To the boy who walks into the school cafeteria and says, “Hey Mom, I discovered how farts are chemically made!”

Happy birthday!

So yesterday I had on my hippie pants and was all, listening with more than my ears, flower power, give hugs, not drugs. Well, people, you can give me some goddamn drugs now. Obviously I need it.

Is it me, or does there come a time (or twenty) when you just want to tell you kid to shut the hell up? Because that’s what I really want to do now and I wonder if that means there is something wrong with me.

I actually wrote yesterday’s post last week, when I was still feeling patient and loving and kind, and just didn’t get around to scheduling it until yesterday. Now, though, I swear if I hear one more stupid complaint about school, I’m going eat shit and die and everything else I swore I wouldn’t do until hell froze over.

How much is too much? I mean, I have a kid who will remain completely silent about being picked on and teased until it becomes so awful he pours it out to me in a torrent of tears. So when he comes home telling me he had a terrible day at school, can I really yawn at him and brush it aside, redirect him, not feed into it? He does have these transitional issues, and his best friend did move away so he’s feeling very lonely and isolated, and kids have already been picking on him.

On the other hand, just shut the hell up. Stop complaining about being cold, stop complaining about So-and-So in your class goofing off in class and not getting in trouble for it, stop complaining that you don’t like basketball or jump rope, or that you’ll be raising frogs as a class science project instead of breeding fish, stop looking for every single minor thing to complain about!

Do I play Mother Teresa? Or Dr. Phil?

I have no idea if I’m feeding into the negativity by being the place he can vent to. Am I perpetuating the problem? For the most part, he’s keeping all of his stress and anxiety to himself at school and doing what he’s supposed to do there. And that’s been the goal for oh-so-long between us, him, his teacher and speech teacher. This is what you call good social skills!!

Then as soon as he sees me, the vitriol comes out. Is this a good thing? Would I be confusing him when for so long we’ve taught him about “proper places and times to express our true feelings” and I then tell him to cut the whiny crap out? Which is what I said to him this morning, and so now I’m feeling like an A-class tool for telling him that. For fuck’s sake, THIS IS WHAT EVERYONE HAS WANTED HIM TO DO!

But I don’t want to get sucked into some negative reinforcing pattern.

Oh, these fine parenting lines we dance. No wonder we’re all insane.

“I’m not adjusting so well to school.”

To anyone who asks how he likes his new school, that’s Payton’s universal statement. The principal, his speech therapist, his hairdresser. Yes, even his hairdresser. His story is that he isn’t adjusting well because horrible things are happening.

“What horrible things?”

“Just horrible things. It’s horrible.”

Yes, thank you for the clearing that up, Payton.

But to our outside eyes, he is adjusting well. So unbelievably well. The fact that we’re on the 4th week of school and I haven’t filled your feed reader with posts riddled with anxiety and worry over my kid’s behavior at school speaks volumes. I’ve had (sit down for it!) NO requests for a conference since classes started, ohmygod.

Yet he persists with the story that it isn’t going well.

I talked with his speech teacher and she said she tried to convince him that things at school aren’t that bad. This is like trying to convince a cat to bark and not meow. No, Kitty, you don’t meow, you must bark. Now bark, damn it!

I had an email conversation with his principal. She obviously likes Payton a lot and even gave me her home number if I ever needed to talk to her. Of course, I’m no fool. I know she gave me her home number because Payton told her about my fantastic brownies and she wants some. It’s so obvious.

In the email, she said when Payton burst into her office (and now you know the reason for the email), he was searching for a reaction out of her, which she didn’t give. Also, the less we feed into his desire to convince us he is having bad days, the better.

Hmm. So when I perform a Japanese fan dance to express for Payton his negative feelings towards school, do you think that feeds into his desire?

Okay, really. I understand behavior modification. I’ve studied it and, while it has its merits, I always thought it fell short of what makes humans tick. After all, it’s about treating humans like we’re rats in a maze, responding positively to the smell of cheese and negatively to electric shock treatment.

