Badass

In the year after my dad died, my mom went a little crazy. She quit her high powered corporate job and went to beauty school, she bought a Harley, she spent hours and hours rearranging furniture and tearing out bushes. One day she took a sledgehammer to her front porch, tearing it down piece by piece, swinging the hammer and beating the shit out of grief. I wonder what the neighbors thought as they drove by that day, watching her cursing and crying and sweating and swinging. They probably thought the same thing I do:

That chick is Badass.

She married, lost a baby, divorced, remarried, had two babies, moved out of the country and back again (twice) before she was 25. She went from high school dropout to hotel front desk clerk to the only woman at her level in a multimillion dollar, international organization. She cuts hair, cooks like a fiend, wields power tools with ease, drinks men under the table and swears like a sailor.

Like I said, Badass.
 
And, the most sensitive person I know. She takes (frequent) ribbings with good humor, is generous in every way, gives affection freely and openly and willingly. She is given to weepiness. If I made a list of the 10 nicest things anyone has ever done for me, she'd hold at least half the spots. If you know her, chances are she's on your list as well.

She's a Badass with a sensitive side. Kind of like a hooker with a heart of gold, except without the sleeping with people for money.

She is brave and courageous and daring and smart and funny and beautiful. When my heart hurts the most there is no one I want more than my Mommy. She is my best friend, and inspires me every day to be a better mother and a better person.

I love you, Mom. Happy Mother's Day, you Badass!


(My mom asks that you please go vote for me on Circle of Moms. Did I just use my mom to pimp myself out for votes? Yes, yes I did!)

Chronic Volunteerism

Vacation Bible School comes at exactly the right time during the summer. The kids have been out of school for a few weeks, the novelty of the pool has worn off, and someone is going to get a beat down if mom and kids don't get a little alone time. So, for one week from 9 to 12, the girls get to go off and learn about Jesus and get out my hair. Thanks be to God.

Except this year, I volunteered to run the nursery during VBS. I wasn't asked, I just said I'd do it. I approached the woman in charge and said "Hey, I'd really like to spend some time with a bunch of pants pissing 2 year olds during the week when I'm supposed to be down a couple of kids." Clearly, I have been smoking crack.

It's a disease - chronic volunteerism. I can't seem to stop myself from saying "I'll do it." or, worse, "I'll do it if no one else will." Because you know what? No one else will. Saying that pretty much guarantees that the search is over and you have just signed on as Committee Chairperson for the Most Horrid Fucking Volunteer Position Ever.

After Henry was born (and I finished up my second year as PTO Vice-President), I declared it "The Year of No". I still managed to do small things here and there, but I said 'no' more often than not. In theory, it should have been good for me. It should have taught me that other people need the opportunity and the encouragement to do things. It should have shown me that there are people willing to step forward and take charge, if they are just given a little push.

Instead, it made me feel guilty. It made me feel like I need to do something big to make up for the lost year.

Last night, I sat down to write a letter to all the volunteers at the elementary school, essentially begging someone to step up and take on a PTO board position for next year. I was my most poetic, most persuasive, most eloquent. I was so convincing that I almost convinced myself. I found myself thinking, If no one else does it...

On second thought, I think a week with a room full of toddlers is penance enough.

(Oh, jeez - CLICK HERE and vote for me by clicking the little thumbs up, blah blah blah. Only 11 more days of this bullshit, I promise. Don't let me slip out of the top 25 or I will cry myself to sleep, and I get all snotty and ugly when I cry and it will scare my children. DO IT FOR THE CHILDREN!)

Flashback - 1986

While looking for prom pictures, I found this little gem:

That's my mom, my dad, and my assy youngest brother. He's great now, but when this picture was taken (around 1986, he was about 9), the kid was a top notch a-hole.

So let's start with him. It was about this time that he earned the nickname "Gourd Head" because - well, look at his fucking head! It is enormous and round and very Charlie Brown-esque. He is the Great Pumpkin. Lucky for him, his body grew into that giant planetoid.  I can only assume this is during his Don Johnson/Miami Vice phase, which would explain why a 9 year old is wearing a shirt unbuttoned to his waist. This phase preceded the White Rapper Phase (more Vanilla Ice, less Eminem), the Grateful Dead Phase (which coincided nicely with the Stoned All the Time Phase), and the Tattoo & Piercing Phase. I obviously snapped the photo before they were ready, because he is sneering and my mom is...

