Welcome, welcome, Sunday morning!

"Welcome, welcome Sunday morning!
Bloodshot eyes and aching head.
Forget church, forget that religion
This old bitch is staying in bed."

For the first time in what feels like forever, I am not working on a Sunday.  Since I've been denied the chance to hang with my heathen co-workers I decided I should create a worthy worship service here at home.

First, the dogs and I had opening exercises, which consisted of throwing their toys around and watching them leap, run and then slip on the wood floor.  Always fun.  AND good exercise!  Organized religion would be so much better if they let dogs come to church.

(Not actually my dogs.  Mine are cuter.)

We then worshipped the God of Cleanliness by offering up the soiled clothing of our lives to be washed clean and refreshed for the coming week.

The sacrament!  I couldn't forget that!  I got down my holy French Press and prepared a truly divine cup of coffee.  I gave thanks that I had been inspired to pick up more fat-free half-and-half at the store AND that I found such a deal on hazelnut flavoring.  I am so blessed!

For the lesson, I browsed the blogs and came up with this gem from Runtu.  It expounds on the question that has plagued me: "But what happens when your conscience conflicts with the counsel of your Church leaders? What do you do when your conscience tells you that what they are asking is wrong?"  The whole article gave this shallow brain of mine something to chew on. 

For the closing song, I worshipped at the feet of  Trent Reznor once more.  As my sister said to me after this very concert, "I have been to heaven and Trent Reznor is God."  Hallelujah!

Then I chased the dogs around with the vacuum and went back to bed.  I love Sundays! 

A plethora of panties and a bushel full of bras

I made a frantic call to my sister yesterday.

"The panties and jewelry are on clearance!  Please tell me I don't need any more!"

Dead silence on the other end of the phone, then, "I can't say it!  You'd better buy them!"

She's my enabler.  She was probably thinking more about the jewelry but I was focused on the panties.  75% off and they were gorgeous.  They totally went with the bra I got on clearance last month.  Is there a support group for ex-Mormons with an underwear fetish?  If not, maybe I should start one.  I simply can't be the only woman with this problem!  Doesn't anyone else have a drawer full of every style, fabric and color of panty?  A chest full of bras of every design, none of them white?  Well?! 

But thanks to Molly's post I found this article.  I'm really pretty average in the real world.  And 10% of women own 35 or more pair!  I'm not quite there yet, though I haven't actually counted... 

F**king Perfect...or perfectly f**ked

I wasn't going to blog today.  I'm angry and beyond frustrated and didn't sleep much last night.  But when I saw this video on Kiley's blog it just struck me like a sledgehammer.  I'm going to try and make some sense of all this.

As mothers we want our children, especially our daughters, to be happy with themselves.  To really love themselves for who they uniquely are.  We want to gently nuture that while still trying to offer guidance and correction when needed.  After all, we are the parents.  We actually want to raise happy, productive members of society, not crazed maniacs who go on shooting sprees or lazy leeches living off the the government--or their parents. 

It's a fine, fine line sometimes between being supportive and enabling bad behaviors.  As a mother, I have let guilt guide me too often.  I feel it's my fault she's acting this way so I can't correct her for it. I've given her my bad genetics, I've been a bad mother, whatever.  Well, maybe it's my fault, maybe not.  Should it matter when it comes to dealing with the issue? 

I really suck at this theoretical, philosophical writing. I'm just gonna lay this sucker out.  I took a second job at barely over minimum wage to pay my daughter's college rent and expenses.  Just to try and be a "good" mom.  But maybe I'm just enabling.  I mean, how in the hell does a person get a .68 GPA?!  And why am I paying for it?!  I'm feeling like I've been trying to be a fucking perfect mom but instead I've just been fucked over.  I need coffee...and chocolate...and donuts... 

The gift that keeps on giving till you yank it out...

