I am from the South, and we Southern Belles do enjoy our proper, near blinding ability to serve you tea, insult you, and leave you wondering if we’d spiked the tea because you tolerated the abuse in a cab halfway back to your hotel.

And, we, the true Southern Belles that had coming out parties and enjoy being from the “right” family trees, well, we now sit around and discuss Botox and Juvaderm just as our ancestors discussed the linens and the thread used on monograms. And, now we have Thermage.

Thermage is a fancy little ole machine our plastic surgeon just got in the office. It’s used to tighten the skin and reduce cellulite. Mostly women are using it on their necks to tighten the area. My plastic surgeon had never done a cellulite tip on a butt before, and offering to do it at cost caused my pants to drop to the floor, flip over, ass in the air before I could say, “Pardon me Miss Jackson if you’re nasty.”

As I lay on the table, the doctor and her nurse stood behind me and snapped my butt with 2400 snaps of something that’s going to cause my skin to rebuild collagen and reduce cellulite.

It took almost 2 hours. That is one big ass, Miss Jackson.

While back there my doc says to the nurse, “You want to give it a try?”
To which the nurse replied, “Sure, if there’s time and Lisa’s OK with me trying it.”

To which I replied, “You’d never guess how many times my naked ass has heard that!”

Well, Crazy Thursday came and went. If you’re counting, several Crazy Thursdays have come and gone since I last posted. And, even I can admit that last post was just meh.

This most recent Crazy Thursday I truly, actually, unbelievably had nothing to share with The Psychiatrist. Hell. I didn’t even need refills on my all the loving candy he gives me. After a million breakthroughs (blaming it on my mother), what am I? Suddenly done? Suddenly finished? Suddenly, Good Lord, normal?

Don’t kid yourself. I got a lotta crazy still left in me. I just didn’t have anything to share yesterday. The Foreigner and I had actually gotten along, The Bugaloos were on their usual behavior. I emceed a Style Show without even a drop of urine accidentally escaping from my usual nervous exiting bodily functions. What’s. The. Deal?

So we visited and The Psychiatrist tried his best to get the conversation twisted back into the Psychology Of Me. But I just wasn’t going there.

See, there are 5 love languages (look them up, it’s actually quite interesting). I require 3 of the 5. The Foreigner requires 1.

Quality Time
Receiving Gifts
Acts of Service
Touch
Words of Affirmation

The Foreigner requires touch. I require Time, Gifts, and most of all Words of Affirmation. The last on my list is Touch.

I want a parade if I do anything. I feel I deserve a parade. And I need his words of affirmation. I need everyone’s words of affirmation. It’s just how I roll. And, gifts, duh, don’t need to explain that one, nor is quality time needing explanation. The Foreigner’s last item on his list: Words of Affirmation. So you can see how there could be drama in the house.

Being touched as a child was not a nice thing. I was spanked, slapped, pushed and shoved. And a handy old fucker for a step grandfather that was frisky. I’m not a hugger, although I’m working on it. Touch doesn’t mean much to me. I wasn’t spared in the touch category growing up. It’s a negative to me as an adult now. (But I’m working on that.)

What I was deprived of were words of affirmation. A hearty, “Good job!” was never to be heard. That’s why I crave it so as an adult. I need affirmation from those around me that love me. I want a parade. And sometimes my desire for a personal parade can come at any cost, and whether I deserve one or not.

So, in working through this muck with The Psychiatrist I tell my kids a little more often how wonderful they are to be in this world and how lucky I am just to be near them. And I hug them – often.

Go. Walk away from your computers. Give your kid a hug and compliment something they’ve done this week. You don’t want to be the reason your adult child is seeing The Psychiatrist.

OK, I’ve shown you my boobs. I’m going to tell you my secret, totally gets my tiny areola excited:

Bret Michaels

Wha? The fuck?

I know.

But, when he plays that guitar and sings Every Rose Has It’s Thorn. I. Get. Excited.

I know, it’s weird. My iPod should explode. Right now I’m listening to Crazy Love, by Brian McKnight. That song kept me awake for, easily 2 hours last night. I also have Alley Oop on my iPod – first 8-track The Brother ever let me listen to in his room, I wasn’t allowed to put it in, or remove it, or breathe near it. He was the All Powerful 8 Track Taker Outer. (but when he wasn’t home, I jacked with it. Mwahahahaha!) Listening to Alley Oop now, I can only imagine that I enjoyed the time I had with him laughing, because the song itself is completely worthless.