This approach appears to work very well on conventional children. I have one of those kids, too. And yes, I can say the smell of chocolate-coated candies does well to motivate positive behaviors in him while the threat of electric shock treatment discourages negative behavior.

But as I’ve learned as I keep trudging along this quirky kid parenting path, FUCK CONVENTION.

“No one is listening to me at school!” he declares.

Hmm.

Sometimes I think we grown-ups forget to listen with more than just our ears. A child’s problems and struggles can seem so, well, childish. They are easy to wax over, not because we aren’t caring and loving adults, but because time has marched us away from childhood and we’ve lost that perspective.

As I listened to Payton’s side of the HORRIBLE SCHOOL story, he was so insistent that no one is listening to him.

With my human eyes, I see a kid getting all of his work completed and making good grades. With my human ears, I hear a kid dramatizing the little school problems that I see with my human eyes. With my human brain, I think this kid likes negative attention and we must break the cycle.

Then I remembered when I learned to see my child with more than my eyes.

“No one is listening to me!”

I needed to listen with more than my ears.

“Payton, you say you aren’t adjusting well to school. Can you tell me more about that?”

“I’m not! It’s horrible!”

Ahh, more clarity through a broken record. I love it!

“But tell me exactly why you think it’s horrible.”

“It’s cold, there’s too much work!”

“Uh huh. And what else?”

“The new school, the new classrooms, the new teachers, the new kids. Everything is new!”

Ah-ha. Now I’m beginning to see. These “problems with transition” and “struggles with change” that are common in gifted kids (or Asperger’s kids, whichever you want to call them. Is there a difference except in your mind?), that’s what we’re dealing with, at least at the surface. And that’s what these particular explanations for their unusual behavior are – surface answers meant to sound clear and bona fide, yet really answer nothing at all.

What’s underneath the surface of psychological mumbo-jumbo is what’s underneath everything in life – feelings. It’s not the change or transition itself that is the problem, but the anxiety beneath it. These other little things (i.e. classroom temperature) that Payton is using as the plot in his story of horrible days, are they just a cover story?

“So you don’t think you’re adjusting well because of the changes?”

“Yes!”

“And do the changes make you feel stressed and anxious on the inside?”

“YES!”

Finally some clarity. This is not about outside appearances. He is trying to tell us something more, something deeper.

I’m here, sweetie boy. I’m listening to your story.

I was just sitting here thinking how little there is to write about when your life is just shit-damn happy. And also when you are not drinking.

Oh my fucking god, I’m still not drinking. I can’t even speak further on that, I’m afraid it will cause an aneurysm. I’ve fallen through some wormhole where time stops, so it’s never 5 o’clock. There are a lot of quantum physics involved, so trying to understand why this is happening to me will make your head explode, thus the aneurysm. Let’s not talk about it. Let’s gossip about a friend of mine instead.

I’m having an argument with an old friend on Facebook. I don’t know, it may not be so much of an argument but more of me shoving my opinion down his throat. Because my opinion is right, of course, which I’m sure you will help prove.

See, Derek* posted a manwhore picture of himself on Facebook. It’s the first time I’ve seen him shirtless since 1993, and I’m not entirely sure I saw him shirtless even then. Did I? Didn’t I? We dated in high school, but not seriously. I can’t recall if he even got to second base. These things get fuzzy after 17 years.

Anyway, Derek posted this manwhore picture on Facebook. I call it a manwhore picture because, quite frankly, it offends me. First and foremost, I always find it offensive when guys I broke up with develop these really hot bodies down the road. They should all get fat and bald, reinforcing my wise decision to dump them. When they turn out hot in their mid-thirties, it makes me wonder if I was really that smart in the ’90s.

I can deal with that, though. Yeah, Derek may have gone and developed this hot body, but I have this here blog with its huge following of 11 commenters, proving what I’ve suspected about life all along: it’s quality over quantity.

But let’s get to the meat (har!) of this manwhore picture. What really bugs me is the lack of body hair on Derek. Clearly he has shaven (or waxed) his chest hair. This current trend of grown men appearing hairless drives me absolutely INSANE. And I don’t mean the sexual oh-my-god-I-want-you insane. I mean the What-the-fuck-Twilight insane.

