Crackahass Crackah

Initially, I had planned on sharing this on MySpace only but (surprise surprise!) MySpace won't allow me to post the player so I decided to share it here.

This is an interesting voice mail I received about a week ago, and it disturbed me for a few different reasons.

The first one being that this person called from an unavailable number, because I definitely would have called the racist shit back.

Second, I had just finished reading Your Blues Ain't Like Mine and was already feeling white and guilty.

Third, and most importantly, my son has a girlfriend, and has announced this to many. A sweet chocolate chip with the softest eyes and longest dark eyelashes, for whom he has promised to buy a pink teddy bear. And I found myself wondering if her family disapproved of him giving her his digits (my digits, my cell number) and could this be a sister of his girlfriend? A disapproving sister? I did realize just how racist this was for the thought to even occur to me, or rather cynical, but hey I'm honest, and it did pop into my head.

However, any negative thoughts I had over the voice mail were quickly pushed aside by my child. After I finished recording the voice mail into the mic hooked to my computer, my son meandered over and began to pretend he was making announcements over his school's PA system with my mic. Unbeknownst to him, I recorded one of these announcements.

It had been raining for the entire week, and lightning was close by, yet there I sat clicking away on my computer. This was his warning. Takes a minute to load and blow your eardrum out.

How could I possibly stay pissy about a stupid voice mail when my son is so cute? And, no, my kid didn't hear the voice mail.

Happy Tuesday.
Housewives tonight!

Like Mama, Like Son

My son is five and like most boys his age he likes to destroy things, slam his action figures into one another, launch them into mid-air while crying out "Help meeeeee!"

He shows little to no mercy for his prized Teddy as he grips the stuffed animal around the neck, and swings him above his head like a cowboy's lasso.

Teddy was decapitated last year and left with only one arm by one of Boogey's friends, and my son was completely beside himself, sobbing into the stuffing that bulged from Ted's headless body. After sewing the bear back together later that night (granted, a bit afflicted when I finished with needle and thread but still did a damn fine job) Boogey went right back to pummeling the poor bear, dragging him carelessly by his shorter-than-the-other arm, and punting him across the room.

Sensitivity and the word "gentle" just do not register with this small boy, and sweet caretaker he has never been. He is all boy and the rare moments of soft usually come when he isn't feeling well and has fallen ill. He's more into rocks and sticks than hugs and kisses.

And when it comes to our family dog, MY dog, Boogey's main objective has always been basically to bother poor old Dave. Often I've had to bark at my child to leave the dog alone...stop messing with the dog...stop chasing the dog...stop fucking with the damn dog.

So when Dave got sick, the last person I expected compassion from was my son.
Curiosity, of course. Questions, definitely.
But grief or worry? Never.

By the third day, he began to understand just how grave the situation was when Dave still had not come home from the "dog hospital." Questions began to be asked, and I answered them as honestly as I could, or at least as honestly as I could admit to myself.

"Dave might not be coming home. I don't know. We have to wait and see. Let's just think positive, okay?"

Rather than be met with more questions, Boogey came to me with hugs and pats, and free offers for back rubs (rather than his usual $1.00 charge). He stroked my hair and told me Dave would be home soon, and that everything would be okay, I'd see, it would be just fine.

Perhaps he could see the anguish in my eyes, or the pinched expression on my face willing myself not to cry in front of my kid whenever the subject of my sick dog came up. Whatever it was, Boogey felt the need to make it better and reassure me. With a smile, I received every hug and squeeze my little boy was willing to give and for even a split second, it was a distraction from my constant worry over my 11-year-old beagle.

When our dog pulled through, even against the odds my vet had thrown out there in the beginning, my son did a dance for me...and for Dave. He rubbed those silky beagle ears and kissed the top of Dave's head upon his return home. Boog whispers goodnight to Dave at bedtime, and wakes in the morning to greet our dog with a soft rub and a murmur of "thatta boy, good dog."

A gentle side to my child has emerged, a sensitive side with seemingly endless care over animals now. I've watched as he even steps over ant beds now, careful not to disturb the dirt kingdom alive at his feet.