I know we had a relationship, he and I. But there’s 8 years difference. It was quite handy when I wanted to runaway, I boarded my 10 speed bike and rode straight to his apartment. It was always OK. I’d sleep on his couch.

Then he got a pretty close girlfriend and she’d be there, sleeping, or waiting for him to get home from work.

She never spoke to me. So, we both just sat and waited. Then she married him.

I think I needed more from him than he could give me at that time. His life was entering into the arena of defining his own family. And, although he understood The Mother was one hell of a bitch, he wanted to move on. Shortly after he’d get home, my Dad would come and pick me up (reluctantly, I think sometimes).

He was led astray – way astray by his second wife. This is when I got married to The Foreigner. We were married in the courthouse, then had a party afterwards. Time passed. He hadn’t shown. Then, in the middle of cutting the cake the doorbell rang, and it was him. I cried. He actually came. No excuses. There he stood with his sunglasses on, dressed nice – kind of Blues Brother’s like. I don’t know that he knew I cried, but I did. At that time it wouldn’t have been normal for him to show up for family functions.

We’re closer than ever now, and it’s great. I recently bought Alley Oop from iTunes. While it was playing it I closed my eyes and tried to remember his brown bedspread and how he gave me that time to laugh. To be my brother. Lord knows he had better things to do. But he gave me Alley Oop, we’ll always have Alley Oop.

Do you ever yell at your computer about email? I’m pretty cool, I mean, come on, you’ve seen my boob. But sometimes I just want to grab this keyboard and hurl it across the room. NO MORE EMAIL.

*plink*

Damn it!! My ass hasn’t left this chair for 4 hours replying, deleting, learning that my man stick just isn’t adequate.

*plink*

GAH!

Yes, thank you for the note saying hello. Yes, I’ll keep my lookout for the child that was strangely abducted and if I pass it on to 15 of my friends she’ll be miraculously found.

And Facebook, holy Lord. I get people writing on my wall – whatever that means. I know there’s some place out in cyberworld that I am, but have no idea how to get there.

*plink*

FUCK!

So, with Facebook and the dreaded Myspace (double GAH!), what the hell has happened to blogging? Back when I started there was a slew of us that wrote. We wrote until our fingers had no more prints. We wrote about everything, and now, it seems, everyone is writing for major blogging magazines. Technically not blogging – they like to be called writers now. I took a lengthy vacation from blogging just when it was the highest and I’ve come back to a minefield. Maybe I’ll like this one, maybe I won’t. Well shit. I used to like this one but now she’s just pointing me to all this other shit she’s been writing.

And I’m thrilled for all of you that have been picked up by the big conglomerates, and it seems the Mommy Blogging hate has settled. The “writers” are writing and Mommy Bloggers are blogging.

*plink*

And I’m answering emails.

Where my bloggers at? I need The Owl and Punky story that first got me interested in blogging Suburban Turmoil! And, Susie! Sang her last swan song! And lots of people have had babies – not just babies, but BOY babies! For everything we blogged about them, you actually grew one in your belly!

And, someone please tell me if you find a picture of me in Facebook without any panties on – or showing off my new boobs. You owe me that.

Get ready to snicker: The boob I chose to show you was my right one because…the other one has that regrettable tattoo on it. And I didn’t want you to see that. Oh, but take a good look at that Fembot nipple on my new RIGHT boob.

The tattoo is a bed of roses. How blasé. A bed of roses. However, since the stretching of the skin, it’s a GINORMOUS bed of roses.

I remember getting it done. I was so cool. (Pffffttt). I kept telling my 18 year old ass that I would always be this cool and I would never regret anything – ever. I was destined to be the cool mom in future playgroup sessions. It was discreet enough, until I got these Fembot boobs. Now, I can’t find a shirt that covers it.

Sitting there, bottle of Patron in one hand, cigarette in the other, I sat on a bean bag chair in my boyfriends apartment. We used paper towels to tape around my nipples so his roommates couldn’t see the “special part”.

You have no idea how I felt so free and desperately cool. Desperately. I was dating a tattoo artist that wore a bullet on a chain as a necklace. He had a full arm tattoo, a nose piercing and I couldn’t wait to bring him home for Easter that year. My very upright family was going to have a heart attack. And I couldn’t be happier.

Oh, and it hurt like hell.