Lately there have been a plethora of blog posts about menstruation.  Every where I look someone is broaching the subject in some fashion.    Life as a Reader has shared some informative and insightful posts. Brandi  and Tex Commando have bitched about the missing OB tampons.  Even my daughters added to it with their moaning and cramping and whining.  All I can say to this is--nyah, nyah, I don't have periods anymore!   I finally sent that uterus packing and I haven't regretted it for a moment.

Menstruation is truly a gift of life and it's beautiful and all that shit.  I know that.  But, damn, it's a pain!  I've always had the heavy, life-interrupting, irregular kind.  Sort of like the flash floods they have in the Southwest.You're just driving along, it starts to sprinkle a few drops of  rain, then BAM! You're caught in the middle of a raging torrent and life has to stop for a while.

I envied my high school friends who could get along just changing their itty-bitty tampons once or twice a day, no muss, no fuss.  When I finally found a tampon that could actually withstand the onslaught, what happened?  They recalled it! Oh, Rely, how I miss you. I have never found another tampon that worked with my body.  What's a little Toxic Shock when I could finally sleep at night without waking to a bloody mess of a bed? 

Maybe my body should have been recalled, too, because it continued to betray me.  My irregular periods meant my little ovaries were not releasing the little eggs for the little spermies to find.  So I threw some fertility drugs into the mess of hormones in my body and the result wasn't pretty.  PMS from hell, anyone?  The onset of my period then meant that I had once again failed to become pregnant even with additional help. Raging hormones + feelings of failure = many hours spent crying in the shower while my hopes and dreams for a baby went running down the drain with the water.

Eventually I managed to spawn four large children: Tumor, Stomach Cancer, Clogged Fallopian Tube and Temporary Insanity.  I became anemic from blood loss and my bladder had all but given up. Finally I found a doctor who offered me a tempting option--his Blue Plate Special, as he called it.  It would consist of taking out the pesky uterus, putting the poor battered bladder in it's own little hammock for support and tacking up the stretched-out mess that passed for my pelvic floor muscles.  I immediately placed my order and just a few short weeks later I was being gutted like a fish.  The results changed my life and I worship the ground the man walks on.  Seriously.

So here's to being uterus free and loving it!

It's a freaking miracle!

My laptop has been resurrected!  I prayed (on my cell phone) to my beloved son, the all-knowing one.  With his still, small voice (because the volume on the phone was set on low) he gave me instructions as to what might inspire it to live again.  And it worked!  I have gained a greater testimony of his awesomeness.  He even agreed to be a guest poster.  Isn't the world just beautiful today?   

Piffle and spit

this phone will not let me make comments. damn smart phone. i give up. and i also give up on making capitol letters. i will write like writer who's name i cant think of and who i can't google because of my damn phone. just pretend i'm profound and published instead of technologically impaired.

but i had write about what happened the other day even if it takes me all morning and it probably will. i got a call from my visiting teacher who i've blogged about before. i would link the post but let's be real here. i can't even make most punctuation marks. anywho, she said her son, the gay one, had been questioning and thinking. damn smart kid. it's about time. she had loaned me some books and wondered if she could have them back. i'd read them all and felt embarressed that i hadnt already returnd them. she came to pick them up and i tried to talk to her. get her to tell me more about what was happening with her son. but she just took the books and hurried away, looking down at the ground. i know how she feels. been there, done that. i really worried when she was so happy that her son was determined to stay in the church. it just isn't that easy.

Technology sucks and blows

the woman who needs reading glasses to text is now reduced to blogging on her phone. my laptop died tonight when my mother called me.  i do not think it was a coincidence. she has that effect on people so why not a computer? i cannot even make a damn capitol letter on this fucking thing and i'm reduced to four letter words. please pray to the technogods that i can get all my vitally important funny dog pictures and music off the hard drive.

