The Pig Situation

Sometimes I feel like all I do is tell you about my kids and how I struggle with the creative.  Read creative as a noun.  It's a thing.  Like a pig.  This is my life though.  The kids and the creative and animals.  Recently, it has been particularly challenging around here, Anna, the teen, did something she shouldn't have. 

I'm going to say she fed the pigs.  Insert your favorite offense here, I don't want to sell her out too much but, be honest; we have all fed the pigs, or at least thought about feeding the pigs.  See?  Any crime works.

Me:  Did you feed the pigs?
Anna:  It wasn't like that, mom!
Me:
Anna:  So, what? I'm grounded?!?!
Me:  Yes.  Total lockdown.  No screens, no car, no nothing but a book and nature.
Anna:  For how long??!!!  Oh my God, this is not....!!!  Mom!  I was going to go see Nathan this weekend?!  Spring break starts Monday!!!
Me:
Anna:  Mom!
Me:  What you did was illegal.  You need time to think about stuff.
Anna:  It wasn't like that!!
Me:  Yes.  It was.
 
During this, my sister asked me if I could replicate this.

Yep.  I sure can.  I think...  I was nervous because I haven't worked with oils in a long time.  But I really have a thing for pigs lately since I saw this on fb.

I can't help it.  I see an animal and I need them; to hold them and name them.  My friends get it. 

I'm currently in negotiations with the husband.  He is not nearly as excited.

Husband:  We are not getting a pig.
Me:  I know.
Husband:
Me;  We are getting two, one might get lonely.
Husband:  No.  (walks away shaking his head.)

I decided to start on the pig for my sister, 'cause pigs are awesome.

Meanwhile Jesse and I are having a fallout over a math project.  He decided not to do it.  He decided to lie to me about doing it.  Now, by the grace of his teacher, he is getting another chance to finish it.  He will also have no screen time until it's done.  This makes me the meanest mom ever.  Ever of all time.  The. Meanest.

Meanest Mom Competition, over.  I win.

I love him, so I don't care, I'll take that title.  Math first, nice mom later.

Me:  What kind of mom would I be if I didn't get on to you about your math?  You are the one who chose to be dishonest about it and as your mom, I reserve the right to be upset about it.  What kind of mom would I be if I didn't say anything?
Jesse:  The good kind.
Me: (giving him the side eye) Someday you will thank me.
Jesse:  No.  I wont.

It should also be noted that Anna is walking round here pissed about being grounded for feeding the pigs.  When I say "walking" I mean stomping.  She is still in denial about her crime.  In her defense she saw an opportunity, but still it's not okay and I can't let up.  It seems like my kids bond the best when they are all mad at me.  It's kind of sweet in an anarchy sort of way.  They both give me the side eye, Anna actually takes Jesse's hand and off they go.  I am sure to discuss my retirement home amenities. 

Pig Progress.

The kids are still moping even though they have graduated to partial lockdown.

While I am doing this, I am wondering if I can add it to the Tonya Jean thing.  I mean it's not really my work, but I couldn't find the artists name on the Amazon deal....   I still don't feel right about putting my name on it, but damn, I'm half in love with him.  He was a ton of fun.

The pig is done.  TonyaJean now does replicas.  Contact me at tonyajean.net (the website still sucks and I am still working on it) I would be glad to be of service.

  I'm also half in love with Rag'n'bone Man.  I should make the kids download it. 

 

Anti-Aging? Let's Just Age

I'm sitting here in Starbuck's in what might actually be underwear and not yoga shorts.  Under Armour confuses me.  I'm killing time before hot yoga.  Why do I spend an hour 3 times a week in a 90* room with 20 other people in spandex, dripping sweat; as we get instructed on how to tie our bodies into impossible (yet possible) knots testing our balance?  Because I want to be healthy and look good.  More importantly I want to look good. 

As I wait, I read an article about the magical healing powers of coconut oil.  Wrinkles and eye puffiness disappear over night.  Well, hot dog!  I think, as I add it to my grocery list.  I'll buy it organic.  I'm sure it will be expensive but probably waaayyy less than the Murad stuff I'm currently using -and it's natural.

Women.  We are beautiful every last one of us.  In all our shapes and sizes.

One thing we do not joke about?  Getting older.  We take this very seriously.  You've seen what some women do to themselves with plastic surgery and shit.  Yikes.  I read an article about Countess Erzsébet Báthory de Ecsed, she bathed in the blood of virgins as part of her 'beauty regimen'.  The. Blood. Of. Virgins.  We are not fucking around when it comes to wanting to look younger. 

As I stand here after yoga, in front of my mirror, covered from head to toe in coconut oil, I realize am more fit to be lightly fried than getting younger looking skin, I decide I'm not going down like this.  I mean, fight the good fight but, let's not lose our minds.

Have you ever looked at the Hollywood before and after pictures and ever once thought, "Oh yeah, she looks much better now."  No?  Me either.  Men aren't off the hook with this nonsense either.

Mickey Rourke

  Even though my credibility is shot after running around town in what may or may not be underwear, I want to make a pact with you, my friends.  Let's agree to never insert anything in our faces.  Let's teach our children that beauty comes, truly, from within.  That a healthy diet does more for you than any surgeon can.  Let's stick with beauty regimens that don't include murder and for the love of God, let's go gracefully with actual clothes on.

I've watched this 50 times.  Not sure how it applies to the blog but I had to share.
Walk off the Earth

 
  

2 Minutes Past Dark

It's time, I tell myself.  "It's actually past time."  I say quietly to no one in particular.  It's dark outside, like an ink blanket covering everything.  Must be a new moon, I think.  I look at the kids, it's too late to send them out.  I'll have to go.  I grab a jacket and my good solid shoes in case I have to run.  It's hard to go fast in rubber boots.  My yard backs up to a woods that goes on for miles.  I thought it was great when we first moved in, all surrounded by Mother Nature and the Universe.  But that was before, before I knew what was out there after dusk.

