In need of a get away...

This I the absolute loneliest I have ever felt in my life. The last few months I have tried to put a positive, humorous spin on my situation with my ex and my life in general and it just isn't working any more. I wish there were something laughable about my life. Something I could find humor in to bring me out of this rut I am in as far as writing and smiling go. The only thing I can find humorous at this moment is that I am working on a sequel to a book that hasn't even been published. It hasn't been published because I haven't even tried to send it off to a publisher out of sheer terror that I will be rejected. I am supposed to be over this. I am supposed to know that I will be rejected and be ok with it, but I can't accept the fact that someone may not love it. I play safe and give it to friends to read, which is stupid and self gratifying, but it is the only thing in my comfort zone that I am willing to do with my words. I need someone to slap me real hard across the face and bring me out of my funk. I need a motivational speaker to come to my house and tell me that what I am going through is better than living in a van down by the river. I need a babysitter to relieve me of my kid duties for five minutes so I can pee without someone cracking the door and asking me for more honeydew. I need a maid. I need to breathe. I need to focus. Everything seems blurry and hours are turning into self-pitying days. I need a time machine and a better mechanism in my brain for logical thinking instead of getting wrapped up in thinking that my life will magically apply it's very own band-aid and everything will work out like it always does in all of my favorite movies and books. I need to stop compulsively texting people because I am driving them insane with my neediness. I need to stop checking on my Facebook every five seconds to feel like I am connecting with humans because all of them on there are just farming anyways. I need a mental vacation and the nap I took today to simulate one was cut short by a screaming baby and the sound of my chihuahua eating a diaper out of the trash.

Men Are Ass Hats.

The title says it all.

You have some good qualities... your diet needs improvement...

So, after weighing the option of either giving my marriage another go, dying sad and lonely or asking for pointers on what the dating scene is like nowadays, I finally decided to ask a platonic guy friend what my chances would be out in the world among the male species.

"So what do you think? Am I hot or a leper?"
"You've got some good qualities...your diet needs improvement."
"I have to go now. Thanks for the 'fat chat.'"
"Well, you have a pretty face and great skin. You just need to trim up your stomach, ass and those thighs."

I have stopped wondering why he will be a perpetual bachelor.

Sweet Reminders

So yesterday marked my fifth wedding anniversary and to celebrate I dropped one of our daughters off at my husband's new place since the split. He is without a car right now so he asked if I could drive him to the place where we spent our honeymoon five short years ago... Taco Bell.
After that he went and bought me a gas station rose and got me a card, in which he scrawled, "You're my best friend. Like it or not."
I got that it was supposed to be a sweet gesture- isn't the traditional fifth wedding anniversary present the Bonsai plant or something??

The Last Six Days

I have tried for the last ten years of my life to avoid being stereotyped as "White Trash." The last six days have, however, have made me contemplate fighting it anymore.
Here's a country song that doesn't rhyme-

My husband left me
With two kids
And one on the way.
Stole my phone
No money
No gas
Past due electricity bill
And unemployed.
Also, he left the chihuahua.


If I don't make it in Nashville I don't know who will. Or this could be a new form of Haiku, except I'll call it something different like "ofcoursethisshitwouldhappenrightnow."

Cry Me A Crick

This pregnancy is sooo not fun anymore. The baby finally made some sort of movement yesterday which was pretty exciting and today I found out that it is a girl. Another damned girl! I already have two of those. I guess it is good because I pretty much know what to expect in terms of moodiness but I started thinking about it and, between my three girls, I am going to have NINE consecutive years of dealing with teenagers. Teenage girls. On the upside, the ultrasound today confirmed my idea to buy stock in Tampax so hopefully we'll be able to break even every month.
Of course, after I was told it was a girl, I had to do the whole call the family and text the other people I didn't want to hear me crying. The following texts are to and from my cousin Curt:

Me: It's a girl! Again!

Curt: Good God. Well, I guess some parents are more equipped than others to deal with the wrath of an all girl family. Good luck with that.

Me: Yah, thanks so much. Do you have a good heroin hook-up?

Curt: Not right now but I'm pretty sure I can find one.

Me: Keep your eyes peeled.

To All My Millions Of Loyal Followers....

I'm totally allowed to be delusional about my popularity.

Check out this site: http://fishfrog2.blogspot.com/

Also, I am sorry I am stupid and could not make that into a proper link... copy and paste lazies.

Mopping Up Malaria

My husband informed me today that the reason why our kids have been getting the flu is because I don't clean the house good enough. Fine, fucker. You just bought yourself a front row ticket to the Shawna's Vacuuming Extravaganza each and every time you feel like relaxing and watching a movie. Now if you will excuse me, I have dishes to wash so that my children can avoid the plague.