My dirty little secret

Since I found out that Cognitive Dissenter and Fanny have both read The Outlander (and loved it) I figured I would let my own deep, dark secret see the light of day.  *drum roll*  I am addicted to Urban Fantasy.  For those not in-the-know, it's paranormal stuff, kind of like Twilight  only a thousand times better. (I take that back.  It is NOTHING LIKE TWILIGHT.  *retch*)  I used to read uplifting and/or informative books, researching the holocaust and the wives of Henry VIII, expanding my mind and broadening my horizons.  Not any more.  For the past few years I have immersed myself in vampires, witches, elves, fairies, werewolves and the like.

It all started very innocently.  Someone recommended a book by Kim Harrison called Dead Witch Walking.  It took me months to actually pick up the book with the slutty witch on the cover and crack it open.  I was mortified to have anyone see me with the thing.  It was worse than carrying around a Danielle Steele novel.  But once I started, it sucked me into a deliciously written alternate reality caused by a tomato virus. Yep.  Tomato virus.  And each book in the series just got better and better.  I even went to a book signing.  I was so excited I was literally struck dumb.  But Kim was so sweet and signed my book anyway.

Then I moved on to Charlaine Harris' Sookie Stackhouse series.  (Not to be confused with the HBO series Trueblood. The books are sooooo much better.)  It's got a kickass heroine and Eric the bad, bad Viking vampire.  Yummers.

Other extremely good series in no real order:

The Fever series by Karen Marie Moning. In-cred-i-ble.  The last book is due out any time now and there are a lot of us that are hyperventilating in anticipation. 

J. R. Ward's the Black Dagger Brotherhood series.  Yes, all the men, ur, vampires, are tall, dark and haunted but it's escapism at it's finest.

The Magic series by Ilona Andrews. Who doesn't want their very own Beast King?  Meeeeooow. 

Patricia Briggs' Mercy Thompson series.  A tough-girl coyote living with a bunch of werewolves.  Ripped, complicated werewolves.

Jim Butcher's Dresden Files series.  It took me a long time to get around to this one but I'm glad I finally did.  Damn fine writing and interesting characters.  Hasn't got a lot of sex but it's addicting anyway.

The Kitty Norville series by Carrie Vaughn.  I loved seeing the development of the heroine from victim to alpha.  Good stuff.

Keri Arthur's Riley Jensen series.  She's a very randy vampire/werewolf hybrid living Down Under.  Did I mention she's very randy?

Anything at all by Christopher Moore.  He's not really Urban Fantasy but he is hilarious.  Island of the Sequined Love Nun anyone?  Though I think my favorite is A Dirty Job.

Rachel Vincent and Jocelyn Drake are also good as was Laurel K. Hamilton until about book six.  Now it's all just one big orgy with vampires and various were creatures.  *yawn*

So there it is.  My deepest, darkest secret.  I am a vampire slut.

It's girls night!

Okay, it's not until tomorrow night but I'm so excited that I wrote another song which will never be sung in Primary. 

*Ahem*  To the tune of  "Family Night".

This is the night I've waited for
Always a drink we have in store
Supporting each other more and more
On every girls night.

Bitching and shooting and eating too
Laughing and snorting till we're blue
Life feels better with a drink or two
On every girls night.

I could go on but it might get too racy.

And, singing of girls night, I am also looking forward to living for five days with women I have never met.  Seriously!  It was awfully brave of them to invite me without ever setting eyes on me.  And the combination of sun, no kids, warmth, no men, good food, good drink and good company was irresistible.  If these women are half as funny in person as they are on their blogs, it should be a week of unending hilarity.  And the rental comes with a COFFEE MAKER AND GRINDER!  Be still my heart.  March cannot come soon enough.

Tight-ass British Mormon gives birth to gay son!

Oh, what The Onion could do with this headline!  But it probably wouldn't come close to the real story.

So 'round about Pioneer Day a few years ago I intercepted a message on our home voice mail, given in a clipped, proper British accent.. 

"Mr. Fartings, it has come to my attention that our sons are in a relationship of a homosexual nature.  I should like to speak with you at your earliest convenience."  (Yeah, that's how she phrased it.)