Perhaps it's the respect for life he has come to understand, or how quickly it can leave us, but I can't deny that I am proud.

The other night we both lay on my bed, watching America's Funniest Home Videos together, a show my child seems to adore watching with me. We both giggled as they showed animal bloopers; a dog trying to drink from a garden hose, a squirrel playing in a yard sprinkler, a geese snapping at the crotch of an old man.

In the next shot, a white mouse outdoors was shown in his cage, the owner cooing at his pet and opening the latch to allow the mouse freedom to roam outside of the metal bars. Within a split second the camera angle switched to a huge bird swooping down, snatching the white mouse in its beak and flying away with its prey.

My child was mortified and let out a small sound of agony.

"THAT'S NOT FUNNY! THAT IS NOT FUNNY!" Boogey screamed at the tv, then covered his face and cried.

A bit shocked, I simply rubbed his back and hugged him to me as tight as he'd allow.

"I know, I know," I said. "It's not funny at all, but that's life. Ya know, it comes and it goes. You just never know."

"Like Dave?" was his response. And I had to pause for a moment because it's still hard for me to talk about, to admit to even myself.

"Yes, like Dave," I finally said with a nod.

There was quiet between us for a moment, then we both simultaneously reached down and rubbed the snoring beagle at our feet.
Just like Dave.

Marley and Me comes out today and Boogey wants to rent it.
I read the book months ago and it messed me up pretty bad (bawling and blubbering) so since I can't bring myself to rent this flick my mom has agreed to rent it and watch it with my child. I'll be watching Slumdog Millionaire, thankyouverymuch.

Bitch Buffer

I can be a bitch.

If you hurt my feelings or make me feel inept, I can be a cold bitch who uses cruel and nonrefundable words.

If you bump into me with your ugly bulky floral book bag without saying "excuse me" I can be a bitch who snarls and bumps right back.

If you cut me off in traffic, or ride my tail especially with my kid in the car, I can be a bitch with a middle finger and one hand on the horn.

If you insult one of my friends and they're hurting, I can be a bitch with a loud and uncensored redneck mouth.

If you raise hell next door while my child is sleeping, I can be a bitch who dials the authorities to complain, once, twice, three times.

If you mistreat animals in front of me, even joke about it, any animal of any species, I can be a bitch who loses her shit.

If you insist I cannot achieve what I set out to achieve because I am a woman, I can be a bitch whose cookie has teeth, sharp, unforgiving fangs.

If you lose control as a man in the heat of anger and put your hands on me, I can be a bitch who will probably go to jail, possibly for murder.

If you lie to me, placate me, antagonize me or underestimate me, I can be a malicious bitch who teaches you a valuable lesson.

I can definitely be a bitch.



No wonder I'm on blood pressure medicine.


*This has served as a buffer post between a blog entry about sex (dreams) and a blog entry about my child. Crazy, I know, but this bitch can't help it.

Dick Tricks

To say this is a dry spell is an understatement.

I'm going on nearly a year and half now without having sex. I do realize some marriages exist on less sex than I've had in the last two years but this is getting downright ugly. Of course, by admitting to the penii famine I've been experiencing, I'm setting myself up to be perceived as "easy" and that I will take any old cock off the street.

That's not the case. So, any old cock out there, this blog is not an open invitation for you to mail me with your measurements and request to free my schedule next weekend. I do have standards, which is probably part of the problem, but when I'm asleep there's no telling what I will do.


Last night my dream had Demetri Martin standing over me on my knees and slapping me in the face with his dinger. This is the comedian from the new show Important Things with Demetri Martin which I mentioned in my last blog. If you haven't watched this show, definitely give it a chance. His deadpan delivery is hilarious and his witticisms will make you outright laugh.

So back to Demetri's dinger slapping me around (did I mention it was monster-sized? No, no unrealistic expectations here...never) making me feel like Linda Lovelace, the part that disturbed me was that I enjoyed this dream, like, REALLY enjoyed it. Enjoyed it so much I slammed my fist down on my alarm this morning to gather just ten more sweet minutes of snooze time, hoping to return to the dick slaps.

