Sorry for flaking the last couple of weeks. I've been a bit sidelined between the kids in school, home schooling my daughter, work, family, etc.

This morning I think I might have scared the hell out of my husband. A tough thing to do considering we've been together for 16 years. It really came out of the blue and without giving a really long story, I might have blown up a bit over something that appeared small.

My mother's nephew is married to the owner of the company my husband works for. The girls and I refer to her (cousin's wife) as P.T. as not only does daddy own the company, but she works along side my husband as well.

She had the nerve to complain about my mother to my husband. My mother is in very tight with my cousin's sister (in fact, it caused a huge falling out between brother and sister) as well as their mother and grandmother. So, when grandmother was in the hospital my mother showed up to offer support to my female cousin, her mother, and aunt. My male cousin and his wife P.T. showed up at the hospital and were apparently deeply offended by my mother's presence and so moved to the far end of the hallway so that, as P.T. put it, my cousin wouldn't "do anything" to my mother.

As much as I love knowing people see my mother for the conniving, manipulative twat she is... I also have a big problem with THEM being so offended by her mere existence. You see, my mother really hasn't done ANYTHING to them. Certainly not like she has to me or my family. I'm sorry, but causing a little tiff between you and your sister (which was brewing anyway since sis had a tiff going with daddy and you love kissing daddy's ass) is no where near say... harassing your daughter at school, harassing your son at school, hitting on your husband, or attempting to sweet-talk your husband into having you committed to a mental institution against your will. Serious shit, unbelievable, even to me, every time I read it or think about it. Regardless, if anyone has the right to have their knickers in a serious twist it's me, not my husband or his stupid twat faced wife, who, by the way, my mother would eat for lunch. That's not defending my mom, that's just telling you how stupid P.T. is to even begin to think she could handle my mother in any shape or form.

So, when my husband told me about this I might have loudly voiced "Fuck [cousin's name]" in a fairly quiet room. Then I had to explain to my husband how I wasn't defending my mother - just irate over the fact that no one in this family has stood up for us or cared, even remotely, what happened to us or what she did to us. But, cause a little tiff between a brother and sister and OMG, you'd think my mother was ripping the legs off of baby kittens. My cousin "might have done something" to my mother if he hadn't stayed at the other end of the hallway - kiss my ass. You have no right to be that angry. None. You don't have a CLUE what it is like to be betrayed or attacked or harassed. So, suck a big one you dim-witted, fuck wit.

My youngest daughter came down with a really nasty bug this week while we had family staying with us from out of town. I basically kept her in my bedroom to avoid spreading the germs and spent my time washing my hands, running up and down the stairs, cleaning up after Pukefest 2012, while cooking and entertaining guests who were wonderfully understanding of the predicament.

Someone not so understanding? The husband. Who at one point tried to make me feel guilty for sitting up with our daughter while she hurled and ran a high fever and coughed herself silly instead of hanging out on the patio with our guests. Seriously. Did he offer to help? Take over sick duty since the family was my cousin that I haven't seen in 20 years? Nope.

Thursday and Friday were abnormally long days at work for him. I'd love to say he made overtime or something but given he is on salary it just meant he made a whole lot less those two days. Typically, I cut him a wide berth for being extra tired, especially since we were up late with our guests, but given that I was running on about 3 hours of sleep from Monday all the way through Friday night - I was a tad less sympathetic to his fatigue after 2 long days. He came home Friday loaded for bear, ready to have some sort of argument over something stupid, I was exhausted and basically just ejected him from the room rather than drag it out into full blown hall way sex. Hall way sex? That's where you pass each other in the hall way and yell, "Fuck you!" and get responded to with, "No. Fuck YOU."

Now it's Saturday morning and mom (that would be me) is officially spent. I've managed to keep the house relatively clean, fresh coffee in the pot every morning, made dinner almost every night and nursed a sick kid. In his world, he is the most exhausted, most put out, and has expended the most amount of energy. Did I mention he slept somewhere else while I sat up with sick kid?