If I get out there before the sun goes completely down it is usually okay.  It is too early for the monsters.  Do not be fooled though, they are still out there, waiting for the night to take over.  Here I am, looking out in the pitch black looking for a shadow of courage.  I grab the only weapon I can, my Maglite.  The first part is easy; out the back door, down two flights of stairs, across the protected fenced in area.  It gets real once I am through the gate in the wild open space and the woods.

Armed with my Maglite I slip silently through the gate.  I start singing the Revivalists song that's been running through my head.  The coyotes are quiet, this is a sure sign something's out there.  I shine my flashlight in wide arc, holding it like a cop does on TV.  I first look for the glowing, red eye shine of a Bigfoot.  I sweep the beam high and low.  I listen for the dry leaf shuffle sound that only the zombies can make, it's unmistakable.  I'm always sure there is something there, just on the edge of the flashlight beam.

This.  This is what goes through my head when I go put the chickens up and collect the eggs at night.  I have 7 chickens. I used to have 8, I think the chupacabra got her.

“My daddy says that when you do somethin' to distract you from your worstest fears, it's like whistlin' past the graveyard. You know, making a racket to keep the scaredness and the ghosts away. He says that's how we get by sometimes. But it's not weak, like hidin'...it's strong. It means you're able to go on.”   
            -Susan Crandle Whistling Past the Graveyard

The revivalists song I sang -Wish I Knew You

   

The Recess Check

I went to do lunch relief.  I didn't want to, I had 600 things to do.  Since I started the Tonya Jean Co. business, I always have 600 things to do besides the thing I'm doing.  I do like going to lunch relief, the kids love me because I'm a pushover and I love to hear them talk.  One kid was telling me about how they have 30 racks of snakes.  30 racks of snakes?  I'm not even sure what this looks like.  Do you name them all?  I asked.  He looked at me as if I sprouted another head.  I obviously do not understand herpetology.  It was just that I have actual requests for custom cards -paying orders.  I'm over the moon.  Maybe I should let go of lunch relief go so I can work.   
 
I walked in and 3 kids came up to me yelling that Jesse got hurt.  His best buddy, Q, was shaking his head gravely.  My heart dropped and I asked where he was.  They told me he was on his way in from outside.  (I picked up my heart, he was not at the nurse or laying on the ground.)  They informed me that they were playing soccer and the biggest kid in the grade checked him.  Body checked him.  Q told me, "...he laid there for a long time -but he didn't cry that much."  From the side door of the cafeteria comes my boy, grinning from ear to ear.  He looked like he had been in a fight.  Covered in dried grass and dirt with an indiscriminate red mark above his eye.
 
Me:  What happened to you?!
Jesse:  Big B checked me.  I'm okay, except for when I couldn't breathe.
Me:  You couldn't breathe?! (I reached for him)
Jesse:  Ya, mom, I'm okay (holding his hands up like he was stopping traffic).  The whole recess came over, surrounded me.  I couldn't open my eyes because of dirt or something.  I was trying to talk but I couldn't breathe.  Everyone was asking if I was all right.  Emiro thought I was dead. 
Me:  Oh my God.
Jesse:  I tried to spit so they could see I was alive, but I couldn't.  Some kid (he shares a secret knowing look at Q and they start laughing) said, "Everyone take a knee...it's respectful."
*At this point they doubled over laughing.
Q (collecting himself):  He was hurt though.  Everyone was standing around him.
Jesse:  Yeah.  Literally, mom, the whole 4th grade recess.

Getting this story fresh, as it had just happened, was priceless. Their eyes were twinkling with the telling of it.  I brushed some of the grass off him and asked him to please, try to go the rest of the day with out getting hurt.

Jesse and Q

I share this because I actually considered not doing lunch relief.  These kids grow so fast, this is really one of the only volunteer opportunities I have left.  Can you imagine if I I showed up at Anna's school for lunch?  She would die.  I mentioned before how my husband and I made the decision together that I would be a stay at home mom.  I found, though, that as my kids got older my job here at home left me with this open time from 9- 2.  There is only so much house cleaning a person can do.  It's tough to find a job, after you've been a stay at home mom for 15 years.  Also, have you seen daytime television?  It is either listening to people argue, the Lone Ranger (circa 1949) or The Doctors convince me I have some weird affliction.

 
Now that I decided to try my hand at these greeting cards and such, and that people are actually placing orders, I find that 9-2 time fills up quickly.  I'm often behind on housework and laundry.  I thought about this recess/lunch relief moment, though, and how I would have missed it.  I had forgotten for a second that being a stay at home mom is my first job, my favorite job.  Tonya Jean Co., the greeting cards and such, will just have to get done when they get done.

I guess I also got checked.

That being said, here is one of the custom cards I am working on. 

...and some I finished.

Here's to another week of juggling the mom, wife, sister, volunteer, TonyaJeanCo., laundress, cook, housekeeper, badass. 

Paul Thorn has got me.  I love him.  Get yourself a healin' 

Everything's Gonna Be Alright

We all know the script, when you decide to have children, there is no book.  No right way to do this or that.  Mostly, you realize, you are probably doing it all wrong.  When I feel like I am doing it right, everyone is mad at me.  Case in point, I decided my kids need to help out more and have less screen time. 

I refuse to compose yet another chore sheet or have another discussion about allowances.  The 'new program' is that you just do what I ask you to do.  My kids have plenty.  They don't need ready cash on hand.  Their allowance will go straight to their bank accounts.  Unless you fight with me.  Then you get nothing and you will still do what ever it is I need done and probably extra because I am mean.

The thing is with kids and the fact that there is no how to book, getting them to get their chores done is a chore.  I gotta check everything because they will lie about doing it or half ass something.  Anna didn't realize that part of cleaning the bathroom was cleaning the tub.  When Jesse was unloading the dishwasher, he suddenly had no idea what anything is or where it goes.  He asked me where the 'grappling hook' goes.