Now like a lot of women I like to get dirty in bed, I enjoy taking charge, I enjoy being dominated. I'm all about the dirty talk. However, spooging in my face, hair, eyes, or making me get on my knees and whinny like a pony or bay at your balls, well, that just isn't me. I don't think it ever will be me, unless you are Demetri Martin thrusting your veiny monster in my face, then there is no telling who I will be.

My child's father used to offer the relief I needed without obligations, and most importantly, without guilt. This is the father of my child, I used to tell myself, I have nothing to feel ashamed about. He knows what I like, I know what he likes and it works. We used to live together for cripes sake, this is not some stranger I'm taking to bed.

But when he moved 1200 miles away from his only child, resentment and anger began to boil inside of me and any sexual attraction I had towards him was quickly quelled in seeing his true colors. He was no longer accessible in this sexual manner for me, both physically and mentally, and so began the dry spell.

It's not that easy to say, 'okay, I'm going out to have sex now' especially since I am older and raising a little boy on my own. Priorities become realigned when you are a single parent and before you know it, you're going on two years without so much as a spank.

The worst part about a dry spell (and women do have these just as bad as men even if they refuse to admit it) is your mind starts to play tricks on you.
Dick tricks.

That pudgy mailman with the black knee socks pulled tight across his stubby legs begins to look like Brad Pitt after a while. Okay, maybe not Brad Pitt, but you begin to find something attractive if not for the mere fact that he is a male toting a unit in those tight navy knickers, and it's not your cable bill.

Your brother's perverted, womanizing friend who has always disgusted you with his unmitigated advances toward the opposite sex actually begins to sound like Don Juan, and you wonder if he's any good in bed. Does he like to be tied up? Is he noisy when he climaxes?
Dick tricks.

Maybe I just need have some dick sense smacked into me.
Maybe that's what Demetri was doing last night in my dream.

Why I Love My Child's Teacher, A Dave Update and Mistah Kottah's Smiles

We remember this, right? Of course we do, it wasn't that long ago. She did e-mail me back, promising me she did not see the crack of my ass but she wasn't sure about the other teachers. However, she did want me to know the e-mail made her laugh and she needed a good laugh that day.

(__|__)

This morning I dropped my child off at the front door of his classroom, grabbed the sheaf of papers (his work from the day before) from his cubby and made my way back to my car. As I flipped through the papers I came across this




which is the front of the worksheet. Then I flipped it over to see this



on the backside (pun intended).

I laughed and put it up on the fridge at home, after scanning it in for you all to see of course.

Later that morning I attended Journalism class where we went over public relations writing *yawn* and though the lecture was boring, I've been really pleased with Mistah Kottah lately. He's been smiling more, and seems to welcome my questions now. Also he did accept my friend's request under my "school facebook account." Maybe I'll send him a real request next time, ya know, under my real account.

You can learn a lot about a person from their Facebook page and I learned that he actually does have a sense of humor. After I clicked around and gathered some juicy details about him, and watched a few funny videos of his two-year-old, my verdict is in. He's not so bad, though he does "employ a heavy grading pen" (his words), he actually seems like a pretty cool guy, and I realized that perhaps I jumped the gun. Plus it helps that he gave me an A on my first major paper. Special thanks to one of my favorite badass writers Buddha Mama for proofing my first draft for me.
*does the I-got-an-A-from-the-teacher-who-rarely-gives-A's dance*

Last on the list of updates is sweet Dave. He is home now after being diagnosed with canine diabetes. We're still trying to get his sugar level down but he is completely back to his old self again, begging for food, getting into the trash, taking a random dump in Kellen's bedroom when he's not home.

I can't tell you how absolutely touched I was with all the e-mails I received from my readers both here and on MySpace. And the stories a lot of you shared with me made me feel I wasn't so alone. Of course some of them made me bawl like a bitch but they still comforted me, and I truly appreciate all of you reaching out to me.

I'm back to chugging Red Bulls and running on the treadmill. And I can't get enough of this new show on Comedy Central.

Life is good. Thanks, yawl.