It would be nice to hear, "wow, you probably need a break. Why don't you take a nap while I keep tabs on everything." Except, I know I'd wake up and find him asleep in front of the television while the kid sat there glassy eyed, nose running, dry heaving and scorching like a human furnace.

While I have loads of sympathy for the sick kid, I've got to say I'm reaching the end of  my rope. When an eight year old whines and refuses to actually speak and tell you what is hurting or how she is feeling when you ask - I'm not exactly going to continue with the "oh, poor baby" routine. I love my kid, but she's 8 not 8 months old. I'm well past the point of checking her diaper, feeding her, burping her and running through the whole routine until she goes to sleep or stops crying. Which, is basically what I told her last night when she insisted on whimpering instead of telling me what was wrong. This morning she made her grand entrance downstairs to plop her ass on the couch and proceeded to throw a full blown crying jag where her dad and sister could see her because I wanted her to actually try to EAT something before she took her medicine. Tears, hysterical sobbing and "you are so MEEEEAAAAAANNNNN to MEEEEEEEEEEE" with full blown dramatic flourish for her captive viewing audience. I marched her back upstairs and plopped her back into bed. There is just no way I am going to cater to an 8 year old acting like a 2 year old - especially after the entire week of practically no sleep that I've had.

So, combine that with the husband's "oh poor me" routine and I've had it. I'm sorry, honey, I don't want to hear how tired and achy you are or how hard those two days have been for you. Fresh out of sympathy - I ran out of it roughly the same time I ran out of "supportive husband." And, if I hear you peacefully snoring while I clean the kitchen and clean up after a sick kid and company one more time - there is a really good chance that I'm going to jam a banana up both of your nostrils.

I've been a little sad recently. I'm missing my family. I'm missing my nieces and my nephew. I really want to spend time with my siblings.

I know that I chose to move my family 2500 miles away. The choice was mine (and my husbands), and we are happy with our choice. We love where we live. We love our new home, we love our new life.

But sometimes, I just miss them, and wish I could just stop into my sister's house and steal away with my niece and nephew for a little bit.

Maybe, it is because nearly every day I am forced to deal with family, but it is not the family it want to deal with. Yeah, I guess I have some (ok a lot) built up resentments toward my MIL and SIL.  I guess I just want to spend time with family who love me for being me, and not what they perceive that I can do for them.

It's been a while, hasn't it? The following post seems a bit more freaky (maybe it's just me) if you were to read this post about my previous limbo state.  Wow, a lot has changed since I last posted here. I've just finished reading some of my older posts and realized that things are dramatically different around here now. You see, shortly after that post my son decided he wanted nothing more to do with us, thanks to the girlfriend from hell, he moved in with my father and stepmother who proceeded to cut him off from us in every way possible. We haven't spoken to him since May 20, 2011. Over a year and we've missed his birthday and holidays that we'll never get back. Shortly after his departure my MIL died, my former best friend married and I've never spoken to either again.

That is the short story. The long story has been roughly a year of trying to get over having my child break my heart and trying to somehow pull my marriage back together. Life has revolved around the husband and the girls, now ages 17 and 8. Since my son's departure my husband and I focus mainly on the girls and improving their existence since both had taken a back seat to the melodrama of my son and his girlfriend. We attended concerts, had holidays, went to ball games and reconnected with my husband's family and some of my family who had been M.I.A. for quite a while. My mother is still vicious, manipulative, and thankfully absent from our  lives and now my sister, father, and stepmother have followed her exit as well.

My life was smoothing out.

A few months ago I hooked up with my cousin that I haven't spoken to in roughly 20 years. No falling out, no ill will, he just got the hell out of dodge with his wife and child and made a life for them far away from here. He lives in Portland, OR. I've lived in California most of my life, well, except for those 2 years I spent in Colorado. I don't dig California nearly as much as I used to and God knows with my family as crazy as they are I've wanted to create my own Witness Relocation Program more times than I can count.