When I picked him up for Easter he had borrowed one of his friends full length shirts and replaced the diamond in his nose with a stud. I was shocked. Even he knew it was inappropriate on certain occasions to be Tattoo Cool.

Now, 20 or so years later, I find my tattoo distracting. I’m not cool enough to pull it off. I find it regrettable. It doesn’t define me, but I know people that would define me by it. And I wouldn’t have been elected as a leader in the charity cult The Girl and I are doing.

Part of me cries for that 18 year old that believed wholeheartedly that falling asleep with my boyfriend on the beanbag chairs was all I’d ever need. His love could fill my soul and make it overflow. And I pictured us, him a successful tattoo artist, me a bohemian chick that only bought organic. And, just being thankful we had each other and those beanbags. Lost in each other and our weekly AA meetings.

But, as luck would have it, I walked right into a clean cut Marine, just off his flight home from Iraq. Somewhere a long the way I fell in love with his stability and the picture of a real home, with real furniture, and straight A kid’s.

I never spoke to my tattooed lover again. He would stop by my apartment and leave notes on cigarette packages begging to talk to me. But I knew I would be swept right back into his Ramen Noodle, beanbag chair.

My Marine and I moved to Oklahoma, and I was pregnant. When I was around 7 months pregnant I received a letter from my tattoo lover. He congratulated me on being pregnant and wished me the best, but mainly, he needed closure. I cried and cried when I received the letter. It was so much that I wanted, but reality tugged harder.

I’ll be seeing my first tattoo removal appointment tomorrow. Talk about closure. I have mixed feelings about it. By having it removed, I’m throwing out the very basic idea of being that bohemian chic woman that only bought food from Whole Foods will ever survive. I know she’s in there. That cool chick that never once was able to inhale the cigarettes she puffed then ashed.

But that life wasn’t meant for me. My life has succumbed to talks of bills, who’s picking up the kids, where do the kids need to go, watching Will & Grace, laying in bed by myself, and falling asleep by myself. The Foreigner in the office doing something, I don’t know what, and part of me not caring is that Bohemian Chic Lady that refuses to get lost in bills and reality.

I suppose the bed of roses was my last finger on the ledge of cool. We’ll have to see how I feel when it’s over.

So, how do you follow a post that you actually showed your boobies to all 2 readers of your blog?

I’ve decided to tell you a secret. A big secret.

I hate the store. I loathe the store. I’ve never been that big on having to be somewhere at certain times. The store falls into that folder. I fortunately loathe it from a distance. I put all my creativity into the window displays. The website is cool enough. It’s just the day to day sweeping and making sure everything is hanging right and by size has never held my interest. Evah.

And, Miss I-Don’t-Want-Anything-To-Do-With-Your-Store 13 year old isn’t helping. I’m feeding money into this and I was hoping to get a slight fulfillment out of her being excited at constantly having new clothes. But then I forgot – I am forbidden to look at her or speak to her.

The Boy gets a little lucky because I don’t go up to his manly size. So we hit Nordy’s last night and stocked him up on Ed Hardy tee’s and Seven Jeans. He’s car dating now and I insist he wear nice clothes with no boxers showing. And there is a little Metro sexual in there.

But The Girl. She, until later this evening when I attack it, doesn’t think it’s necessary to end conversations with more than just a hang up. No good-bye. No later. No holla. Nothing.

So I fell strapped to this store. The Foreigner has actually started taking my shifts at the store because I can’t be strapped down. The pay is shit, and the customers are half nice.

Along those lines I’m starting another blog with hopefully a couple of Collin County Bloggers, watch for it to hit the net: www.TheRealHousewivesofCollinCounty.com If you live here, shoot me an email describing why you should be in the original 5 writers.
And watch for it to go live. Collin County is truly half as interesting as Orange County.

Hey look! A blog entry with no boobs!

As women we’re taught to “just take care of things”. One of my good friends had a pregnancy that resulted in not only losing her baby, but ½ the length of her fallopian tube. She would never have told me that, had I not been her boss.

A customer that I’d grown very fond of passed away from breast cancer. Her son is on our website – always modeling with a smile. And she, always modeling a smile.

These are the things we don’t talk about. What’s there to say? I have 2 weeks to live, how is your life? You’ll be around when Grey’s Anatomy comes back. You’ll be around to hear the new Trace Adkins song and hold your son while listening.

