Never Cry Over Spilt Wine

As Chris told me it would, everything worked out okay. Computer genius-very-nice-guy comes over tonight, for payment by beer only, and finds my files, all are still here; no need to panic. My house didn't burn down.
However, how's this to ruin a biotch's day: getting 2 kids out of the car after a big grocery shop this afternoon, I actually drop one of the two bottles of wine i purchased today and SPLAT! a river of deep purple juice rushes over my driveway. That'll really piss you off. SO that makes 4 in the string of bad luck, I think. Somebody owes me one. The Gods Must Be Crazy.
Kisses, and praise the sweet baby hay-seuss.
Back during the weekend for a less-buzzed, more in-depth chat.
~R

Farewell, Mr. Computer Man I

My house has burned down. Okay, not really. It's more like this: I feel like I'm out of the country (I wish that), and a friend has called me to say our house has burned, but she isn't sure how much can be salvaged. Yeah, that's how I feel. The beloved Mr. Computer kicked the bucket, I was forced to charge a new one (MC2), and although it appeared my hard drive was okay, turns out the files are all jacked up and it's questionable whether my Word documents, photos and music can be saved. Until a software genius looks at it for me tomorrow. My PICTUREs, videos of the kids, that's what I'm crying about. But I did back some of them up to disc or they're on Shutterfly or something. But not the videos. And the WORD documents? Yeah, that's what I do. But, with my keen intuition, i just happened to email myself the memoir the night before this happened. Psychic much?

Anyway, I know, I know, this isn't the worst thing to happen. But after the husband almost cutting of the fingers and a familial semi-crisis with my brother, this makes 3. So we're done with the string of bad luck right?

Just had a friend diagnosed with breast cancer. My problems are not so huge. I need to shut the fuck up.

Still tripping down memory lane, about the get back onto writing, listening to all my Jackson Browne cd's - what I grew up listening to with the older brothers (see previous photo, you may notice a slight age difference).

And BTW if you think Jackson Browne is just the guy who did "Somebody's Baby" from Fast Times, you are sadly mistaken, my amigo. Go to his website if you like real, unpretentious songwriting, like I do when I get down or nostalgic. Wishing i could go back to Santa Monica to find him...

Everyone I've ever known has wished me well, anyway that's how it seems,
it's hard to tell. maybe people only ask ya how you're doing, cause that's
easier than lettin' on how little they could care. But when you know that
you got a real friend somewhere, suddenly all the others are so much easier
to bear. ~
from The Late Show on Late for the Sky

I'll be back soon to rant about pre-school teachers and other random issues...

~R

Nos-talgia

Ok, music is always what saves me from going completely ber-zerk.

As usual, when I get down, I start to write alot. The angst fuels me! Yesterday, I spent 3 hours while Super Grandma had the kids and worked on the mem-wah (a.k.a. memoir). Getting so nostalgic. Weeping for the memories, sorry, Sarah Maclachlan, I can't help it. Writing about my best friend's dad dying at 42. Re-living the fun times in the sprinklers and the mud and the bicycles and the catching fireflies in glass jars, and the parents having fun and drinking on patios. Life was pretty good on that circle drive.












So the fact that yesterday, the postman delivers a box set of music - ROCK BALLADS from the 80s to the door, just intensifies the nostalgia I'm experiencing. A couple months ago, Chris and I were up watching TV and drunk enough to pick up the phone and order this. The lead singer from REO Speedwagon was the host. That dude and his giant smile, he sold us.

Driving to the gym today, I almost blew my speakers to "Love Song" by Tesla. And next, there is "Sister Christian" by Night Ranger, "Don't You Forget About Me" - Simple Minds, "Time for Me to Fly" by REO, "Babe" by Styx, OMG shall I go on? "Harden My Heart" - Quarterflash, "Missing You" - John Waite, "Look Away," - Chicago, "I'll Stand by You" - The Pretenders, "Never Tear Us Apart" - INXS, "Alone" - Heart....Little River Band, Huey Lewis, Billy Idol...it never ends. Have I sold you yet? Tell Time Life I sent you then.
One question though - where in the HELL is RICK f*cking SPRINGFIELD (that's moi, above, with the 33)???

Now, for me, the majority of the songs were from my high school years, bringing back days of driving to the lake with a carload of girls in bikinis in my Bitchin' Camaro...those were days...
I assume you're old enough to know these songs if you're reading my 30something Mom blog (yes, I admit it, it's a Mom Blog), if not, take a listen on ITunes or something. It's culture, music history, Baby.