The grappling hook

I'm also sick of competing with their phones and closed doors.  I miss them.  An extension of the 'new program' is that when they get home from school they will put their phones up for an hour.  Give themselves an hour just to regroup from the day.  Take a break.  They can have it back after an hour.  Then again at dinner, they have to give 'em up for 2 hours.  We will have an undistracted dinner and cleaning up time.  They can have them back until it goes up for the night.  Anna's curfew is 10-10:30 and Jesse's is 8; weekend times vary.  To be fair, Jesse is hardly on his phone, I am mostly talking about his gaming and YouTubing.  I was all proud of myself.  I couldn't wait to talk to them again about what music they are listening to and what their friends are doing. 

Holy civil war.  Instead of brother against sister it was kids against the parents.  Although this new program seemed perfectly reasonable to me, the kids couldn't have disagreed more.  And boy, did they.  Jesse sulked around and didn't spare me a single dirty look.  Anna decided she was in for the fight.

Anna as she walks upstairs with Jesse:  (Under her breath)  So stupid.
Me:  What did you say?
Anna:  Nothing.
Jesse: She didn't say anything, mom.

I know what she said, I decided to let it go.  She has a right to be upset about the rule.  I'll give her a minute to get used to it and realize it really isn't so bad.  I was even proud of myself for not fighting with her about it or giving in to the adorable dirty looks from Jesse.

My husband, Mike, came home and I was telling him about the new program.  We patted each other on the back about how we outsmarted the chore sheet.  We were discussing and re-justifying the new plan when we heard Anna talking upstairs in her room with the door closed.  We gave each other that "How strange" look because the phones were in our room in the "charging area" (the dresser).  My husband went up there all ninja like to see what was what.  He knocked and opened her door, she looking him dead in the eye and said she was doing homework.  My husband, being a seasoned parent, turned the screen around and there was her boyfriend, blinking back at him.  "Good Bye, Nathan." says my husband as he confiscated the laptop. 

I guess we forgot to clarify no phone also means no FaceTiming from the laptop.  No texting from the laptop either.  There was arguing.  Then more arguing.  Jesse came to her defense of our ridiculous rules.  I went up to tag Mike out.  I told him to take a minute because I was fresh with hope and understanding.  I was as calm as can be and ready to share that calmness with my daughter.  I opened her door and she promptly kicked it shut yelling, "Get out of here."  It was like time stood still for a second.  Don't throw the child out the window.  I couldn't believe she had the nerve to do that, then took a moment to admire her bravery.  I was rendered speechless.  Which was a good thing because no one was going to be listening nor talking.   

So here we are.  No one won.  No one wants to talk about music or friends.  Anna lost her door and the new "screentime" rule is in effect until further notice.  Like forever.  Wish me luck.  My hope is that I will remain steadfast in the new program and they will come around to hanging out with me.

It was 2 days later when I pulled out a deck of cards to a collective eye roll.  

Paul Thorn:  Everything's Gonna Be Alright.  It will be.  It will.
    

I Musta Got Lost

Here it is second week in January.  I was doing what I should,  reassessing my life and all.  Not just because it is the time of year for that but, honestly, I think I lost my way. I couldn't get my shit right.   I couldn't write a blog; designing the greeting cards felt like work...in a sweat shop.  I bought a "Live Happy" daily calendar hoping for zings of positivity -what waste of money that was.  This calendar and I have very different versions of happy.  January 3rd it suggested we cut back on drinking and bad habits?  Wth?  Friday it talked about emotional contagion.  Again, I'm like wth?  Apparently, we can "catch" strangers emotions.  Nope.  I can't, I really can't.  I can't even figure out my own emotions let alone some stranger's.

I'm going back to Barnes and Noble to find one with drink recipes and quotes from Mark Twain. I just couldn't get things right.  I think it started sometime around October.  Not only with this blog, writing my book and designing the greeting cards, but everything.

Writing my book and the blog has been sporadic at best.  My poor blog.  I didn't even do the last one.  I would sit to write and feel this pressure to be funny.  Holy mother of all things holy...I can't take the pressure!  I didn't write to be funny when I started, I just wrote to share.  But, then, when people started to tell me I was funny and they liked it....I took it very seriously.  I looked at my past blogs and I cringed.  Except for Monica's, hers was awesome.  My last one before that was about poop.  Dear God.  I wrote some recently but was afraid to share publically because they were too personal or what if it wasn't funny, or however the hell I talked myself out of it. 

Truth is that I forgot why I was doing it.  I have never worried too much about what anyone thought of me or my ideas. I originally wanted to share the experience and hopefully encourage someone else to do that thing they do in the midst of raising kids and living life.  Sharing; I truly believe this helps the human condition.  I mean except when tacos are involved, those I can not share.  

The art and greeting cards have me feeling like Rocky Balboa in the 8th round with Thunderlips.  I thought this was supposed to be for fun?

I was looking at all the cards and wondered when did it start feeling like work and I was under qualified?  I was pumping out greeting cards because I thought I had to.  I was listening to all the chatter around me saying they weren't good enough or that I should or need to have this and that card.  So, I went to work drawing all those cards they said I needed.  I Googled, "What cards do people buy?" and "Top 10 funny cards" ?  What the hell is wrong with me?  Designing cards just to do them?  That isn't why this started.  I am just starting out.  I am not Hallmark.  I just wanted to spread a little love and possibly give any extra to the Mother Theresa House. 

So here I am in a funk, no writing, no drawing, no happy calendar.  I went to yoga and Ilianna starts on about our chakras.  I have joked before about my chakra's being out of whack, but I did not think for one second that I was enlightened enough to straighten that out.  I get they exist and that I have no idea, I'm just trying to hold my pose.  Plus, I'm catholic, we don't really do any other enlightenment except Jesus, the angels and saints.  Many times during that practice we acknowledged our bright shining chakras.  That night I got hives.

I have never been allergic to anything.  I never had a reaction to detergents or pollen.  I thought for sure this was some sort of penance because I had betrayed my catholic side recognizing and envisioning my chakras.  Also, my internal voice is like 6 years old, so I scratched.  I scratched until I threatened to put mittens on myself.  All across my neck I felt itchy.  Itchy like I was trying to scratch out of my skin.  After much deliberation, I've decided it's my chakra's, I am sure of it.  My throat chakra specifically. 

