Life on a Turd Ball

So each night I go to the DVR in hopes that there will be a Real Housewives of Somewhere Else recorded. I record because I have no sense of schedule, meaning I don't know when anything is on. I wonder what a RH of SoIll would consist of. I was thinking today about what a production crew would get of me, were they tagging along. 

There aren't any exotic trips to foreign land for most of the people around me. I often hear Florida. Rarely do I hear of travel to Beijing or Zimbabwe. Are we without culture? Do I know anyone who plans on visiting The Met? Maybe.

Today, I cleaned maggots out of rabbit drop pans and cleaned off the concrete for two coon dogs. Would they get an image of my reflective side view? Would America be dazzled by the excitement of a vine-ripened tomato?

If I planned an extravagant outdoor event, there would be wine. I'd hope that "Crazy Eyes" wouldn't attend, so I'd purposely omit Pinot Grigio from my wet bar. I would, however, have a few kegs of various blends for the ones I love. I'd have Gretchen and all of my favorite girls from Atlanta. Candy would bring X-rated gifts. NeNe would keep everyone in check.

I know that there are others like me. There are women, like me, who've shared their vaginal region with an offspring and turned into a coach, a hunter, a gunman, pageant coach and all kinds of stupid shit that we'd have never taken part in. It's like kids suck all of your life out of you and leave their scent from the inside out. I just don't know if these are things that justify an hour of DVR space for many.

So how do we as So ILL ladies entice Bravo and others to show the world what we have to offer? We don't, and we rejoice in the fact that we can wear tube tops and sit in lawn chairs in the front  yard and watch kids ride their bikes barefoot down a side street. We can scream profanities at people who drive too fast down our side streets. We can have a yard sale with a toilet in the yard, without the stinkeye from passersby.

Here in Podunk, entertainment is simple. It's time to think about canning, trees and shrubs are on sale, and many are thinking about where to go for fireworks. These are not things that city folk want to watch. For all of our sanity, let's make an effort to keep it that way. For the squeamish, below is what we could use as a logo. It made me laugh out loud (LOL to you whippersnappers), so I felt compelled to share it.

Air Hugs. (3-year anniversary for BPS's accident tomorrow. Still taking one day at a time. Remember, if you don't laugh, life's turd ball will make you cry.) ....    Amy

Some Things Never Change

I doubt I am alone when I say that girls were bitches when I was young. I know, I was a bitch too. We have to be bitches to make it in what used to be a man's world. We, as women, have made great strides in today's society. We still don't have a woman in the Masters Clubhouse. We still don't get to join the Mason's. There will always be an "Old Boys Club". I'm okay with that. I want men to do men things, so that I may do things without them as well.

In the same thought process, it is of my opinion that 50 Shades of Grey has become the secret porn hit that it is because we (speaking for women like me) are tired of being the Type A, Alpha Female. We want the fucking pedestal back. I like having my door opened. I like the mystery of NOT KNOWING what a man does in the bathroom. I like a man who'll take charge and be the decision-maker. I'm the chief all day, every day. Please let me be the Indian everywhere else. For just one moment of my life, don't ask my opinion. Don't ask me to handle it. Just do it like you would if I weren't around.

(Insert ADHD moment).  I spent the weekend in Chicago at the Ride the Drive event. It was awesome. It's insanely expensive to live there. (Think $3800 rent downtown). The picture above is my girl in the Grand Ballroom of the Chicago Hilton. (The one on Michigan by Grant Park, not the other. Which is nice too, but not even the same category of great). It's been a pleasant few days. But here's what I've discovered:

1. Tony Schutt and I are not meant to spend time within reaching distance for more than a few hours. We are not nice people. Neither of us have the patience to suck it up and hold in our thoughts.

2. I like nice things. Like, REALLY nice things. I love valet. I mean, if the Kroger had valet, I'd use it. I know it's frivolous and wasteful. But I LOVE IT. I love the cart, the strange man packing my bags, asking if I need directions or a drink, a place to sit. I think courtesy is a dying art.

