…a nipple cake! More specifically, a black woman’s nipple cake.

Obviously God is on board with this expression of anniversary love. Why else would the cake come out like this? It’s a sign from God. My husband covets black breasts.

P.S. Ganache icing is horrible! An abomination to all things buttercream! Bleck!

P.S.S. I had to eat a second piece of this cake, for my breakfast, to verify that yes, ganache icing is horrible.

P.S.S.S. The horribleness of the icing has been double verified. I think I’m going to have to make another cake this weekend just to erase the taste in my mouth.

“Do you think marriage is hard?” I asked.

Without hesitation, “Yes, it is,” Wally said.

What? Without even thinking about the question? An unequivocal yes. Shit, I must be a difficult spouse. I bet I’m high maintenance. That’s it, I’m still too high maintenance, even though I have chilled out so much since my twenties.

“Why do you think marriage is hard?” I asked.

“I don’t know. It just is,” he answered.

“Can you tell me something in our marriage, some area or whatever that you think is hard?”

Silence.

“No, I can’t think of anything.”

“So why do you think marriage is hard?”

“I don’t know. I guess because everyone says it is.”

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Fourteen years.

Wally and I were married fourteen years ago today.

And this is where I’m supposed to post pictures from our wedding day and write romantic and lovely things about it, about our relationship, how we were meant to be, etc., etc.

Except I can’t.

Whatever notion of romance I had in me has long evaporated. I intellectually comprehend and understand the notion of romance as it’s defined by our society. I see it, watch it, read it. I hear the pretty words of devotion. I see the token acts of love. I try to seize this notion of romance and force myself to feel it again, just once more.

Except I can’t. These conventional notions of marital love feel too superficial for me now. I tell myself those acts are for new love, for love that hasn’t been worn by five thousand days, eight thousand diapers and sixty-hour work weeks.

Yes, our love has been worn by those things until it is soft, pliable, weathered. There is no going back.

*****************************************************************************

In fourteen years, we’ve watched many friend and family marriages fall apart. I would venture to guess more have fallen apart than have stayed together. And the ones who have made it? Are they happy? I’m wise enough now to know better than to assume a 20-year marriage equates a happy couple. It seems almost too intimate a question to ask anyone.

Are you happy?

As our anniversary approached, I toyed with the idea of asking Wally that question – are you happy? But something stopped me. I mean, something other than the constant demand of children and the resulting exhaustion that still causes us to flop into bed at 9 pm, leaving little time for couple conversations.

I don’t think I didn’t ask because I am afraid of the answer, afraid he will say he isn’t. The truth is that I have come to the realization that Wally’s happiness is not my responsibility. My happiness isn’t his responsibility, either.

Is that weird? It isn’t exactly the conventional idea of how married couples should be. We should be the air we breathe, the meaning in our life, we should need each other! But no, we are none of those things. Your happiness in life is your responsibility, and mine is mine.

Either Wally and I are onto something different here, or we’re really fucking this marriage thing up.

*********************************************************************************

I find out last week another friend of mine divorced.

Fourteen years.

How have we made it?

I have no earthly idea.

Is it because we have something special? Because we don’t have something special and we know it, thus not setting ourselves up for disappointment?

Is it because we’re completely awesome people? Is it because Wally throws away the milk jug ring I ALWAYS leave on the counter without rolling his eyes and I wipe up the bread crumbs he ALWAYS leaves on the counter without rolling my eyes?

Is it because we genuinely like each other?

Will we make it to The End of Days, the curmudgeonly days where we shout at each other, not because we’re angry, but because we’re mostly deaf, where hair is white and thin, or possibly transparent. Will we make it to The End, holding hands as one of us slips away to the next great adventure?

Or will our union die a premature death? A death brought upon by too much devotion to the kids and not enough to ourselves as a couple, that old, tired scenario where the baby leaving for college is the suicide pill.

How will we make it?

I have no earthly idea.

I have no idea if we’ll make it to the future. How can I know? To try to know is futile. To pretend I know is a farce.

All I can know is today.

And today I know I love you.

Do you often find yourself wondering what life with all boys is like? You do? Oh goody! I can certainly satisfy that curiosity!

Life with all boys is a 12-hour rainy Sunday where the three boys rotate turns on video games.

The end.

So imagine yourself living with single-cell amoeba and you’ll get the picture.

ameba |əˈmēbə| (also amoeba)
noun ( pl. -bas or -bae |-bē|)
a single-celled animal that catches food and moves about by extending finger-like projections of protoplasm. Amoebas are either free-living in damp environments or parasitic.

See what I mean?

Point #1 – When the amoebas are not playing video games during the summer, they are eating. In fact, the largest amoeba of the house that goes by the name of Wally ate the last Oreo cookie in the box. I do not thank him for this. I have PMS, which means it is time for me to sabotage an entire month’s worth of exercise and fat-free Greek yogurt breakfast by stuffing myself with partially hydrogenated oils for two straight days.