This after yoga on Thursday, I almost didn't go 'cause it looks so bad.

I know because I googled it.  The throat chakra is blue which I learned at yoga, but it's all about speaking your truth.  I was gobsmacked.  I'm telling you though, I couldn't stop scratching until I did that ^ to myself.  Here it is, 5 days later.  I should've put mittens on. 

I truly believe that my throat chakra was freaking the fuck out.  I was sitting in church Sunday and Father talked about the 3 wise men from the east.  They followed a star to get to Jesus.  Just so you know, as catholics we do not believe in astrology, but the Magi studied the stars.  I know it's a stretch but if the Magi can follow astrological signs, I can envision my chakra.

And behold, the star that they had seen at its rising preceded them,
until it came and stopped over the place where the child was.
They were overjoyed at seeing the star,
and on entering the house
they saw the child with Mary his mother.

Let's be done with everyone else.  If you wanna write, write, if you draw, draw. Whatever your thing is, do it. Block the rest out.  I'm not equipt to figure out God, chakras and religion, but I am done with being told what I should or should not do.  Back to the basics.  Do you.  I'm just going to write, share and spread a little love.  Speak your truth.  That is all.

I'm going to give you two songs this time.  Rocky because that's where my heart is and the J. Geils Band  'cause that's where my head is.

Our Lady of the Rosary in Greenville for your spirit

90 Degrees in Greenville to get your chakra's right
The rest is up to you.

     

Monica's Non-Blog

This piece was written by Monica Gransee.  Writer/dog lover extraordinaire.  I love this woman, her dogs and her writing.  Enjoy. 


I don't have a fancy blog. Nor do I want one. I just feel the need to tell you this story. So I'll write, you'll read, it'll be fine.

 I now have three dogs. I didn't want three dogs. I don't need three dogs, no one does. But sometimes things are beyond your control. And when God is calling you to do something, you are almost never in control. The reason I know this was Him and not me, is because it all worked itself out a little too perfectly if that makes any sense at all. Anyway, here goes...

 A week ago, yes I said a WEEK, my husband saw this sweet innocent corgi face on the corgi rescue site. The site is actually called "Corgis That Are Safe But Need Fur-EVER Homes". Right? I'm saying, we never had a chance. He had been rescued from an unsafe, unsanitary backyard breeding program. The owner had used him to breed multiple litters and all the while had kept him in a cage, untouched, for TWO YEARS. I know, but it gets worse. The owner was not breeding Corgis any longer because he wasn't able to sell them for the price he wanted, so the existing Corgis were to be hauled off to the shelter asap. Luckily for us, our heroic rescuer was there. And she decided to buy him from the villainous owner right on the spot.

She then posted him on her page for any sucker, I mean me, to haphazardly scroll across that angelic visage and fall hopelessly in love. Mission accomplished.

 This is the point where logic and reasoning TRIED to voice their futile opinions into my brain. I came up with numerous reasons why this was a BAD idea. A really, really bad idea. Unfortunately, when God is the idea man, your lovely inner voice becomes more of an angel's advocate. Here's an example of this totally unfair exchange:

Me: We already have TWO Corgis. Any more and we will really start to look like an intervention is needed.

Voice: Nah. Two corgis, three Corgis. I don't really see a difference.

Me: That's just more food bills, vet bills and boarding costs when we want to go out of town.

Voice: So you stay home a bit more. You won't die...will you?

Me: I don't need another dog. This is crazy!

Voice: He needs YOU. And a loving family who will give him the life he's never had. That's what's really important, isn't it?

Deep sigh. Okaaaaaaaaaa-YUH. Dammit.

Let's skip forward a bit, not much as I said, because things move quickly when you aren't driving. We arranged a meeting with our heroic rescuer and agreed upon a fair rehoming fee. After all, she HAD purchased him in his hour of need and seen to his basic medical care. God bless her.

I must've thought of 1256 reasons why we should cancel. We shouldn't go. What are we doing? Is this even happening right now? All of this going on while I packed an overnight bag and got in the truck.

We drove 5.5 hours to Conyers, GA to meet her halfway. This woman is the sweetest person you'd ever hope to meet so another part of me didn't want to let her down. I wanted her to think me every part the heroic rescuer she was. She arrived the next morning at our designated meeting point, a baseball field across the street from the hotel. As she pulled in, I looked into her truck window and saw two eager ears poking up. He was too short to see out the window from a sitting position. Eek! She went around to the passenger side and got him down. Our eyes met and I loved him immediately.

It was at this point I lost all sense of decorum and procedure. I handed our heroic rescuer the agreed upon, reasonable, rehoming fee in a wadded ball of cash before she could change her mind. She smiled at me and she TOOK it. There. Transaction complete lady! No turning back now. It took everything I had not to grab the leash out of her hand and bolt for the open truck door. I calmed myself. Breathe. Just breathe.

He began to play with Sierra and Winston. There was no fighting, no barking, nothing. All three of them just trotting around the ball field in a little Corgi conga line. You know how people talk about their "hearts melting"? YES. THAT. It was beyond my control. I was helpless. Completely lost in the thought of what this little fur angel had been through. How tough his life must've been up until this point. Up until RIGHT NOW. This little handsome meatball had just won the fucking lottery of Corgi loving idiot families and he didn't even know it. Yet.

So that's it. That's my story. Or should I say HIS story. History...hmm. He is called Theodore Maximus. As in, "All hail His Grace, Theodore Maximus. "First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."

Or "Teddy Bear" for short. Double eek.

HRH in the middle

We brought him home and here we sit. I should point out that the first thing he did, his official first act as king, was to lift his leg on my 7 ft. inflatable Santa. Yup. He peed on Santa. If that's not a commentary on whom and what the true reason for the season is, well then I don't know what is. Whether he was brought here by fate, or divine providence or whatever you want to call it, all that matters now is that he's here. Let the royal spoiling commence!