Cough, Sneeze, Piss, Puke and Piss some more.

OK. I might lose a few readers because of the contents of this blog, but then again, I might gain some too. Here goes...

This morning I started a pot of coffee as soon as my eyes popped open and I downed a cup as quickly as possible, which in turn made me choke a little bit. I started coughing and sneezing at the same time and because I am on my third kid, my bladder isn't what it used to be. The sudden respiratory attack allowed my bladder to let lose it's contents all over the front of my pants. I jumped in the shower and thought the worst was over, until I finished bathing and felt that hot lump of an oncoming vomit fill up the length of my throat. I barely had enough time to wrap myself up in a towel before a violent bout of vomiting started taking place. I didn't even have time to kneel in front of the toilet before the chunks started flying out of my mouth. Thankfully, I made every last bit of it into the toilet. What I didn't make into the toilet was the last bit of urine left in my body and my hurried hurl left me pissing uncontrollably all over the floor... or at least I thought I was peeing on the floor. I didn't realize in my vomit induced stupor that I was actually standing over a bucket of Barbies that the kids like to drag in and out of the bathtub for playtime. Barbie has never been so blond in her entire life. After I flushed away the vomit and bleached the floor around the toy tub I sat debating whether or not to boil the toys or toss them. I decided to boil them and give the pee trinkets back to the kids because Barbies are fucking expensive.

Anyway, I hope I made you laugh and not puke.

Easy Cheese

I just laughed harder than I have laughed in about three weeks. I was talking to my sister on the phone, as I do every 15 minutes or so, and she informed me that because she just got done spending all of her money on sanitary pads and Lunchables she is now forced to wait until Saturday, when her disability check is expected to arrive in the mail, to purchase the Easy Cheese she's been looking forward to eating.

Waiting for my Twinkie

My sister and I were arch nemesisisisis for years. Twenty one years to be exact. I'm not quite sure what started the sibling feud, but I have a feeling it had something to do with my sister wanting to follow me around like a puppy, and the fact that I was pure evil as a child. I was so adorable and unassuming. Only Krista knew the real Shawna behind the big brown eyes that captivated any audience. Only Krista knew the damage my beautiful batting eyelashes were capable of. I would volunteer to babysit her to get brownie points from our parents and as soon as the latch on the door would catch on their way out I would find any reason and any means to torture my poor sister. I have tied her to our mailbox and left her out there to be discovered by our mother hours later, I hid hot chilis in her churros and once, and I am not proud of this in any way, I went as far as dropping a radio on her face to stop her from tattling on me. It didn't work too well.
Anyway, all this evil aside, we have managed to become really close over the last seven years and have talked via phone or text every minute on the minute since we made nice. She's planning on moving to Fresno with me next month and the suspense is killing me! I can't wait until she makes it here so I can hang out with my best friend, my bestie if you will. My twinkie.

Stealing the Internet back and Hating Hormones.

FINALLY... I have the internet again. I have been going a little crazy without cable, internet and for a very brief period, electricity.
I stole a wi-fi card from a friend today, who, although I steal from this person, he is a very good friend. So I guess that's just a word of warning to all yall's. No access to the outside world makes a person do crazy things.
And, speaking of crazy, I am a hormonal nightmare. This new kid is totally jacking my mind up. I screamed at my husband for creating a new email address today because, in the short amount of time he was in the shower, I had convinced my brain that he was definitely using it for accessing porn sites because I am fat and ugly.
Arg. Give me your craziest pregnancy hormone story.

It's all the little things...

I am soooo annoyed today. Everything is just irking me and I think I'm either hormonal or maybe I didn't have enough coffee today. My doctor is on my ass about not drinking too much caffeine and I don't think she understands that caffeine is the only thing holding me back from being a serial killer at this point.
The kids are blowing bubbles and having a contest of who can get their bubble the closest to my butt and it's bonus points if it lands there and pops. My husband keeps trying to be *supportive* of my hormones raging by hugging me or kissing me and every time he does it I want to jab him in the eye with one of the kids' bubble wands. The dog keeps crapping in the hallway and the neighbors invited me over for the zillionth BBQ this week and were offended because I declined. Oh, excuse me. I did not realize that your 12th, and least significant ever, wedding anniversary was reason enough to have a BBQ and invite people over to bask in your constant P.D.A. sessions.
I know I am just being bitchy and all of these things, with the exception of the butt bubbles, are supposed to be gestures made with all the right intentions but I just feel like downing a pot of coffee, laying in bed watching the entire 5th season of The Office and ignoring EVERYONE. Now, I'm getting on my own nerves... I gotta go to sleep or something.