Pancreatic Cancer could be a dinner conversation, but you throw your uterus on the table, all appetites end. Because you don’t know what to say. And when you get the call, you’ve been dreading, what do you say? They’ve just lost their baby. Your uterus is too full of fibroids to have a child, but you can’t say that.

We are not fit to handle female issues, even with our female story. Eye contact stops. Lunch invites recede.

My story starts when I was 12. Back when birth control pills had one option. But I had one chance in hell of getting pregnant. And I did. 3 times before it couldn’t handle any more periods. But no one wanted to talk about it. I got addicted to sleeping pills. All I wanted to do was sleep. The one thing that designated me a mom, a woman, was that uterus. They keep those body parts for a year. At the one year point I asked to see my uterus. There, through the biohazard wall and myself, lay the biggest thing I’d ever had to think so much about. Not talk about. My best friend didn’t go with me. I was alone. I stared at it for no more than 5 minutes before they washed it off and placed it in the biohazard bag to be sent wherever those thing go.

I want to talk about my breasts. Once the uterus stopped misbehaving and was laying in some large biohazard trash pile, the breast started causing me problems. Pictures are going to follow, so if you should feel not to scroll – stop now

You see my areola is misshapen. And it’s huge. And, honestly, they look like big acorn squash. They’d fed 3 kids for a grand total of almost 3 years. They’d served me well. Then I felt something that caused me concern. I had surgery to remove the questionable tissue in July, 2007. (And, aren’t you in luck that I like to flash The Foreigner when in Mexico, or we wouldn’t have this picture.)

And what do you know? Asshole breast tissue flared up again. I was suddenly faced with a full mastectomy. I’m in my 30’s – I need lumps on my chest. Just not these lumps. Lumps that were custom made. Very quickly from the moment I made the decision I was picking areola sizes. (as you can see, I went for smaller)

The Foreigner can’t believe I’m showing pictures, let alone – gasp – talking about it.

The pictures are not for your pornographic thrill, it’s to let you know, if one evening when you’re doing a self exam, you don’t have to be plagued with ugly breasts. The scar will go down and heal more and more and I’ll have tremendously Mary Kate/Ashley sized areola. So, now I have large bags of saline in place of flesh and tissue. And now I’m not supposed to worry. And my new breasts may be funny to some, shocking to others, but they’re mine. And I’ll be around to see the new Grey’s Anatomy.

Don’t be afraid to talk about it. Ever.

In spite of the fact that it’s totally Yeti weather here, they’ve begun digging our pool. And, I’m in love with Trace Atkins new song – could there be a better song ever?

Well, The Boy has his license and has been driving for a week now. He doesn’t really go anywhere except the school and the school is one right turn from our house. But believe me, that’s the biggest right turn in my life! And his, probably.

We had his party at Gilley’s and all the kids rode the bull and jammed out to my iTunes list. You could’ve heard a pin drop when Paul Simon’s Kodachrome started playing. But I wasn’t about to sit and listen to bitches and ho’s and backing those thangs up all night. So I sprinkled in some music I like. Which didn’t occur to me that would encourage crotch to crotch like Velcro dancing. Seriously, as soon as one of those songs came on it was like Crotch Magnets. A girl goes by and WHAM! She’s suddenly attached the crotch of the boy and their upper half looks like they’re trying to get away, while they’re lower half kinda looks like it needs to pee but can’t come undone. Ah the twisted minds of teenagers.

Foreigner came over at one point and asked me when we should step in, which elicited my usual response when he asks me to do something, “Pffffft. How ‘bout NEVER?” No one has ever gotten pregnant by simply grinding on the dance floor, plus we had security guards posted at all doors. No one was getting pregnant at this party, damn it! I’m a large, human condom – I’ll let you get just close enough – then you have to pull out. Besides a slow song only lasts 2 minutes and 49 seconds. Once it’s over they’re all back to dancing around like Beaker from the Muppets. Just straight up and down. And wiggling a little bit while they bop their heads sideways.

He ended up with $800 in gas cards and cash. So I’m pretty sure he thinks he can move out and pay one months rent, head to Ikea and buy a futon, and hang out until the money runs out. Of which the futon alone is going to set him back a couple hundred. And besides he’s not stupid. He knows where I am, and wherever I am, well apparently as I walk money flies off of me like a money tree in the wind. And he never misses a walk. So all in all, his grades have come up, he’s making excellent right turns, and no one got pregnant at his party.

And, I know you’re wondering. Yes. I did ride the bull. It was not fun. I deleted all the pictures.