When I fantasize about the hottest man in showbiz, Stephen Colbert has some goddamn chest hair when his shirt and tie comes off.

(Hi Stephen. Yes, I’m the person who came to your website and searched “shirtless” and then “shirtless Stephen.” I then turned to Google for help, Stephen, so yes, I am also the person who landed on your website by searching “Stephen Colbert without a shirt.” I have to say I’m not only disappointed but disillusioned too. The only clip I could find included shirtless men WITH NO BODY HAIR. God help me and my fantasies!)

What the fuck is wrong with the world? First we have grown women panting over teenage vampires and werewolves, like an un-spayed cat locked up in a suburban laundry room for her own good. Now it appears the conventional definition of a sexy man is something that looks like an overdeveloped, hairless man-child.

I don’t know what is happening?! Is it me? Am I the crazy one? Should I visit a gynecologist to have my hormone levels evaluated? Do I need more estrogen? Progesterone? A steroid shot so I can just grown my own damn chest hair? What the hell? I no longer belong on this planet.

I had to go way back to 2001 (speaking of time wormholes) to find sexy, shirtless celebrities with chest hair.

Oh yeah, baby. Who needs porn now? Not me.

*Derek is not his real name, but it totally rhymes with his real name.

When Megan called and asked if I’d write about why we’re still living along the Gulf Coast as part of Story Bleed’s Hope Remains carnival, sponsored by Tide Loads of Hope, my answer was so authentic that it came quick and unbidden, much like seeing boobs in a Rorschach test; no thinking, just open your mouth and the deep-seated perverse truth spills forth.

“Because we’re crazy.”

That’s undeniably true. It takes a special kind of crazy to live here – a type of insanity where you enjoy the smell of sweat and can hear double negatives without going cross-eyed.

Living along the Gulf Coast also takes a special kind of sexy to look good in 5000% humidity with frizzy hair. Not everyone has it, but I do. Ooo, my frizzy hair and shiny makeup is so sex-ay, you have no idea.

It also takes $230 a month just to insure your home, but don’t faint! This works out in the end and is one of the Gulf Coast’s best kept secrets. Since you are paying so much, the insurance companies promise to send your firstborn child to college for free.

Wait, Wally is now telling me our insurance company will not be sending Payton to college, that we have to pay for it and the extortionate premium. Huh. Now I’m not sure our decision to live here makes any sense at all.

It’s not like coming to Mobile was my bright idea. My bright ideas consist of things like, hmmm, I wonder what would happen if I pretend I’m in college again and economic visions, such as saving money by teaching myself how to knit via YouTube instructional videos. (Hint: while you may save money on knitting classes, you will spend more money on anti-psychotic drugs, because huh? They twisted the yarn this way to loop over that way only to pull through, loop again, wha?)

How we ended up in Mobile is a funny story, if you call losing your only source of income a funny story. If that’s the case, there are hundreds of thousands of people laughing it up in this economy!

For us, it wasn’t 2009, it was the spring of 2005. I received an urgent phone call from Wally that pretty much turned anything solid in my bowels into liquid goo.

“Honey, I’m losing my job.”

One week later…

“Honey, I have a job offer in Mobile.”

Mobile? As in Mobile on the Gulf Coast? Where the hurricanes fly? You’re joking, right? You saw what happened to Florida over the past two hurricane seasons. That could be us! Remember Ivan just last year? It’s one thing to weather hurricanes mid-state, it’s an entirely different thing to weather them so near the coast. Seriously? Mobile? Do we have to?

Yes, we had to. So we did.

There’s no need to keep up pretenses, this was 2005; our initiation into Gulf Coast living was a hazing by Mother Nature that makes any fraternity hazing seem like a little frou-frou cheerleader initiation party where the worse that might happen is getting shaving cream in your eyes.

Hurricane season 2005. Even now, five years later, I can’t think of those summer months without a couple of expletives that sound something like flit pothermucker. Half of our belongings were still in boxes when the first storm hit; a little fart of a tropical storm named Arlene.