Boys and dogs

Everyday after school Jesse can hardly wait for me to pull the car into the garage before he hops out.  First, he runs to the tree and pees.  Then, Harley and Khaleesi run out and off they all go.  As I watch him out there talking to and playing with the dogs, I often wonder what goes through his mind.  Boys.  They can be so sweet and kind.  More often though, they are completely inappropriate.   

Me:  Jesse, C'mon, let's practice your spelling words.  Read them to me in a sentence.
Jesse:  Wiped.  I wiped my butt.
Me:  (eyeroll)
Jesse:  Covered. I covered my butt.
Me:
Jesse:  Slipped. I slipped in poop.
Me:  Okay!  Okay.  Enough with the potty talk.  Let's finish the rest of these without saying poop or butt.
Jesse:  Smelling....(He looks at me and I just shake my head like "don't do it.")  I'm smelling something that's not poop.

This is how it goes with boys.  Poop, fart, butt, pee is integrated in all conversations and how every joke ends or begins. Today, after the busy work of playing outside, he comes upstairs.  Screws around with his Lego's for a little while.  He comes over to my desk and ever so sweetly lays his arm across my back.  He compliments my drawing and then calmly with zero urgency says, "Someone threw up on your bed." 

"What?!" I just washed my bedspread.  I literally just took it out of the washer, slightly damp because it takes five years to dry.  I laid it over the bed and went up stairs to finish drawing this panda card I'm working on.  "Who threw up?   >pause<    Did you?"  I only asked him that because I could smell a faint corn chip smell and snack time was long gone.  He says, "No."  Me, forever in mom mode, start a completely different line of questioning, "Are you eating chips?  We are going to have dinner soon."  He pats my back sweetly, reassuring me that it was only a few chips, he'd eat his dinner and that he thinks it was Harley that puked on my bed. 

Harley, our Corgi mix has 4 inch legs.  There is no way he jumped up on my bed and puked.  Had to be Khaleesi.

The suspects

I rush into my room.  It was like one of those scenes in a scary movie where the camera flashes from one horror to another.  I see a weird brownish color smeared on my bedspread. Pan to it smeared along the side of it, the part that hangs down.  To Jesse sitting on my bed with his shoes on.  "Is that mud?!" I kind of shout.

"No.  Smell it."  I'm going to say this, even though you know, when your 9 year old boy tells you to smell something, just don't.  Do not.  So... I smelled it and no, it wasn't mud.  It wasn't puke, either.  It was poop.  Dog poop.

Dog poop all over my freshly laundered bed spread.  I stood there, I think in shock, for second until it all registered.  There was no poop fairy coming to clean this mess up.  I began to rant.  I'm not proud of it but, I did.  I instilled and reiterated a few house rules.  Loudly.  No shoes in the house.  No kids, chips or dogs in my room.  I threw the chips in there because yesterday there was orange Cheetos dust on my bed spread, hence the freshly laundered blanket.  (Weird thing was... nobody did it.  Maybe this is a horror movie and I have a ghost eating Cheetos on my bed.)  I added that the dog poop pick up chore would now be done daily.

Also, we do not yell an apology.  We say it like we mean it or we don't say it at all.
 
As I was cleaning the mess up and talking loudly from the bedroom to the laundry room; Jesse, God bless him, was trying to not laugh because I kept saying poop.  I had to give it all to Jesus when I gagged a little while using my Shout stain remover.  I heard him mimic me with a "hoorrrk" sound.  I stopped shoe scraping and turned to look at him, I had no words.  There he was bright eyed with Khaleesi and Harley right next to him watching the shit show. 

It was an accident, I know, but I needed a minute.  It was so gross.  I want a new bedspread for Christmas -actually I want that right now.  I even thought about declaring my house a lost cause and putting it up for sale.  It is amazing how much indoor ground a boy can cover with one dog poop shoe.

The boy

"Little boys bring you just to the brink of insanity before gently easing you off the ledge with a sweeet kiss and laughter from a perfectly timed fart."

Chris Issak

Thanksgiving in Nebraska

We just got back from Thanksgiving in Nebraska.  I love Nebraska.  Nebraska gets a bad rap because usually, all outsiders see of it is I-80 and the airport.  Admittedly, this is not our best side.  Other than those two places, Nebraska is all earth and sky.  It is truly a beautiful sight.  Fields that go on forever and a day.  You can watch storms roll in from miles away.  It's breath taking and there is nothing like our sunsets.

This was taken from Nebraska Through the Lens fb page, check it out.

Nebraska is mostly made up of small businesses, cattlemen and farmers.  It is a true characteristic of these Nebraskan's that they are all in, all the time.  When I go home, I always ask my dad or, my uncle (if I can get to him), how the market is doing.  I love the way these guys talk.  My dad says things like, "They got their clocks cleaned on cattle this year."  They probably did, but they never throw in the towel.  My sister works on the insurance side of things and some of the stuff she tells me would break your heart.  Hail, rain, wash outs, no rain, tornado's, it doesn't stop them though. According to my dad, the only thing that'll stop a farmer, is the banker.

I have 20 nieces and nephews.  I love it. Every single one of them.  Here are a few of the little things that I love.  I was looking at my phone on the flight home I had 600 pictures of Joe and they all look like this:

 

My niece, Leah.  Oh, Leah!  She is just one of those kids that is fun to jerk around.  She can dish it out and take it.  For some crazy reason I let her do my hair.  I have very thin and not very much hair naturally and now have less.  My hair, what was left of it, was styled much like that of my 1 year old niece, Julia.

She was way less excited about it than I was.

Me and Leah

Anthony is my birthday twin and I accidently 'steamrollered' him.  I mean, we were wrestling, but I weigh...  anyway, I squished him.  I may send him something because one should never squish their birthday twin.  The sparkly pens I got him from the book fair don't count because the steamroller happened after. 

Look at him! So stinkin' cute!  And I steamrollered him!  Going to post office tomorrow....

