I'm battling "almost pneumonia"...as my doctor called it. I'm not really sure what the fuck that means! Maybe the shit in my lungs is only at like "kiddie pool" status right now. It's a half inflated (no pun intended) fucking kiddie pool of lung funk. So, at this moment, I'm full of my normal hormones, because yay! for having to go through menopause in my 30's...fuck you ovaries! (And Cervix, Uterus and Tubes) Enjoy your life in the bottom of a landfill...or where ever they put the severed organs of patients who are on Medicaid. Are we good enough to have our organs rot, like the rich folk? Or where they ground up and made into an aphrodisiac for Chinese Men??? Because, God knows, those Motherfuckers think everything is going to help Wang get his wang up! *bu-dum-ch* (pun INTENDED!) Can you imagine the conversations...
"Sir, we have some shark fins, some weird looking mushrooms that might be poisonous, a few Tiger penises, a Leprechaun sphincter ...and the uterus of a surly American woman..."
"Well, grind that shit up! It's got to work!"
Why can't the solution be Kudzu? Seriously. That shit grows so fast and so thick, I swear, when old men start clearing it away...they find sheds and trucks they didn't even know they had. "Well, SHIT FIRE AND SAVE THE MATCHES! There's Great Grandpappy's old '32 Ford. He used to haul tobacci in it" Only, the story would suddenly have alot of extra details and ramble off into stuff about the war...because old men are sharp as tacks when it comes to details from 50 years ago...even if they forgot there was a fucking truck parked in their backyard! AND FOR THE LOVE OF GOD: Don't go walking out in it! I made that mistake once when I was a kid. I fell like three feet and I swear I could see that shit was growing up around me while I was climbing out. Them weird feeling leaves trying to cuddle me...that's probably why I go all Ninja when someone touches me in my sleep. Fucking Kudzu.
Oh, and Xanax. I have legally prescribed, for my very fun Anxiety, Xanax in my system. I don't take so much that it makes me drool or anything...it just slows my mind down enough it makes it where I can concentrate on one subject longer. (That shit ain't working tonight if y'all can tell!! My mind is all over the place.) It also makes it to where I can shop at THE WalMart...I'm Southern and I'm almost 40, time to add "the" to shit now. But seriously, I can't handle WalMart without it. I am dead fucking serious. Where I live is such a weird area..I've never lived anywhere like it. It's culturally diverse...which is awesome! And I am very glad my kids get to grow up in a place where skin color doesn't matter. Their friends are all different colors and religions. It's a glorious melting pot....Cast Iron of course...because, South. They don't even know what race really is yet. We use skin color as the last thing to describe someone. I want to keep them in that little bubble of innocence as long as I can. I want them to keep on dancing and having fun...before someone points out they're white. Poor things ain't got no rhythm. Well, mostly white. Ava might be part Thai...not really sure about the full ethnicity of her Dad. Damn, ya'll, I feel like I'm talking about puppies..."they might be part Chihuahua, don't ask how that happened with a Pitbull...but lets just say there might be a pretty hilarious/horrifying youTube video floating around!" Really though...her Dad was raised by his Step-Dad, who is an awesome man...so her Dad's bio-dad's heritage is not known. Whatever. I don't know the full story. It doesn't matter to me. I just want her to know someday if she wants to. I had a high risk pregnancy and had to go to special doctors. So there's all kinds of forms to fill out about both parents. I was like "Hey Cory, what's your paternal heritage?" "white" "umm...okayy....are you sure there's no other roace thrown in there? Like not even alittle, tiny bit?" "white". I tried. I never called him out on all the rumors I heard. Believe it or not, contrary to this post, I'm actually really shy....and I don't cuss as much as I want to at times. I'm relatively quiet and have a pretty smile....at least that's what the drunk guys tell me at the bar! Only it sounds more like, "why you so quiet? You sure do have a purdy smile. You got a boyfriend?" SMOOTH. lol
Back on track...The WalMart...because every road leads to a WalMart, in the South. Where we shop is like right on the line of Redneck White People Ville, The "ghetto", Little Mexico...and just home to the weirdest, scooter beeping, elderly people on the face of the Earth. People get stabbed in the parking lot, some woman randomly started beating on my Mom's car with her purse one day. Dudes in camo walk around smelling like Deer piss...with little mini versions of themselves waddling behind them, dripping of the same alluring, vomit-inducing funk. Damn, it seems like the great unifiers of our Nation are the fucking Ammo case, the rack of tacky Jesus t-shirts and pinto beans...all at WalMart. Want World Peace: Build a WalMart and keep Chinese Dudes stocked up in American Uteruses. Uterusies...Uteri...not sure which is right...I've already googled how to spell "sphincter" and "aphrodisiac"...I really don't need anymore weird search history to explain! Another great thing about my WalMart, if you can't tell already, it's the people watching. It would make a fantastic drinking game. Motherfuckers be talking to themselves. And if you can understand them, you don't know if they have Dementia, (one drink) are methed-out,(2 drinks) drunk as shit (drink it all, before that guy sniffs it out!) or if there's really someone else there...because fuck, I'm on Xanax...this could make me act way different than I think it does. I could be the one talking to myself...like I am essentially doing, right fucking now.