WTF is my mom doing? She has her hands out, palms up, lips pursed. Which means my brother and I are probably arguing, and my mom is saying "Just take the goddamn picture, Kelly Marie!" We'll not even discuss the frosted and feathered hair, because I am too distracted by the shiny purple pantsuit. What is that material? Sealskin? Whatever it is, it is so slick she is about to slide right off that fugly chair, which was some sort of corduroy/chenille hybrid. Like if your favorite blankie ate your favorite pair of Tuffskins and shat it out, and it anchored itself with enormous, shellacked, gold rimmed wooden posts - it would be that chair.

My dad looks pretty normal, even though he is flashing his butt-white chicken legs. My dad was part American Indian - the top part. His face, arms, chest and back would get the deepest, darkest brown, but his poor little legs stuck out like two q-tips. He is sporting the ever-present Marlboro, and the ashtray (on a stand!) is nearby. Please note the spittoon on the floor. To my knowledge, it was only a 'decorative' spittoon, and not used for actual spit.

Hanging on the wall above them is a dreamcatcher, that I'm pretty sure my mom made. It was made of - what the hell, I don't know. I don't know what it was about the era that made them manufactured materials that defy description. But it was...fluffy? Sproingy? Kind of like cushion stuffing. It is flanked by some American Indian plaster wall hangings my mom painted (did we have a fuck ton of those!). One of her finest works is seen to the right of the chair on the floor.

That's The Chief. Hours of painstaking labor went into painting him. Honestly, my mom could have had a career with The Franklin Mint, handcrafting fine collectibles. Statues, wall hangings, figurines - my mom was into unfinished pottery before paint your own was cool. The Chief was a masterpiece, and by his presence on the floor I can only assume he eventually got taken out by the vacuum cleaner or peed on by the dog.

And yes, that is a macrame plant holder hanging from the ceiling. My mom (God, she's crafty!) spent hours sitting on the floor, polyester yarn looped around her big toe, macrame-ing every size and shape of plant hanger imaginable. I know for a fact she still has all her macrame supplies in a foot locker in the attic, just waiting for it to come back into fashion. Macrame hung in my parents' house until at least the mid-90s, which was also around the same time they finally admitted that maybe CDs were going to replace cassette tapes, after all.

It is unfortunate that the wagon wheel coffee table is out of the frame in this picture, because it was the cornerstone of the whole design scheme. The best part of the table is that my parents never got a piece of glass to put on the top. So, not only was it the ugliest coffee table ever, it was also completely unusable. It was always fun to see people come to our house for the first time and try to set a glass down. Hahaha! Joke's on you! No glass!

I miss you, dumb pointless coffee table! I miss you, 1986!

(Also, please go vote at Circle of Moms - click on the thumbs up by SFC. Thank you, you are awesome.)

Prom

In honor of prom season, that oversexed, overdressed month which is the pinnacle of every angst-filled teenage life, I pulled out my prom pictures.

I went to two junior proms, dressing simply, elegantly, and keeping my hair within a two-foot radius around my head. But for Senior Ball, well - I blew that shit out. 

I don't think the pictures do the Giant Green Monstrosity justice. It was emerald taffeta, with a lace overlay on the bodice, and the sleeves entirely of lace. I also want to note that the mid-80s travesty I am sitting on does not belong to my parents. Our house was tastefully decorated with things like wagon wheel coffee tables and horse collar mirrors. Mama didn't do tacky ass floral prints. And is that a giant console TV in front of me? Why yes, yes it is.

I am not sure what the hell is going on with my eyebrows, except that I apparently had not yet made friends with a tweezer. The hair took HOURS (no exaggeration), as it is naturally wicked thick and stick straight. I cranked the Richard Caruso Molecular Hairsetter up to HIGH and rolled and rolled and rolled. There are peace treaties that have been crafted in less time than I spent on my hair.


I hit the tanning bed the day prior and overdid it. You may notice the red glow of my arms through the lace. My poor arms were so hot, girls in strapless dresses huddled around me like a bunch of hobos for warmth.

I went with some ugly bitches!

I had a mad crush on the boy I asked to prom (gasp!) and had he wanted to get frisky (which he didn't? What guy could resist that hotness?), there is no way I could have played through the pain. In fact, my date and his stupid ass Dutch Boy haircut were so lame, I spent much of the evening regretting asking him, and thanking my lucky stars I had such fun friends to hang out with. Note to moms sending their daughters off to prom with boys who have suspect haircuts: Get them good and sunburned first. 

Our Senior Ball theme was "A Night to Remember", and - 21 years later - I suppose it was. But for entirely different reasons than I thought it would be. That's a good thing. 

(Don't forget to vote for SFC every day from now until May 16 at Circle of Moms. Click on the thumbs up button. Thanks!)