MFA Mama

crash (into me, babe)

PSA: If, after having makeup sex during a tornado (with yes, a consenting person with old and new brain damage--am I a saint or a criminal? DISCUSS) you then rush out to obtain gasoline, water, ice, and Starbucks in the dark without street lights and worry you might wreck the van?

Just go with it, and call the insurance company, the oral surgeon who jacked up your right lower jaw where your own shoulder punches you IN THAT EXACT PART OF YOUR FACE OMG, the mechanic, and the ex-husband, and then clean and moisturize your (unscathed) bitchin tattoo and take two FULLY SANCTIONED, Y'ALL dentist pills and go the fuck to sleep.

You'll be so evershittingly glad you cheaped out on rental coverage, it'll be as delicious as all the solid food you won't be enjoying any time soon. Good night, good friends and remember: HONEYBADGER DON'T CARE.

Sent from The Precious

organs for drugs

Literally and sans hyperbole, that's what I negotiated today.

Fourteen rabbit kidneys, payable to my dentist over three weeks, in exchange for nitrous tomorrow. The good news is no cavity and no drilling. The bad news is, the tooth just done broke and is cutting my gums with a literal raw nerve.

I think it's my very last one.

Also a table fell into a tree at work and was rescued by hot firemen. I took photos and the table. Its name is Geronimo a.k.a. "Heavy G," and is for sale, as-is. With photos and love. Hopefully someone will want Geronimo, because I need at least three tires.



Sent from The Precious

I can't

Message to work: my husband has suffered a significant neurological event. I won't be in tomorrow.

I can't.

Sent from The Precious

y'all, this day, I can't

Late Monday night

Hotter: MFA Mamaaaaaa...I'm sick!
MFA Mama: *not farting/snoring* Eh? You need the ER?
Hotter: I'll be fine tomorrow, but I ache now!
MFA Mama: I'm sorry honeyzzz...
Hotter: Wake up! MFA Mamaaaaa!
MFA Mama: Eh?
Hotter: Could you maybe OH I DON'T KNOW, COMFORT ME? Or make me stop hurting!
MFA Mama: Not magic, dude.

I fed the boys, told them go easy, went to work.

From there it was passive-aggressive texts while work was a total shitshow--

[redacted]
*new boss!*
[redacted]

And after that a blur, by the numbers:

Trips to Local Teaching Hospital: 2
Flat tires fixed myself: 1
Cigarettes: 2
Bosses: 2
Hours Worked: 12
Fainting spells: 1
Miles driven with one good tire: 60
Petit fours: 5
Lortabs: 3
Brownie Points Scored With Job: 1,000,000
People over eleven who have been decent to me: 1, my ex-husband, WHAT
Fucks given by me, total, about anyone over eleven or anything besides the animals and petit fours: nary a goddamn one, am numb
Tomorrow: a new day, just not sure which one

Sent from The Precious

of dead brides and do-overs

 
   "It's like a dead bride. I don't know if I feel more like I'm heading toward a wedding or a funeral," I said, hitching up the cardboard female torso I carried awkwardly in front of me so I wouldn't trip on the bag zipped around the gathered train. "Isn't the groom supposed to carry the bride? We're going about this bass ackwards."

   "You're not funny at all. You weren"t funny the first time you said it, and the closer we get to LA the less funny you get."

   I carried that dead bride all the way across the continental United States one airport at a time, and after the final flight we rented a car, driving all night through the desert, arriving in Vegas just as the sun rose. The welcome sign was both more and less impressive than I'd expected, although the diner where we had breakfast had a brand-new PT Cruiser on a stage surrounded by flashing neon slot-machines where I won fifteen quarters. I fed them back in, losing eight, winning three, then losing ten times in a row. "I should have quit while I was ahead," I sighed, sitting back down, and the man I'd met six weeks previous to the day when my dog, a miniature dachschund, launched itself at his mastiff's throat handed me the check.

   The Elvis who officiated over the mockery of a union asked us to vow that we'd adopt each other's hound dogs. The XY cheered up a moment and said maybe it was fate.

