Got Shade?

Consider this Free Advice

If you're interviewing for a job and happen to be standing next to me in the elevator please note the following;

1. This is a professional office building comprised of mostly professional people. Therefore YELLING on your cell phone to your friend, "Girl I got this shit wrapped up. They'd be STUPID not to hire me," is poor practice.

2. If the heels on your shoes have mirrors and a 3" clear acrylic base, you're not a "shoe" in for the conservative law firm who's floor you got off the elevator on.

3. Not a soul in this building wants to see your pink and black HelloK*tty bra strap hanging out.

Good luck to you in your future endeavors and I apologize for my chin brushing the carpet of the elevator floor as you departed on the third floor.

To Walk in Her Shoes

To say that every woman, mother, marriage, and friendship doesn't suffer through hard times is a shit sandwich that I'm not willing to serve up on this blog. I prefer to keep it above board and above the belt.

Therefore I'll share with you this; there is a woman in my life right now who is going through a shit show of her own. (You can go send some Minnie Love her way.) I think she could use a heaping helping of it.

The oddity of it is that the woman I'm speaking of I do know in real life. I've met her three times, yet I've been reading her life for a long time. The first day that I met her children I felt like I'd known them for years. It was kind of like having an unfair advantage where I knew their likes and dislikes. (Okay maybe I'm giving my charming, charismatic person a little too much credit, but you understand.)

I've watched her beat herself up over parenting decisions she's made and have to hold my eyeball in my head when I see the interaction between she and they.

Picture massive amounts of children in the pool, music, dogs, and a casted baby and there is relative calm and quiet. No fights about sharing and who's turn it is, nothing. Just a "Yes Mamma." (To which this blogger says, "what the fluck?" mine would have been standing on each other's heads to get what they wanted.)

AND THIS IS WHERE THIS POST STOPS AND THE GLOVES COME OFF...

I had a beauty of a post going here until the competitive bitch over at Bobbin' & Weavin' Through Life aforementioned blogger posted today.

So instead of sending you over to love and support her I'm asking you to go call her a dumbass. She bought a pair of sneakers. While that in and of itself doesn't make her a dumbass there is more to the story.

She mentioned that one felt smaller than the other. Again limited dumbassity there.

Did she check the label? No. Did she return the incorrect shoe and replace it with the correct size? No.

Instead the dumbass wore a pair of shoes that was an entire size too small for a YEAR before she realized it wasn't her feet, but the shoe.

Dumbass.

Birth Story

BlogHer is participating in Discovery Health Channel's BabyWeek. The birth stories have been plentiful. Some brilliant, some heart-breaking, and some hysterical.

Today I share with you my Birth Story.

Mine doesn't start with ruptured membranes in a Dairy Queen parking lot, or a cave, or the possibility of the RCMP nearly delivering my babies along the side of the road. I don't even have a tale about my ass hanging out of the back of a hospital gown.

Mine starts the day that I splashed in the pool with two babies who other then the chubby cheeks were a startling contrast to one another. One fair, red-headed with freckles dotting the bridge of her perfect nose all the way up to her cat eyes. The other dark-skinned with dark haired stared back with hazel eyes and unruly eyebrows.

I didn't have 40-ish weeks to prepare and there were no nurseries to make ready. Hell I even drank the whole time. There was no torn apart girly bits, but moments that I felt my heart was being torn from my body. (A custody battle'll do it to you, trust me.)

There was no cord cut, no squished face covered in goo looked back at me. No, mine was a game of Monkey in the Middle. My labor began the day they were delivered into my heart.

What are the best things for them? Is that the right neighborhood? Is he the right teacher? Does she have on enough sunblock? Is it his allergies or do I need to call the doctor? Was that a late hit, do I start screaming at the Ref?

I think my point to this post is that our children all come into this world and our hearts in different ways, all of which should be celebrated.

Public Speaking Class NOT Public Texting Class

Daffy: Are you at the office?


TWS: Yes Babe, what's up?


Daffy: What r those guys that get those (insert misc. speak about my job whereby at least I know he listens when I'm working from home) like what's there technal name?


TWS: Pipeline engineering assistants or Midstream pipeline operators. PS- Keep texting like that and you'll be in an extra English class next session. (Grammar please?)


Daffy: Do YOu care if I ask YOu a few questions about them? See?