Oh, tee hee hee, what a baby. I can totally handle this tropical storm season stuff on the Gulf! Totally. This is only like a bad thunderstorm, what were you worried about, Heather?

Less than thirty days later, Arlene was followed by Hurricane Cindy – a minimum hurricane that steered west of us.

See? Still totally handling this tropical storm stuff while living along the Gulf. I have batteries. I have candles. Whee!

Hurricane Dennis followed Cindy with indecent haste – a mere five days. Jumping from a category one to four in 24 hours and heading straight for us, experts agreed he would make a full-strength landing, meaning this guy would roar ashore with no weakening. I looked at my four- and two-year-old little boys, the trees directly outside, and the pond not thirty feet from our back door. There was no question.

We evacuated.

We returned just a couple of days later, shocked at how little damage we saw. Everything we left behind was completely intact.

Thank you, thank you, thank you. Spared yet again! This is it this time, surely. It has to be! We’ve paid our tropical dues and paid over again. No more this year, we are D-O-N-E. We can’t have another, Mother Nature just doesn’t work that way.

As it turns out, Mother Nature works any damn way she pleases.

August 29th, 2005, Hurricane Katrina.

First predicted to hit east of us in Florida, then closer, then right on top of us, then west of us, then further west in Louisiana, then east again to Mississippi. Poor Jim Cantore was so confused. So was I. Who really knew where Katrina would land, just GET OUT OF THE WAY.

And we did. Again. We packed up, we prioritized what couldn’t possibly be left behind and what could. You amaze yourself with these surreal decisions. On one hand you’re struck that these are just things, not people or love or anything that truly matters in life. On the other hand, these are your things, the tangible objects that symbolize the stories in your life. And to pick through those things, to decide which part of your story is more important than another…

No more. This is it for me, Wally I can’t do this again. If we have one more storm this year, we are canceling the contract on our new house and we are not staying in Mobile. We will leave!

Katrina was the last storm in 2005 for our area, and, for the most part, Mobile missed the devastation by global inches. A very short thirty-minute drive to the west from my house was unbelievable devastation.

Relieved to be spared, though your relief is shrouded with guilt and pain for those who weren’t. You make a trip to Super Target to replace the contents of your fridge only to get in line behind a woman from Harrison County, Mississippi, who is replacing the entire contents of her house that no longer exists. Every other car dotting Target’s parking lot has a Harrison County tag. You wonder if they’re replacing everything they owned too.

Katrina’s devastation had a face, even if it wasn’t your own. It was the face next to you in the checkout line, the one sitting next to you in church, the one beside you at the red light.

After Hurricane Katrina, Tide reached out to the faces affected by the storm with their Loads of Hope truck, a unit housing 32 energy-efficient washers and dryers capable of completely 300 loads of laundry a day. Residents in the area, first responders and relief workers can drop off their laundry to be cleaned, free of charge. So far, Tide has washed 36,000 loads of laundry for 27,000 families. That’s a lot of clean panties, y’all, and there is nothing like clean panties when you don’t have clean panties. (Don’t ask how I know this.)

For five years the waters have stayed calm, the winds low. To celebrate, Tide Loads of Hope is hosting a free concert in New Orleans on August 24th with Faith Hill and the Dirty Dozen Brass Band. If you live in the area, visit Velveteen Mind to find out how to score tickets.

In these quiet years, I finally began to see the other side of life on the Gulf Coast; the beauty of the ocean, the joys of a long summer at the beach, the carnival season, the French influence in our every day life, the two hundred year old oaks creating canopies over our streets. The what-ifs and risks began to fade from the forefront of our mind, and this coastal way of life seeped and flowed until it has become a part of us.

And then came the oil spill. Our coastal way of life has been turned around again. Jesus on a cracker. How much more can we take?

Why do we stay where the Gulf of Mexico can lull us with its beauty and grace and then strike us with its power and might?

There are many different reasons and people and circumstances to explain why we stay, but I don’t think I need to enumerate all of them. They are probably the same reasons, people and circumstances that explain why you stay where you land after a storm, be it an economical, natural, or man-made storm.