Also simmering in my bloodstream and belly: cold meds, steroids, albuterol, antibiotics, cough drops, several bowls of Ramen Noodles and a handful of candy that I stole from my kid's Halloween bucket...there's definitely no sleep for me tonight! I'm just fighting the urge to add homemade muscadine wine to the mix...which would probably kill me. Not because of the medications. But because my best friend made it, and God love him, he's a great man, but this wine is so strong and not in the moonshine "I suddenly think I can sing" kind of way...more in the "what the fuck was in those 37 different mixed drinks I drank" kind of way. It's just bad.
Tonight: I decided instead of staring at the random shadows cast by palm fronds and the other leaves of my potted plants, onto my lovely, peeling, 1970's bedroom wallpaper,..and listening to my "pregnant/hopefully she's not pregnant/oh shit I think she's pregnant/well, puppies are cute!" dog snore like the ex-husband I almost smothered with a pillow...that's a long story filled with too many white trash details to put out in public...unless I decide to introduce more medication into my body...or guzzle that fucking wine...then it might all come out. I'm really fighting the urge to call her "stupid whore dog" instead of her cutesy real name of "Daisy Moon". I can just see Ava as Show-And-Tell, holding up pictures..."These are the puppies my Dog, Stupid Whore Dog, had..." I would be banned from that school. She's already a trouble-maker sometimes. Now they could blame me. Anyway...ANYWHO (fyi that is annoying as fuck!) I decided I would write.
Why did I type...instead of write? Why did I actually decide to blog? Eh, I couldn't find a pencil. Yep. Thats why I grabbed my laptop and graced y'all with this, hopefully entertaining, glimpse into my head.
Every writing utensil is stashed away in the girls rooms. I didn't want to risk waking them up. I swear they're like magpies with shiny things, when it comes to pencils and crayons. They steal my canning jars to hide them in...and you know not to fuck with a Southern Woman and her Mason Jars. No. ma'am....they are for pickles and jelly. We may never eat all that shit but dammit it looks pretty on the shelf and impresses people who visit from bigger cities and are always on fad diets, that don't know how damn easy it actually is to make a batch of jelly. You can knock out a batch of blackberry, during the pre-game show of a college football game, while high as a kite and wearing a fully decorated Derby hat...seriously. I have pictures. Family Bonding.
Oh, and another thing my kids are obsessed with, and stash like fucking squirrels...random cardboard shit that should be recycled. I cleaned out from under Zelda's bed one time. In addition to the random assortment of boxes, I found over a dozen paper towel rolls, cereal boxes, a stack of round pizza cardboard (and we don't eat frozen pizza often, she was a serious collector!) and too many slightly flattened toilet paper rolls to count! I'm all for creativity. I encourage it. I love re-purposing reclaimed objects around the house. I mean, my coffee table is made from a fucking door...peeper window and all! But that was just a random, weird sight to come up on. (figuratively.) I was feeling up under the bed, without a flashlight which I will never do again! It's like..sock, pinecone, stuffed cat...what the fuck?!? I felt the rough ridged corrugated sheets of cardboard,,,freaked me out! (but the pinecone didn't. HA!) I had to ask myself, is this one of those creepy future serial killer warning signs? She has had a few...the doctor kit and tool kit combined, so she can listen to your heartbeat then saw off your fingers, one-by-one, when she was 2. I comforted myself with that one and said she was just going to be a surgeon one day. Is her life goal to be on an episode of hoarders...how well do I actually know my child? Then I thought, maybe she'll be a really eccentric artist (in her spare time from being a Surgeon) and have an amazing life, traveling the world. meeting other free spirits, and be incredibly happy and successful. I went with the last thought. Next day, we made a kick-ass cardboard robot cat, some helmets, swords and shields for her and her sister...and we played with that shit until it fell apart....which wasn't long, it was fucking cardboard! ....And Duct Tape, because, as I stated before, I'm Southern. We use that silver gift from Heaven for everything. My Mom even has it on the backside of the fabric she used to recover her couch cushions.(shhh, yall!) It was a quick fix that was only supposed to be there for like a day while she had company...it's been like that for 3 or 4 years. Duct Tape is a staple in a Southerners tool box. And the Old Southern Men also have wire to fix random things on their trucks..."*grumble, grumble* just wire that shit togther...itll hold!" and REALLY old Southern Men have Hog Ring Pliers. Because that little ring will hold everything! I mean everything. Need to take in your 1980's Dickie Jeans...beltloop to beltloop...hog ring! Not joking...I'm pretty sure my Dad has done that.
So...hopefully ya'll weren't too offended. Maybe you learned something about me. I bet now you see the many answers to "Aww, why is she Single?"...Ha!
'night!
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