Mom-me

Today I am having a heart attack.  Not a real one, a mommy one.  Like a hormonal girl after a bad breakup, I just crammed a huge bowl of chocolate cereal in my face and am currently washing it down with the creamery-est coffee ever and getting a gnarly sugar headache.
Hold on, time to take the drogas.
There we go.

FYI, if you didn't know already, I am allowed to eat whatever I want because I take diabetes medication even though I don't have diabetes.  The opposite - I am hypoglycemic, which is why I pass out all the time stupidly and am also always grumpy.  I take Metformin, which helps regulate my insulin, which is the only reason I'm nice to you sometimes.  So even though I CAN eat anything I want, ironically, the meds make me want to eat nothing, and when I do, vomit it all up.  So that's fun.  But the reason I just told you that random fact was to explain why I can eat ice cream for breakfast and allz will be okay.  And also because I am FREAKING OUT and that always ends in disaster and run-on sentences.

"So why are you freaking out, Beckie?" you might be asking.
Let me tell you.  Today my whole world got thrown upside-down.  My kids allofasudden grew up into adults who hate me, my house is quiet, I am not driving to work, I have time to blog, I have time to think.  Ohmygod.  Today was the first day of school for my kids at their new elementary school. 

Mom is sooooooooo embarrassing.

My oldest is in 4th grade, which is ridiculous and I disagree with it.  I am NOT that old and never will be.  I love when people say, "you're too young to have a 10 year old!"  Those people are my best friends.  If you haven't said that to me, we're not friends.  When I taught elementary, the 4th graders were the "old" kids who I had high expectations from to be mature and role models and create decent art because they had the coordination and skills and deep-creative-thinking abilities.  And then my baby goes to 4th grade, and I'm like, he's a BABY.  He needs me to zip his backpack and tie his shoes and wipe his nose, right?  WRONG.  He is fine and if he wasn't my kid, he would be expected to have coordination and skills and deep-creative-thinking abilities.  But it's so surreal I can't even handle it.  My youngest is now in 3rd grade, which is a little easier to swallow when you've already had a third grader, but still pretty much terrible.  He's ginormous, too, at least 2 inches taller than everyone in his class, which makes him look like he's supposed to be there, at least.  Don't get me wrong; I would still throw him in 1st grade if I could!  He would be huuuuge!  Like one of those 7th graders will a full beard.  You're like, don't ever buy a van without windows and/or a trench coat, bearded creeper 7th grader.  So my kids are old and I am old and we are all old, but that's not even the worst part.  The worst part is that I think I've ruined my kids' lives because it's taken me until now to get my shit together.  We've moved the kids from school to school every year since they started going to school.  Blake has been to 4 schools in 4 years.  #TeacherLife, but still not fair to them.  Cody's fine with it - he makes friends in two seconds (He says this morning, "I just make friends because everyone thinks I'm funny."  Matter-o-fact.), although he looked a little distraught this morning in line.  Blake, however, is the exact opposite.  He makes one friend in his whole life who he loves desperately and can't get over.  Like a penguin (those are the ones that mate for life, right?).  And then I tear him away from his one and only friend and his heart out along with it.  My husband made a promise to him the other day that we wouldn't move until he graduated high school (which also sends me into commitment-phobic panic mode, but that's another story), but how can you not make that promise to those big, green, sullen, stability-seeking eyes?  Heartbreaking.  Blake was in line this morning, hanging his head, and I think there was a little gray cloud just above it.  He was even closing his eyes... maybe it would all go away?  So I totally worry about him.  He is the sweetest boy in the whole world and I have destroyed his childhood.  That's how it feels.

Turn around!  Let me see your backpacks!  Hate Mom-me.

