“That’s not any bigger than last time.” She said.

“Oh yes it is.” He said.

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, keep blowing it.”

“I am! Oh geez, it smells like rubber… There.”

“Ok, let me try it… *groans* Oh god…”

“I told you it wasn’t any bigger than last time.”

“The hell it isn’t, you just can’t tell because I’m on it.”

“Or I can’t tell because it’s squashed under you.”

“Shut up, bitch.”

“*laughing*… well, maybe it is a little bigger.”

So, our new pilates ball came in last Friday. Our last pilates ball met a somewhat gruesome end when Maggie stuck a pin in it.

Let’s chat about that tagline up there shall we? Have you noticed it?

“Lexapro and Mai Tais… Baby Steps!”

That little phrase could only be authored by one bitch in the blogosphere. But, that’s ok, her current tagline is my creation although, I can’t take full credit because that funny little old lady said that to Ellen on her show a few months ago.

Anyway - where did the inspiration for my tagline come from? My love of Mai Tais and my happy reliance on Lexapro.

Yes, I’m on anti-anxiety meds. I have GAD (Generalized Anxiety Disorder), thanks to my beloved Lexapro I no longer have paralyzing anxiety attacks.

I know there are quite a few of us who are on some form of meds out here in the blogosphere. We bloggers are some fucked up people. Maybe not all of us - but more than a few. For those of us who don’t like crowded areas and social gatherings tend to stress us out a bit, the blogosphere provides the social interaction we might crave while still providing a buffer that we sometimes find very necessary.

My first major panic attack was Halloween 2005, ahhh, I remember it well, good times, gooood times.

We were over at Pismo for the weekend, visiting a farmer’s market in Avila and enjoying the gorgeous fall weather. Mike and my stepdad decided to pop into Harry’s (a bar in Pismo) for some live music and a couple of beers. Meanwhile, my mother and I (with 4 kids in the back including Maggie, 10 months old) went to Starbuck’s grabbed some coffee and headed over to let the kids play on the swings that are located on the beach just a couple of blocks from Harry’s.

The panic attack started mid conversation with my mom. It started like a small vibration and kept rolling until it roared like a tornado. It was half out of body experience and half demonic posession. At one point I considered leaping out of the car because it just wasn’t getting me away from whatever IT was - fast enough.

Worse yet, by the time we met back up with the guys, I found that I was one of the two designated drivers. That was a fun conversation NOT to be part of.

“Wow, I’ve had too much to drink.”

“Yes, but can Amy drive?”

“It is a short drive…”

“Then you do it.”

“And get pulled over? At least she’s sober!”

“Uh… yeah but she’s uh… well… you know…”

Guess what? I must have picked the short straw because my mom and stepdad drove the kids in one car and I found myself in the driver’s side of our jeep hoping I could find my way back to the cabin in the canyon we had rented for the weekend.

My mom drives like a bat out of hell. She’s nearly impossible to follow. Fine to ride along with - but impossible to follow. Within seconds her tail lights were a distant memory and it was just Mike and I sitting there while I tried to remember how to start the car.

For the first time in my driving history I focused intently on the 10:00 and 2:00 positions on the wheel and with a white knuckle grip I eased out of the parking lot and prayed that somewhere I did have an inner compass that would just guide me back to the cabin that I had only been to ONE time and that was in daylight.

Mike later told me that all he could think of was that if we got pulled over, no cop was going to believe I was in the middle of a panic attack, and if the cop happened to be a jerk - by the time he was done - I might be completely comotose.

I barely remember the drive and I think I kept muttering, “I don’t know what is wrong with me… I can’t breathe, I’m really scared!!!”

Once we arrived at the cabin I spent the next hour alternating between cold chills and indescribable pain while Mike (in his great wisdom) attempted to pour whiskey down me. Any other time I would have relished the thought of Mike trying to get me drunk and take advantage of me, unfortunately it didn’t take a genius to realize that his only goal was to put me into a drunken stupor in the hopes that I might stop crying and mumbling.

I slept and by morning most of it seemed like a bad dream. I spent the rest of the weekend fearing that any little thing might set off another attack. Thus began the real cycle of panic attacks, once you have one the only thing you think about is having another one. That’s the gift that just keeps on giving.

About a month later I had one at Wal-Mart…

I don’t shop at Wal-Mart anymore.

I’m on my second cup of coffee and so far, it isn’t helping. Although, the cat has decided that she likes me today… which kind of made my morning since she’s been trying to kill me for the last six months. Chances are that today is part of her big plan to lure me in and make me feel safe before she leaps up and rips my throat out. I’m such a sucker for a pretty cat that it would probably take me a while before I realized that it wasn’t her way of trying to hug me.