3.  I think allowing a strange woman to turn down your bed and provide you a mint is ridiculous and you might as well let her tuck you in. If I'm a grown-ass woman and I've not found a way to get between the sheet and comforter yet, I have much greater issues than the needs of the help.

         Back to the point of this snag.  Here we go.     Girls are bitches.
 
The more I try to take the high road, turn the cheek, be the "better" person, the more contact I have with these strange beings. (Please re-read the part where I say I'm a chief ALL THE DAMN TIME).

                    Maybe it is ingrained in us as teenagers that girls are the enemy. Maybe the struggles of competition when we are young is a hard habit to break.
                    I've said a million times (and I shall repeat), until you are comfortable enough in yourself and those people and belongings that you have, you can never make a true, true friend. For some of us, it takes a little longer to get there. Until you are confident enough in yourself and your worth, you will always look at other women as a threat to your relationship, position in life, et cetera.
     A group of women of different ages (much like Lord of the Flies) will establish a leadership pyramid. Such is life. Such is acceptable and expected. The issue with this is that when you have too many chiefs and not enough Indians, things are not effective, efficient or enjoyable for the Indians. Rodney King would say, "Why can't we all just get along?".

The short answer: Because girls are bitches. We are mean to each other and clique up in the same old habits we've lived with since two vaginas fought over a cock in a cave in the beginning of time. If those two women had just learned to share, things could be so much different today.  Give a girl a break. I think most women have a higher opinion of their product than the general population. You're the boss, he's your cock, few others want him or your lot in life. Be confident in who you are and what you have. For god's sake, lighten up, Frances.

Let me not be remiss in inserting here. I've thrown down. I've rolled in gravel. I've slit tires. I've sent those little magazine inserts to addresses from the library. I've put sugar in gas tanks. I've participated in vile, ugly things of which I'm not proud. I try EVERY DAY to be better. To put those habits and episodes behind me. I TRY to turn the other cheek and consider that it is my karma that I am responsible for. I TRY. With that said, I am not behind smacking a bitch down if I see you bully even a stranger to me. I know what it right and wrong. Should I see you bring another grown-ass woman to tears (or myself), do not be shocked when I pull a Drita from Mob Wives on you and roll like a booger.

Back to my endless amount of screens to clean. I feel better already. Happy HO-Liday.

Mother's Day...(Meh)

Everywhere I look, I see posts and cards regarding Mother's Day and the celebrations that follow. If you know me, really know me, you know I've never had much of a female role model. As I've gotten older and had kids of my own, I've discovered I have much less hate for this lacking, but more of a negative score in the respect column for any woman who shares their vagina or nether-region and opts out of what follows. It's not that I feel pity for me but more that I can't seem to grasp how one walks away without at least wondering if said offspring is fed, watered, dressed, abused and a mile of other adjectives that concern any parent.

I've watched parents and family walk away from their injured and sick children while enduring Paige's hospital transfers, and I didn't get it then either. Though Kane has been gone on his senior trip for a week, not a moment has gone by that I haven't wondered if he had enough sense to feed and bathe himself (and hopefully, not gotten into the windowless van with the bum I'm sure they paid to buy alcohol). Note to bum, Florida is a death penalty state, and I'm not afraid to push the limits of the justified homicide concept, if necessary. (There is a place for vigilantism even in today's society).

I've spent a lifetime of hearing the perks of a good mother. Honestly, it sickens me to think that there are women of all ages that exist everywhere who somehow feel left out or less than because a woman chose to skirt her responsibilities.    If anything, it's made us stronger and more independent.

I used to be so jealous of the girls I knew whose mothers smothered them, who were BFFs, who didn't try to gouge each other's eyes out and that there was no mental debate over who the guy who came to your house was really there to see. As I've gotten older, I see that the greatest gift you can give, to a child that you don't intend to care for, is to walk away. 