     They also hate me already.  I know that's not true, but I kind of hate me (Mom-me) and understand.  Mom-me is different than just me.  I think Me-me is pretty awesome, but if I were my kids I would totally hate Mom-me.  Mom-me is like, "I need to get a picture!  Turn around so I can see your backpacks!  Don't make that face!  Are you nervous?  Don't be nervous!  Look at all the friends you can make!  Oh look, there is your teacher!  Oooh, you'll have so much fun!  Blah blah blah!"  Hate.  But that's how I am and I can't help it, like it's been ingrained in my genetics since moms were invented.  Blake stood there while I tried to hug his limp body and wouldn't talk to me, and I'm all trying not to show him how freaking the freak out I am that my baby is going into 4th grade and it's worse that he won't respond so I try harder and then it's just a terrible cycle of mom-hatred.  And I didn't know where to stand so I just kept moving spots around the playground like a straight up weirdo.  And also I think I never know what to do with my arms, so they were probably T-Rex arms the whole time.  I can understand the hatred.  I really can.

My house is silent.  Until 3:30.  Silent.

That is also quite strange for me because I am sitting at home on a Monday.  Remember, I've been a teacher for the last 5 years of my life.  This is the first year SINCE I WAS FOUR YEARS OLD that I haven't had a school year.  Panic Panic Panic.  My life is awesome awesome, don't get me wrong, but I think in my old age I am realizing change is hard.  Maybe not hard, but weird.  I wish there were better words for this.  Off-putting?  Off-balance?  Those sound negative, and it's not a negative feeling, just a... weird... feeling.  See, I'm bad at this.  But think, if your life has always revolved around school year, summer off, school year, summer off, and then all of a sudden, there is no summer off, there is new job during the summer, and then your kids go to school and you aren't going with them at the same time, and it felt like there was no summer because you moved to a strange land, and now you don't work 4 minutes away from them and can't pick them up if they have a tummy ache (even though they don't need you to now because they are adults), it's going to feel WEIRD!  It's strange, too, to not have to worry about lesson plans and first days for students and parent teacher conferences and early morning meetings.  (Butohmygodit'ssoawesome!!!!!)  (If you're thinking about getting into the teaching field - DON'T!  Unless you're a big fan of politics, red tape, and assholes.  Then it's definitely the career for you.)
Now I have all this... what do you call it?  Time?  I think so.  I have time to go through that huge stack of bills staring at me right now.  So I'm definitely gonna call it and go into the other room, cuz ain't nobody got time for that.
OMG I wonder how my babies are doing right now!  Is there a biting-off-fingernails emoticon?  :3  Nope, just ballsface.  Next blog: how they were perfectly fine and I have anxiety issues. 

#Jorts

I realize that I haven't blogged in many moons.  Blame it on the ADD.  I blame it on having 16 jobs and no time to breathe, much less write!  But now I only have ONE job and it is AWESOME!  Hence my SHOUTY CAPITALS!  Alas, here I am, feeling inspired again to write about things that you don't care about.  YES!  Today's topic is: Rednecks.  And more specifically, how I have become one.  In case you don't know, I recently moved out into Nowhereville, Colorado.  I had a small stint in Somewhereville in between moving called My Parent's House For Almost a Year, which was great for all the reasons you'd assume.  But we finally found a house and we got a great deal in a little town (totes adorbs) called Peyton.  Yes, it has a zipcode, no your phone won't be able to get you here once you cross Stapleton Drive because you will lose reception.  It's not like the city part of Peyton, either.  It's like 10 miles away from that, where someone could kill you and no one would know, or at least where said killer would take your body to dump.  Wow, that's graphic and not even what I was going to write about.

I don't hate it here, not at all.  It's super pretty and there's all this SPACE (good and bad - I'll explain soon) and the children have room to frolic, although they just stay inside and play Playstation.  And the dog can run for miles and miles, although she just sleeps on the kitchen floor all day and poops inside for no reason.  And I have all this beautiful inspiration to paint landscapes and plants and bones like Georgia O'Keeffe, but I just stay inside and take naps and watch Game of Thrones in my bed because that show is freaking AWESOME.