Ethan accidentally locked her out of the bedroom last night, she cried at his door until I let her back in - because apparently I am the only one who can HEAR her. She allowed me to scratch her ears but then she decided we were even and I should be on my way. She let me scratch her again this morning… so that was nice.

I say I worry about her attacking Sophie (the chinchilla) when she is left out in the house all night instead of safely jailed tucked into bed with Ethan. But, I know that I’m the one she looks at with a thirst for blood in her eyes.

Sophie (aka The Wonder Chinchilla) must have partied hard last night - she has a wood chip stuck to the top of her head and won’t hold still long enough for me to take it off. It’s almost like she is proud of it, I have to wonder if Avi feels the same way about a mayonaise smear after a really good bacon cheeseburger.

I have no memories from any dreams last night which is great considering that the night before was filled with crappy dreams that still had me feeling uncomfortable the next morning. There’s nothing like needing something from the pantry and honestly having to wonder if a group of midget killer clowns is hiding in there waiting for you.

There is nothing worse than midget killer clowns. Except maybe full size killer clowns, but truthfully, the midget aspect makes it a little more freaky, I think.

I was asked one time if this beeeyotch was my alter-ego. (insert theme to Patty Duke show here)

Yes, that’s right, she’s me - the fantasy me, who is shorter, blonder, thinner, cuter, more outgoing, with less issues… me. :roll:

I do live vicariously through her. I help her shop for shoes that look good on thin people, I point out sales at places that I would shop if I had her bod. But, most importantly, I feel 99% of her Diva-like spewings on her blog. I do… really.

I just don’t have the balls to say so.

That’s me, the chickenshit blogger. I am. No, really, I am.

I worry someone will be offended by this… someone will be turned off by that… and in the end I write a lot of half-assed shit because, well, while no one flocks to me in droves - I don’t get hate mail either.

So, I refrain from discussing my ardent desire to wax my husband’s nuts in his sleep. I’m over that now, but you get my point.

I float around in that gray area of bloggers who find their family amusing and at the same time understand that very few people really get that without picturing you as Donna Reed (and here you can insert my MIL and mother snickering and saying, “no one would EVER confuse you with Donna Reed, Amy. No one.) or in some instances, Joan Crawford (Mommy Dearest for those of you not up on your Hollywood trivia.)

And, please, feel free to spare me the comments like, “this is your blog, say what you want” because, let’s be honest, we don’t all say what we want and - go ask the people I hang around with - you might not really want to hear what I really want to say.

While I would love to picture myself as some smiling Buddha statue version of a blogger, judging none, excepting none (and yes, I meant THAT version of excepting) - I do have opinions and many times they do conflict with the posts that surround me daily.

Usually I try to avoid topics of politics or religion for various reasons. My opinions and thoughts on these subjects cause great consternation among certain family members. Mainstream - I’m probably not. And, truthfully, neither of those topics really interest me, unless there is something funny and sarcastic I can say about either of them.

I think about the heat that a post might draw and part of me thinks - what do I care? This is the fucking internet not my neighborhood. But then there is that ego that wants to be liked, wants to have people be entertained by what I write.

And then I think about what kind of blogger all that half assing makes me. And whether that is an accurate portrayal of who I am. Or whether or not that’s entertaining for you as the reader or, quite frankly, me as the blogger.

I’m not the kind of gal who jumps up and declares herself Super Bitch, I’m not the kind of person to stir the pot just for the sake of stirring it, but I am the kind of person who gives way to much consideration to what someone else might think. And, you know what? I’m completely fed up with it.

I have to say, I think I’m putting entirely too much thought into this. I’m tired of caring whether my thoughts annoy someone or offend others. With everything going on in this big world of ours for my thoughts and opinions to cause anyone to take a serious pause in their day (other than to laugh) is really saying more about them than it is me.

So, maybe that’s the ultimate answer… fuck it. Why worry? It probably won’t happen anyway.

The most funny email I have ever received - and no, it is NOT a forward.

(Awww, can everyone see that disappointed look on Avi’s face because this is not some long post with graphic descriptions of a romp-fest? :cry: )

Anyway, I was emailing back and forth with someone and they wrote this in response to an email I sent him/her:

Believe it or not I can actually cook Mexican really well.

By which I really mean I can eat Mexican really well.

I’m lying. What I really mean is I once went down on a Mexican girl.