Well, hell.  There were two immediate problems with this.  First of all, this woman knew damn well it was BROTHER Fartings. Our sons had known each other for years even if we parents had never met. And Brother Fartings, being the good bishop's counselor that he was, had no idea that his eldest son was gay.  I knew, but that's where the news had stopped for several months.   No way was I letting him find out like this.  So I erased the message and, figuring that since the boys she was referring to were well into their 20s, it would be rude to talk about them behind their backs as if they were mere children.  And also, I'd heard about this woman.  And I DID NOT want to meet her alone.  So I took them. 

That's how I got to be perched on the edge of a perfect sofa in a perfect room in their perfect house.  Not a dust molecule out of place.  All furnishings and church paintings had been chosen with perfection in mind.   My son sat near me on the sofa while across the room perched the proper British mum, owner of this perfect house and creator of this perfect life.  Her son stood near her but soon sat on the floor, his back literally and figuratively against the wall.  He was the only imperfect thing in her well-ordered and strictly regimented life.  How dare he.

There followed an awkward and strained conversation, most of which I don't remember, but it proved she was as small of mind as she was of stature.   She quoted church leaders, scriptures, conference talks.  Now, at this point I was still trying to figure this whole "gay" thing out myself.  Trying to reconcile it with church teachings, with my own thoughts, observations and feelings.  The only thing I really knew for sure was that I loved my son and I would continue to love and support him no matter what. I was light-years ahead of her.

Most of the one-way conversation went around and around, swirling into an incomprehensible haze of church doctrine pointing out the horrible evil of gayness.  I felt mentally beaten myself, so I can only imagine how the poor boys felt.  I only remember a few specific gems that came out of her mouth:

"How do you know you are gay?  Have you ever had a date with a girl?  Have you ever kissed a girl?  Then how do you KNOW?"  (How did you know you were attracted to men before you'd kissed one, bitch?)

"It's much worse for you, son.  You've made covenants in the temple that HE," gesturing towards my son, "hasn't made.  You will be held more accountable than HE will." ( Accountable to who?  That's all a matter of perspective, isn't it?)

And the real topper of the night, said straight to my son's face, right in front of me, "I've always hated you."  And she wonders why he never accepts their invitations to dinner.

He's my bishop!

Just a little something I came up with this morning.  It's to the tune of--you guessed it--"He's Our Bishop"!

He can't find time to talk to me
He's my bishop!
He's just a branch on my family tree
He's my bishop!
I do not even know his name
Though our chins are just the same
He was my dad but now he's saying,
He's my bishop!

I just can't help myself with this whole lyric thing.  It gives my mind something to do while I go about my mind-numbingly repetitive job.  Happy Tuesday!

I loathe to see the temple

I wrote another little ditty.  It goes something like this:

I can't help but see a temple
As I'm driving on my way.
They're all o'er the freaking valley
As if they want to say,
"Your children will be married here
But you can't come in with them.
They may be your kids outside these doors
In here...

Aw shit.  I cannot think of the last line. This stupid song brought back some old memories.  I don't feel this is really my story to tell but I"m going to tell it anyway.

My dad was a busy man, working six days a week running a business and all day Sunday doing the Lard's work.  But he managed to begat a bunch of kids.  Six of us in a cluster and then one "menopause baby" tacked on like an afterthought at the end.  He raised us righteously and all five of us older girls were married in one temple or another, proud father (or maybe just bone-weary) standing by and paying for the whole thing.  My brother was married in the woods, my dad doing the officiating (him being a bishop and all ) with our huge TBM extended family looking on.  It must have scared the shit out of the poor tattooed and bra-less bride because the marriage didn't even last a few months. 

That just left the tag-a-long to get married off.  Finally she found a guy and planned the wedding, down to the temple she was going to be married in.  Then just weeks before the date (cue scary organ music) my dad called with the news of his excommunication.  WTF.  This news shook the family and community like an earthquake.  My father had literally devoted his life to the church.  In his seven years as bishop he created a strong youth program with traditions which went on for years--while his own children grew up without him.  Years as a high councilor, driving two hours to meetings after working a 12 hour day.  He served valiantly in a Stake Presidency while the youngest was in high school. Everyone looked up to him as a truly righteous pillar of the church.  And now, just before his youngest daughter's wedding, the rug was literally yanked out from under him. 