City chickens gone country

You all know that I am not one to judge (insert laughter), but Rednecks, like the real, mullet-wearing, #tanktop, #momjorts, etc., etc., are just, well... judgeable.  So I do.  And then today the slow realization has been dawning that I, too, am becoming a Redneck, and it's happening quite quickly.  I've only been out here for a few months, and here I sit unshowered with just a bikini top on, my stomach hanging over my #jorts, fatly spilling graham crackers crumbs from my mouth as I eat them straight from the box while I type.  You are welcome for that visual.  I also literally have a red neck from "tanning" today.  "Oh, tanning's not Redneck," you say?  Well, I don't have a lawn, so I put my lawn chair on my husband's trailer and covered it with bath towels to lay out and grab some sun today.  And he moved said trailer to my preferred tanning spot in the back yard by hitching it to the bucket of his John Deere tractor and backing up.  I read my book alongside the sounds of chickens clucking and a plastic bag waving in the breeze.  And a chainsaw.

Tanning Beds, White Trash Style.

I drive by the ol' Pop-A-Top Saloon on my way to work and no longer sneer.  Ok, maybe I still sneer a little.  The broken car in the driveway being used as a cup holder for my PBR?  Not judging it, doing it.  That's extreme and not all true.  But there is a broken car in my driveway and the other day we had friends over and there were like 9 cars in front of the house and it looked totes white trash.  We also roasted marshmallows outside in the fire pit with those friends.  No sticks for roasting?  No problem.  Here is some wire we found on the ground.  Is that the specific flavor of... tetanus?  There was a sick ass snake outside the other day and OMG I hate hate hate snakes and the only thing I could do was flap my arms scaredly and tell my 8 year old to shoot it (which he did because he, too, is becoming redneck).

Ughhhhhhhhh

And did I mention that my house is actually a trailer house?  Welllll it iiiiisssss!  Here's what I've discovered about living in a trailer house: I don't really give a crap.  We don't have grates on the vents.  The doors are off the hinges in multiple rooms.  Probably not gonna fix.  Everything I own is still in an open box sitting on the floor.  There is an entire room that smells like cigarettes and piss that we need to prime and paint so the kids don't have to sleep in the office anymore.  Ooooorrrr we could just close the door.  I don't know why living out in the middle of nowhere allows me the mindset to just not care.  But I do think it has something to do with the SPACE.  There is just so much of it!  It's as if it doesn't matter that there is a huge outside trash pile over there, and then another one 6 acres down.  The huge trash piles actually look tiny from my window in my bedroom, which is where I am anyway watching Game of Thrones.  And it's not like I'm going outside to walk up to the trash piles, because that's just silly.  Is my mind becoming free as I slowly begin to not care what people think?  Or am I just disgusting?  That was rhetorical; please don't answer.

Home Sweet Trailer

This is an inconclusive blog.  I am without conclusion.  Allz I can say is I am on my way to becoming accustomed to always feeling like I'm camping; it even smells like camping here (not the outhouse smell, the fresh rain on dirt smell, calm down).  Let me leave you with some pictures of the Adventures of City Girl in the Country!

Sooooooooo cute!  These are the neighbor's cows.  

Rainbow!

Sunset over the neighboring trailer and beer holder - I mean truck.

      

This blog is about poop.

     I should warn you now that this post is about shit.  Shit at work.  Don't say I didn't warn you.  But before I delve in, I wanted to let you know that when you're searching for "blogspot" so you can get to your blog, don't forget the g, or weird things will come up.  On your mom's computer.  Another fair warning.  Aren't you so glad I'm so protective of you?  I'm like Christian Grey.  Now finish your dinner; you'll need your strength.  For this blog.

     50 Shades of Grey is a great transition into exactly what I'd like to talk about today: poop.  Here's why.  50 Shades of Grey is an excellent book.  For literary reasons, of course, such as sentence fluency, punctuation, and word choice.  And also for content.  For content reasons, 50 Shades of Grey is an excellent book to read by yourself (or creepily with a friend, if that's how you are) in places that are NOT the bathroom.

     Firstly, let's talk about reading in the bathroom.  I don't know about you, but I have to have to have to read something while I'm using the ladies' room.  Magazines, backs of Febreze bottles, cereal boxes (just when I'm hungry).  I'm also an avid poo texter (you're welcome, friends).  I will do the pre-poo-around-the-house-to-find-something-to-read-before-I-can-shit run because it is extremely necessary that I not be bored whilst shitting.  Enter 50 Shades of Grey.  Let's just say NOT AS SEXY to read around...certain...smells.  Maybe just save the boring parts for when you're using the bathroom. That would be my recommendation.