(photos in order: me (in red) with the siblings and significants, the House on the circle drive, and a birthday party with my presh Rick album)

And by the way, Chris is off the painkillers and feeling good, and moving the fingers. The gnarley fingers. And today is the first day of pre-school for the adorable little f*ckers.
Weepy,
~R

Weekend from Hell

Weekend from hell...but wait...count the blessings right? Coulda been worse. He could be Edward Scissorhands.
Today Chris has been in bed all day because he made the executive decision to double up on his pain pills. He even barfed. It is all too reminiscent of his infamous all-day hangovers of yesteryear. I mean exactly. I have no idea how pill-poppers do it. You just get knocked out and don't even get to have any fun. I don't get it. Anyway, he learned his lesson.
The Super-Grandparents came and hung out today while I got some shit done and then took Izzy home with them. Beck is just too much of a terror for them to take. Anyway Chris and I were going to get to have a couple hours to have lunch or something, but, well, as usual , didn't work out for me. Poor RhoRho:(
So his hand is skank-ola, and I just can't wait til those pills wear off, so he at least acts normal again. I've been pretty patient and nurturing, really. I'd have made a good nurse, not that I've met one that has impressed me much. But I'd definitely cuss the patients under my breath and when I left the room.
Hope your weekend was better than mine. Maybe if I post a picture of the carnage you'll give me some grossed-out responses to look forward to...?
Ugh...
~R

A Dose of Reality

Alright, here's a little reality for ya. Last night, I spent 5 hours in the ER with my husband. He nearly sliced his fingers on the left hand completely off. The fact that his livelihood is his hands makes this a frightening concept. He works with his hands and is an avid mountain biker. It was strange, because yesterday, I pulled up near him and saw his hand in a window and thought, "that's my husband, I'd know that hand anywhere." I had brought him a saw that he forgot. I just found that a little iron-ical...

Anyway, his hand is probably fine. The fingers weren't severed to the bone (although I saw the bone as the ER doctor sewed it up), and the nerves were not likely damaged. We go to an orthopedist Tuesday. ANd since he works with his hands, Momma may be waitin' tables for a while. I've been threatening for years, so, I deserve it.

I'm a bit cashed from the ER til 10:30 last night, and visitors all afternoon til 8:30 tonight. SO This is all i got.

Not much progress , but been editing the memoir when I can. I won't give up on something I've been working on for 6 years, goddammit!

And I just have to say, knowing my mommy will at some point read this: Momma, I know you're relentlessly trying to win that million partly for us, and I am so indebted to you guys for all you have done and do for us, when you should be sitting on your front porch swing drinking iced tea. You guys are the most amazing parents ever. I promise I'll repay you -tenfold. Just hang in there.

ANd my besties who offer support: I f*ckin heart you too, for being so damned awesome. Love LoveLove.
L:ittle buzzy~R

Not a girl, not yet a woman

And now, deeep thoughts...
This morning, driving through this college town, where sorority girls and soccer moms alike cruise their SUVs and mini vans, windows rolled up all nice and clean and cozy inside, I roll down the street in great spirits, windows down, loving the cool weather, recovering from my PMS episode/existential crisis. I'm somewhere between a sorority girl and a soccer mom, I guess. I'm rockin' out again to Shawn Mullins, yes, circa 1999, because I just can't stop, I donno why. I will leave that cd in the car until I hate it enough to throw it out the window. But I still won't, because in another eight years, I'll get it out, and get all nostalgic and pensive again.

But back to the subject: my feeling like a girl living a woman's life. A girl kickin' a side pony braid, wearing her tank top and flip flops, with 2 kids in the back, beating her steering wheel to music. A girl shushing her kids so she doesn't miss a verse, or placating them with uh-huhs when they point out every single place in town we've EVER set foot in. I feel like a dick; like a girl who shouldn't be allowed to raise kids. This, this imperfect, girlish-ness, is why I can't hang out with just any mommy. I simply don't fit in. The mom clubs? Not for me. The moms at pre-school? Nah (as we've learned in the past), or the ones that hang out at library story time? They look at me and my tube top and tattoo with disgust. That's why I don't do "play-dates," and why I have my friends that I've picked up along the way who know me and love me at face value, and guess what? They're little girls in woman's bodies too. They're the only ones for me.

Why can't I be like all of the real adult mommies, behaving themselves, in air conditioning, no music, short nice haircuts and wearing conservative things and remaining attentive to every tiny comment the toddler makes from the backseat. "Mommy! That's where we saw The Pirate Show! Mommy! Thats where we saw Seussical Musical! Mommy! That's the coffeehouse!" and without some sort of recognition (why these comments require recognition, i know not) like an "Uh-huh," they will be repeated until the end of time. And the Becks, well he wakes up going, "Cah! Ah ma!" Diddle diddle diddle!" Yes, cute, but it's fairly loud for a little dude and he does it allll daay until he gets that near-passing out look in his eyes.

I should understand, as my Mama tells me, that kids INTERRUPT, and they TALK ALL THE TIME, and I should just, well, get that. But can't we teach them to wait their turn, or that silence is one of the great arts of conversation, I say? Who wants a kid that gets bad conduct grades for talking ALL THE F*CKING TIME (me, 7th grade)? It's probably my fault right? I've always been a talker, and so is Chris - Jesus, for a man, that boy can talk - but I am slowly becoming a woman of fewer words..one of those whom you might wonder. "What the f*ck is she thinking?" I've always wanted to be one of those. I've always been so damned black and white. But I have the kids to thank, because I simply don't get a chance to finish a sentence anymore. So, like I've witnessed my dad(PaPa) do in the past twenty years, I just shut the f*ck up. Forget it, what I was going to say wasn't really that important anyway. In another 17 years, Chris and I will have a conversation. Know what I mean?