A $5,000 Gift

My son is giving me $5,000 for my birthday.
I know this because he told me I will be receiving this lump sum as his precious gift for the May 28th birthday that is my own.
I know this because he had me enter him in the Cartoon Network Clone Wars contest Friday night and proudly answered the displayed queue question from the Clone Wars finale.
I know this because he told me he doesn't want me "broke" on my birthday, and he'd like the toys that come with the $5,000 please.
I know this because he said no one else will be getting on "that computer right there" and "signing up" for the $5,000.

I know this because what he doesn't realize is I've already won...a $5,000 thought and the sweetest little boy in the world.

How Can You Not Feel That?

I've gotten chubby. Like really chubby. Not cute and pudgy chubby but, well, okay...fat chubby. My rolls hang over my jeans now like thick dough. I jiggle when I walk, like the jelly inside of a fried donut. It's disgusting and it started with that phallic object above.

Actually it started when my beagle got sick about a month ago. I stopped running on the treadmill. Just like that, done, cooked, fineto...and fat.
My only concern was getting home to Dave after my classes, and sadness consumed me. My mind rapt with the realization that I might lose my dog, I just became sad and withdrawn from everyone over these last few weeks.

And I began to eat...and eat...and eat.

Usually when I am depressed all I do is not eat yet shit constantly, my innards all twisted with tension and worry leaving me to run to the bathroom with...well, runs. But for the first time in my life, food soothed my sadness and made me feel everything would be okay.

It was okay. My dog came home, sans a few of his own pounds of chub, but feeling better and acting like his old self again. He was going to be okay. I was going to be okay. Life was back to normal, somewhat.

But my addiction to these chili drenched pig lips and assholes was already in full force, and I continued to stop by the small white hut that flashes its neon "HOT" light when those bastards are fresh; the kryptonite that is Krystal's.

Today I had a scheduled parent teacher conference with my five-year-old's petite and attractive teacher so I showered and applied perfume. I blew-dry my long hair straight and down my back, I even put on mascara. When it came time to slip on the pants I planned on wearing I found myself breathing heavy as I yanked and pulled, fighting with the denim to squeeze my dough in safely. I was beyond uncomfortable as my Cuddle Duds panties wedged in my ass crack.

When I was pregnant and barely able to wear any pants other than sweats, I refused to wear underwear. The bigger the ass, the bigger the crack, and the bigger the crack the more likely the undies will take a ride up the dark crevice between my buns.

I decided to shed the Cuddle Duds and go commando under my tight jeans with a loose top hanging over my hips. Comfortable but cute, I thought.

The meeting went well. I was told my child is bright, catches on quickly and despite missing the first three months of school, he was doing quite well and chugging along just fine in kindergarten. I walked out of the meeting happy and smiling. There was a bounce to my step and not just from the jelly in my hips, but sheer pride.

On the way home, I praised Boogey and relayed all the positive to him that came from the conference, and he beamed from his booster seat in the back.

It was not until we were home and I was undressing that I suddenly felt an unfamiliar draft of air as I yanked off my top.

No, oh my god, no. Please no.

My hand flew to the seat of my pants and my cool fingers landed against my bare skin. The rip was nearly six inches in length. I ran to the mirror and there was the crack of my ass, clear as day. How could I have not felt the draft on my ass?! When did this happen? How did this happen?

Before the conference, Boogey's laces were untied when I met him at the front of the school, and on bent knee I had squatted in my oh-so-tight jeans to securely tie them. It must have been then. It had to have been then.

I e-mailed his teacher, mortified and profusely apologizing. The same teacher who I had accidently e-mailed before from my TitsMcGee gmail account. The same teacher who had just finished telling me how proud she was of my son, how much she's enjoyed him this year. The same teacher I had just exposed the crack of my ass.

I haven't been this embarrassed since I was 10 years old, and bent to pick up my napkin in Steak 'N Ale, letting a fart slip that was so loud it practically shook the table. Or when I was 15 and my first crush played keep-away with one of my maxi pads on the school bus. Mortified. I blush even as I type this. There is no recovery from something like this, only time can dull the memory and even then I will always question just how many people saw the crack of my fat ass on parent teacher conference day.

Diet starts tomorrow.