Even his children didn't know the reason for the ex-ing.  He told us it wasn't a moral issue or a sexual one.  Good enough.  I didn't care then and I don't care now.  But the fact remained that he had no temple recommend and so could not attend the wedding of his youngest daughter.  He spent that time outside on the grounds with the grandkids, while inside the temple all the rest of the family was gathered.  All the myriad brothers-in-law who didn't mean shit to the bride, they got to be there.  But not dad.  She was the one he got to spend the most time with.  She was the one who was able to have daddy read to her at night, falling asleep long before the book was finished because he was so exhausted.  She was the only child who was able to spend time with him and have an actual relationship with him.  But hers was the only wedding to be denied him.  I can only imagine how that stung but he never said a thing. 

Several years later he was rebaptized, as soon as the powers-that-be said that he could.  Then life went on as normal, dad serving in one church calling after another up until the very day he died while putting his socks on to go to work at the temple.  Valiant as always.

More twisted songs!

My heathen baby sister thinks I'm twisted because I write such great lyrics.  I think she's just jealous because she didn't think of "I Have Two Little Boobs" first.  I will not stoop to inserting a joke about her small boobs.

Congnitive Dissenter has deep lyrics and scathing social commentary but mine are just...well...simple and shallow.

Sung to the tune of "I Am Like a Star"

I am like a blight on my family,
A blemish for the whole ward to see.
Just because I think,
The gospel has a stink,
They think that the stink comes from me.

BTW, my several-great-grandfather wrote the lyrics to quite a few hymns in the hymnbook.  I must have got my talent from him.

Primary Songs--revisited

All the coffee and espresso I consumed the other night at work must have had some sort of creative property in it.  All day long I was singing this song.

Sung to "Little Purple Pansies"

Little purple panties touched with lace and trim
Have replaced the garments that were, oh, so grim
My lady bits are covered and so why, why ,why
Did they say I never should give them a try?

And this little ditty sung to the tune of "I Have Two Little Hands"

I have two little boobs swaddled snugly and tight
Amidst layers of fabric all snowy and white
During all the long hours from one day to the other
My poor little boobies are never uncovered

Who's got more?  We could have our own songbook!

Titillating Titles

If, hypothetically, I were to follow Cognitive Dissenter's suggestion and write a book, what might be a good title?  Hmmmm...

It Must Have Been the Herbal Supplements I Took When I Was Pregnant Because God Doesn't Make Gay People

How To Raise A  Gay Happy Kid In the Midst of Intolerance Zion  (I'd have to clean that one up a bit or Deseret Book wouldn't carry it.)

Battery-Operated Sex and Other Gratifying Mormon Sins

Never Attend a Tabernacle Organ Recital With a Hangover (because the last few bars of  "Come, Come Ye Saints" will make you want to vomit on those saintly pioneer pews) and other life lessons

I Was a Sixth-Generation Pioneer--finding my way OUT of the church

How to Look Like a Relief Society President So You'll Get a Promotion at Work--a true story of the miracle of dowdiness

Okay, I've put off the housework long enough.  Time to wash my thongs and lacey bras.

Oh!  Oh!  Just one more:

But Garments Cover My Stretch Marks So Well! and other reasons to stay Mormon

You may want to avert your eyes...

Warning: this post shows a whole lot of ripples and nipples.  I started a post on this subject some time ago but never could bring myself to publish it.  A recent incident brought it all up to the surface again so here goes.