Ok, I’m still lying. Stop hounding me! She was really from Guatemala.

Alright, I confess! It was a white Spanish man in a truck stop parking
lot! I was young and desperate, so don’t you judge me! I just can’t
take your accusing stares anymore!

I’m going to have another drink.

I laughed so hard at this one that I almost fell out of my damn chair. I also have to admit that I had pretty much no response except to wave a white flag.

Anyone have any guesses on who the author might be? (and Miss Britt, you are going to have to keep your lips zipped).

*Update*

The author is none other than Senor Fish

Jen and Tori were correct!

Confused? No, you didn’t miss a post. We’re (aka another one of Avi’s brilliant ideas) trying something different today. It’s a one-day round robin story over three different blogs.

We’d each love feedback, so if it’s not too much trouble, leave a comment on each part, will ya?

So, you need to start at Avi’s for part 1, come on back here for part 2 (he’ll have a link and everything for ya) and then continue on to Miss Britt’s for part 3. Start here for Part 1

Clusterfucked Continued

Naked, bloody, with a corpse in my floor words failed me. Somewhere in the back of my mind a voice cried out, “What would Magnum P.I. do?” Charm them, that’s what he’d do.

“Uh, hi guys.” I said mustering a charming yet devilish grin, which seriously lacked the effect I desired considering I was missing the mustache and sparkly eyes that Magnum was known for.

Chapter 3

Sadie couldn’t believe her luck. The long, empty beach stretched out in front of her providing an endless workout without having to dodge dogs, kite enthusiasts, or couples taking a romantic morning walk.

The job was done, it might have been a little messy, but an hour from now she’d check her off-shore bank account and find a tidy little deposit of $50,000.00 In the end, the mess didn’t matter, only the final result and a complete lack of witnesses.

The morning was overcast but this wasn’t anything unusual for Pismo. The sand felt great beneath her new Asics, her calves were already starting to burn and she could feel her heart rate picking up.

Mid-stride something stopped her cold. “I have got to be hallucinating.” She thought to herself in complete disbelief. She closed her eyes, tried to center her mind, and took a deep breath.

Nope, he was still there in some hideous purple robe and riding a horse no less. Maybe this was that flashback acid trip she was promised back in high school?

He galloped past and she watched in dismay as the robe fluttered in the wind exposing his bare ass.

“How in the hell did that happen? He’s supposed to be dead!”

The healthy jog pace turned into a dead sprint as she ran back down the beach to the parking lot where her black, Suburban was parked. She kept a car seat in the back for her niece and the rear cargo compartment had a false floor where she kept her “tools.”

The suburban was the perfect cover for her line of work. Sadie could cruise through any neighborhood and look like any other soccer mom, even though she had no intention of ever becoming a soccer mom or a mom at all for that matter. Her niece, Emma, was her one driving passion, well, that and her job.

She hopped in, flipped open the center console and retrieved a large manila envelope. Aha, just as she suspected. The rider in the hideous purple robe and bare ass was the guy that she had taken care of the night before. She pulled out the stat sheet and double checked the address; she had never made a mistake like this, not a single time in the last 10 years.

“Shit!” She exclaimed, slamming her hand down on the steering wheel. She didn’t know who the sad sap back at that apartment was, but it damn sure wasn’t her mark.

Ripping out of the parking lot she hopped on to the PCH headed back to that apartment to finish the job once and for all.

“Son of a bitch!” She hissed as she whipped around two minivans and a church bus.

She pulled up in front of the apartment; the door was only half open just as she had left it. He hadn’t made it back yet. Twenty minutes later she watched as he rode up on a bicycle and ran to the front door.

She watched him pause and then saw his bare ass flash again as he leapt through the door like some goon in an action movie. Knowing the scene just inside the door, Sadie knew there was only one way to handle this situation.

Flipping open the glove compartment she grabbed the standard police issue handgun. She’d consider the lifeless sap in the living room a freebie. But the mark in the purple whore robe had just had his last bicycle ride.

Creeping up to the doorway she saw him standing there, covered in blood, and looking fairly stunned. The corpse still sat where she had left it, but the neat pool of blood was now smeared all over the tile and all over her mark.

Sadie assumed her most official voice and shouted, “Police! Freeze!”

Continued at Miss Britt’s…

I’m taking a really good look around and becoming more and more annoyed with people. What is up with these people who whack their monkeys over making someone else feel like less of a human being? I don’t understand the mentality of “I’m a crappy horrible person and I want to make someone else feel as crappy as I do right now.”

I just don’t.