So I sound like a bad parent, right? And that's part of why I like it here, where we don't all have those neat little answers like the know-it-all magazines. I don't even think there IS an answer besides: teach them the best you can, don't be an asshole while you're doing it, and try to maintain some shred of your sanity. I just want to SAY IT. I'm a little girl in a woman's body (yeah that part of me you can tell has seen some years and childbirth), who's having a life-long identity crisis, raising 2 kids with another kid who likes to jump off shit with his bike, and we have a mortgage and 2 car payments, and they actually allow us to do this. THERE! Gawd bless Amurica.

Ev-e-ry-thing's gonna be alright, rockabye, bye bye.
~R
p.s: his boys don't swim. moving on.

On Milly

Ok, now I'm going straight to hell. As I have mentioned, my life operates opposite The Secret, and if I have any premonitions or expectations about a certain event, it will 99% of the time turn out exactly NOT how I imagined (this is not to say I don't have good intuition; I do, and I can even read minds!). Last night was no exception. It was just lovely. So you wanna know what I got her right? I spent hours at TJ Maxx, mulling over bath products (which I do for her every Christmas), clothes, and then, Ding Dong! I ran across some olive oil, and thought why not a great basket of cooking stuff. I must say, Milly is a great cook and has taught me a lot. So, I end up with this lovely basket of utensils, sauces and olive oil. She was genuinely thrilled, and didn't I look like the most presh thoughtful DIL? And then Chris busts out the bike, the shiny white newly re-built bike he had in the shop and was having done for Moi. Spent money on to build. That she asked for back. So, there she has it. Ecstatic. Chris and I just look at each other and smile. I'm so glad he can see the humor in all of it. We've come a long, long way, baby.

And then, I just checked a truly decent email with thanks from her. I just think, Oh Shit, if she were to come across this...Oh shit... But you know what? It's the TRUTH, dirty and gritty, the truth. And I know I'm not the villain, but maybe I should keep a lid on it. It just feels so gooood to say it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
~R

Say NO to Facebook

A friend just emailed yesterday to inform me that I am now infamous on Facebook. "You can't really tell it's you, which is good" she says. "You're doing something lewd to a horse statue."

It's this guy's page we used to hang out with post-college. He was hilarious, a blast to hang out with, and dated one of my best friends, then everything between them went to shit, and we haven't been friends with him in years, nor seen him somuch. And suddenly, we are the stars of his Facebook page. Namely, me. I am on his profile photo, along with him, and we are performing pseudo sex-acts on a horse statue. I must say, I was in the best shape of my life, and all you see is my backside (clothed) as I am squatting to perform the task. Although it's an act that's immature and crass, I was really relieved it wasn't a picture of me passed out drunk with writing on my forehead or something. I was actually quite pleased with my picture. SO, thanks, Re-Todd, for the shout-out. I hope your marriage is doing well, and you may want to actually post some shots of your wife (and kids?).

Anyway, I just don't know about this whole Facebook thing, and how anyone can post anything they want (I assume with the exception of nudity?). I post pics of friends here but make sure they are flattering, don't I? However, if you would like to opt-out of being posted on my page, dear friends, please comment here.

Almost famous,
~R

Brazil, a strip or the bush?

Just a couple things:
First, an analogy: Say you're, I donno, a pilot. You're flying over South America. Where would you choose to land in a desperate situation: Brazil, the strip, or the bush?

Lately, my precious little daughter has made some snide comments about my situation, umm, down there. No, we aren't complete nudists around here, but I have never believed that seeing parents au naturel was necessarily a bad thing. Until now. "Mommy, I don't need to see that!" and "Mommy, your (blank blank) is all hairy!" It's not like I'm striking Hustler poses during our daily activities or anything, it's just your average bath time or after-shower, clothes changing, urinating, you know, run-of the-mill situations where you must remove the pants, and they never leave you alone, so what are ya gonna do? Anyway, she hurt my feelings, really. Shattered the self image -down there. I don't want to paint pictures about my own stuff, but I keep it, well, somewhat manicured, myself. I've paid for one Brazilian wax, but the agony, and humiliation of being on all fours, my post-baby ass cheeks being pryed apart for me was enough (thanks, K-Ro!). Enough. Anyway, I think I do a decent job, and I'm not fortunate, like the kid, to have no lawn to mow. (Honestly, I don't feel that hair down "there" makes me feel like a woman. I could totally do without it.)

Now, this brings the question, what's your preference? Or is it not your preference on this matter that calls the shots? Chris prefers the strip, or a variant thereof, and makes no BONES(yes, pun) about it. Others like nothing less than nothing, and still others claim to prefer the BUSH. The big, nappy, 70s bush. One of my friends' hubbies is such a man. His claim is that if you like anything less than a big, curly, fro of a bush, well then maybe you're a big fat PERV! Now, I've been with a few men in my time, and I really refuse to believe 90% of them to be all pervy. As a woman, I personally feel that less is more, cleanliness is Godliness, ya know? We remove hair from everywhere else, right? So my man and I agree. I'll take the strip.