This is Life, and Life led us here, even against my will. It is because of living along the Gulf Coast that I’ve come to trust some indefinable higher power and know that It is kind. With that conviction anchored deep in me now, hope remains for the Gulf Coast.

Wherever we lay our heads, whatever comes our way, life is always kind in the end.

For more information about our sponsor Tide Loads of Hope or to purchase a Tide Loads of Hope vintage t-shirt, please visit www.tideloadsofhope.com. The profits from the sale of the Tide Loads of Hope tees benefit families affected by disaster. Interact with Tide Loads of Hope at www.facebook.com/Tide. Follow them on twitter @TideLoadsofHope

I’ve decided to make this a confession week here on my blog by exposing my few personality flaws. If this idea goes like 99% of all of my other blog ideas, that means this will be my only one. So, enjoy! What I’m about to tell you is a pretty shitty part of me. I’m embarrassed to admit I can be this kind of asshole. But I can.

I hate it when people stand at busy intersections with buckets, wanting you to donate money to them.

It makes sitting at the red light so uncomfortable while you casually try to avoid eye contact with them as they tramp up and down the stopped traffic.

I was a cheerleader once (OMFG! you say. I know, unreal.) so I know about going to trumped up competitions that mean absolutely nothing and needing to raise money to go. But we did something for that money. We washed car windshields in parking lots, we sold Boston butt barbecues, we hawked candy to students for a buck. We didn’t stand on a street corner in skimpy pleated skirts, looking for a handout. Something about that smacks of whoredom, don’t you think? Hell, even whores do something for the money, so it’s like it’s even worse than being a whore.

I guess that’s my middle class work ethic coming out, and perhaps the reason I will most likely remain middle class my entire life. Money is earned! Through hard work! And sacrifice! It’s the American dream: Work hard, pay 30% of your salary to taxes and health insurance, and mortgage yourself to death so you’ll always be working hard for money.

I’m not entirely heartless to these organizations standing on street corners, though. I do feel sorry for the Little League boys who are going to championship tournaments and want money. Shit, we won’t even let kids ride bikes without helmets, much less go door-to-door in the neighborhood, asking if anyone would like their lawn mowed for a donation for their trip.

And those firefighters on street corners (and sometimes parking lots), doing their Fill The Boot charity drive? That doesn’t piss me off at all. Except I wonder if they realize they would get SO MUCH MORE in donations if they put their sexy firefighters out there, shirtless. Oh hell yes, I’d throw my grocery cash at that, baby. What other sensual excitement does a suburban mom get when she is out running umpteen thousand errands on a Saturday afternoon? None.

The latest group at the usual intersection of whoredom, I don’t even know who they were. They had a cardboard box sign taped to their bucket saying, “Please donate to our building fund!” Because I am trying to overcome my pre- Christmas ghost Scrooge-ish nature, I thought, hmm, I wonder what they are trying to build? An orphanage? A new animal shelter? A local Publix? I could really get behind a Publix!

It turns out they were a church group wanting us to help “build to God!” Huh. I bet Noah was worse than a prostitute and that’s how Noah built the ark; by standing at the market square intersection, rattling his stone cup at people passing by on their mules.

Without a cell phone to fake text on, how in the world did the pre-biblical people pretend to be too busy to notice him?

Yesterday was the first day back at school. I have to say things went okay! You know, if you’re measuring it on a scale of OH MY GOD, MY INTESTINES JUST FELL OUT OF MY ASSHOLE horrible to Oh, look at that, I have an ingrown toenail okay-ness.

We’re definitely on the ingrown toenail side of the scale. I received only one phone call from school. Wait, no, make that two. No, no, make that three. One from Payton, one from the school counselor, and one from the teacher. If I get any more popular I’m going to have to hire a publicist.

In all seriousness, the phone calls weren’t that bad, at least on my sliding scale. Payton only called to vent about HORRIBLE PE and the kid who made it horrible. The counselor only called (because I asked her to) to tell me Payton was so emotional because he was hungry (see also: Betty White commercials). The teacher called in the evening to tell me Payton didn’t freak him out. (I just love good news!)