Mutant Mouse

This afternoon I had an urge to go out back and see exactly how tall the weeds that have been growing unattended for the last seven months are, and I wish I would have had a camera on my person, as I normally do.
At first, I thought it was my dog that was playing hide and go seek with me from behind the stainless steel BBQ in the side yard and I called out to her. What I saw next is still making me want to burn down my apartment complex, change my name and move to Bali where the only thing I'll have to worry about is a couple of Kimodo dragons and being the whitest, most obese person in the tiny disease ridden country.
It had short brown hair and a long wiry tail. This creature had the body of a large mouse and the head of a small dog. I have never seen a goiter up close and personal before, but I imagine that whatever this mass of skin and hair was that was hanging from this poor animal's face, was a goiter. The head was at least a full ten inches in diameter, swollen and tight, like a ready-to-pop zit on a thirty year old man's back. It had a slow, steady and purposeful stride. It paused gracefully and turned it's engorged face toward mine. The creature's eyes gazed right to the core of everything that I fear. Small, fury animals, rat-esque creatures, goiters...
He, well, I'm guessing it was a male, looked at me with such intensity that I forgot how to move. At this point my chihuahua realized there was an intruder walking through her territory and sniffed at him furiously. It didn't phase him a bit. I was in awe. How could a creature of such tiny stature not be affected by a humongous predator such as a chihuahua? I tried in vain to flip open my phone and get to the camera option to take a quick picture so my husband would not think I was some crazed lunatic making up a story about a mutant mouse in our side yard. The mutant gained his composure and started toward the wooden fence that separates our back yard to the neighbors and in a flash, he was gone from my life, my eyesight and shooting range.

Placenta Purse

My sister calls this morning, as she does every morning, and starts talking my ear off about placentas. I'm only one cup of coffee in and I feel queasy. She is telling me about how angry she was that nobody *including Hollywood* had warned her about the actual birthing process. She was completely freaked out when the doctor asked her to first, push her child out, and second, push out the pulsating, brain-sized matter that followed the kid. I didn't even want to see my own placenta when I had my kids but now I am being subjected to someone else's account of this vomit inducing procedure.
I asked her why we were talking about placentas and she said she was just thinking about how people make them into purses after birth.
Um, yuk. I guess people also eat these things and bury them in their yards and do all sorts of other unimaginable things with this *obvious to me* bit of refuse. I didn't even know what it was really because, although I made my husband stand there and look at it, I had no idea what it was and I never cared to know. Thanks sis.

Clean your room!

OK, so is it just me that has a major problem getting small children to listen to me when I speak or is that pretty much universal? I have said, "Clean your room," about four hundred and seventy-six times in the last five days and I am at a breaking point here people.
I'm either going to bag up all of the toys and toss them into a bon fire or "mistakenly" throw in one of my kids. I have never known a three year old to suddenly be inflicted with so many headaches, tummy aches and mystery illnesses in my life and my six year old has never needed so many naps in her life. I'm going insane. I feel like a deranged parrot.
"Awwk. Clean you room. Awwk. Do it now. Awwk. I'm going to beat you. Awwk. I don't care if you realize that is an idle threat. Awwk. I'll do it I swear. Awwk. I'll drop you off at the fire department!"

Ug.

March Of DImes

It was hot, sticky and the kids are exhausted but it was worth it! The March Of Dimes was today in Fresno and there was a huge turn out! We went with the Josiah's Joggers group and since we have never been before we weren't sure of where to go exactly so we parked all the way at the front of Woodward and had to walk about three miles to get to the actual starting point of the six mile walk. The kids were stoked! *sarcasm, sarcasm* Why I would want to take a four year old and a six year old on a twelve mile walk is beyond me, but we toughed it out and the kids konked out in the car on the way home.... ahhh... silence.
The girls and I raised about fifty bucks and I'm sure we'll be returning next year to participate.

The Mother In Law Chronicles Part Three

This woman is infuriating. I'm not sure what kind of game she's trying to play here. Usually when you call someone seventy-three times and they hang up on you or just don't answer, you don't call back right?
This is my morning so far:

7:42 a.m. - I hang up on her without saying anything. * I seriously think there's a reason she's calling at something-forty-two all day long but I can't figure out the method to her madness*

7:42 a.m.- She calls back. Once again, I hang up.

7:42 a.m.- She calls back. I hang up, yet another time.

7:43 a.m.- She calls AGAIN. I hang up AGAIN.