I ran into a co-worker the other night that I don't work with often.  I caught up on how her day-time teaching job was going and and somehow we got onto the subject of my two kids at BYU.  She was kind of shocked by this.  She knew about my oldest being gay (the famous Halloween visit of Fank N. Furter got around even to those that weren't working that night) but she had no idea about the whole Mormon thing. (I'm rather flattered at the fact that she had no clue I have any Mormon connection.)  She asked if my husband's influeunce was the reason for the TBM kids.  Not wanting to get into my role in raising them to be righteous Mormons and then changing my mind, I said yes, it was his influence.  Because at this point, it is.  Then she asked the question that had me gawping like a fish.  "So are you guys still...together?" I'm sure she noticed the few seconds it took for me to figure how what the hell to say.  Are we together?  Hmmm.  Let me think about this...


I do not believe he and I will ever see eye-to-eye about the church again.  To be fair, when we got engaged he was following his patriarchal blessing's admonition to "choose from among the daughters of Zion" and I was there at BYU milling around among them.  I guess I fooled him.  I tried, I really tried, but I'm done trying to believe and to fit in.  Packer's talk last General Conference put the final nail in the coffin of my testimony.

During one of our rare discussions on the whole gay issue he told me he believed that Lot's wife was turned into a pillar of salt because she turned back to look at her gay children she left behind .  Just call me Salty and damn proud of it..

His goal in life is to serve missions after retirement.  I'd rather have a lobotomy.

My daughter noticed my  lack of garments before he did.  (Yep.)  When he did notice he said absolutely nothing  even when I asked him if he had any questions about the reason.  I told him very plainly that if he doesn't ask it means he doesn't care.  It's been over a year now and still no questions. 

The reason he didn't notice the big change of underwear for weeks?   He has had his own bedroom for over 10 years.  (His choice, not mine.  But it makes is so damn easy to come home stinking drunk and he never knows.)

We live in the same house.  We talk politely about money and how-was-your-day and schedules.    But are we together?  After those few seconds of standing with my mouth hanging open, I just said yes.  Because, technically, we are.   Right?

Edible undies

I am sooo making these for Valentine's Day.  Thanks to stillsmallvoice for sending me this picture!

I do not remember signing up for this...

There was a day about three years ago that was a lot like today.  The gross part of winter.  Dirty, crusty snow patches and freezing air.  My eldest son had moved out the year before.  He signed the lease for an apartment the day he bought a car, and by the time the lease was up he was way over his head financially.   He decided to move back home while straightening out his finances.  I knew there was something different with him.  Something had subtly shifted.  Or maybe I was just seeing clearly for the first time.  I had my suspicions about what it was but I was panicked.  It simply couldn't be!  As I stood waiting for the bus that winter day, I called the only person in the world I could talk to about this--my baby sister.  My only-slightly-coherent rambling went something like:

"Ohmygoshohmygosh.  I think he's gay!  I think he's having sex with a guy!  Ohmygosh.  What did I do wrong?  What should I have done different?  I never should have let him move out.  I must have done something or he wouldn't be like this!  I bet it was that blind date with that horrible girl.  He just hasn't had a real date yet!  That's it!  Maybe if I lock him in a room with a girl and slide some condoms under the door then everything will be okay.  You can repent of fornication, right?  But if he's gay... "

I must have looked like a crazy homeless person as I paced along the sidewalk on 21st South gesturing and yelling.

"What do I do?  What can I say?  How do you ask your son if he's gay?  I cannot make those words come out of my mouth!  Why?!  Out of all six of us girls, why me?  Look at all our other sisters.  Their kids are all goody-two-shoes, married in the temple. What did I do wrong!  Why am I the only one to have a gay son?!"

My sister's quiet answer to this?  "Because you're the only one who could handle it." 

Those words keep me going.  I try everyday to remember that I can handle it, even when I'm not handling it well. 

All those ripples and nipples

I worked through the Christmas rush with some wonderful people, especailly one woman in particular.  Though she is 20 years younger than I am (at least) and not even Mormon (shock!) we clicked.  We loved working together and those nights that we worked till 1 AM got pretty silly.  We'd laugh till we snorted at things that no one else found funny in the least.  One day while sorting out the mess in the fitting rooms, she found a slinky dress we hadn't seen before.  "Well, THAT would show all my ripples and nipples!".  We found that hilarious and it became our tag line. 