With “16” looming ahead of us, the cloud is starting to seem a little darker. I mean, seriously people, he’s going to be driving and making left turns. And the worst. He’ll be changing lanes. And I won’t be there to scream, grab the dashboard, and slam my foot on my artificial passenger brake “OH MY GOD! Didn’t you see that other car, Boy???”

Most of his independence I’ve been able to step back, folded arms, proud grin.

Ahhhh! Look! His underpants don’t have skidmarks anymore.

Ahhhh! Look! He can tie his shoes, but chooses not to. Ahhhh! He’s making decisions for himself.

Somehow I don’t see myself waving in the driveway as he goes out his first night.

I see myself pee’ing in the yard and rolling into a fetal position, sucking my thumb until he finally returns to me and I can tuck him safely into bed and maybe stare at him, safely in his bed, as he falls asleep. Only to have it all begin again the next day.

I have to remember to set the sprinkler system so it won’t come on while in my fetal position in the yard. Nothing’s worse than getting wet in the fetal position.

And this all hit me today. I’ve been fine. In fact, I’ve been groovy about the whole idea. Until today. My stomach is in knots.

Should we get him a GPS thing?
Should we get him a radar detector?
Should we get him an Ipod hooker upper thing?
Should we get him a hula dancer for the dashboard?

It’s just too much! There’s a reason to get him this, but then there’s the argument to get him this other thing. And I’m at odd ends of the rope with The Foreigner. He doesn’t even think The Boy should have a car at this point. The Boy however thinks it’s the right of passage that The Father takes The Boy to the DMV, then they race back home. (Did you see that? He’s already talking about racing!!!)

We’re having his party in one week, on March 7th. He actually turns 16 on the 13th. We’ve chartered a bus because we’re having his party at Gilley’s and it’s just too far to ask everyone to drive themselves. We’ll be riding the electronic bull. We’ll have blackjack and poker tables. And, we’ll have a ton of fun. But it signifies my future fetal position.

I don’t know anyone (except The Foreigner, and let’s face it, he’s Mr. Goody Two Shoes, Light.Weight.Drinker. so he’s not a good data point) that never had a ticket or an accident. We all have our first accident story. Mine begins with a head on with a tree and ends with my mother’s foot in my ass.

I’m breathing in a paper bag now. And it’s too hard to type and do both. Get me through this Internet!

The Foreigner and I were invited to a casino night at one of our hotels. He didn’t tell me about it until a few hours prior, thinking I would have no interest.

He emailed me the invite – PRIZES! Door prizes! If you bring a friend prizes! If you’re the High Roller you get a TROPHY!?! What the hell, had The Foreigner just met me on some street corner? A trophy! There are only a few things, shorter than my bucket list, that I wouldn’t do for a trophy. And even the things I don’t get a trophy for, there’s at least a round of applause.

I lost all my money in 3 hands of blackjack.

We had 2 drink tickets and I was all, “TWO drink tickets??” That’s worse than no trophy. So had him pour 4 shots of Jose into a salted glass. The Foreigner, who doesn’t drink at all had 2 beers with his drink tickets. And by the end of the night, asked me to drive home.

Light. Weight. Drinker. In fact, I may change his blog name to that.

We said our hello’s to a few people we knew, stole some more chips to play one more round. And this is when we picked the only two chairs left at the Blackjack table. It wouldn’t be long before we realized why those two chairs were empty. The couple sitting to my right sat husband, then wife. Every single hand this man would turn to his wife and say, “If you get my face card, I’m going to kill you!” Further on, because sadly we kept winning off of our stolen chips, and I’d already drank my TWO drink tickets worth of drink, he’d turn to her and say, “I’ll blow the brains right out of the back of your head if you get my card!”

I finally turned to him and asked if he’d stolen more drink tickets and had a little too much or was he just an asshole.

He’d stolen more drink tickets.

I finally told Light. Weight. Drinker. That if he’d play all his chips and lose the next hand we could go to a secret location and have sex. He got 2 face cards, he double downed, shocking everyone, even being threatened by Drunk Husband To My Right. Downed his beer and my feet never hit the floor until we got to the car, which I had to drive.

Secret place sex is always so awesome. So I told him I now have 3 credits in my sex account that I can use to not have sex with him if I don’t want to.

ONE because it was my idea.
TWO because I came up with new unique place.
And THREE because we had sex.

I should get a fourth credit though because it was sloppy Light.Weight.Drinker sex.