It's Mother's Day. It's time to celebrate your mom, to pamper her and indulge her and let her know how much she means to you, and how blessed you are to have been raised by her.

Life can be insanely hard. But it can also be insanely grand. As far as I'm concerned, it all boils down to what kind of day you're having. And, as my amazing mom used to put it, "Some days you're the bug, some days you're the windshield". Simple, right? So...bugs or windshields?
It's Mother's Day. It's time to celebrate your mom, to pamper her and indulge her and let her know how much she means to you, and how blessed you are to have been raised by her.
Today sucks big donkey balls.
Hubs called me this morning to tell me that he got laid off. No notice, no warning...just take your check and hit the road. Oh, and we'll be by on Saturday to get the piece of shit work truck that's been monopolizing your driveway for three years.
We're broke with him working. Can you imagine what it's going to be like with no work? Uggs. And to make this super sunshiney day even grander, there are 270 people on the books before him at the union hall. The economy kicks ass.
Pray for me, folks. Or cross your fingers for me. Hell, I don't care what you do. Light some incense, rub a Buddha belly, chant in tongues...just do it. Quickly.
We're dog paddling now...drowning soon.
So I read the Twilight series. I didn't want to, because, hello, I am WAY too cool and mature to read vampire books and buy into the whole "you complete me" bullshit romance genre. I'm married, remember? I know that real life consists of cleaning up piss on the bathroom floor, asking for a courtesy flush and fighting the urge to stab your husband as he snores on the sofa while you're trying to get two crabby kids ready for bed.
But, under much diress and with much prodding, I read it.
Fine. I'm lying. I asked Salley if I could borrow the stupid first book. Actually, I begged.
And OH MY GOD, I loved it. LOOOOOOOVED it.
I don't know why, but it hit some long-dead romantic, vulnerable nerve in my body. All of a sudden, I actually wanted to spend time with my husband. Like, alone. Sans kids. Weird, right?
Unfortunately, there have also been some negative side effects of stepping into the (sigh) Cullen world. For example:
- I'm madly in love with a fictional teenage vampire who was really born in 1901.
- I'm madly in love with the actor who plays said fictional teenage vampire in a movie, but only if he's wearing full vampire attire & makeup.
- I've watched the DVD about 23 times and have a tendency to pause every single frame said actor is in.
- I hate the whiny human teenage girl he's in love with. Bitch.
- I find myself suddenly doodling crap like this all over the place.
Sometimes, I truly wonder if The Dictator is genetically mine.
DO YOU SEE THOSE? Those horrid, green, foul-smelling farm belongings on my coffee table? Those are snap peas.
Snap peas.
BLEEEEEEEEEEEECH.
And my offspring is eating them. Not sweetened, not cooked, not rolled in powdered sugar and deep fried...raw. He's eating them raw.
Obviously, there was a mix-up in the uterus.
The Hormone King is a tattletale. A massive, hyper-sensitive, over-reacting, sissyboy tattletale.
In his defense, The Dictator is the master of all instigators, so it's usually justified. But since I can only hear so much whining and complaining before I pack up my shit and get the hell out of Dodge, the new rule is this:
If I don't see blood or bones, deal with it.
Magnificent parenting, I know.
So tonight, this was overheard in my house as I was ignoring my offspring and tending to Facebook:
HK: Moooooom, Owen just said boobies are awesome!
D: *giggle*
*sigh*
You know what's more expensive than counseling? Bail.
I'm so not cut out for this parenting thing.
The Hormone King wants a cell phone. In fact, he wants a cell phone so bad that he gave all his friends (and a few little 5th grade floozies) my cell phone number so that none of them would know he's the poor trashy boy at the expensive private school with (gasp!) no cell phone.
This means that I get 46 texts a day that look a little something like this:
"do u know who likes u lol? dont tell ne1 i told you, k? g2g lol"
What the hell kind of freaking language is that, anyway? Sorry kiddos, I don't speak textese, and shouldn't you be out playing Barbies or braiding each others' hair? For the love of God, you're in 5th grade, stop trying to whore yourself out to my son.
So anyway...
Despite the fact that he's 10 1/2 years old, and that we've never dropped him off and not come back for him, and that he has never in his life walked anywhere by himself, much less the 3 miles to school...The Hormone King is on a mission to earn his much-needed cell phone by proving himself responsible.
When I got home from a baseball meeting tonight, everyone was in bed and this was the note I found on his dresser: Can't read it? Here's what it says, verbatim:
"Mom I packed my homework so don't get scared if you can't find my homework. I'm taking responsibility so I can get that phone I really want. P.S. It's only $10!!! Got my assingment book signed, and put my close away and got new close out, and after practice I will pick up poop even if it goes to dark. If I don't pick it up, then ground me. And I picked up my room. Sorry for argueing with you about the phone. P.S.J.R. You are the best mom. Thanks for looking after me!!!" (and a picture of a stick figure with snot coming out of his nose, and a note that says 'snot.')
To clarify, the poop he's speaking of is canine, not human. Although human would make for a much more interesting evening.
Sometimes, all it takes is a misspelled word on wide-ruled paper from The Hormone King to make my day. And if said note just happens to also contain an illustration of snot...well, shit, that just about makes my whole week.
Dear Captain Bad Gift Giver With Really Good Intentions,
So I'm sitting at the kitchen table eating dinner with my family and bonding right now.
Not really.
I'm sitting at the kitchen table stalking people on Facebook.
Same thing, right?
Anyway, this is what I just heard from the playroom:
HK: Let's play naked football.
D: How do you play?
HK: You have to touch me in my end zone.
*cut to me laughing hysterically*
I really should not be allowed to raise children.