My son's fiancée, Daisy, had her family visiting from South Carolina as well.  They are amazing.  I wonder what they think of us, though.  When Daisy's mom cracked my sons back.  She had him lie down on the floor, turn his head a certain way and as she pressed down you could hear the tell tale sound of bone cracking, back relief.  The next thing you know it, there we all are waiting in line for a back cracking.  We are all tall. Someone should have warned her.   

I am so proud of all of us.  My ex, Chuck, and I can be at the same table and everyone gets along.  I love that my family is huge and loud and we have really been through it all via one person or another.  It was not always good.  Honestly, some of it is really bad and probably still is, but we bring it together because we are a family.  We were taught to respect that and maybe there is some forgiveness in there as well. I have heard my parents say, "You guys better figure it out and get along!" or "Shape up and get with the program!" since I was little.  My sister Tricia and I got into a big fight last year and now, here we are sitting at her table, drinking too much vodka while cooking turkey and she is teaching me how to Snapchat. 

With the six of us kids plus wives and husbands, it seems there could always be drama and honestly there is but, we have been in the "program" a long time and we make it work.  The sister that is currently giving me trouble, drove us to the airport.  She even hugged me too long which made me forget to be upset at her.

As I read this over looking for typo's that I won't see, I had the thought that maybe it's for the children of this family that we, the adults, pull it together.  Even though we all, at one time or another were spitting mad at each other, we never bring the kids into it.  When I was mad at my sister, if she had said, "Anna is going with me to..." I would have texted her back.  "k."  In lower case, though, 'cause I was mad, but would never deny one the other.  Same with Chuck.  We did everything wrong except Jonathan.  We always pulled it together for him.  It was the one thing we did right.

*Side note
Things I learned not to say because for one reason or another the younger generation dubbed these uncool:
Go shoot hoops.
Let's snappie.
Let's do snaps.
Isn't snapping with your Aunt Tonya awesome!?

On a slightly other note.
Check out my new website: tonyajean.net and buy a card!  It's a work in progress, but seriously, buy a card.

Let's take a listen to some Steve Earle.  Some young Steve Earle.

 

Other People's Kids

Can we agree, as parents, to some universal truths or maybe just some basic rules?  Please tell me you've been there.  Janice and I can't be the only ones. 

This situation happened to her, it is truth number one, kids are going to get hurt.:
Johnny's mom:  Hi...so, after playing at your house, Johnny came home and has a bump on his head.
Janice:  Ummm...I'm not sure....Is he okay?  He didn't say anything while he was here....
Johnny's mom:  Yes, but it seems like every time he goes over there he gets hurt.
Janice:  Every time?

The kids come over; they play.  They have fun.  Sometimes, someone gets hurt. Sometimes, it's her kid.  It happens.  Calm the hell down.  We are not going to sit out there and watch their every move.  We hand out snacks and water.   We will peek out over our margarita glasses to make sure all is well.  If this is insufficient parental guidance keep your kid at home.  No one intends for your kid to get hurt.  Trust me.  It makes you feel like a jerk.  Accidents happen.  Most likely your kid was having a blast -right up until he wasn't.

At my house we do stuff like this:

These are my children as the prepare to fly down the hill on Tonka trucks.

Honestly, as much as that ^ was worrisome, I'd rather see that than this:

Another thing is, do not believe everything my kids say.  Anna, my favorite teenager, is very good at being a teenager.  She is also very clumsy.   I swear to god, she must have an inner ear situation.  Since the moment she started walking, when she falls, she either busts her lip or gets a knot on her forehead.  No scraped knees or elbows for this kid.  Nope.  She either looks like Angelina Jolie or Rocky Balboa.  When I explained to the other parent that I did not actually throw her out the window, I cringed because I told her she fell on the stairs.  I know, but she actually fell on the stairs.  Not down the stairs, she had trouble with the going up part.  I know what it sounds like, though.  I am waiting for CPS.

Falling from the monkey bars in kindergarten.  Her front teeth went through her bottom lip and promptly fell out.

Also, please, no inappropriate movies.  When I say inappropriate movies, I'm talking about skin and horror.  I am not talking about Jurassic Park or that new Batman movie -no Deadpool.  Then there's that whole shady PG 13 realm.  Can we agree on mild violence and draw the line at boobs and possessed dolls?

One more.  The Tooth Fairy brings a dollar.  One. Dollar.  Not $50.  What is wrong with some people?  Kids have, like, 20 baby teeth. 

I promise while your kid is in my care I will do my level best by them.  Unfortunately, I cannot promise they will not be exposed to bad language, booze and general shenanigans.  They will be kept safe, fed and with sufficient parental supervision.  Truthfully, I will probably treat them better than I treat my own as evidenced by this meme Anna sent me.

This song has nothing to do with this blog.  I just can't get enough of these guys.  Enjoy.

Good vs Evil

I try to be a good person, I do.  I have Jesus in my heart.  To be honest though, I struggle with the whole good/bad thing.  I go to church.  I help out when I can.  I go out of my way to bring a smile to someone's face.  I am generally kind to people I meet.  There are times though.  There are times when I just can't do it, -be nice I mean.

I believe Dante left something out when describing hell in his Inferno.  Somewhere in the ditches of the 8th circle of hell lies the DMV.  It may be because there was no such thing as the DMV back in 1317, because, surely, he would have included it.  The DMV in our little South Carolina town is notorious for being difficult.  Much like Dante's Inferno there are different "circles" at our DMV.  However, first you have to get past the Gatekeeper.  This Gatekeeper finds out what you need and makes sure you have all the proper documentation to obtain it.  If you are lacking anything she turns you away.  No smiles, no fuss, no muss, you don't get in the door.  You get denied and back track a walk of shame through the lobby.  She holds the power, the key, and she knows it.  She takes her job very seriously.  

I double checked with the website to make sure all our ducks were in a row.  We had everything we needed, I even grabbed her birth certificate and social security card just in case.  I grabbed mine too because you never know.  We got in line in the too small, overcrowded lobby.  We silently marveled at the cast of characters awaiting their fate.  Interestingly, in the halls of purgatory there isn't much conversation.  Finally we were up, I confidently handed her our paperwork. 