HTF can poop be forest green?

     So...reading things.  I also feel the need to read things while pooping at work, but people would totally know if they saw you grabbing your Kindle and then doing that poop run, so you can't even do that.  You just have to go in and hope that the custodians brought in a different kind of Lysol so you have something to read.

     Pooping at work is the worst, though.  I hate hate hate it.  I hate knowing that someone pooped in there before you and you are about to sit on that warm-ass toilet.  I hate walking into that shit cloud and immediately despising that person that you liked moments before you knew they could defile a place in a moment's time.  And knowing that you're about to do the same thing.  I hate that Fruit-Punch-Persimmon Febreze that tricks your brain into thinking there wasn't a hot dump in there seconds before.

     So, in a perfect world, you'd never have to poop at work.  But the world isn't perfect, which is why work poos must occur.  Sometimes a less-than-perfect-but-still-a-little-awesome poo happens - that's when you're in there all alone and you know everyone's busy so you don't have to worry about any loud noises and you can just be free.  Still awesome.  But those can't happen every time, or you'll get complacent about life and take things for granted like shitting in peace, so to keep you on your toes, sometimes you eat a shit-ton of beans for dinner and you have to take a noisy dump and apparently EVERYONE in the whole place drank 6 cups of coffee that morning so EVERYONE is in the bathroom for the whole day.  Those are the days that make sure you don't take your calm, people-free poos for granted.  You know what I'm talking about.  You walk in - no one's there.  You're all, "YES!  CALM POO TIME!  And daaaaaamn I have some gas that I've been holding for like three hours."  So you sit on the cold toilet (no one's been in there for a while...is it a sign?  How lovely!).  And you let that gas out and HOLY F it's loud, but still no one's there, so it's still awesome, and so you decide you can be free and let out last night's dinner.  And that second - that mortifying second - where you're taking that terribly noisy gas-intermittent-shit - a colleague walks in.  And you are ashamed.  Usually it's the pretty one that wears heels to work every day.  You know she heard it, even though you stopped immediately.  So many questions: should I courtesy flush?  Then she'll totally know.  How long will she be here?  I have so much more love to give!  Do you think she knows me by my shoes?  Of course she knows your shoes - they're covered in paint and you're the only art teacher here.  Oh, she knows.  And there are a few seconds where it's soundless and you wonder if she needs to poop, too, but she's waiting for you to leave, but you're waiting for her to leave so you can finish, but it's just a painful few silent seconds, and then she flushes (THANK GOD!  You can let out a little gas then.)  And so much relief!  As she leaves, you pick the Febreze back up to continue reading -- ooh, Tropical Cumquat -- and you can finally finish what you started.

     But then you realize that probably everyone reads the back of that disgusting Febreze and they do it BEFORE THEY WASH THEIR HANDS!

     So you put it back down in disgust, finish your business, and get the hell outa that stall.
     You wash your hands slowly, hoping that Miss Heels won't still be in the hall, because then she'd totally know how long you were in there.

     You exit, rubbing lotion into your hands, until you realize that that motion makes you look extremely maniacal - like an evil doer - which is not necessarily a good thing while exiting a public bathroom.  And of course, Miss Heels is still totally out in the hall.  She gives you the OMG-you-were-in-there-for-like-18-minutes look, and you maniacally rub your hands together, put your Kindle back under your arm, and get the hell out of there.

I like big butts and I cannot lie.

You know how you can get a song stuck in your head?  I think I have a mental disorder that gives me constant, STUPID songs stuck in my head at all times.  In fact, I think it may qualify as a disability and I should be able to get accommodations on my TCAP test.  My IEP reads: "Should be able to listen to crap songs while testing."  Take for instance, the mere mentioning of songs that get stuck in my head - I literally only have to think "I get songs stuck in my head all the time," and the worst-sticking song of all time "CALL ME MAYBE," becomes permanently lodged.  Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy. 