Guess what happens when you put those kinds of thoughts out there? Life has a funny way of bringing you things... Now I have to decide how good those things may or may not be. My cousin retired doing the same work my husband does now, which is strange because it's not a common kind of job. On the phone last week he tells me he can get my husband a job in Portland "easy." All I have to do is get him a resume and he'll "float it around" up there and see what comes up.

 Me:

Followed by:

Oh, my bitches. Mah bitches. All of you, my trio of sinners, and anyone who wanders by, tonight, you're all mine.
Because I need someone to grab me by the face and say that I am not the only one who finds the following to be completely, utterly, amazingly fucked up.

I have an older brother. I have a few actually, but only one who has me wondering if his mother did illegal drugs while pregnant.
He recently totalled his SUV, because he was beyond drunk and decided that driving seemed like a good idea. Not only was the driving a good idea, but continuing to drink WHILE driving was an even better idea!
He took out two cars, both bones in his shin, and his entire FUCKING career, all in one spectacular car accident. No one died, but goddamn it all to fucking hell and back, it's a goddamn surprise they didn't.
So, now that he is stuck in a cast because of the broken bones, he decided that the best way to past the time while at home was to DO FUCKING DRUGS.
Oxy.
Coke.
Alcohol.
And that's just the ones I know about! Who does a bump and then pops Oxy like Sixlets?! In just seventy-two hours, he did a month supply of Oxy. That's OVER fifty pills. Five. Zero. 50.
In just three days.

To make it better... he had his kid with him! HIS FUCKING KID WAS IN THE FUCKING HOUSE WHILE HE WAS DOING THIS SHIT.

That being said... I don't know who is the bigger dumbass. Him, for doing all the shit, or the doctors for giving an addictive drug TO AN ADDICT.

I love him, he's my brother, but if I could smash him with a smart stick, I would beat him like a discolored dalmation.

Viva la change! Or some shit.
I'm getting ready for a second big move in less than a year. I came out to BFE in hopes of finding myself. And I kind of did. I realized I'm a city girl to the bone, and while nature is awesome, I like my pizza delivered and my transpo of the public variety.
I am going to start nursing school. Well, I plan on it anyway.
And I'm probably going to be looking to make another move in the next few years after getting my LPN.
You see, I'm running home to Mama. And nursing school. Mainly Mama and family and friends who don't give a flying fuck about my parentage and that I'm weird and have a brain that has weird bursts of genius. They love me, get my jokes, and know that when I pet them, it's because I'm stresesd the fuck out.
But Mama isn't going to be staying when I get there (yes she is, but not after the new year, she's looking for her own pot at the end of the rainbow), which is fine. That woman has done more than enough for me over the years, I'm not going to hold her in place if she wants to go somewhere else that will make her happy.
That being said, I'm going to be hunting up a roommate of either gender to help with the bills, because I know I can't float a house on my own. Which fucking sucks when I'm a goddamn grown up and can't afford a house payment and bills.
After I get my LPN, I will need to find a new school to get my RN, because the college I'm going to does not have an RN program.
That brings me to the other change that might come to pass.
California. The land of silicone, earthquakes, hard bodies, and L.A. weirdos. I figure, I've managed to make it through the worst Montana can throw at me, why not try my hand at the land that is rumored to be the next great island resort. Maybe I'll get lucky and a hottie in LA will decide I'm the woman he can't live without and he'll keep in a lifestyle to which I could quickly become accustomed. (Let me have this bubble, I have so few)

That being said...


... I'm terrified of this shit. Fucking. Terrified.
I want to crawl in my bed, pull the covers over my head, plug my ear buds into my head, and just zone the fuck out. If I could, I'd bliss out on bud and good beer and figure out the secret of space travel. This the same fear kept me married to an emotionally stunted, cold, mean man who would just as soon slap me down as hold my back. And I'd rather be cold and dead than let another person hold my strings that way.

I... almost feel guilty for bitching. I've got the usual (perverts, debt, exhusband being a douchebag), but nothing that won't correct itself (except for the exhusband part). Nothing major, nothing with illness, nothing with people expect things from me that I won't, or can't, give them.

For me 201o can be summed up in two words. THE MOVE.