TW: No, what's up?


Daffy: What are some of the educational requirements?


TWS: Provided answer.


Daffy: What are the average earnings?


TWS: Provide answer


Several more questions and answers exchange phone screens.


Now it's painfully obvious to me that I'm providing him answers to questions that he should be researching in his "study" time at class. It's also a pass I'm giving him since his average in the class is a 99 and he's working on two extra credit assignments and the last day of class is tomorrow.


Daffy: Thanks for the help. I got a 98 and I also learned a few things I didn't know.


TWS: No, actually I got a 98 for doing your homework.


Daffy: LOL! Haa Haa.


TWS: Not near as funny as you having to do mine tonight, and you're in luck, it's laundry night, AND the beds have to be stripped.


Daffy: I was only playing


TWS: I wasn't.


Daffy: I'll do it.


TWS: I know.


Daffy: Going to eat my turkey lunchable. Love you.


TWS: I love u 2. (LOL) It's so not even cool when I try it.


Daffy: Nope.


TWS: Pick up dog food on your way home.


Daffy: Now that sounds like you.

The Reason I'll Remain Sober

Moving On

I'd like to sincerely thank each and every one of you who commented or e-mailed me on the last post.

In an effort to clarify, I did NOT shut Anonymous down because she disagreed with me. He/She was shut down because she failed to show any respect in trying to make her points (and can't spell worth a lick.)

Name calling, I'm good with. Name calling because you don't agree with me and when I ask you if you'd explain why you disagree your solution is to... name call. Really?

I've e-mailed several of the Biological Mom's who have commented or e-mailed me in the past. I thanked them for stopping by and made note of the fact that I'd love their prospectives on the way that I address things. I mean that. In all honesty.

There are always three sides to every story (His, Hers and the Truth) and this blog is my side. If you'd like your side heard, I'd suggest starting a blog. I welcome healthy conversations in which someone opens my eyes to a possibility, situation, or feeling that I hadn't considered. I'm even good when a reader points out where I'm incorrect. The only thing I ask is that you deliver your point(s) with respect, and a spell check wouldn't hurt, (it's Whore, not hore- got that?)

So we're done with that nutty bitch (see, name calling...) and we'll resume regularly scheduled blogging tomorrow.

What Don't You Get?

Dear Anonymous,

I'll be honest, I admire your thinly-veiled attempts to continue to aggravate me, but I thought my last love note to you might have changed your way of thinking. (If you need a refresher, please feel free, it's right here.) Clearly I was mistaken.

I spent a fair amount of time considering my next move, and aligning all the pieces to make it happen. I hope you'll be happy with my decision.

I've contacted your place of employment and spoke to the Director of HR. Very nice lady, by the way. (Should you think I'm kidding, the last four digits of your office number are 3800 and her extension is 217.)

In our conversation, which was quite lengthy, I might add, she shared with me your Company's policy on Employee Electronic Communications. I found it to be of interest. Namely because your e-mail, though sent from a web-based e-mail account was actually transmitted from your office desktop and routed through your Company's server. That's a "no-no."

I assured the Director that I had no intention of pressing charges against the Company for the harassing e-mails addressed to me via their server, but I did encourage her to launch an IT audit. She was very receptive to my suggestions, as you might imagine.

I'd have to think that your co-workers will be tickled to death knowing they won't be able to check their bank balances at the office because you act in the manner of a 14-year old girl who has lost her boyfriend to the head cheer-leader.

To conclude, the IP address that you ordinarily visit this site from will be blocked at 12:00 PM CDT on the date of this posting. (That will give you no time to read it since your office closes at noon on Fridays. (See you thought I was kidding about my new friend, you HR director...)

Consider this the last "warning" you'll get from me. I will not play games another minute. If you visit my site or e-mail me again, we'll go to the legal gravel baby. You know why? Because the only thing that I hate more than a nasty ex-wife is a troll.

Back the fuck off.

Minnie.

Howdy Neighbor...

When we moved into our home the back of the lot was still wooded.

BS is a freak about yard cleanliness.

This is his path to success, thus far.

Get up early on a Saturday morning and begin lighting small piles of pine needles.

Wait for your Minnie to walk out the back door and ask if maybe he should have a hose near by, since, you know the flucking yard is on fire...

(As you can see in exhibit A the photo, there was smoke.)