7:43 a.m.- My husband's phone rings in the pocket of his jacket. I pull it out and hang up on her. I know it's childish, but c'mon... it's 7:43... A.M.!!!

7:43 a.m.- I receive a text. Contents of text: "It seems you keep hanging up on me or something wrong with phone. Have the girls call me. Thanks."

7:44 a.m.- She tries my phone one last time. I hang up on her.

7:44 a.m.- She calls my husband's phone again. She leaves a voicemail asking him to have our children call her and letting him know that she thinks I've been hanging up on her.

7:44 a.m.- She texts my husband to see if he got her voicemail.


SERIOUSLY people, THIS is my life.

The Mother In Law Chronicles Part Two

OK, so I think she has an alarm set for every four hours or something. She calls me every four hours on the dot. Yesterday it was 9:42 a.m., 1:42 p.m., 5:42 p.m. and then she must have decided four hours was too long to wait for the last one at 7:42 p.m.
This morning she called at 7:42 a.m., 11:42 a.m., 3:45 p.m. *gotta mix it up or it's just plain crazy*, and then 7:43 p.m.
I call my sister out of exasperation and ask her what she thinks of the situation.

My sister- "Are all of her phone calls at something-forty-two?"

Me- "No, she switched it to forty-five a couple of times and texted me at random times during the day."

My sister- "So, she's a non-committal obsessive compulsive?"

Me- "If that's what doctors prescribe Klonopin for."

My sister- "Huh. I don't know what to tell you. Are you going to put my funny joke in your blog?"

Me- "Is that the only reason you are talking to me right now?"

My sister- "Kinda. I'm busy being pregnant."

Me- "Well what the hell do you think I've been doing all day long?! Cleaning?"

My sister- "Bye-bye."

Me- "Fine. You're a whore. I hope you have twins so you have two kids with the same dad finally."

My sister- "Me too!"


So... I checked with AT&T earlier and apparently they don't have an option to block phone calls anymore unless you are a teenager and your parents don't trust you, so I'm stuck with the never ending barrage of phone calls containing her bitter acidic voice asking me *nicely* to have my children call her so she can mess with their feeble, mold-able minds. Thank heaven *or in my case, beg it to let her on up* she's six hours away, otherwise I'd have to dodge texts, phone calls, door bells and possibly bullets.

Burnt Vagina Monolouge*

OK- the reason I have decided to post this is because Jenny The Bloggess is not only hilarious, but she inspired me to share my story with the rest of the world... even if you don't want to read about my vagina... because of one of her most recent posts. Check her out if you haven't already. You'll become her number one stalker like I have.
I have scalded my mouth with hot coffee before, hundreds of times, but the other day something happened that was a first, even for me. I am going to let my vagina narrate the story, if you don’t mind.
Today started off great. After a brief shower, I slipped into my favorite pair of underwear and then into my favorite pair of jeans. Even though I knew there was no chance in hell I would be participating in sex today, I felt sexy. I went with Shawna into the kitchen to warm up a mug of coffee in the microwave and unassumingly followed her outside while she smoked. The last thing I remember before all of the chaos was the sound of a cigarette being lit. All of the sudden there was an uncomfortable amount of heat, and I’m not talking about the KY kind of heat, this was unbearable. I heard Shawna screaming obscenities, a door slam, and then I was abruptly cold and disrobed. I wasn’t sure what had happened; I was disoriented and in severe pain. This might have been worse than the first time I experienced a human child emerging from within myself, and that was pretty intense. I heard Shawna talking to someone… a neighbor I think. I am informed through eavesdropping that I am a burn victim. Thoughts are racing. Does Shawna have any burn cream? Will I be disfigured? Will I blister and scab? Apparently Shawna fumbled the maneuver to light a cigarette while balancing a coffee cup on her knee and every bit of the steaming hot coffee poured directly into my region.
I speak with my two closest neighbors about the accident. Right Upper Thigh says she’ll be ok, but I am extremely concerned for Left Upper Thigh. She’s not in good shape. She has loss of feeling in some areas and is having sharp pains and some throbbing in others. I will refrain from telling her what she looks like, she’d just get weepy and worry about scars. I hear Shawna clumsily combing through her toiletries. Ah… she’s so smart. She’s always thinking ahead, that Shawna. She bought burn kits from Target several months ago. I remember the man who lives with her asking her why she would ever waste money on such a useless item but she stood her ground and refused to return her find to the store. Good for you Shawna! She applies the burn cream to the affected areas and I feel almost instant relief. Left Upper Thigh calmed down a bit and we all decided a good long nap was in order.
* The title of this entry was the idea of none other than Bean herself. Thanks Bean, for being one of the coolest people I know.