I am turning into one of the people I hate. I spent most of today going "Fuck Christmas!" and cheerfully wishing all the people I saw straight to hell.


I have never felt less like celebrating Christmas in my entire life. "But, Surreal, haven't you had stillborn children?" Yes, I have, and Christmas was hard each year, but I wanted to celebrate it because Christmas is a time of renewal. End of the year, and good tidings, and family, and friends, and even complete strangers who get touched by the Christmas spirit and try to spread the joy.

This year, there is no family. No friends. Nothing comforting.


And I want to just sleep until December 26th.


Sleeping til December 26th sounds very appealing. We've already pretty much given the boys their Christmas gifts (so they'd have time to play with them since they have to go to their bitch of a mother's early on Christmas morning) and we aren't planning a conventional Christmas dinner.
I'm mostly grouchy because the past two weeks have been horrid at work. The holidays really bring out the crazy fucking assholes. I've had 4 sobbing at my desk meltdowns lately while my coworkers peeked on in horror. Mean people suck.

This is the first time in almost 20 years that my body is going without the tasty goodness of birth control pills and I might be a bit sensitive while I adjust to being "normal". This is great fun.




This has been the absolute week from hell. Food poisoning or a stomach virus last weekend followed by a tooth extraction on Monday - which was not the lovely sort of "conscious sedation remove your wisdom teeth" sort of extraction but full blown present in the moment instead. That was followed by finishing up Christmas shopping, Christmas wrapping, and my husband acting like a royal jackass last night to boot. Throughout all of this have been the record rainfalls (aka torrential downpour) for days on end and I have to wonder if the suicide rate isn't going to be up this Christmas because of it.

I am honestly usually such a freak about Christmas, those who have known me for years know I've never been the "bah humbug" sort but this year I'm dangerously close to it and it honestly frightens me. I'm trying to rebound today, though. I've got a batch of gingerbread dough chilling in the fridge, I'm getting ready to make a batch of sugar cookie dough so I can spend the afternoon with my 6 year old decorating cookies for Santa. My greatest fear is my shitty mood ruining the magic of the season for her. I seriously don't need another reason to hate myself and that would definitely be it.

Still there are moments of bitchy sunshine. Literally and figuratively. The rain has cleared for today and tomorrow thankfully, the sun is out. I had the sheer joy of waking my husband (sleeping off a hangover on the couch this morning) by blaring "Miracle on 34th Street" on the television and banging about the kitchen as loudly as possible and my oldest teenager is my slave for the day currently scrubbing pans in the kitchen and getting ready to vacuum. Revenge is not best served cold, my friends, revenge is watching someone else clean your house on Christmas Eve.

Merry Christmas, bitches! My sincerest wish is for a far merrier Christmas for us all next year.

The best Christmas ever... that's a tough call. Not counting the ones when I was a small child, as those are always the best one ever, I'm not sure one qualifies as "the best".

I have moments from every Christmas that are wonderful. I know that sounds sappy, but it's true.

When my brother was small, he liked to jump. No idea why, he just jumped when he was happy, or hyper, or really excited for something. He got a toy for Christmas that came in the plastic packaging that requires a blow torch and a college degree to open, and he (at three/four thought his older sister could do anything) handed it to me with "Here Sissy, you do it."

I can still remember the feeling of his hot little hands on my kneecaps as he jumped up and down in front of me while I wrestled with that stupid damn package. Eventually I got it open, he screamed "Thank you Sissy! I love you!" and spent the rest of the day playing with it.

When I was eighteen, I got a cell phone for Christmas. I'm sure you can figure out why a teenager was thrilled to get her first cell.

At twenty-two, I got woken up early by the jumping little brother (who was no longer so little and no longer jumped when excited) and spent the day in my pajamas with my mother watching the holiday parade and fielding phone calls from family.

Last Christmas was both wonderful and awful. It was wonderful because it was a day of family, both blood and adopted, and awful because my then husband called and made me feel bad.