Next have kind, albeit delusional old man at the back of the property line walk up and praise BS for his efforts.

"Nice to see some kids that aren't afraid of hard work. Good job, Son."

Now continue smoking out the neighborhood until younger, less delusional, and far more risky neighbor comes over and brings an ice chest of cocktails and a 5 gallon bucket (not approved container, a regular freaking bucket,) of something that smelled dangerously close to gasoline

Listen in horror with towel on my head and robe on my body as Daisy and risky neighbor's daughter come running into the bathroom screaming about fire.

In an effort to put this into perspective for you. The top of those flames licked the oak tree above it. The oak tree that I happen to know for a FACT is 35'. I know this because the "tree guy" came out to measure.

So what I'm telling you is that he put enough diesel fuel onto dried up pine needles to have flames 35' in the air. This is obviously after it'd had been going a while because I had enough time to throw some clothes on and grab my camera.

Oddly when I asked him to get closer to the fire so that I could take a picture to put it's size into perspective he said, "This is as close as I can get, and it's about 130 degrees here." At least I think that's what he said because he was half a freaking acre away.

It's Arrived...

BS and I are officially invited to BM's Wedding Reception

No Words.

Pomp and WhatTheHell?

It happens every year about this time. The weather turns sickeningly hot and humid warm, teens proudly wear their caps and gowns and look starry-eyed at the world in which we all live.

You know the music, the feeling of sitting in an auditorium filled with waiting parents, grandparents, and siblings. For weeks there are discussions of tickets, and how many each student gets. Nobody wants to miss it.

That's why you might imagine my surprise last night when we rolled into the parking lot at Ghetto U for Daisy's 8th grade graduation.

This photo was NOT taken 30 minutes before or after, but during the middle of the ceremony. I'd venture a guess that half of the students being promoted showed up, and half of them had a parent, or some other guest.

The ceremony began with the school's principal welcoming us for coming in the form of, "All Day Long, Baby. These kids are graduating ALL day long." He wore a powder blue, three piece suit with blue (powder, to be sure) and brown shoes. I don't have a picture because I was temporarily blinded by his pocket square that looked a like like a kaleidoscope.

Next was the district's superintendent who spoke praises of the students. Telling us, in the audience, "These kids right here, they my babies. You know I ain't even lying." He has a PhD but I'm certain it's not in English as a coarse of study. He was also lavish in his approval of the minimal drop out rates (Um, it's 8thmuthaflucking grade.)

Shortly after was the presentation of the All A's 6th-8th. This award was given to TWO children. (Daisy wasn't eligible because she didn't attend the school from 6th to 8th grade.)

One of the recipients of the award proudly climbed onto the stage wearing what I can only describe as lingerie. There is not other verbiage to explain. There were tube tops en mass and what can only be explained as a bra shortage in the entire community. I heard these actual words while taking pictures; "Girl it's too damn hot and my girls have GOT to breath, you know what I'm sayin?" This came from not a student, but the Social Studies teacher with a rack that weighed more than me.

On the topic of attire BM showed up in a cute sundress wearing body shaping pantyhose, however the dress wasn't long enough to cover the "shaper" part of the hose. The only ugly thing that came out of my mouth to that regard was, "Well at least you know she's not using child support on make up."

And lest you think I'm over exaggerating, I present to you the inside page of the program.

I DO know the image is blurry, but I was shaking because...

I is 1

II is 2

III is 3

IV is 4

V is 5

VI is 6

VII is 7

VIII is 8

IX is 9

NOT VIIII.

WHATTHEFUCK?

Congratulations Ghetto, your children, our future leaders, are being taught by a group of no-counting-bra-less-ill-spoken-idiots who can't dress.

In addition, commencement was spelled wrong too.

Text of a Teen-Age Drama Queen

There was a combination of healthy ribbing and sibling bullschiz this weekend around Casa de' Minnie.

As we're all aware, Daffy's last day of school was last Thursday. We've also discussed, at length the Ghetto School that Daisy attends. Because her school is "under performing" she has an additional week of classes. She's a straight A student who will still pass everything with Bs if she skips her finals.

So while Daffy was hamming it up Sunday evening excited because there would be no alarm clock and cafeteria ladies, Daisy was slinking into the depths of teen-age-drama-queen despair.