Kate’s teacher this year is a perfect example. Her 6th grade year, first year on the top of the academic totem pole. This woman is a bitter, graceless, rude, pathetic excuse for a human being. At every turn she has lied, manipulated, and done her level best to make Kate feel like a pile of shit.

At the beginning of the year we were concerned that Kate was more in tune with social things than academic progress. After essentially grounding the poor kid and watching her every move, we discovered that Kate wasn’t the problem. This IDIOT in charge of these kids was the problem.

First there were the progress reports, reports that showed no improvement whatsoever and in some cases showed a continuing downward trend. We conferenced, we talked, we sent notes. What we soon found out was that in various crevices, boxes, cubbies, and bins in this classroom were Kate’s missing assignments, graded IN the teacher’s handwriting and never entered in to the system. And, it wasn’t just Kate. Every time a progress report went out there would be a line of kids at the teacher’s desk the next day trying to get things corrected. While her head was apparently up her ass, she would make snide comments to Kate. Things like:

“Well, if you had been turning your work in all year I could trust you, but since you don’t have any proof, I can’t.”

or

“You aren’t as innocent as you portray yourself to be.”

Kate took these comments with the grace and maturity that the adult in front of her would never be capable of mustering. Her attitude has always been, “think what you want, I know the truth.” And, this woman has not earned any respect that would make Kate care what her opinion might be.

Still, no mother would want anyone talking to their child that way. I worry that maybe Kate is too easy-going, or maybe this woman has beaten her down to the point that she won’t stand up for herself.

After witnessing a less than happy conversation between myself and someone else Kate came in and looked upset, it was all over her face. I talked, I poked, and I finally had enough. I said, “What is the problem Kate? You look bothered but you aren’t willing to say anything? Why not? Speak up, grow a spine!”

She said, “I just don’t see why you couldn’t be the bigger person. You have always taught me to be the bigger person. Why couldn’t you today?”

I said, “I’m TIRED, Kate. I’m always the bigger person, I always ignore it, let it slide, and today it was just too much. I just… couldn’t.”

The thing is, I have taught her to be the bigger person. To know that you can’t fix “stupid” or “ignorant.” The problem is that now I worry she’s taken “being the bigger person” to an extreme, to a point where it is a mental crutch so she doesn’t have to stand up and say something. Her three closest friends are all polite, well-mannered, sweet girls, but every single one of them has no problem being assertive, standing up for herself, and speaking up when necessary.

I worry that Kate doesn’t have that ability. That somewhere, I’ve taught her something that has given her a defeatist attitude, but one she can cloak with “being the bigger person.” I’ve pushed them to think, form their own opinions, and to question authority. I’ve also taught them to be polite, respectful, and I’ve tried to encourage them to be open-minded and not to judge others.

This year, lessons I wasn’t quite ready for her to learn were taught. That adults aren’t always honest, that sometimes people just want others to be miserable, that there is such a thing as abuse of authority, and yes, Virginia, miserable, suck-ass excuses for human beings do exist.

I’m writing a letter to the principal. And, I plan to purchase a thank you card for the end of the year, the inside to be a personal note from myself saying, “Thanks for teaching my daughter such an important lesson this year, sometimes the WORST possible example is the best one.”

Let’s be honest, we all know I won’t be that nice.

1. What is the one thing you hope your kids learn from you?

Roll with the punches, learn from every opportunity, and know that everything works out in the end, usually for the best.

2. What is the one thing you hope they DON’T get from you?

My temper and my burning desire for justice and occasionally revenge.

3. If you could ask Harry one question, what would it be?

I cannot imagine a scenario when this might occur and not include my standing there drooling like someone having a seizure or something.

4. If Harry offered to run off with you… where would you go?

Nowhere. I have a husband and kids I adore and he has a wife and children that he adores. There might be a strong mutual attraction, sure, but ultimately we’d both do the right thing.
(and seriously, he’s married to a former Victoria Secret model, puhleeeeeze.)

5. What is the sexiest thing about yourself?

I’ll need a judge’s ruling on that.

Mike says my boobs.

Typical male.