But after Payton’s phone call in the morning, I began to worry, despite my new Swami promotion. He said he got in big trouble at P.E. and in his classroom, it’s HORRIBLE, HORRIBLE, HORRIBLE, I MUST COME SAVE HIM FROM THE HORRIBLENESS! It was hard to understand what happened. Payton relays these things very disjointedly, leaving me to fill in the blanks with my imagination. Believe me, it’s not one of those times when ignorance is bliss, especially with my kind of imagination.

Being a good mom who cares what happens at school and wants to reinforce good behavior or discipline unacceptable behavior, I walked up to pick up Payton instead going through the carpool lane. I wanted to know what happened and whether I should beat Payton senseless with a wet noodle or praise him with a shower of Kit Kats.

Not using the carpool was a BIG MISTAKE. A 4th grade teacher yelled at me for not using the carpool lane and they wouldn’t let me leave with my son. I was told to go through the carpool lane. Well! Obviously these people do not know that I am in the mafia, which affords special privileges.

In the end I left with my son and I didn’t use the carpool lane. Just like American Express, mafia membership has its privileges.

Now it’s day two at noon, and that’s thirty minutes longer without a phone call than yesterday. That’s what you call progress! What’s not progress is sabotaging my Level 3 30 Day Shred work out by eating two smore brownies in a row. This is on top of the four I ate yesterday.

Look, I have to cope with the worry somehow. I can’t drink because of the other Friday. I don’t know how normal people deal with high stress without alcohol. Oh, that’s right. They eat Xanax candy instead.

Fattening comfort food isn’t the only coping mechanism I’m relying on, though. I keep repeating a soothing mantra in my head: He’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay. I do this while sitting criss-cross applesauce and burning incense in the air. And by incense, I mean a strawberry shortcake scented candle.

In addition, I’m also following Mr. Magorium (of the Wonder Emporium) as a second guru and he says “anything is possible.” And it is. Anything  is possible, including the possibility that Payton will magically fall in love with school this year, all problems will disappear, and I’ll be a size six again, all because of a plain block of wood!

It’s now 12:10 and the phone remains quiet. Knock on wood for me.

I intellectually know he’s okay. That should be enough to ease the stress, but it’s not. A hundred times a day I find myself unconsciously pulled in an undercurrent of worry, imagining things are not okay for him. These waking nightmares are very vague in imagery but sharp in feeling. I have no idea what could be going wrong, but it could be something.

He’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay. Now eat yourself a brownie!

And then I make myself imagine ANYTHING being possible, including Payton falling in love with school, OMG, Mom, the new school has a huge science lab! After all, believing is seeing.

So let’s end on a happy note. It’ll make me feel better, especially if you all tell me what a genius I’m raising, and don’t we all know geniuses do weird shit as kids? Yes we do!

Payton’s birthday is in a couple of weeks. He wants a Super Mario party, which absolutely thrills me. This is a party theme that I can just order supplies for, unlike his odobenocetops birthday. This year’s party will be easy! Or so I thought.

Apparently what’s good for the Amazon.com commoner isn’t good enough for Payton, the Royal Birthday Boy. He wants more. And this “more” includes authentic Mario bricks that float in the air. He wants floating brick boxes to decorate our house, as in no strings, true gravity-defying brick boxes.

Excuse me while I brag, but I’m getting smarter at handling these IMPOSSIBLE BIRTHDAY REQUESTS. I told him I’m in charge of the food, hosting and cake decorating, he’s in charge of decorations. If he wants floating brick boxes, he has to figure out how to create them, end of story, BOOYAH!, Mama stumped you good!

I say I’m getting smarter, but not really, because he figured out how to do it, theoretically, at least. Payton hypothesized that if you took an equal number of opposing magnets, that the positive and negative fields would created a space where gravity doesn’t exist. The push and pull would cancel each other out and you could float an object in it.