So whaddayou think, if this topic isn't just too skank for you? I know, I know, we could be pondering the meaning of life, or ending world hunger, but we have Angelina and Brad to do that. Aww, c'mon, don't be shy; we all have 'em. I'll bet Angie has a fro...

B. My hubs was "fixed" last year, and I am still, somehow, psychotically paranoid that I will have a divine pregnancy. Or rather that Chris' super-sperm will break through the fused barrier. After all, they are still there, they just have nowhere to go. They're hittin' a dead end, if you will. What do they do? Build up? But I watched the doctor, he cut that thing and fused the ends, done. Caput. Right? Being pregnant again is my worst nightmare, and I just continue to hear stories - everyone has one friend who got pregnant after the big V, I mean everyone. So I don't know the details of each story, but I'm pretty sure that it's not a cover for her affair with the gardner (nor is mine for my long-standing affair with Adam Levine of Maroon 5), it actually happens. So I'm having him do it in a cup and I'm taking it in and we're checking it once a year, just to make sure there's no live ones swimming around. What do you know on the subject? Anything?

all pervy,
~R

...and speaking of pervy...will someone please help this boy get his shirt off? (thanks, Liah!),

Planet Blog

So lately, I've been reading this guy, Black Hockey Jesus. If the name The Wind in Your Vagina doesn't peak your curiousity, well, then, I donno what to tell ya. But anyway, this is not to plug this dude or anything, he doesn't need it. He has a tra-zillion readers and he's like a month old. It's really amazing. How does this happen? He couldn't possibly have time to read all his 80 daily comments and I'm sure he's never visited me. Anyway it's a very interesting place to go.. .lots of drama - and he's a GUY! Straight, too. Recently, he wrote this post about the uber-blogger (sorry i called her that, but let's face it) dooce, and it's pretty insane!

http://windinyourvagina.blogspot.com/2008/08/no-reply.html

Also, babyonbored recently wrote this about the Big D at the BlogherConference. Made me giggle, I can just see it - now I'm embarrassed to admit liking the Indigo Girls:

Saturday night I went out briefly but my heart wasn't really in it. I wanted to go home and see my family at that point. I was overstimulated, overestrogenated (new word - look it up, bitches) and tiiiiired. I did have some really great conversations with a few bloggers who I hadn't known before but, like I said, not summercamp. But seriously, I'm 42, I've had my share of camp and I really didn't need to sit around a campfire and listen to Dooce strum out an Indigo Girls song on her twelve string guitar while all the campers hovered around her with their cider and candles hanging on her every lilty little girl voiced lyric.

These posts made me wonder if the one I wrote in May that mentioned the big D is in fact what drove some of my early cool blogger friends away - the fact that I didn't flat-out diss her:

The MomBlog Goddess?

Okay, got a question for the mommy bloggers I've met, some of whom are still occasionally reading my blog, hopefully. Did you watch the Today Show today on "us" and then the interview with dooce.com author Heather Armstrong(a.k.a by them the "goddess" of mommybloggers)? I know, I never watch it either; the only other time was when I saw that a woman who wrote a book entitled Naptime is the New Happy Hour was going to be on and I was like, what? Is that me in another life? I shoulda wrote that...Gotta watch this. Anyway I saw her, became a fan, and that's where I found many of you, thru her blog. Stefanie is kickass. And so are all of you (yeah the three reading, and you, too Mom!). But dooce was one I heard about and found when I first started (just back in December; i'm a newbie), and I really like it; she's funny and crass sometimes...but the question I have is this: why is she not listed in links in this little community, the most awesome of all badass mommas community? I don't see her blog anywhere. Just wondering why, if she's truly the "goddess."

But wait! I wasn't "in the know!" If I had known, cool bloggers who stopped emailing or commenting or responding to me, what I know now, I would have said that I get it -she is one of the Plastics and she's too good for comments and you are the funky cool chick clique that I wanna belong to and she's a Mean Girl, and shit I was just askin' a question! Come back to me! Honestly, the Big D is not at all fascinating, she's just a brand with fancy stuff, and I think she's simply a whiz at marketing, along with her doting husband. And somewhat lucky. As you can see, I don't list her in my blogroll, and I rarely visit her site. I visit YA'LL! WE are the interesting ones, the alt-indie bloggers. It is we who rock.

(Or maybe it wasn't the D-word that removed me from their blogrolls. It could have also been my virgin ass asking for too many top-secret blogging tips, saying, "am i cool enough to add to your blogroll?" or maybe I got boring, I donno. I'm totally clueless. Now, as I've mentioned in the past (see previous post "arrrrgghhh!" ), I have a tendency to piss women off and be totally oblivious to it. Guess this little world is no different than the "real" one.) And I thought maybe here, there would magically be nonathat...I was wrong.
Soooooooooooo, Meeeeeooooowwwwww!

Anyway, writing what I want, uncensored, is my wet dream. Back then, I had no idea what I was getting into. An entire other world, a community of people who just wanted to talk and be listened to. I thought I had an original idea, with my whole drinking cussing mom thing. Yeah! I'll be the only one out there, everyone will be shocked and amazed! After I created the blog, I started wandering around. Much to my surprise, there was a whole planet of me's. Although I was bummed I hadn't pioneered something, I was excited to find some really cool chicks. But then, of course, there's more to it. I pissed 'em off. As usual. Cie la vie (spell much?).