   
Figure One: Yep, that's me. I don't feel like this photo of a photo really counts as outing myself, as I'm no longer this young, this blonde, this thin, or this stupid.

   Back at the hotel we went for a gondola ride before taking the marriage license, which he'd forgotten to bring to the wedding, back to the chapel and making it legal. Our gondolier poled us under a replica of the bridge where lovers kissed, and lamented that nobody ever kissed him. Laughing, I tipped my head back and playfully offered up my face, and he leaned down. I thought he'd buss my cheek but instead he planted a resounding smack right on my lips.

   Afterward, the man who later legally became my husband in a thirty-second ceremony read auctioneer-fast by a non-Elvis clergyman whose name I don't remember screamed at me: "We're married less than an hour and already you cheat on me!" It didn't calm him down any when I pointed out we hadn't technically been married yet. "Let's get this over with, and then I'm going to go get drunk and gamble," he said theatrically, and stalked out the door without me. And reader, I married him anyway. Afterward, I pulled the pins from my hair, stripped off the fitted tee and hotpants I'd worn to my second wedding of the day, and went to bed alone.

   I still don't believe in omens twelve years later. But never say in front of me that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, because it's baloney, plain and simple. Sometimes what happens in Vegas calls you a whore, follows you home, knocks you up three times, and then knocks you down. Sometimes it's not until it cheats on you while your third child is in his third hospital ward that you realize you should have cut and run before the auctioneer drew up your bill of sale.

   People ask me sometimes if I regret the lack of fanfare that characterized my second wedding and I have to laugh. I wore a sarong instead of a silk gown, and instead of a fake Elvis we had my children singing Weezer out of tune. Unlike the first time my groom found me hilarious, the food was home-cooked, the ceremony included poetry, and the only tears anyone shed that day were happy ones. As for the do-over wedding night, well...let's just say nobody went to bed mad or alone. 

   So yeah, I'm a big fan of the do-over. Just not when I'm washing dishes.

    The Frigidaire Gallery™Dishwasher gets dishes fully cleaned the first time, so there are no dish do-overs. Nearly half of adults admit to re-washing and/or re-drying dishes after the dishwasher cycle has been completed. To prevent dishwasher do-overs, Frigidaire® is stepping in with its new Gallery® Dishwasher featuring the OrbitCleanTM Wash Arm, ensuring dishes are cleaned right the first time.

   Thanks for reading about my do-over moment. Read about others by checking out the hashtag #CleverDoOver over on the Twitter.   

I was compensated for this post as a member of Clever Girls Collective. All the opinions expressed here are my own.

oh hell no

   Believe it or not, generally when I communicate with my ex-husband I am a paragon of diplomacy. This is partly because "killing 'em with kindness" is my M.O., and partly because I only communicate with him in writing (because otherwise he screams at me, and that is no good for the boys plus I don't much care for it myself). Today, however, that all went out the window. He texted me to cancel his weekend visitation. I am used to that, and because he cited a family emergency that (if it is true) sounds pretty dire, was prepared to be somewhat sympathetic and leave the position this puts me in (namely that of probably going without eating much this weekend myself, because we're already eating the pantry and two extra days of feeding three growing boys is...problematic) out of it, but then...well. You know how there are some things you JUST DON'T DO? Like talk about a tough guy's mama or yell "FIRE!" in a crowded theatre or engage in any manner of hate-speech that we all know about and I won't name here? The XY crossed a line like that.

   He instructed me to carry out plans HE had made with the children, and when I said I couldn't afford to do so, he gave me grief about not having any money, stating that he pays child support and therefore I am practically rich. 