So I'm thinking that blogging is like showing off all our ripples and nipples.  And if you don't want to see mine, well, just don't look.

Happy Sunday!

It's the shit and you're knee deep in it

I survived working retail at Christmas time.  Barely.  I really don't want to repeat the experience next year, but if I need to, I know I can survive again.  (With the right shoes.  Otherwise you're just asking for constant foot and leg pain.)  It also makes for great people watching.  I was just the proverbial fly-on-the-wall a lot of the time, quietly refolding a table of sweaters for the 50th time that evening.  A whole parade of the good, the bad, the ugly, the screaming and tantrum throwing and, occasionally, the kind.  But one day I came face-to-face with someone that scared the living shit out of me. 

A woman was shopping with her four children, a toddler in her arms and the others clustered closely around her.  Her brown hair was skinned back in a serviceable ponytail and she wore glasses, mom jeans and an oversized shirt that looked filched from her husband's closet.  There was a tightness around her eyes and forehead that was practically tangible. She had a please-god-just-let -me-get-my-stuff-and-get-out-of-here-in-one-piece look on her face. She probably had to rush home and get the dining room set up to host the bratty Achievement Day girls that won't ever sit still and spend the hour crawling in and out of the doggie door.  Or maybe she's stuck serving in the nursery for the fifth year in a row--since one of her kids is always in there anyway--so she and her own kids have a constant virus of some sort from the sick babies who's dipshit mothers send them to nursery sick so they can give their stupid lessons in YW.  And maybe she could make it to Homemaking night if her husband would come home from work early enough.  But he rarely does, so the only social life she's allowed is denied her.  She tends to stay at home because it's just easier than hauling all those kids around.  The first word out of her mouth to her kids is "no" because a "yes" will probably mean more work than she has the energy for.

That woman was so scary because she was ME.  The me I was just a few short years ago.  The days of the once-a-year haircut.  Of never showering alone or even managing to pee alone.  Forget shaving the legs or using moisturizer.  Who had the time?  Or the money? I just wanted to cry and hug this woman.  I wanted to tell her asshat husband to get home and watch the kids for a couple of hours, damnit, because they're his spawn too!  Then I'd take her to get a nice hairstyle and some flattering jeans.  Just because having those babies has done a number on your body didn't mean you still can't look good.  And no more baggy men's shirts, sweetie.  You deserve better.  And going to the temple does not constitute an acceptable social life.  Get some friends, get some interests.  Realize that you are important in your own right and your feelings are valid!  Don't stuff them down with a box of donuts and a plate of nachos.  Deal with them before you're big as a house!  If you don't realize that YOU ARE AN AWESOME HUMAN BEING then how will anyone else know it?

Whoa!  I didn't realize I had still had so much pent-up anger and resentment.   But damn, that felt good.

Bitch and shoot

A few posts about boozing have caught my attention lately and it got me thinking about my experimentations with alcohol.  And you know where that leads.  Yep.  Another gaseous eruption.

Growing up in a small town there wasn't much to do but drink and have sex.  I abstained from alcohol like a good girl but took up smoking for a while.  Nasty habit but I didn't inhale much.  (If you're curious about the sex, check my earlier posts.)  My first drink was just after my 47th birthday and I was with a bunch of other "mormon" women, some who had imbibed before and some virgins like me.  A couple of those women became my drinking buddies and we would go out periodically to let off a little steam.  (I call them my 'ho friends but they're really not.  Ho's that is.  Hos?  Whatever.) 

We hit the liquor store frequently, gawking and gazing and sampling many different things over time.  We tried to act cool like going to buy booze was old hat but I'm sure we stuck out like snowy white garments in a brothel.  The bar scene wasn't appealing (we're all married and waaaay over 30) but we managed to find places to take our booze and hang out, drinking, bitching and eating.  We accumulated mixers and cups and various liquor bottles and put them in a large plastic container, naming it our "sin bin".  Very handing for taking places and making our own party.  Just add ice and stir.