*blink blink*

One more thing you should know. Payton has asked for a chemistry set for his birthday.

Hold me. First, though, call my homeowners insurance agent and increase my policy. Then hold me.

I don’t know what is wrong with me. I probably need professional help. Also, you can’t imagine how much my southern accent comes out when I’ve been drinking. Believe me, it’s A LOT. You should watch this vlog over at The Mouthy Housewives just to see.

The vlog is all sorts of awesome, especially if you are NOT at BlogHer in NYC. I mean, what could be awesomer than drinking in your closet? I’m positive NYC can’t even compare.

_________________________________________________________

One of the The Mouthy Housewives Party sponsors, 8th Continent Soymilk is having a Facebook contest, Nice Job, Mom.  Go see that for yourself too, but as a sneak peek, you tell them about your less-than-perfect parenting moment and you can win free housekeeping for a year. This is probably the exact kind of professional help I need.

I thought I was pretty intelligent, but I’m beginning to have my doubts. Underneath the honor degree and lightening fast math skills is actually the brain of a very, very slow learner.

This past Friday night Wally and I had an entire night alone. Do you other parents understand what that means? Because I heard “entire night alone” and was unable comprehend what that meant. Wha? Huh? Yous be sprackin’ a language I not understandth.

After thirty minutes it finally hit me what that meant – OH MY GOD! Alone! Overnight! The first time in two years! Needless to say, we couldn’t wait.

We made plans, very nice, mature, adult plans. I planned out a special dinner that Wally and I LOVE to eat but only eat once every two years because the boys absolutely HATE IT, OH MY GOD, MOM, WHY DO YOU MAKE US EAT DOG SHIT?! I even bought artisan bread, y’all, and a bottle of wine. Candles would be in candle holders, tablecloths would be on tables – real adult stuff!

And then, I don’t know what happened? Wally and I got home from dropping the boys off and I think the utter silence in the house – no Mario Galaxy 2 theme song in the background or the sounds of sibling rivalry – sort of caused all of our brain synapses to go haywire.

With all of the mature plans forgotten, Wally and I pretended we were in college again and got completely shit-faced. Who needs a fancy dinner when you can have a dinner of Crown Royal with a side of beer? Not us! And if you care to know the end result of this type of dinner, just let me tell you that I can’t even type Crown Royal without becoming nauseated again, FOUR DAMN DAYS LATER.

I did horribly embarrassing things, like roll around on the floor while singing a song to the Mouthy Housewives that I INSISTED (in the stubborn way only drunk people can insist) Wally videotape so I could email it to them. I flashed my boobs to the camera, which Wally thought was great, and since he thought it was great, surely my co-Mouthy Housewives would think it was great too, why don’t we email it to all three of them! Seeing my boobs will surely make their Friday night! But first let me blog about flashing my boobs on camera, because, hahahaha, stupid shit suddenly turns into the most awesome writing material EVER when you’re drunk.

(Hey, all you school moms that I just discovered know about my blog – I’m the room mom who got drunk, had her husband record her singing drunk songs and then wanted to email out boob videos to her friends. Can we be friends? I have openings for friends! Do you want to get together for coffee sometime? I promise not to pee in it.)

Lucky for my co-Mouthy Housewives, their Friday night remained dull and boring since I never sent the boob movie and have since deleted it. And I took down that blog post. (If you subscribe to my RSS feed, can we pretend like you didn’t read that?)

Then I had the awesome idea that Wally and I should go for a walk around the neighborhood. So I ran to our room, changed into my workout clothes, promptly fell on the floor and was unable to get up. That is, until I knew I was about to pay my penance for consuming 2/3 of a pint of whiskey by myself. I managed to crawl to the toilet and  stayed there until 3 am.

The only difference between Friday night and our college days is that it took me until Saturday afternoon, 4 pm, before I could sit up without wanting to puke again. Back in college, a 3 am trip to the Waffle House and 10 hours of sleep took care of everything. So, yeah, this whole slower metabolism as you age really sucks.