I went with my mother, my best friend, and my not-bio dad to see Sherlock Holmes when it opened. We gorged on popcorn, then went out to the bar. I thought it was strange, going to a bar on Christmas night, but I spent the time with friends who mean the world to me.

This Christmas isn't ever going to be "the best", but it's better than others. I'm poorer than ever, but I'm free to celebrate my way. I can decorate a tree however I want, I can cook whatever I want, and I sing whatever Christmas Carols I want, because the only one who is around to hear is the dog, and she thinks I'm perfect either way.

At least I have Friday bitch session. I was up Wednesday until almost 2am prepping a ham, duck, and turkey for Thanksgiving so my husband could drop it into the deep pit, put the lid on and go to bed. He spent Wednesday evening around the deep pit burning down logs into a fat bed of coals while drinking beer with his buddies. It's a tradition and I wholeheartedly support him because I know how much he loves it. What I don't love is when I get called out at midnight to help prep all the meat and wrap it in foil.

I was up Thanksgiving morning at 7am cooking. His royal highness stayed in bed until 11am when I woke him up to get ready to go to my dad's house for Thanksgiving. We came home around 2pm and he promptly started nagging at me for the apple pie I made that morning that was meant for dessert AFTER DINNER - the dinner I had been up since 7am prepping for. Then he fell asleep and slept until almost 6pm. While he napped I finished up cooking and cleaned the kitchen. Thank God for my oldest daughter because she is always right there next to me helping out in the trenches without a single sigh, whine, or complaint.

After dinner I started cleaning up the kitchen and actually had to ask my husband to help out. I finally made my way upstairs leaving my son, three cousins, one friend, and one of the cousin's two buddies from the marine corp. in the family room with my husband. Did I take a long hot shower and climb into bed? Nope, I started doing laundry and cleaning the bedroom. At one point I left the bedroom to switch over a load of laundry and returned to find my husband plopped on the bed changing the channel from the show I was watching because I "don't own the television or the bedroom!" and complaining about the channel being changed is "shitty and just picking an argument."

Drop warm fuzzies into the toilet and flush. Rinse/Repeat.

This morning I'm adding my bitch here at 10am - and his royal highness is still up in bed asleep. Must be fucking nice. If I hear ONE slight HINT about how "tired" he is I'll fucking jab his eye out with a rusty spoon.

....for my job. Even though I work for the Devil and get ear raped daily - it’s a paycheck and the insurance is cheap. At least I’m not hot-mopping roofs or digging ditches.

...that I got to see my family so much this year. Usually it’s just a visit in the summer but we all managed to get together a few times this year. I am glad. I wish they weren’t so far away.

...for Xanax because it helps keep me dull enough to not freak out on everyone. The skinwaste of an exwife should be thankful for Xanax too because it helps keep her from being maimed.

...that Husband has custody of the boys because I can only imagine what kind of even more horrible shrieking harpy she would be if she had that to hang over his head.

....that I only have to celebrate 4 more Thanksgivings after this one in this place. In 2014, the youngest boy will be 18 and we plan on getting out of here after that.

...for you guys. I’m pretty sure I would literally explode if I didn’t have you all to bitch to.

In less than 72 hours, we'll have the first of the two biggest "family holidays" in the good ol' U.S. of A. Where everyone gets together, all the family from the grandparents on down to the newest generation that is still drooling on itself and figuring out they've got hands and feet and the awesome things called bootie socks.

As for me, I'll be sitting on my sofa, watching the parade on cable, and not bothering to change out of my pajamas.

I'm not having a very thankful holiday this year. An icy cold divorce, where my not-yet-an-ex-husband is doing his best to make sure I know that he always thought I was ugly and a big disappointment in bed, to a biological father who yo-yo's between being a caring father and a perfect stranger, and living paycheck to paycheck, I just don't feel the urge to thank anyone for anything.

Then I hear someone say "they're not my family, they're my step-siblings" and I realize just how lucky I got it.

You see, my family never put people into compartments of "half blood" or "step-daughter" or "grandchild by marriage". I have almost ten brothers and sisters. Only two of those (one of each) are actually related to me through blood, and that's "only" half-blood. The rest are steps, or informally adopted by me and mine into the family.