You're welcome.

It doesn't help that I teach in a middle school and that is their life theme song, so on days where I'm so excited to have an actual good song in my head in the morning - MMM thank you for being alive, Ray LaMontagne - my dreams are shattered by third period because FREAKING JACOB LOVES CARLY RAE JEPSON GODDAMMIT. 

And three simple letters sitting next to eachother in the above sentence, "MMM," served to not only wash Carly Rae Jepson AND Ray LaMontagne from my brain, but insert another vile musicial number from the long lost but long loved boy band, Hanson.  Oh yes.  MMMbop.

Doppa dop. a. doowop.

That poor tall brother was certainly unfortunate-looking, wasn't he?  Why the long face?



The oldest Hanson brother at the farm.



I typed in "Hanson Horse Face" to find a great comparison picture, to no avail (has no one made that connection?), but this is just effing perfect.  So there it is.

 














The other morning, I woke up and cracked my back before I got out of bed.  It seriously seriously cracked out the Star Wars theme song!  I'm not even joking with you!  It was like "Duh duh, duh duh duh DUH duh!"  Not only is that extrememly impressive, but it set me off for a day long star-wars-theme-song-stuck-in-head extravaganza.  Very talented, my back is.

You can't even shake salt out of a salt shaker around me because of the word "shake," which, in my head, turns to "shape," and you better shape up, 'cause I need a man, and my heart is set on you.  Seriously.  Seriously don't shake anything around me. 

Don't even think about wearing Shape Ups around me or you get my excellent version of the Grease soundtrack sung to you for the rest of the day.

Stream-of-thought blog today - now I just got "I like big butts" stuck in my head because I'm picturing you shaking your huge butt around me.  No other brother can deny.

It also doesn't help that I work at Painting with a Twist and it has become my life goal to come up with the most sticky, irritating, flashback songs that are meant to get in your head and stay there.  I'm like Pavlov's (sp?) dog now; whenever I'm getting ready to go teach a class, I get the Painting Playlist in my head as I'm putting on my makeup or whatever.  And for this reason, I must kill Ke$ha.

But the ultimate dumb reason I get a particular song stuck in my head is this: anytime I, or anyone else I see for that matter, is walking and swinging their arms wildly and taking large steps, I get "I have confidence in sunshine" stuck in my head for the rest of time.  That's all it takes.

One Two Three I have confidence in me

Road Rage

I work 12 hundred miles away from where I live currently.  It takes 40 minutes each way.  It's fine; it's a beautiful drive through meadows and trees and there are actually buffalo on the side of the road (fake ones that people farm, not wild ones), and really I don't mind it.  But here's the deal: I am a chronically late person.  Like - everywhere I go all the time late late late person.  One time the fam and I were going to meet my in-laws somewhere for something and they told us to be there at 9:30.  Well, I was feeling industrious, apparently, because we got there at like 8:50.  Weren't they surprised!  Get this though.  They really didn't want to leave until 10:30.  They told us to be there an hour early because they knew I'd be an hour late. 

That is how you know you're a crappy person.

What I should be doing instead of driving to work.

But yes, I admit it.  I am just a late person.  I don't even wake up until I'm teaching my third class and who knows what's happened in the first three hours.  Pandemonium, most likely.  But the trouble with being a late person (besides being late to things) is that it's very, very stressful. 