Also, wanted to say, as Ms. Picket recently did,
that the prospect of lurkers is kinda creepy, especially the local ones. I have been made aware my husband's friends who apparently read it (which is totally cool, Foss!) or I run into someone and they're like oh, yeah I read your blog, as if they already know what's up in my life before I finish my sentence. And friends, they call less because they have no need to ask, "What's going on?" They already know.

I'm obviously quite pensive lately with the working on the memoir, and also nostalgic. Don't think I've gone soft on ya.

Anyway, I'm not going anywhere. I'll tell you again, I'm here, I queer (like funny/strange), get used to it.
.
PEACE OUT bitches.
~R

A Shameless Self-Promotion

After blogging now for about eight months, I have never taken advantage of ya'll (yep, all three of ya) fellow bloggers out there for shameless self-promotion, so I figured it's about time.
No, I haven't published a book (not YET!), I just have a little Ebay store, and besides the tiny (yet super cool, right?) logo at the bottom of my page, I haven't really advertised it here. Guess I'm not exactly the shrewdest business woman. I'm more of the creative persuasion.
So the store's called RhoRho's Baby Bungalow. Every year, the MIL travels to Bali for her retail store, and a couple years ago I had her pick me up some of the adorable batik children's clothes to sell after seeing all the cute things she had been bringing back for Izzy. After selling some at Izzy's school, and having little "trunk shows," my inventory is down to almost nothing, and I'm trying to decide whether I'll re-stock when MIL goes back to Bali in January or not. Otherwise, I'm keeping my store, if for no other reason than the kickass logo my girl Kemmy in KC created for me. I'll just sell used stuff, whatever I can dig up. In my experience, that stuff sells better than new stuff anyway.
So, blogger mamas, witness this cuteness(see photos), and visit my store if you get a chance, where I'm selling the remainder of the pieces DIRT cheap! These are handmade batik fabrics, ya'll! I also have one silver rope baby bracelet in the style of j. hardy (I can't say his name on EBay or they'll remove the item). If you buy anything, tell me you came from my blog and I'll knock off the shipping, even if you only buy one thing.
(I took these shots this morning with little cooperation, and let me just say, god love child photographers, I don't know how the hell they do it.)
So, ladies and gents, C'mon over to:
RhoRho's Baby Bungalow
Danka
~R

The definition of a lush?

If you ask someone who's been to AA or Al-Anon meetings, they'll tell you that an "alcoholic" can be defined as someone who has as little as ONE drink per week, or someone who as much as thinks about having a drink, and when they're going to have it. Well I guess that counts me in. Whatever, as ridiculous as it is, it makes us feel guilty for whatever level of deviance we're currently experiencing. It is partly what prompted me to do this whole "cleansing" thing, in addition to knowing how many hot dogs I ate as a child...but mostly, I think I just feel guilty. That I think about that glass of cabernet at 3 o'clock when the kids are escalating down the road to insanity and I know I have about 3 hours left until there is an ounce of relief.

So, if you've been following along, I've been aspiring to fast to the level of whatever takes my fancy; I've gone from the aspiration of juice fast for 3 days to juice fast every Monday to just fruit and vegetables to fruit, veggies and wine to today: fruit, a nonfat mocha, brown rice and broccoli, and wine. After the first attempt, I did feel good, and since I've gained back my tolerance (gee that took a long time - not), and now, I surrender.

It's either fasting, and cleansing or my sanity (actually still don't have that), I've realized. So, now, every Monday, I vow to simply do my best. Today, that was it, considering the circumstances. I think picking your poison is key: if I want room for wine in the diet, then I'll eat organic and leave out fast food and chips and crap like that. Picking just one or two poisons can't be so bad right? I can do without processed shit and fries and cookies. The other...notsomuch. I work out and I sweat and I do yoga. So dammit, if I want my wine, I'm probably going to have it. Period.

Have you ever felt guilty about your little glass of wine or bowl of ice cream or bar of chocolate...or whatever? Tell me, let me know I'm not alone.
~R

The weekend in pictures

Chris and I love to sit down with a bottle or two of wine on the weekends and watch a good (sometimes not-so-good) dvd. Friday, because I opted for being alone with a beer (Diamond Bear Pale Ale) at the pizza joint next door to the rental store over helping pick out the movies, I had to settle for what he chose. He comes home with The Cleaner. Sam Jackson and Ed Harris (hot), but anyway the story is a bit grotesque. Don't waste your $$. What a downer.

Above: As you can see, Beck now also has a dildo toothbrush himself; he would settle for nothing less, so Go Diego! Go!

Then, on Saturday, with plans to complete the backyard project and ERECT the ginormous "play system," the rain fucked up everything. I haven't even shared that story yet - a point of enormous contention the the marriage everyweekend - that backyard.

After a quick farmer's market stop for flowers and tomatoes, I lunched with two girlfriends, (one (Bon Jovi Bitch!) from outta town), went to Sam's and Sam's liquor store, as usual, and came home to man-happy-hour with kids. Highly uneventful Saturday.