I couldn't help but notice she was taking it a little far. In addition, she was very clingy. So I present to you the series of text messages that took place on Monday morning...

Daisy: Ugh im cramping so bad i cant walk to my nxt class im seriously about to cry i can barley move i txt mom but idk if she got my msg since she still didn't get back to me on any of them i have finals but i want to go home or somewhere the nurse wont do anything.

Minnie: What time are you done with your last final? I'll make sure someone is there to get you as soon as your done.

Daisy: All day i have 2 it hurts.

Minnie: Will the nurse give you advil and let you lay down for a little bit.

Daisy: No she can't give me meds

Minnie: If Daddy or I call will she? I'd come get you but I hate for you to miss a final, and your Mom isn't answering my call either.

Daisy: idk what her deal is this girl is going to give me some midol

Minnie: Okay, if you get done early let me know and we'll get you home. I love you.

Daisy: i hate this stupid school and this stupid town.

Minnie: Take 2 midol. I still love you.

"How DID Y'All Meet?" Part XX

Want to catch up? Check this out...

I felt the strangest calm come over me. My elbow and knee had caught in the spindles on the staircase thus no Hollywood drama of me laying on the cold marble floor in the foyer. It was the half-way landing that had ugly carped on it that broke my fall.

"What's wrong? Is your PI pissed off because I had the guest gate code changed and he couldn't come check up on me while you were out of town?"

He started to make his way down the stairs. I never moved.

"Go to hell," he spewed.

"I hope you enjoyed that because it's the very last shot you'll ever get to throw at me," I pulled myself up and let my forehead rest on the wrought iron banister for it's cool touch for a moment.

"You have two minutes to leave, the police will be here in three," I said it all in a calm voice as I walked over to the keypad of the intricate alarm system.

I distinctly remember looking into his eyes as I activated the silent alarm button.

I walked through the dining room, grabbed my purse and the handgun that he'd purchased for me for "protection."

My phone was ringing in moments and I knew it was the alarm monitoring company. As I answered the phone he walked passed me with his briefcase and what I assumed was a change of clothes.

"Go to hell. You and your boyfriend. You're a whore."

Hello?

He opened the heavy mahogany door and when he did I could hear the sirens.

Mrs. Face, this is Jane with We-Got-You-Covered, the silent alarm has been activated. The police are on there way. Do you need fire or ambulance as well.

No. No, thank you. It was a false alarm, please notify the police.

When I hung up the phone I leaned into the door and let it guide me to the floor where I spent the next hour. I could hear my heart beating in my ears. My entire body was shaking with a cross of adrenaline, fear, and what-the-fuck-just-happened?

I walked into the kitchen to put the gun away, and found that I wasn't quite ready to let it go.*

I was sucked back into reality when I heard my house phone ringing. I let the machine answer it.

"Hey, it's Heids. Answer the phone. He just called me. Are you okay?"

Hey.

What the hell is going on?

I really don't even have the energy to talk right now. I'm one hundred percent fine, physically. Please just let me get some sleep and I'll call you in the morning.

Are you sure? He said you guys had an argument, then you fell and you weren't acting right.

I'm sure he did. Only my ego and elbow are bruised. I call you in the morning.

I walked back to the bedroom and laid on top of the bedding. My brain was moving at speeds I can't even begin to imagine. I'd never known them before, and can't say that I have since.

My thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the telephone again. This time it was my cell phone and I didn't recognize the number. I clearly remember thinking that it was the alarm company following up, as had been the case whenever the system was tripped, accidentally or otherwise.

Hello?

Hey, it's BS. Are you okay?

What? Why are you calling me in the middle of the night?

I was just making sure you're okay.

I'm fine, but please don't call me this late.

I was nearly certian that F*ckFace was monitoring my calls, this wasn't going to look good.

Okay, listen, we need to talk, so whenever you can talk, call me.

We talked all evening. I don't think that's a good idea.

All bullshit aside, please call me when you can talk. I have to go.

Well this can't be good. I got up and checked once more to be sure all the doors and windows were locked. I tried to lay down again.

I stared at the ceiling fan for which I had the remote to in one hand and the gun in the other.

After and hour I went back to the kitchen, opened a bottle of 23-year old scotch and drank a long sip straight from the bottle.

Then I replaced the cap walked back into the bedroom and took the bullets out of the gun.