I have only been working at my current school since August, so I still have to pretend to be a good, caring person who follows the rules and is idealistic about the state of education in America.  And be on time to things.  I had a meeting this week at 7:20.  EW SEVEN TWENTY!  And everything that could possibly go wrong on a commute to work happened on this day!!!  I left with plenty of time.  Maybe 2 minutes to spare, even.  But ohmygodpeople go the frickin speed limit already!  I got behind a normal car - not even a heavy truck or something - who, not even exaggerating, was going 20 under the speed limit.  Well, when you have the commute to work timed to the second so you don't have to leave any earlier, 20 miles under the speed limit just isn't going to cut it.  Highway 83 is notorious for the double yellow, though.  Nowhere to pass.  Sweet Baby Jesus.  I followed that a-hole for my whole entire life.  I think I actually turned 38 while I was waiting for him to figure out what that silly pedal on the floor of his car was fer heh heh heh.  Luckily, one can turn off on another side road and arrive at the same destination in the same amount of time.  This guy knew that little trick, though, and took that road.  Well, smartypants me kept going the first way!  I was sooooooooooo proud of myself.  Until... UNTIL.... ROAD WORK!  Besides being notorious for the double yellow, Highway 83 is also well known for showcasing the beautiful seasons of Colorado: Winter, Spring, Summer, and Road work.  My heart plummeted to the bottom of my stomach as I watched my clock tick by (yes I have a grandfather clock in my car).  Every second wasted while the lady in the orange vest slowly held her STOP sign and ate her morning sandwich, was another second I would have to prove myself as I guiltily made up for being late to the first meeting of the school year.  That was a terrible run on, but I think you get the point.  FINALLY we got past the construction and I was flying!  Normally the rest of the drive should take me 20 more minutes... I had 11.  So of course I got behind the other slowest person that ever drove a car ever.  I don't know what's with these Elizabeth people.  They either want to ram you and kill you with their SUV's or they want to ruin your life by making you late everywhere.  Yes, I blame them.  So I put put putted all the way to school, finally arriving 10 minutes late and sheepishly slinking into a back seat in the library.  Walk Of Shame.  (My principal STILL hasn't spoken to me.) 

This movie was about me.  Except for the fake boobs part.

That's not the end of the story!

The drive home:
Oh yes.
That day I was also closing on the sale of my house.  Quite an important day, wouldn't you say?  Yes, you would, and I would agree.  I knew if I left right at 3:15, I could jog down the highway and be there by the scheduled time of 4:00.  Easy Peasy.  Lemon Squeezy.  Right, I know.  So the kids got off their bus at my school at 3:20.  Excellent start.  We raced to the back parking lot as fast as we could!  Not parked there.  That's right, I was in such a hurry that morning to get to the meeting, I parked in front.  Race back to the front!  Right past the principal.  Ahhhh leaving before you're supposed to, eh?  And weren't you late this morning?  (In my head it's a leprechaun voice but really, he doesn't sound like that at all.)  So Walk Of Shame number two and I'm yelling at Slow Poke Blake to keep up already and we finally get in the car and... wait in the bus lane until 3:35.  Soooooooo awesome.  I finally get on the highway and search through my purse to find my phone to call Zach and tell him there is just no way in hell and the tears are already coming and I know no one says it anymore, but I'ma hot mess.  So I get Zach on the phone and start crying like a stupid girl.  He has to talk me off the edge because I'm freaking out as I watch my grandfather clock start ticking faster and faster and, oh, I could get on the interstate, that will be faster!  I take an exit I've never taken before (excellent ideas are my specialty) and then have to call Zach crying again because I think I'm lost and now I'll be even later.  Luckily, in between my bouts of insanity and amazing girlishness, he has called our realtor (who's waiting at the title company already) and she says to not stress - they have all the time in the world.  Well, I know that she's just the nicest person in the history of time and probably she's missing an important dinner with the President of the United States or something and she's giving it up for ME because I AM A LATE PERSON.  And that just makes me feel like a shitty, shitty, late person.  I finally begin to calm down after I realize that yes, I have once before taken this way to get to the interstate.  I hop on and the grandfather clock slows a little and I stop telling the kids, NO MORE TALKING MOMMY'S FREAKING OUT BE QUIET!  And then the traffic on the interstate stops.  2 exits before mine.  Stops.  I don't know why.  Welcome to Colorado.  I call Zach again and in the little inhale inhale sniff quietly freaking out voice (you know it, you've done it, whatever), inform him of the new complication.  He reassures me that it'll be fine (in the way those special cops talk people off of bridges).

Actually, it was fine, and we signed the house over and no one was mad at me.  But this just goes to show you that you should always give yourself more time than you think you need.