She studied it very carefully.  I wasn't worried, I was ready, I even brought backup paperwork.  I was being charming.  Anna looked innocently eager to drive independently, as she gripped her bright green, sealed envelope containing the results of her drive test.  We were quite the bright eyed pair.  I blinked expectantly for my number to indicate which circle of hell we'd be visiting that day.  The Gatekeeper, not swayed by our charm and good looks, said, "This needs to say 'secretary'."  I looked at the paper.  It was the paper that had the signatures of her school, her driving class instructor and me, her legal guardian.

I see that it was signed properly by everybody.  The line that was supposed to be signed 'secretary' read 'administrative asst.'   I thought, Are you f'ing kidding me?!?  Still smiling and trying to be good, I say, "It does." I point out the line in question. 
"No,"  She says, "it needs to say the word secretary."  She used her finger as if to underline the word.

I was confused.  Surely this woman knows that administrative assistant and secretary mean the same thing, right?  I was getting pissed because I realized she found it, she found the reason she could turn us away.  The fact that she would pick this detail on this kid, had me confused. This is a hopeful fifteen year old.  She can't even drive past six o'clock!  Was she really just being mean?  Mean and for no good reason?  My ever hopeful daughter's excitement and dreams of independence were about to get smashed.  I decided to not go down without a valiant effort.  Smiling I said, "It does.  Administrative Assistant and Secretary mean the same thing."  I use my finger in a similar manner and tried not to sound condescending. 

"It needs to say that word secretary."  Again with the underlining finger. 

I was done.  I was not going to play nice anymore.  You don't get to be mean for no good reason on my watch and get away with it.  The devil in me wanted to leap over her counter and teach her a thing or two about being a decent human being.  Unfortunately, the only way the devil in me knows how to do that is violently.  I thought, Oh, please Jesus, do not let me lose it here at the DMV in front of Anna.  I, no longer smiling and in a more authoritative voice, said, "People don't really use the word secretary anymore.  The point here, really, is that the right person signed this form."  She leveled her eyes at me.  She knew it and didn't care.  This bitch was not going to let us pass. 

She restated with no inflection or remorse, "It needs to say secretary."

I level right back at her and said, "That is bullshit and you know it."

"We sent a card to the schools saying it needs to say Secretary, Guidance Counselor, Vice Principal or Principal.  Those words."

I take my time before answering.  I want her to squirm a little, "That's bullshit, too and you know it.  That is sad."  I gave her my best disapproving look.  She turned away.  She would no longer speak to me.

My daughter was clearly disappointed.  I stood and stared at the Gatekeeper for another beat, debating whether or not I wanted to be on WYFF Channel 4 news that evening.  I chose, instead of violence, to be an example to my daughter (except for the profanity).   I slammed my fist on the counter as we turned to begin our walk back through the lobby.  The quiet souls, they knew.  They all knew we would have to come back.  They knew what happened to us.  They pitied us. 

We left the DMV to the sound of me yelling, "I hate the DMV!"  The room of quiet souls, awaiting their fate, chuckled.  I heard an "Amen" as we stormed out of there.  I suggested we eat our disappointment in the form of sushi. 

On our way to lunch, Anna, tested the waters, "That was bullshit."  Yes.  I agreed it was and told her to watch her mouth.  At lunch we were told by our waitress that she went to the DMV in a neighboring city and they were awesome.  She looked at my daughter and agreed that the DMV was, indeed, a rite of passage.  She had heard about the one here.  It is that bad.  We decided we had nothing to lose and drove out to the neighboring town.  You know what happened?  She got her license.  Yep.  The Gatekeeper there even played to Anna's excitement when she saw the bright green, sealed envelope.  She glanced at our paperwork and passed us through without a sneer.  It took everything I had to not go back to the other DMV and have another word with that first Gatekeeper.  Good wins again.

Tomorow is Another Day

Anna and I had one of those moments the other night.  One of those moments where you are looking at your child, your heart, your soul.  She is brave, strong and beautiful but, all I wanted to do was throw that precious princess out the window.  She was pissed at me, at the world, her boyfriend, God, everything.  I'm sitting there, as she is completely wigging out, flashing back to the moment of her birth.  All the things I thought we'd do, the times she surpassed my expectations, all of it; all her wonderfulness.

I have gotten more notes from school regarding my daughter than both of my sons put together.  The one time when she "allegedly" knocked a kid down for calling her friend fat.  The time when she accidentally said a bad word at another girl because "...she had it coming."  The time she didn't talk to me from Tennessee to South Carolina because I wouldn't pick up a stray dog.  This child of mine,  Anna.  She is absolutely amazing.  But right now, at this moment, I want to chuck her screaming ass out the window.  I get it.  She is mad.

I realized she was not yet ready for Facebook, so we had to delete it.  Not just off her phone but, the whole account.  We can try again in a year.  We also moved her phone curfew back to 10:00 instead of 10:30, what a difference thirty minutes makes.  At this moment, she is not sure who is worse, me or Satan.  I'm worried because I think she thinks the devil understands her better.  So, there I am watching her freak the fuck out.  It's the usual rant of I don't understand anything, I'm ridiculous, etcetera, etcetera... as she slams her door.

>side note<
Every night I pray with the kids.  Jesse always prays for the entire family -everyone he can think of,  that nobody fights and that we all have a good day.  Anna always prays for the souls in purgatory and whatever thing is on her mind.  For example, "...and please God help my algebra teacher not be crazy."
>end side note<

So here we are.