My "step-father" (whom I call 'Dad') was the one who taught me how to ride a two-wheeled bicycle. He taught me how to drive a truck. He taught me how to do multiplication tables, and how to play Rook and Rummy. He was the one who stood there and looked intimidating when I brought boyfriends home to meet the parents. He was the one who flipped out when I was out past curfew-

(And, for the record, if your daughter makes back home before curfew, that is when you should worry. Every time I missed curfew, it was for innocent reasons like talking and making snowmen. When I was home 10 minutes early? I had my panties in my pocket, and a hickey forming on the inside of my thigh.)

- and who always showed up to my shows, no matter if he understood them or not.

I have a mother who accepts my weirdness, from the childish sense of humor to the scary interest in blood spatter patterns. She worries over my health, and not over my tendency to forget to brush my hair in the mornings.

I have siblings who feel the same way about me that I feel about them.

I have friends who answer my phone calls in the middle of the night, even if all I have to tell them is that I fell on my ass in a parking lot.

I have a dog who tries to smother me with love instead of trying to bite my fingers off.

I have an asshole of an exhusband, and a father who doesn't understand anything about me.

But I've got a real family that would do anything for me.

You have to take the good with the bad. If that means sitting home alone on a holiday, so be it. Because next year I will be whining about the amount of cooking I need to do in order to feed everyone.

I have no idea what that (title) means exactly. This blog is supposed to be about letting our bitchiness out, no holding back - and all because we have the comfort of relative anonymity. Of course, now it's the week of Thanksgiving and we're supposed to take stock of all the blessings we have in our lives and feel grateful and umm, stuff so that makes the bitchy seem somewhat out of place.

This year I'm thankful my family is happy and healthy. I'm thankful for the support and love of my extended family, especially my dad and stepmom. Twenty years ago if you had told me I would be saying such things I would have laughed and told you to go ram the nearest, largest, blunt object right up your arse. It's an obvious example of how life changes and evolves constantly and alarmingly.

It's also a testament to why one should never say "never..."

I'm thankful for antibiotics and pain pills, but not so much for dentists with no regard for their patient's financial situations and the continual attempts to get blood from a turnip and then make said turnip feel guilty for having none to give.

I'm thankful for a husband who tries and tries and then gets up and keeps trying. Next week I'll be hating him and wanting to stab him with a dull object but until then, I'm going to be thankful for the He in my life who learns from his mistakes even if I have to rub his nose in it like a naughty dog.

Gratitude does not begin to cover my deep and sincere feelings for my oldest daughter. She's turned into quite a wonderful young lady with a razor sharp sense of humor and an intimidating temper that is only shown when it is absolutely necessary. I cannot begin to express how much I adore this child of mine. Even in her faults and occasional sour moods she never fails to impress and amuse me and dear God, at fifteen years old what more could a mother ask for?

My other children... I love with a depth only a mother could understand even if they seem to annoy me to an equal amount at times. I'm thankful for the laughs they give me and the desire they have helped to instill in me to simply wake up and keep going each and every God forsaken morning.

I'm increasingly grateful for the never ending supply of whiskey, gin, and tequila happily stored in my pantry. While I don't find myself reaching frat party status with any sort of regularity - I do know that a decent night's sleep often follows a steady pour over the rocks.

Over the last 10 months I have had a recurring nightmare. I wake up and it is Christmas Eve and the tree is no where to found, not a bit of holiday decoration is hung about and not a single present has been purchased. Now I find that the holiday season is upon us and while I am woefully behind in my holiday shopping due to a bank account that continually runneth under, I am happy for this time of year and all the giddy, ridiculous joyousness it brings - nightmares or not. Things have been so much worse in the past and this year they are not and for that I am grateful, thankful, and feeling quite blessed.

So, I hope the extra turkey day calories spend not a moment on your hips or arse and that your pies turn out perfectly, your home is warm, cozy and filled with love and laughter, and that you can find very little to bitch about as well.

Happy Thanksgiving.