we'll run into that little pile of laundry on the dresser. We'll look at 'honey' with incredulous furious eyes and 'honey' will innocently say "those were yours babe" and then honey will realize you should have come with a stamp on your back that says 'do not expose to heat' 'will explode under pressure' or something like that. The honey that didn't will wish that he did...but it will be too late.

So now you know why my kind like to party like it's 1999. (or earlier) We know our time is limited. We know it could end so fast, and we know there's no point in pretending to be a far cry from your original self. We also know that honey probably won't, but we're too polite to tell the happy couple, so we kick it with Jim and show Coke a little love now and then.. we lean on good friends and think about different days..

UPDATE: Mr. Mustang and I have been engaged in a housework stand-off. Unfortunately I am the weaker of the two when it comes to grit under my bare feet...I could not stop picturing it transferring from my feet to my sheets, into my shoes...and embedding itself in my rugs. I could not stop analyzing the grit..it's origins..best case scenario? dirt..worst case scenario? dog feces mixed with cat vomit. Our cats stay outside, but all grit comes from outside and here you see my train of thought. I'm saying all that to say this: Little one and I had a vacuum/sweep/mop party today while Mr. Mustang was at work. I feel both defeated and extremely happy about this. I also did 6 loads of laundry. I did every bit of laundry that he might not need. NONE of his.. The clothes of his that were already clean have been thrown (rather violently) into a laundry basket and positioned at the corner of the bed where Mr. Mustang might trip on them...I'm seriously thinking of hiding towels for me and the kids. Oh, and I didn't cook. When I left he had put out some freezer burnt sausage to thaw on the counter..ahahahahaha! This is his attempt to be just as passive aggressive as I. Well, I say find your own tactic asshat! Mama's eating at taco bell and not bringing shit home for the family. That's right, not one crumb.

(*note to Internet: I am not an awful, petty, dramatic wife. I have tried repeatedly to speak calmly with Mr. Mustang about getting a little help around the house. Obviously that didn't work. Mrs. Mustang is taking a stand.! (just not with the floors - for reasons mentioned above)

*UPDATE: Mr. Mustang has found his cleaning mojo, we're back to a civil arrangement and have even consumated the deal ;) This might just lead to more male cleaning..which might lead to more consumation..which might lead to more male cleaning..which might lead to even more consumation and so on and so forth..

Glittery Pieces

Hey you! Remember me? I am warm and nostalgic every time I drive by your white doors. The sound of gravel under my tires prompts me to turn my head and take you in. I'm usually inclined to slow down,.. but never stop. Your peachy-cream bricks,... I see ghosts standing and talking on your green carpeted steps. I see hands shaking and brides waving and suited mourners. I see pot-lucks and fund raisers and teenagers checking their watches... The me inside of me pushes open the heavy doors that creak and squeak when you're late. She walks across teal carpet and takes her place on the next to last pew. She is eleven. Wood the color of honey and sea-foam upholstery..she leans forward, picks up a tiny pencil and begins doodling in her bible, the one she received when she was baptised..full of tiny red and black words, numbers, artwork and truth. She again flips to the first few pages. Her favorite. Heavy pages containing lines for personal information. Her mother's neat cursive writing fills most lines, her childish chicken scratch fills the rest. Again she reviews herself. This is who she is..full names, dates, family tree, records of births, deaths, anniversaries. Wait,..something she never noticed before. Date of birth....skip down...fathers full name, mother's maiden name, anniversary...anniversary,...back up...date of birth. date of birth. anniversary,..Date.of.Birth..count the months..count the months, over and over, count the months, breath, breath. The sound of the sermon is drowned out by the choir, then the choir is drowned out by the wind..the wind swirls and swirls..blows her hair, delicate bible papers flap and roar in the wind, bulletins and tiny pencils are picked up, tiny red and black type is circling the room.. She squints to read what it says, they're moving too fast. They're singing...wait they are the choir? The literary choir is suddenly illuminated from above, she lifts her face to the light,..the choir and the wind begin a soft climax. They harmonize..they buzz..The light is bright, but her eyes can't get enough..it's warm. The radiant light blows her a kiss..it floats like a glittery leaf. Weight-less, it dances through the air..when it gets too close to the edge of the circle of words, they gently nudge it back to the middle. She watches this luminous floating thing with anticipation. She extends her eleven year old hand. It lands softly, and her heart leaps as she realizes it's not a leaf at all..it's a puzzle piece, the very last one. All dazzling and golden sparkle. She knows where it goes, she knows it belongs to her. She closes her hand protectively around it, no one would take this away. The golden light chuckles. She slips her hand under her dress, quickly tucks it into her heart. She looks back up and exhales long and deep. Questions, confusion, prolonged mourning of a love that never was, self defeating prayers pour out in that breath, they float upwards..dark and menacing, she watches the radiant light gather it up in one brilliant hand, and throw it over one shoulder. Gone for good.


Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free. John 8:32