Super specific things to paint.

This is one of my latest obsessions, either because I love Pez so much, or because I have never been without a job before and this is the only thing beides quilting that I can do to occupy my mind. I have started to paint ONLY Pez dispensers. I know, it's super weird. I actually got lucky though and an art gallery wants to feature these this weekend at a show. Maybe I'll become famous for painting Pez. Because I am photobucketly challenged, you will have to click on the painting to see the whole thing.

The Mother In Law Chronicles Part One

This blog is red for a reason. I won't tell you which bodily fluid I wish I had drained from my mother in law to write with it is... but I'm sure you have guessed it by now.
I've dealt with this impossible woman for almost ten years and it seems there is no end in sight unless my husband decides to leave me and the kids stranded in Fresno with nothing to survive on other than our chihuahua and our EBT card.
My mother in law insists on telling my children that I am the devil because I refuse to take them to Sunday school, which I did take my oldest daughter to once and they told her that if she believed in Jesus she could walk through fire... so yaahhh, we're not goin' back. She also has a tendency to tell my children to ask me super inappropriate questions like, "Mommy, do you smoke when you're pregnant?" And when I finally got the courage to let her in on the surprise of our third child, she informed me that I am white trash.
I'm glad congratulations isn't a popular response anymore... that word always rubbed me the wrong way anyhow.
So, I have decided to ignore her, which is a difficult feat if you realized the type of woman I am dealing with here. I decided to ignore all of her phone calls, and due to the fact that she calls our home twenty-four times a day, it has been trying. She has decided to ignore the fact that I am ignoring her and is even more persistent and leaves me messages like this:
"Hello Shawna, this is Michele. I am calling to speak to my grandchildren. You can have them call me on my work phone at 760-873-XXXX or on my cell. I have already left a message with David for the girls to call me and I will text him to let him know I have called you. Thank you for your time."
I think she figures if she tries to kill me with business like civility, I might actually die.

Jabberwocky

I imagine my biological clock looking something to the effect of the White Rabbit's stopwatch in Alice in Wonderland, only after the tea party incident. Instead of the Mad Hatter shoving sweet treats and miscellaneous objects into the gears and springs, I picture my children destroying my reproductive pocket watch (or if the analogy doesn't suit you... uterus) by jamming Barbie's formal gowns and pumps along with sippie cup stoppers, bits of Captain Crunch, clear fluoride free toothpaste, Velcro straps from new and improved Pampers and a never ending supply of snot bubbles into the backing and guts of my miniature grandfather clock. I'm pretty sure I've made up my mind to shut down the infant factory for good. I'll lock up the uterine gates and hire a couple of Oompa Loompas to wheelbarrow my ovaries over to the churning, turning chocolate river and drown them.

Jewel could do it, so why can't I?

I finally finished a manuscript! I read it, proofed it, edited, re-edited, over-edited... and I finally finished. It only took me ten years to get to the point that I would actually show it to someone else and I got raving reviews.
I was so excited to see that someone besides myself could appreciate my endless wit and talent with a pen. I was basically branded a genius by the person who reviewed it. My sister is the greatest.
So what? I had my sister read it. If I can make her laugh I'm sure the rest of ya'lls will love it too. I stupidly gave my manuscript to a handful of selected family members and friends and they all thought I rocked the shit out that manuscript, so I decided to send it off to my old high school English teacher. Yes, I realize that is desperate and weird. I called him up and his voicemail at the school picked up and I think I left him a message something to the effect of this, "Hey Mr. Perry, well, I guess that's weird to call you that now, so, Jeff. How's it been going? I was just calling you out of the blue, after not talking to you in close to a decade to ask you a favor. Would you mind editing my manuscript? Thanks! I'll send it your way and call you in a few weeks to see what you think."
So, I sent the manuscript to him and was expecting raving reviews from him as well, I mean, he did teach me like an eighth of what I know about the English language. When I called him, his response was a little different than what I had expected.
"Hey Shawna! I'm so flattered you would send your manuscript up here for me to read over. So, you have kids now? Where are you now? Anyway, I briefly perused your manuscript and it looks like you have quite a bit of prose mixed together with poetry so I think your first priority is to define your audience."
I remember seeing one of Jewel's memoirs at the dollar store a few years ago and she had all kinds of prose mixed together with poetry. Why does she get away with it? So, I have to be an ex-Alaskan homeless person turned pop star to write the way I want to?

I was glad he looked it over for ten minutes before making snap judgements on my style. Damn it. My audience is just going to have to adapt. I'll have to find a new editor. Maybe my brother will want to read it.