Today was also a rainy day, stay home and sort out shit Sunday. Tried to work on memoir, cleaned up my desk and tore off my W calendar to reveal this W loveliness: (OMIGOD!)

And more damned shopping. Target, $123. I went for paper towels and diapers; what the fuck did I get there?

So I think that pictures, rather than words, would better describe my weekend. Through them, you can see why I should get Mom of the Year Award (sidewalk chalk, along with slip-n-slide au natural (not pictured for sake of kiddie p#!n), and watermelon (wouldn't upload?)!, and that I am a Lady Who Lunches.
Hasta manana
and in the great words of W: "For me, all truths are inconvenient."
~R

Let's have a Sunday late-night rendevous

This has been one a those weekends. Seems like I spend most of it buying food and paper diapers. Anyway, sorry bout the dildo post being the only thing here for so long.
So for those of you that escape to Mr. Computer late on Sunday night, I'll be back with some semi-interesting stuff! For now, I have some salmon marinating for the grill, a glass(es) of good 'ole Yellowtail Cab to drink, kids to read to, and a shower to take myself cause I've been to the gym and Girl I am stanky!
Meet me back here around 10!
Kisses
~R

Naughty tweet

Me: "What's that buzzing in the bathroom? Is that my dildo?"
Chris: "Rho, that's Izzy's new motorized toothbrush."

Low-tech Twitter

Dangerously close to SAHM psychotic breakdown.
~R

Yes, my memoir.

Still pondering the childhood, the angst-less-ness(see "That was a break"). God knows, my adult angst has made up for any lacking in childhood. Been writing a memoir for several years (what's the age minimum for a memoir?), you know one of those wild drunk-girl collection of stories, basically. I sent a chapter years ago to a publisher in San Fran and actually got a hand written note back saying they'd like to see my manuscript. In classic RhoRho form, I didn't send it, because I knew I couldn't finish it. I didn't have an ending. I didn't have much of a middle, really.
The confessions have been done, right? Too much, right? Believe me, I've read them: The Girls Guide to Hunting and Fishing (good one)Why I'm Like this, Cherry, Drunk Girl, Smashed...personal exposes. Now that I'm, well, more mature, and have had an ample amount of life experience, pain, and ANGST, I feel like I'm ready to finish it, and now, it can be more than just stories about squatting on dirt roads, Hell's Angels parties and my bitchin' Camaro. Now that I'm in a relatively "happy place," I can tell all and get on with my life right? Not that my 70s childhood wasn't a bit different, despite the circle drive. There was music, and dancing, adults drinking, sweet memories. I've always seen it as, and I'll use my favorite pseudo-word again, romantical. And I still see it that way. The drunk-girl stories are at least slightly amusing, and ring true to some or may shock others. Then, the 20s - the fuzzy, wandering, confusing 20s.
And then there are the 30s, so far. I guess the question is, what if (not really a what-if; I definitely will) I hurt people with my complete honesty? (this is with the optimistic ultimate goal of actually getting published). My ego is out there on the line, too, but the truth is what's really interesting; not the edited version of life where everything is light and fluffy.
See, this blogging is what's inspiring me to get back to that damned document that I open once a year and vow to finish and never open it again until the next year. There are so many funny and talented and interesting writers out there, and I'm learning from them. And even if I'm just writing about my kid pooping, which I do often, I'm still writing EVERY DAY, and eventually, practice will make perfect, right? I really do have more material that that. Think I'm selling myself short.
If I'm fucking 50, I'm going to finish this thing.
But for now, they're tugging at my skirt.
My favorite quote again:
"Rather than fame than faith than love than money than fairness, give me truth." ~ Henry David Thoreau
~R

No Applause, Please

(Wed. night) Thank you, thank you, thank you Sammanthia,
for the lovely badge! Your acceptance speech is much more creative and entertaining, but as you know, I'm threatening hiatus, and have had 2 margaritas and a beer and too tired to get funky.
But seriously, thanks for the love.
XOXO
~R
I'll pass it on...a little later!




A Twitter, if you will:

And, because I signed up for Twitter but am still too technologically-challenged to utilize it, here's a little tweet:
On Saturday, we had a houseful for dinner, including a toddler and 2 babies. Izzy, Beckham and Sofia (toddler) were chasing through the house, squealing with delight, and the seven month-old, Drake, was pitching a screaming baby fit. Then, of course, are all the adults, all inside babbling because it's too effin' hot to go outside, and there's the music in the background. All of the sudden, Izzy stops in her tracks, throws her hands on her little narrow hips, and yells, "Jesus Christ, people!"
I have no idea whatsoever where my child would get something like this. Certainly not from her mild-mannered and demure mother. Not a chance.

That was a "break."