   And I? WENT OFF. I told him to go fuck himself. I told him he had a lot of nerve to give ME grief about being poor when HE was the one who put me in this position (fun fact: by the time we finalized our divorce the XY knew I planned to spend the rest of my life with Hotter, and because Hotter had been my best friend for several years, he knew Hotter's medical situation and that to marry me, he'd have to give up a lot of government assistance that was the only way he could get by. The XY knew that, and THAT is why he insisted on the "no overnights" clause. He did it out of pure spite, to try and keep us apart, just to be an asshole). I told him to go fuck himself again. I told him he barely PAYS child support, and told him to fuck off some more. I pointed out that child support is supposed to go UP as children get older and their needs more complex, and that his has stayed the same since 2008 because HE escalated our divorce and all matters pertaining to it (including custody) to a higher court that, in our state, requires you to have a lawyer to even bring anything before it. I told him to go fuck himself. And then I pointed out that he wasn't man enough to do right by his children without a judge forcing his hand, which made him pretty fucking pathetic, and told him to go fuck himself AGAIN. Finally, I told him that I was driving around on two unsafe tires with a toothache because I can't afford to fill a cavity, and had just gotten off of work, so now wasn't really a good time for poverty shaming, and told him to fuck off again.

   And then I told him to go fuck himself a couple more times (I went back and counted--it was eight "fuck yous" altogether), and that he owed me one HELL of an apology. Which he finally gave, and I did not accept. 

   As I told him next, "wow, you hit me below the belt and then grudgingly gave me a half-assed apology that demonstrated no actual understanding...it's like we're still married!"

   WOW. I am generally a very nonconfrontational person. I'll just cut you out of my life before I'll go so far as to tell you to go fuck yourself. I don't have much of a temper. But...I guess now we know where the line is!

an open letter to the men of MFA County

Dear d00ds:

   If you happen to be driving your car down a road with a sidewalk beside it and blackberries growing along the edge of the sidewalk, and come across a woman leaning precariously to reach some ripe berries? Do NOT lean on your horn and scream "HEY BABY I WANT SOME OF YOUR BERRIES! OWWWW!" If you genuinely desire some berries and are confused as to how life works, quietly park your car and pick some. IT'S THAT EASY! If, however, you just want to be an asshole, I assure you you're doing a fine job of that by merely drawing breath. There is no need to cause anyone to startle, lose their balance, drop their berries, and fall face-first into a patch of briars. Some of us are just overdrawn (yes, again) and have already spent eight hours working on our feet, but are now out in the 99-degree heat picking berries because we're eating the pantry and it's kind of bare and we want our children to have some fresh fruit. And if that is the case then probably our feet already ache and we might also have a toothache from a cavity we can't currently afford to fill and really? It's just overkill to add "eleventy-seven thorns" into the mix. If you simply can't contain yourself when faced with the sight of an overweight mother of three leaning over in her work pants, and feel that I am asking too much of you in requesting that you refrain from hollering, I cordially invite you to FUCKING KILL YOURSELF. I don't care how you go about it. Do it quick, or slow, or get messy with a shotgun; run a hose from your tailpipe perhaps, since you have a car, JUST GET 'ER DONE. Preferably sometime in the next five days, as I will be briefly out of Pristiq after that and am liable to cry, bludgeon you to death with your own severed junk, or both, and as you have (loudly, in your own special way) observed, I am too pretty for prison. No love, MFA Mama 

ad prices and Avon

   Here, for your convenience, are those ad prices again (a friend suggested that I not make people click to find them, and I think she was right):

Text link only, thirty characters including spaces:

One week: $5
One month:  $15
One year: $150 $100

 Small box, text and/or graphics (the approximate size of the Clever Girls Collective badge on the left sidebar), shout-out in a post, and one promotional tweet:

One week: $10
One month: $30
One year: $300 $200

Skyscraper, text, graphics, and/or Flash (the approximate size of the Frugal Dad ad on the left sidebar), dedicated post, and three promotional tweets spread out over the course of a month:

One week: $20
One month: $60
One Year: $500 $350

   As you can see, you save by going with a longer-running version, but I'll work with just about any reasonable offer, and for an additional 10% surcharge, I'll even design the sucker for you.

   Meanwhile, if anyone is looking for Avon products, my friend Michelle is the gal to go to! In addition to being an idependent Avon Sales Representative she is a fellow blogger, a friend of the MFAmily, and one of the nicest people on the innernet. Check her out!