Jesse:  (brushing his teeth)
Me:  Anna!  It's time to pray.
Anna: (In a voice that can only be described as 'sarcastic Satan')  You want to pray?! 
Me:  Yep. 
Anna:  (sarcastic laugh) haha...oh...okay...whatever...
Jesse is nervous, to be honest, I am too.  Pissed off teen is a scary situation.  I settle Jesse in his bed with his bunny, Snugglelump.  I settle in next to him.  Anna, who usually sits by us, is standing with her arms crossed, fuming.
Me:  Now I lay you down to sleep, I pray the Lord your souls to keep.  Angels watch you through night and keep you in their blessed sight.
Jesse: God bless mom, dad, Jon, Anna, Jesse, Daisy, Snugglelump and Nathan.  Please God don't let mom and Anna fight. 
Me:  (Cringing because... jeez)  Anna, you're up.
Anna:  (spins her head completely around all Exorcist style to glare at me) God bless all the souls in Purgatory (looking at me like she wished my soul was in purgatory) and find my heart.
Me:  (Speechless) (For one second)  Lord, keep my children in Your hands.

Anna proceeded to challenge me.  She wanted a fight and I was very close to giving her one.   Jesse started reading Nate the Great...loudly.  I was tired.  I had had enough of this.  I got up, both kids got that 'Oh shit' look as I marched Anna to her room.  I suggested roof time, shuffled her into her room and shut her door saying the next one to open it would be me or else!  I confiscated all electronics.  Yup.  I was gone.  I went back to put Jesse to bed and try to end his night on a somewhat better note.
Jesse:  I love you, mom.
Me:  (shaking my head because my kids are awesome) I love you too, let's read.
Jesse:  You want Snugglelump?
Me:  Yes.  Thank you.

I can't.  My heart exploded, I tucked Snugglelump under my arm and we read about how Nate the Great earned a detention by doodling.

Some nights this is how it goes.  My advice when your darling teen is losing her mind, don't take the bait.  Stay clear and ignore it.  It will just be screaming, yelling and tears...from everyone.  It's not worth it.  It's hormones.  Tomorrow is a new day.

Michael Kiwanuka.  I'm in love...

I found this.  Let's all say it, release some souls and help Anna...

Pray For Us

I wasn't going to do it.  I was going to sit back and quietly watch the shit show.  I just can't.  The whole thing is ludicrous.  Not only do I feel I have to defend the fact that I am not racist, now there is a thing about being racist by acknowledging racism exists?  Dude.  Please. Stop.  Are there dumb ass racists out there?  Yes.  Acknowledgement.  Am I one because I notice the color of someone's skin? Or because of the color of my skin?  No. 
 
For example, I love Jen Hatmaker.  I love a lot of what she says.  Then one day, I thought, "Shit.  I think she is a Democrat."  Did I do the dreaded, "unfollow" or the worse, "unfriend"?  Did I send her hate mail and denounce all things Jen Hatmaker? Did I consider the color of her skin?  Nope.  I had that thought. That, Shit, I think she's a Democrat thought and then I MOVED ON.  She's white.  Maybe I should read more into this.  Just kidding, I still read her posts, I've been following her tour, we see eye to eye on raising children and chickens.  For one, don't name them -the chickens I mean.  The children, her message, as I see it is embrace them and the moments.  The moments matter.  Remember her end of school year post?  It was art.
http://jenhatmaker.com/blog/2013/05/30/worst-end-of-school-year-mom-ever

Then she posted about being deeply racist because she saw a black person in first class and thought how great it was that a black person could sit in the nice seats.  I don't do this.  When I see a black person in the nice seats, I think, "Damn.  Wish I was sitting there.  Someday...maybe..." Moving on to thinking, "OMG.  Does that person (in front of me) have 6 carry ons?  How'd she get past the guy at the door?"  I honestly can not recall the color of her skin.  I think she was older than me though.  I only remember her juggling bags, holding up the line and hogging an entire overhead compartment.  She was seated somewhere in the teens of A,B,C or D, as I went search for seat 24C at the back. 

I have great friends.  Janice.  She has been my friend the longest.  She would hide a body with me if I asked, I refer to her children as if they were my own and she will delete my browser history when I die.  Monica.  Monica is there for me 100%.  She makes me laugh and cry.  I would hide a body for her if she asked.  We have plans to retire to tiny houses and be neighbors.  Donita.  We pick up wherever we leave off.  We commiserate about our teens and our spouses.  She saved me a ton of money helping me with my finances.  We both wish I had a tattoo.  These women are all of different color.  Dare I say it?  Americans.  Oh wait.  My friend Trisha is not American.  She doesn't mind my chickens in her yard and my kids would rather live at her house.  I would do anything any of these women asked of me, because I love and respect them.  Not once did I consider the color of their skin.

What we do is accept and love each other.  We give honest opinions about family, hair and outfits.  Brutally honest opinions.  The friend who is Mexican, she doesn't like cilantro.  I feel this is an injustice to her culture.  She, in turn, refers lovingly to my German bone structure and demands that I don't wear heels.  The friend who is black, she and I talked about culture and color and it did not result in a riot at Panera.  It is simple respect and communication.  The white one and I have lamented our genetic inadequacies, mostly referring to our mothers and our butts.  These are just some of them, the amazing women in my life.  The differences in our cultures has only enriched my life.  This is not racism.  I love them and they love me.  I would take a bullet for anyone of them.

We are, mostly, all the same.  Most of us are trying to make a buck and handle our shit.  The guys who installed my furniture today were from Charlotte.  They were different colors and they were friends.  I could tell by the way they talked and worked with each other.  They were the same as me.  Working, loving their friends, bitchin' about their significant other.  (From what I heard, L needs to let his girl go, she needs to grow up a little.) At one point, he thought he offended me because he knew I overheard him say "fuck".  If he only knew me, right?  I said, "Please (eye roll)...I don't give a fuck."  We all had a good laugh.  I brought them water and left them in my house for over an hour while I picked up my kids.  Not once did I think about the color of their skin.  I worried that when they got back to Charlotte, they would get hurt. 

So, stop.  Start with the people around you, the guy at the store, the lady at the airport, the Democrat, be nice (unless its Hillary).  Accept.  We are all just trying to figure it out.  When you run across the dumb asses, the ignorant ones?  Pray for them.  It is hard.  I know because I pray for Hillary, but they need it.

We Are All In The Same Gang

   
 And then there is this classic.

I had to.