Not having experience with learning moderation, I've thrown up quite a few dollars worth of  booze in various places. So here are some things I have learned about liquor that I wish I'd known sooner.

1. Never let someone with a stuffy nose and a cold mix the drinks.  And especially don't let her use Bicardi 151.  On the other hand, she will be able to hold your head while you vomit and everyone else is running from the stench.  Then again, it's her fault for mixing drinks that could start a fire.

2.  Never take "just one last shot" of Jagermeister.  It will always be one too many and you'll ruin someone's mashed potato bowl.

3. Don't mix rum and chocolate cake.  *shudder*

4. Embrace the barf.  A good friend taught me this.  Don't fight it.  Just let it out.  You'll feel much better.

5. Just because you only drink every couple of months doesn't mean you have to get completely plastered.  Calm down.  There will be another time now that you don't have to worry about that pesky temple recommend.

Cheers!



  

(Wo)men in Black

I realized today that my closet looks like a black hole.  Black shirts of all styles, black sweaters, pants socks, even black undies. Dressing is easy.  I pick a black top, pants, sweater, jacket,  boots or shoes.  Maybe accessorize with a colorful scarf or some silver jewelry.  Done.  Easy as black bottom pie.  Since I'm not a New Yorker then I'm either a very boring person or a minion of satan. 

Maybe I could hire myself out as a professional mourner.  Do some cultures still have those?  Except I have an extreme hatred of funerals.  So I guess being a funeral director is out too. 

World's oldest Goth or Emo?  Hmmm.  I look awful with black hair and I don't have enough piercings or tattoes. And I just couldn't get the eye makeup right. 

I guess that leaves Minion of Satan.  

Bwahahahahahahaha!

Just a little whine with my Monday

Just a LITTLE whine.  I just called to pay my son's and daughter's rent for the month.  That is ouchy enough.  But then my phone (which has not been feeling well lately) decided it did not want to hang up after.  I took out the battery.  Now it won't turn on.  Sooooo, after being sucked dry for rent again, I now have to buy a new phone.  There goes my sanity-saving trip to a warmer climate to visit my heathen sister and paty in San Francisco.  This new year is really sucking a duck so far.

Holy shit

As I sit sipping my iced caramel latte on this fine, sunny Sunday morning, I ran across this picture that I thought many people in blog land would enjoy. 

Now I'm off to work with the godless heathens that I so enjoy. 

Visiting speaching

My visiting teacher just dropped by as I was cleaning the basement and putting away the tree.  Filthy and unshowered I answered the door.  I haven't seen her since...summer maybe?  I wasn't even sure she was still my VT since I never go.  (I'm sure they've reassigned my route to someone a little more active.)  She handed me a crocheted dishcloth and wished me a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.  Then she looked into my eyes and said, "I really miss you.  I hope I haven't said anything to offend you."  Because, you know, one remark from her would surely make me lose my faith and cut myself free from the only lifestyle I've ever known.

We used to color each other's hair for a while, bonding over premature grayness and that fact that we both have gay sons.  But her son, unlike mine, served a mission and is determined to marry in the temple and live a "righteous" life.  She is so proud of him for that.  As I distanced myself from all things church related, I stopped returning her calls.  It really was nothing personal.  I just couldn't take hearing all that over and over. The research I've done and the people I've met this past year have emphasized to me that those situations rarely turn out well.  Why would she wish this on her son and on some unsuspecting woman?  What about any children they might have?

She once told me she has know since her son was very small that he was gay.  I wonder how she reconciles this with Packer's talk?  Because, you know, he wasn't BORN gay so something must have happened to him while he was learning to walk that made him that way.  I guess I could call her and invite her to lunch to talk about it.  But I really just don't have the stomach for it.  Maybe I'll just ask her next time she comes...in the summer.