Here are the rules if you want to keep it going:

1. *Leave me a comment saying, “Interview me.” *
2. *I will respond by asking you five questions. I get to pick the
questions. *
3. *You will update your weblog with the answers to the questions. *
4. *You will include this explanation and an offer to interview
someone else in the same post. *
5. *When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them
five questions.*

Miss Britt was kind enough to pass on the award above. It’s basically a meme but at this point, I’ll take what I can get. She was also kind enough to write the following:

“…and not just because I love her like a sister and a best friend and a co-conspirator all rolled into one. But because she makes me think. She makes me want to be a better person. And a better mom. And a more cunning, quick witted biyatch. And if you don’t read her you should. Daily. And you should be showering her with comments, m’kay?”

and believe me when I say that the sentiments are sent right back in her direction two-fold! Although, now that Miss B has returned from visiting Avitable and they have bonded over braiding each other’s hair, doing each other’s nails, and some very emotional rounds of Truth of Dare, let’s see if she still feels the same way about me. :roll:

Of course, she says those wonderful things and on that particular day I somehow had the foresight to post about my freaking backyard. Ooooo!!! There is a thought-provoking topic! You never see bloggers arguing the virtues and disadvantages to natural pest control vs. pesticides, do you? Not that I posted about that, but I’m just sayin’ - we bloggers tend to be rather snobbish over what we choose to argue about.

I don’t know though… Miss Ann might be inclined to argue over something like that, but none of us would argue with her because she is a freaking genius when it comes to gardening. Seriously, the woman is brilliant! Albeit in more ways than one, but seriously… gardening… brilliant!

Anyway I guess I am supposed to bestow this award on to some people… which is a nice way of saying that I am tagging their asses, I guess. Let’s see, Britt already took my beloved badonkadonk lovin’ Joe and my much adored Avi although Avi doesn’t make me think as much as he makes me want to jab out my mind’s eye, is that the same? Joe, on the other hand, is the epitome of brilliance and I am the Luke Skywalker to his Obi Wan Kenobi… but, I have boobs and better hair than Luke - oh and better clothes and guaranteed a more satisfying sex life.

Where was I?

Oh yes… tagging asses awarding those bloggers who make me think.

1. tj at www.zazzafooky.com and the most awesome Zhantic Eye. Tj has told hard truths that have made me laugh, cringe, and cry at the same time. She’s beyond talented and an absolute amazing human being. Seriously, I admire and truly, truly respect this woman.

2. Marti - Marti makes me think because she often surprises the hell out of me. If you have visited and made the mistake of assuming that she is a pumpkin farmer who writes on the side with a syrupy mix of down home southern charm and subtle wit - then you have missed out. Underneath that facade is a woman who is as hippy-cool as they come, she’s edgy, smart, funny and even a controversial. Yes, I’m talking about Enter The Laughter, but I’m also talking about the quiet alter-ego Marti’s Mouth.

3. Dawn aka The Webmiztris at Tiny Voices In My Head - Rarely do her posts not make me at least chuckle, but her observations almost make her an edgier more hip version of Jerry Seinfeld at times. She rocks… seriously!

4. Bug @ An Indian Summer - this chickie-pie is wise beyond her years! I can’t tell you the number of times I have read a post promoting some form of charity project and that isn’t even counting her Blogathon participation - she’s a giver! Right down to posing in her latest (watch it Bug, Avi will now be stalking you) lingerie purchases - all for a good cause! :twisted:

Okey dokey then… that is all.

As in sod… as in my “new” backyard!

Trenchers, pipes, sprinklers, flexboard, and an early morning sod delivery, let’s not forget the wheelbarrow and blatant displays of testosterone.

Before:

Taken just before we trenched for the sprinkler system. I say “we” because I was there, supervising and encouraging the process. These sorts of projects take a strong, female leader to really pull it off with any sort of style.

After:

See what I mean? Do you think that would have happened with just a man in charge? I think not!!

I hope Kate realizes that there are not many girls who get their backyard landscaped as a birthday present. I joke! But, we did push to get it done so that the girls wouldn’t have to camp out in a tent on the dirt!!! (eeek, who would DO such a thing?!?!?)

“What’s next?” You might ask? Aside from more plants, and additional patio furniture obviously. Currently we have a gorgeous granite fire pit for the patio and several canvas camping chairs around it. I’m not fond of canvas or camping chairs for that matter. I’m looking forward to black iron furniture with lovely cushions.

Of course, as long as all the camping chairs are utilized in the backyard, I don’t have to go camping. Not that I mind camping when an RV, and decent bathrooms and showers are involved, or better yet, a hotel room.

Aside from all that, I’ve got a list! Next would be the sandbox for Maggie and the pond and waterfall for our super fat fish. Then the built-in outdoor kitchen, more concrete, and next summer, maybe, a pool!!!

Oh, be still my heart!!!

I don’t plan on getting dirty or anything, but I DO plan on supervising… closely.

I just figure that if you are in the handbasket headed for hell you might as well say, “WHEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!” and enjoy the trip.