 Plus my kids are learning bad habits from my road rage and have been walking around all day saying "Jesus Christ!" about everything and I'm sure you can guess how much my mom looooooooooves that.

JesuCristo!

Whiney Rant That Makes Me Sound Like A Grumpy Old Man

Jesus H. Christ, I am so over inspirational Facebook posts.  "The Dawn of a New Era" is fast approaching?  Ok, Lion King, thanks.  "Love Is All You Need?"  Whatever, freaking The Beatles, I need some damn money.  Damnit.  That is all I need.  "Freedom Isn't Free!"  Um... yes it is.  When is the last time you went to Walmart and found freedom in aisle 5?  It's like bummer stickers for social media, and let me tell you how I feel about bumper stickers.

Please, feel free to share your opinions in a more passive-aggressive way, if you can find one.  WAIT - that is the most passive-aggressive way to share your opinions EVER!  Here is what I think.  I do not know you and I would most likely not engage you in conversation in public, and even if I did, I would not immediately begin spewing my beliefs to you, Stranger, but since you are sitting behind me in traffic, here is what I think!  I would like to C03xI$+ (Coexist) with you, but not because you strategically placed a sticker on your mode of transportation for me to read while I am already enraged at the 16th stoplight I've sat at during my evening commute.  I am also so delighted that you have 7 children who are actively participating in unique sports, but I don't need to see a cartoon picture of them all lined up in their athletic garb on the back of your soccer mom van.  And please stop putting their names above their caricatures.  I like to put myself in other people's shoes in moments like these.  Say... a child molester.  Oh good, now I know that lil' Cindy, youngest in a family of 12 (6 boys, 4 girls, Fido, and FiFi...awwwww) is in dance class, and maybe if I follow that SUV to see where Cindy's bus stop is and OH HI CINDY!  Your mom said I can pick you up after dance class in my white windowless van and here's some candy and Daddy is with Fido at the park do you want a ride over there to meet them? 
Get it?
Plus I don't really care about your family.
Or your political views.  By the way, you look ignorant and I hope you don't have one of those signs in your front yard because that's worse and no one's going to vote for Romney.  Even with your yard sign.  Maybe because of your yard sign.
Sooooo don't believe there is sunshine behind every cloud, Inspirational Facebook Post readers, because sometimes it's night.



P.S. Soccer Mom Van Owner, Sarah, aka an eggcellent friend of mine started blogging and it's hilarious.  See link.
http://lyssophobic.blogspot.com

You White. You Hair Gold.

In case you don't know already, I had to move back in with my parents.  I got a job up in Elizabeth, but from my old house in the south part of Colorado Springs, it would have been over an hour drive each way.  I like living in my car as much as the next person (you can tell by all the empty Diet Cokes and trash on the floor), but that's just a bit much for me.  So we decided to put the house up for sale and move in with the parental units so we wouldn't have to do it frantically in 6 days if the house sells.  Also, they live in Black Forest, which is a bit closer to Elizabeth (just in case we don't find a house to buy soon). 

My adorable house.  Wanna buy it?

I've lived in my house on the Southsiiiide for over three years now.  That's definitely enough time for me to turn gangsta, which is of course, awesome, and for me to realize that the white folk up here are super different than my white trash ways.  I am accustomed to falling asleep to the lulling sound of fireworks being set off in the cul-de-sac well before the Fourth of July, this one guy's laugh that sounds like this: "huh huh huh" "huh" "huh," and the occasional Gatorate-bottle-whipping extravaganza (We poe, we can't afford no guns.).  Yes, you heard it.  Whipping.  Let me enlighten you.