I'm back, Luva. You knew I couldn't stay gone for long.
But I'll be brief. Here's my deep thought for the night: thinking maybe my childhood lacked angst, and childhood angst is what makes people interesting, right? and gives them an excuse to be crazy. So, what's mine? Me, with my angst-less, circle-drive, water-hose drinkin', hot dog eatin', Three's Company watchin', Barbie-playin', relatively trauma-free childhood?
Deeply,
~R

Mr. Computer,
Now, you're keeping me up at night. It think maybe we need to go on a "break." It's not you, it's me. Lucky for me, there's going to be an outage, so it won't be so hard.
kisses
~R

Fun! Let's Play A Game!

note to 3 kickass bloggers who didn't come to pick up their award yet, it's down there. Keep scrolling)
So, Sammanthia over at theedgeofinsanity has tagged me with an Internet Tell-All… I’m supposed to bare my soul to the world wide web and write 7 things about myself and then tag 7 people to do the same. C'mon, we all love to talk about ourselves, right?
So here's to possibly alienating and scaring off some readers and potential BFFs, some more:

1. I recently watched High School Musical with Izzy and love it. I secretly (not now!) have a crush on Zack Efron (?) now, and he's like 14. I also love Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen. They're like modern day Grease movies. And, I cry when they do the big final performance. I cry at ANY live performance(see post: Is My Kid a Clepto?).

2. Even now, I STILL think I missed my calling as a rockstar, and considering following through with back-up plan of lounge singer after 40 (a la Michelle Phieffer in The Fabulous Baker Boys? But older?). (See post from May: Still a Drinkin', Cussin', Karaoke Queen)

3. On people: I don't understand people who are brag-a-docious. And I don't trust people who don't drink, or don't like me.

4. I don't finish things, much. I leave one dish, forget the load sitting in the washer, half-ass make the bed, I leave one bite of food, Gawd, sooo Type B. Oh but I DO always finish my glass of wine. And college, twice.

5. I had always felt that I could get away with smartass humor like a guy, but at this point in the late spring (or early Fall?) of my life, I've realized that, in fact, I cannot. It pisses me off that they can be taken for themselves and women are judged strictly on appearance and first impressions. That's why i like it HERE.

6. I collect magazines - old Rolling Stones, Vanity Fairs, Vogues, and have an entire stack of every cover Gwyneth Paltrow has ever done. Why don't people like her? Oh and I read them backwards.

7. Although I collect them, I can't stand to actually read very many magazines at all or anything that sounds remotely sentimental anymore. Call it being jaded, cynical, old, whatever, I just can't take it. And when anything starts to sound like something else, or cliche, I'm over it ( like using the term, "over it." I can't believe I just did that).

Ok, I'm taggin these bitches:
Susan at Stopcallingmethat
Ms. Picket at postpicketfence
Haley-O at cheatymonkey
Dette at mammadawg
Jackie at happyworkingmommy
Matt at soihavethisfriend
and, last but not least, Merecat at moremerecatherine

Bring it.
XO
~R

Check out Everywheremag and Helium

So here's some of the Cali-inspired writing I've been doing, besides here, and some cool photos:
Everywhere: Articles: How We (Unexpectedly) Found the Perfect Family Destination in Venice Beach

Here's another site I write on. If you love to write and get feedback, you should go!
Humor: Stay-at-home moms - Humor - Helium

Holla~
R

Finally, the last of the travel journal. Really.

So what about the rest of the blessed vacation, so we can close that chapter and I can quit my California dreamin' once and for all?

Travel Journal - Day ? (last morning in Cali)
I almost cried behind my sunglasses when we were lugging our shit down the stairs this morning. Sucks HARD to leave, but it could be worse right? Could have never come here at all. Said our g'byes to Sammy and the others, and finally got the guts to look straight at her and wave goodbye to homeless woman with pedicure and assistant, and she gave a smile and nod back. Gawd I shoulda had some balls and sat down next to her and said something like "penny for your thoughts?" Too late now. At least I got a nod. Heard she doesn't speak English, anyways.

On the way out, as Chris said I always manage with my wacked-out yet effective sense of direction, found and made a stop at Trader Joe's in Santa Monica to stock up - about 8 bottles of the cheapo wine, some more $2.99 kalamata olives, stuff for the trip home. Gawdammit I love me some TJ's.

Gas price update: When we passed through Needles, gas was $5.19. Think that was the highest on the whole trip. Just an hour from there it dropped to $4.09 (what a steal). They really stick it to ya in the desert.

The Long Trip Home

5:30 (? time zone?)
So in all my 29 years (right) I didn't know this til now, but Arizona doesn't go along with the whole time zone thing. They never change their time, and I still don't know if this makes a shit when you're just passing through, but I love useless information.
It's remarkable, really, that no one in this car has strangled each other, or at least badly injured. We've seen each others' faces nearly 17 hours a day for like 9 days, and at least one to go. Trying to push through this desert that seems to never end and reach Albaquerque tonight. I cant spell it to save my life.

Last day of driving

Izzy acquired a new nickname on this trip: "Squeaky." She started this going into like falsetto or something when she gets all pissed or excited and it's like she's a boy in puberty and her voice cracks. She doesn't seem to mind the new name.

Anyway, made it to Albq. (there! just abbreviate!) and stayed in another supposed suite that had a partial wall dividing bed from roll-out, and then there was the mini fridge and microwave, which apparently constitute a "suite" these days. $90+tax to sleep 7 hours.