My advice to you, if you are one of these lowlife skanks, (all disrespect intended), is to walk away. Don't send cards. Don't show up unannounced, uninvited or otherwise, and try to be the parent your child needed at 8 and 13 and 20. Walk away. Stay gone. Don't run into adults and tell them who you are and what your relationship to said child is. If that child's name comes into a conversation you are a part of, clam up. Don't dare attempt to take credit for any part of a life you didn't contribute positively to.

My advice to the motherless (sharing a vagina does not make you a mother) is this: Consider this the greatest gift you could have received. If it took her a little longer to let go, consider that a gift that took a little longer to get. If you have kids, know that even if you do your job poorly (but safely), that you win. Even if your kid doesn't have an iPod or the coolest prom dress or a class ring, you win. 

Suck the positives from every older woman you come in contact with. Know that all those even-barely-older-than-you women are teaching you amazing things that you will not recognize until you, too, are older and the glass is a little cleaner.


For this Mother's Day, I can't help but think of some of these women...Coren Miller, Sheila Furlow, Juanita Martin, Judy Martin, Kitty Williams. You were all women who helped create the thought process that I carry with me today...and I thank you....HMD.

A Friday Night in April

First of all, I refuse to believe this is springtime. Now that I have that behind me, I want to get down to the nitty-gritty.

For-EV-er, I've been telling my friends and family of my dreams to start an alpaca farm, a screen printing shop that puts ALL of the Blackman women to work and so many other of those from Saline County ... and the porn phone line ... and the bicycle cabins on Legion Road. I've not left those dreams behind and I be damned if the dream crushers will push me farther into the gutter .... However,

as I sit here tonight alone in front of this computer on a Friday night, I've seriously spent a good portion of my spare and valuable time surfing the Internet (yes, you cap it, people) looking for bicycle routes to travel cross country. I can't even make up my mind which direction in which to travel.

I would LOVE to bicycle out west (and I will), but those pesky Rocky Mountains make my thighs quiver. Then I think of the Carolinas and Virginia, which includes Barry O and the Lincoln monument. That makes me smile, but then you have those equally challenging Smoky Mountains....see a theme here?

I could go straight south through Kentucky, but the sound of banjos makes me squeal like a pig...(and not in a funny, cute way). North sounds nice, I've heard there are amazing trails in central Illinois. But is that really cross country, or just basically uphill?

So now, my lottery dreams are fueling my desire to load a backpack (one of those cool ones with the Camelbak for my endless supply of fluids) and a cute place for my ipod. I mean, really, who can travel long distance without Queen and Eminem and all of the friends.

As my ADHD kicks in, would it be safe for me to sleep roadside after my bedtime cocktail? I think not. They'd steal my 9mm and my ipod, god forbid my bike, then what would I do?

I have to have something to read, my mind would turn to mush. How will I charge my Kindle ... and my ipod? Books are heavy. Could I plan a route with only Hilton Gardens and libraries? I'm going to NEED good sheets. A girl can't be expected to travel like a nomad all day on a bike and not shave her legs.

I guess I'm looking for someone to plan my route, pack my bag (after shopping for me, you know I HATE to shop), schedule my stops ... and run the art dept, receiving, shipping, supplies, customer service (with a MFing smile).

I can't be ALL things to ALL people. With that said, the minute I get that email in my inbox saying my subscription has hit the big one (and once I can figure out my password to see the amount), I'm out of here. Paige can call Miranda for her needs. Kane needs no one. If I can remember to pack stamps (not to person packing, pack stamps), I'll send you all a postcard... (that's a false promise, but I'll post pics and stories along my route).

If I get raped and pillaged along my trip, please know that I've checked out doing what I love most. Someone feed my rabbits (and the alpacas) and don't let the kids auction off my first edition books for some meaningless pocket change.

Help me to remind my loved ones, we're all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars. (back to Google Maps)....amy