You would think I would’ve learned my lesson two years ago when I made a first-class fool of myself at Wally’s company function. Get out with Wally more so you don’t go batshit crazy when you do get out alone. But no! The only lesson I learned was to keep my foolishness at home, which I guess is an improvement but it sure didn’t feel like it while I was hugging the toilet.

I guess it’s time we hire a babysitter on a regular basis and get ourselves out and away. It’s logical, sound advice. It’s what every expert says you need to do as a couple, and hopefully it will have a secondary benefit of preventing horrific hangovers. Here again, though, I hear the idea…hire a babysitter and go out!…and my brain doesn’t comprehend. Wha? Huh? Go blieck blckd what? There you go again, sprackin’ a language I don’t understandth.

What do couples do when they hire a babysitter?

Go out to eat? Bleck. We don’t enjoy going out to eat anymore. Why would we when what I cook is so much better? Imagine all the beautiful cuts of meat I could buy at the Fresh Market instead of that mediocre $50 dinner! But we can’t cook at home alone, not regularly at least.

Go to a movie? Eh. There are PEOPLE there. People who loudly breath through their mouth and whisper. And I have this big pretty 1080 TV whose picture is, sad to say, sometimes better than the theater.

Do you go to Home Depot and look at ceiling fans without having to yell at your kids? Because, if you aren’t aware, Home Depot has the same air pollution problem as the post office which causes kids to act like TOTAL ASSHOLES every time you’re there.

Help me out here, what do couples besides go out to eat or to the movies?

The boys and I just returned home from our once a week jaunt out in society. I haven’t wanted to alarm you these past 500 weeks of summer vacation, but it’s been a lonely summer this year. My other daytime at-home mom friend went back to work full-time so we’ve not had anyone to do things with during the week.

I start to think it’s a sign of deficiency in my person that I have only one other mom friend I can call up and do kid things with. Sad, how very sad for poor rejected Heather. But then I realize when you don’t want to hang out with dullards, asshats and/or liars, it really begins to limit the number of people to choose from. Just like my new food philosophy, it’s about quality over quantity, a concept I realize is completely un-American.

Admittedly, this new philosophy has led to a lot of solitude, which causes me to doubt that I can even remember how to speak to any adult other than Wally. I persevere for quality, though! Every week I take the boys to Pump It Up (one of those indoor inflatable play places) for 2 hours of running, sliding and climbing. I have it on good authority that this cancels out the three hours of video games I’m going to let them play after lunch. Now I can take my afternoon nap without the guilt!

So eight weeks and $104 dollars later, I finally (FINALLY!) talked to another mom.  We talked the typical mom talk – schools, kids, homeowners insurance. (What? This is Mobile where you are forced to sign over your firstborn in order to afford homeowners insurance, it’s a HUGE topic down here.) Eventually the conversation came around to politics and religion. (OMG, can I hide under this foosball table!) I have NO idea how, I certainly didn’t start it, I’m wise enough to know better.

The other mom was younger, in her twenties, and probably hasn’t achieved this wisdom yet. She didn’t have much of the Mariana Trench Forehead Line, which is my tell-tale sign of age and wisdom. You get it from giving a lot of those YOU BETTER STOP THAT SHIT RIGHT THIS INSTANT! looks to your kids and the OH, YES, THAT’S A THOUGHT non-committal nods when you know you should keep your mouth shut.

Actually, I think I may have accidentally started the religion and politics topic when I confessed that I’m a bit of a freak for an Alabamian since I have some liberal views. THAT’S ALL I SAID, THOUGH! She’s the one that said Republican and asked where I go to church. Why can’t people in the South just stop asking that question?!

I told her where I go for spiritual discussions, and she was curious, so I told her more, mentioning our open-ended mindset, which includes having no answers and being open to gays without the strings of conversion attached. And that right there? Is why I’m a freak in Alabama.

She began to tell me about her beliefs regarding the root of homosexuality, which is basically caused when people give into evil and bam! they become gay. Because they embrace evilness.

People, prepare yourself for what happened next.

I restrained myself from getting up and pissing in her Starbucks coffee.

I believe this means my swami training is complete.

Ommmmmm.