You're welcome.  Anyway, so I'm totally used to leaving my grocery cart in the middle of the aisle at King Soopers, where I am also no longer shocked to see multiple thongs and/or back boobs, be harrassed to buy someone's extra food stamps so he can buy crack rocks, and walk past the 3 security guards at the door without realizing they are even there.  If that isn't hood, I don't know what is.  One time my mom went shopping with me at the dollar store off of Academy and there was a line that had 4 or 5 people in it waiting to check out.  Let it be known that my mother has lived in White American Suburbia since 1991 and finds it rude that people leave their carts in the middle of the aisle at King Soopers.  So Mother Dearest did not want to wait in line.  In Monument, one does not wait in line.  They open up more lines for you in Monument and you still look at them condescendingly, like, "why didn't you do that before I had to sigh in distaste?"  She looked at me and whispered conspiratorally, "Maybe if I can make eye contact with the checker they will realize they should open up another line."  I laughed.  HAH.  This be the southside.  Yo.  Oh, Mother.  That doesn't work in these here parts.  I watched as Mom tried to make eye contact with the checker.  It was a little uncomfortable.  I think she finally did, so of course, as expected, the checker did not call to have another line opened.  I think she actually started checking slower.  It really was a learning oppotunity. 

I have learned in the past 3 years that if I don't want to be judged at my King Soopers or Dollar Store, that I need to be unwashed, wear sweatpants, and drag my 2 children who do not look like they have the same father to the store.  If I did go to the store, say, after work, with nice clothes, hair fixed, and no bastard-looking children, that's when I got the crusty stink eyes.  Why this white girl be buyin' our food? they'd say with their eyes.  I mean this in the least racist way possible.  That's just my southside accent.  Although I've never seen an Asian with back boobs.  I digress.

I went to King Soopers in Monument a few days ago.  I was unwashed and wearing sweatpants.  No -better - sweatSHORTS!  I know!  I knew I'd be judged, but OMG I just did not want to take a shower that day.  I had it coming.  I walked into the store.  The aisles were wider, the produce brighter, they had an ENTIRE AISLE OF ORGANIC CEREAL.  UP FRONT!  I didn't even have to go all the way back to the prescription reading glasses next to the old magazine rack in the back to find my Peanut Butter Puffins.  The ladies with their perfectly cut soccer mom hair looked classic and hoity in their perfect-for-grocery-shopping low-heeled shoes.  My flip-flops with holes in them began to cower in fear, which was weird for shoes, and I could swear my adult acne became more noticeable.  The ladies looked at my sweatshorts, my greasy hair, my adult acne, my personified shoes, and I could hear them calling their HOA's about why they were letting poor people in.  But maybe I just made that up.  Actually, instead of running her cart into mine and then blaming me for poor cart driving skills, when one lady accidentally bumped me SHE APOLOGIZED.  Where is this place? I thought while swinging my cart in circles in the giant aisle singing The Hills Are Alive.

I SWEET LOVE the old bread on sale section.  My dad calls it the Used Bread Section.  It's, like, the best part of any store, ever.  You can get rolls that are only 4 hours older than the other rolls for 14 cents!  They had pita bread, which is usually $4 a pack, for 79 cents.  You can't not buy every single pack when they are only 79 cents.  Even if that does make you seem like a homeless person.  So I bought them all.  It's seriously still such a great deal that I would re-deal with the embarrassing mockery of the checker just for more 79 cent pita bread.  He was all 19 years old and consescending, like, "looks like you hit that sale section pretty hard," and I was like, "huh, yeah." <--Brilliant retort.  Because when I don't have makeup on, I have low self-esteem when normally I'd be like, whatever 19 year old, you'd totally be hitting on my old ass in a club.  If I had makeup on.  And it was dark.  And they let 19 year olds in clubs.  What was I talking about?  So then I guiltilly bought a scratch ticket because rich people don't buy scratch tickets and I could feel the judgement burning into my back, and I zoomed out of the store and into the parking lot, where of course I couldn't find my car because it had camoflaged itself with dirt and I couldn't see it next to all the shiny Mercedezez.  The one redeeming thing about the parking lot was I heard an old guy say "shit" to his wife (which Monumenteers don't say in public because WWJD.) and I wrote "shit in the lot" into the note section of my phone so I wouldn't forget to write about it.  I got in my car and promptly forgot how to drive because I regressed into my 16 year old self buying groceries at the Monument King Soopers who just got her license and I drove like a sofaking weetahded teenager until I found the parking lot exit, and drove away breathing heavily and grasping the steering wheel because that was INTENSE.

Moral of the story?  It's hard being white no matter where you live.