On the last day, we finally got this road trip thing figured out:
Chris' job: driving, I-pod or Arcos operation, putting gas in car
mine: unbuckling self(and risking my life right?) and climbing to fetch things from back to appease kids (or Hub); mediating; getting Starbucks double shots from gas stations, pondering the meaning of life, drinking, asking to stop and pee

7PM
OKla City, dined real fancy at Panda Express. Chose outside, as were able to smuggle Two Buck Chuck in paper cups from car.

9PM
Somewheres in Oklahoma. To think I was formerly wed to a boy who would end me up here...maybe even in a trailer(jokes)....anyway Beck has had it. Izzy, hystrionic. My back is killing me. The Chuck is helpful from the Quality Inn coffee cup. Chris is fine with my imbibing as long as it shuts me up. Kind of like candy with kids. I hope we don't hit a deer.

Made it home very late. No matter how fantastical the place is you've been, it's always nice to be home. ~

Hello, Luva

(note to kickass bloggers: if you're here for your award, it's down there in the previous post, after you read this. Don't just grab and run! Geez.)

So, here we are again, Mr. C. I thought about you today. Alot. Kindof scary. I was so proud of the new tagline I came up with in bed (you know, with him) this morning for my header or navbar or whatever the bloggy-term is for that thing at the top of the page. And then, to discover that mammadawg included me in her kickass bloggers made my Sunday. The whole day, having wholesome family fun at the pool, even with beer, I thought about getting back to you. You have me whipped, man.

Anyway, I don't have much time again. Having a Skinny Dip beer, here in the dark at my desk, with you is so romantical. But my shoulders hurt. I really should move you to the couch. There, I could watch then ends of the movies I couldn't stay awake for this weekend: Drillbit Taylor and The Interview. I wouldn't care if Owen Wilson just stood there and looked at the camera making faces, he's so adorable and hilarious. How in the hell could he ever be suicidal?

You don't wanna hear about this uninteresting crap, do you? What about how also this weekend, Beck got us kicked out of the Seussical Musical, for, I donno, being a BABY? This poor, washed-up, wishing-she-was-directing-on-Broadway but instead some small-time kids musical lady got on our ass because Beck was OUTSIDE the theater, being taken to the restroom while throwing a hissy, and unbeknownst to us, the stage was separated from everything, including the hallway with restroom, by a mere curtain, so we "became a part of the show now," as she so glumly put it. Sorry, there, Scorsese, but d'ya want us to piss outside? Guess you should get better signage on the outhouse.

Uh-oh, gotta bolt. He wants me to come snuggle (yeah, snuggle, right.), meet me for coffee around 9?

~R

Look! I'm a kickass blogger!

Thanks, mammadawg for the props!

You make me wanna be a better blogger.

Seriously, you have no idea how psyched I am to have this little button.

I've sent comments to my 5 nominees, here's what to do when you get here:

Do you know any bloggers that kick ass?

Maybe they’ve got incredible, original content. Or they’re overflowing with creativity. Is it someone that helps you become a better blogger? Or a bloggy friend you know you can count on? Or maybe it’s someone who simply inspires you to be a better person… or someone else who sends you to the floor, laughing your ass off.

Whatever the reason may be, I’m sure you know at least a couple of bloggers that kick ass. Well… why not tell ‘em so?

LOVE ON ‘EM

• Choose 5 bloggers that you feel are “Kick Ass Bloggers”
• Let ‘em know in your post or via email, twitter or blog comments that they’ve received an award
• Share the love and link back to both the person who awarded you and back to www.mammadawg.com
• Hop on back to the Kick Ass Blogger Club HQ to sign Mr. Linky then pass it on!

My Elicit Affair

Things are just not working out for me lately. It seems I'm having a bit of trouble keeping up with my elicit affair...with my computer. With the blogging, helium.com, everywheremag.com, wherever I can write, and with sending out submissions and resumes and all this shiz-nit...I need him a lot, and I only ask for a couple tiny hours a day (or night) of solitude...
Gawd forbid I join Facebook as a few friends suggested. Talk about time-suckage.

They are trying to sabotage me. Those adorable little fuckers, the chubby wobbly pooper dude and his copper-haired little fairy of a sister who's 4 going on 14 (or as Ms. Picket likes to call hers, and I wish I'd a thunk of it first, the short drunk people), they are the ones. They, the ones I love sooooo much I could eat them, the ones I stare at sometimes in utter amazement that they were created by moi, they are jealous of Mr. Computer and they want snacks, and they want to show me their hang-nails and they want me to stop sneaking away to this little rectangular box of shining light. What's he got that we ain't got? They wonder. Poop, for one thing. He ain't got that.

And then there's the doing laundry and the dishes and the cooking (where the fuck is the maid anyway?), and after dinner and a glass of wine with the hubby I'm not much good, but I still try. Sleepily. So here it is Saturday and they seemed to be happy chasing each other around the house and so I sneak a sit-down, and well, that's not gonna fly with them.

It's not you, Mr. Computer man, it's them. They're right here, right now. They're listening. They want crackers. I can't talk.

Text me, sexy.
~R