 

 

the second quarterly OH MY GOD LIFE SUCKS ad sale

   So here is the thing: my new job? Is bleeding me dry. I took it because of the benefits, knowing that there would be a pay-cut equalling about $120/week...if I worked a forty-hour week. But I'm averaging thirty-five hours or less, and considering that we weren't exactly rolling in dough before...well. This is not good. After my ninety-day new-employee probation period is up, it'll be doable because my health insurance will be through work, and cost less (even WITH adding spousal coverage) than my current self-paid policy does...it still won't be pretty but it'll be DOABLE. What I hadn't factored in was that with school letting out we'd have to feed the children an additional ten meals per week (they received free breakfast and lunch during the school year based on our income), which means that we're kind of screwed right now. As in having spent some money on Middly's birthday I just cooked the books and realized I may not be able to swing gas to GET to work until next payday, never mind the two new tires MFA Mechanic said I "urgently" need.

   Crap.

   The good news (for YOU) is that if you have a business, a blog, or a favorite cause you'd like to promote, I am having another ad sale. My readers tend to be women in their twenties through forties, more educated than not, and enjoy humor, food, kids' gear, and green living (is it any wonder I love them so?). I average 175-200 unique visitors per day here (more when I post daily), and have (as of just now when I clicked over) 825 followers on the Twitter. I occasionally do sponsored posts and/or reviews, but only if the sponsor is okay with my keeping it real--in other words, you can't pay me to lie. I'll run an ad for just about anything, but I won't personally endorse it if I don't love it. Prices are the same as the last OMGLS ad sale, and currently all ad sizes are available.

   Tell your friends!

there's always got to be one

    For someone with "mama" as part of their blog name, I tend to be increasingly reticent when it comes to actually talking about (or particularly sharing any images of) my kids. Part of that is out of respect for their privacy and dignity as small people, and part of that is a nod to my ex-husband's (ex- and largely imaginary) lawyers.

   That said, sometimes a mama just has to brag.

   My boys have had a banner year. Middly went from "probably going to fail first grade" to "nothing below a B in any subject within his control* in the second grade," and Little Child as y'all are aware ditched the g-tube and has continued to not just eat by mouth but GROW and TRY NEW TEXTURES AND FLAVORS. Those are goals I personally set for them at the beginning of the year, and I promised them that if they met those goals they could do ANYTHING THEY WANTED with their hair when school was out. Sometimes when one of them was really struggling, he'd try and think of a way to get me to back out first ("what if I want a mohawk that's TWO DIFFERENT COLORS?") (to which I would say "you do your end, and I'll find out where to buy the dye for it and charge up the clippers"). Therefore:

Figure One: Devastatingly handsome smiles of sheer unbridled glee not pictured to preserve anonymity. Your loss.

   As for Big Child, this year he won the President's Award for Educational Excellence, but I am no more permitted to touch his hair any longer than I am the totally sweet Presidential Seal pin that came with that. Every six weeks his father takes him to a barbershop for "The Ivy League" of "Official Hair Styles for Men and Boys" fame, and that is that.

   I suppose there's always got to be one.

 

 

*   He does still have an "M" (stands for "Minimal Progress"--it's what they give the lower grades instead of an F here) in Handwriting, which I think is an awfully able-ist subject to even grade students on. HOWEVER! Just last week the school FINALLY listened to me and had him assessed by an OT, who determined that he DOES need help and modified his IEP accordingly, and therefore I do not give two shits for the "M" in Handwriting. My kid has a documented genetic condition that causes both hypotonia and hyperflexibility, as well as a learning disability that makes it very difficult for him to concentrate on complex tasks, and therefore grading his ability to control a pencil and form letters is about on par with grading a visually-impaired student's ability to recognize colors. SCREW your M, MFA Elementary School! Someday I will be able to buy that kid an iPad and he'll blow ALL of you away with it, and in the meantime YES YOU WILL provide him with services to make the best of his bendy little fingers' writing (dis)ability.