Point #2 – These amoebas of mine do move about by extending finger-like projections. On the PS 3 remote.

Point #3 – We can tell Amoeba Wally is the free-living one since he moved us to Mobile, certainly a damp environment if the 362 days a year of 95% humidity is any indication. And certainly the smaller male amoebas are parasitic because they ate the other half of the Oreo cookies. And they didn’t pay for them. Hell, they didn’t even go to the store to get them. Completely parasitic.

As a complex organism, I don’t understand how they can sit all day and play video games? Can someone please explain this phenomenon?

Also, were you aware of single-cell amoeba shopping? It exists. It goes like this:

Need new pair of school shoes.

Proceed to one store.

Try on three pairs of shoes.

Pick one pair.

Buy it.

Return home.

Or, for an alternative example:

Need new underwear for school.

Proceed to one Super Target.

Pick out a package of underwear.

Buy it.

Return home.

What the hell is that? That is not how you shop for underwear! First you go to a nice department store and then promptly shit your pants when you see the price for such a tiny garment. Then you drive to three different discount stores that buy department store brand panties. You buy discounted panties. You take them home, wash them and then realize they are all crack-crawlers. You go shopping again, opting for a different style of underwear and then call upon all Christian saints that these will not turn out to be crack crawlers too. You take them home, wash them, then realize they are all crack-crawlers too. You go to Super Target and buy packaged underwear.

THAT is how you shop for underwear.

At least I think that’s how you do it? Do I even remember real shopping? My mother calls and tells me of the shopping weekend she, my sister and my nieces had together. I was not invited along. Apparently I have been exiled to the Land of the Lost and am no longer worth taking on real shopping trips.

This must be the beginning of my devolvement from complex-cell human to single-cell amoeba.

The good news, though, is that I can stop waxing and am now allowed to scratch inappropriate places whenever I want.

I hate to disappoint you but I’m not going to be on the computer today. I’ve decided to spend the entire day focused on my children. And by that I mean I’m off getting a haircut while Wally takes the boys to his office.

Sweet serenity!

I hope I get a scalp massage while they wash my hair. Sometimes I do and sometimes I don’t, which I don’t understand because this is an uppity salon and I tip very well. Maybe I should lodge a complaint. And leave the kids at Wally’s office all day.

But while I’m not here, possibly getting or not getting a scalp massage, I have some other stuff to share with you. Because I love you.

Do you know Sara Swears a Lot? Well, you should. She’s my new BBFF (bloggy best friend forever) after she emailed me and we discussed booger picking. It was more than awesome, almost as awesome as her texting post.

Or this celebrity tweeting post by Fuck Yeah, Motherhood. It makes me want to follow celebrities on Twitter, which sort of goes against everything I stand for – peace, honor, and reverse snobbery.

Of course I could just link to anything Stacey writes, I love her so. She has a shrine in my house, you know. In the linen closet. Same goes for Amalah and Oh the Joys.

And hey, have you RSVP’d for the Mouthy Housewives Two Hour Cocktail Party at BlogHer? Read about it here, or just follow @MouthyHousewife on Twitter for the link to the invitation. Good times are promised. I hear rumors of Marinka vs. Wendi shot drinking contests, followed by girl wrestling with Kelcey and one lucky contestant from the audience. I hear these rumors because I made them up. Spread the word!

Also, I’m at The Mouthy Housewives today discussing rogue buggies….or are they shopping carts? Whichever. Do you tell on yourself if your buggy dings a car?

Tonight Wally’s company is hosting a party at our city’s minor league baseball stadium, complete with air-conditioned field-level box, food, and beer. Sounds awesome, right?

It is! Except it’s 51 days into summer vacation and I’m not sure I remember how to speak of anything other than Harry Potter and Super Mario brothers.

If you follow me on Twitter (all the cool kids do) then you possibly saw this tweet:

Well, people, it happened. I shit a Patronus not thirty minutes later because the Harry Potter questions NEVER END. (And I know you’re curious – my patronus is a porcupine. Ouch.)

But in less than 12 hours I need to recall how to have adult conversations. *Blink Blink* I’m pretty sure that isn’t defined by patronus shitting conversations or the latest entry into Mariowiki.com. Maybe someone should warn the employees about me ahead of time. Someone like Wally. Yes, he should explain to his co-workers that he is practically the only other adult I’ve had to talk to all summer. When his co-workers find that out, they’ll probably pass around a baseball cap and collect pity money for me.

Actually, that would make me feel better. I could buy another bottle of vodka and have wonderful conversations with the voices in my head, voices that DO NOT talk about Harry Potter or Super Mario. Instead, the voices talk of interesting things, such as the constant state of mess in the house, what’s for dinner, and whether I’ll ever meet a movie star in real life and would they think of 140 lbs on a 5′ 8″ woman as fat when compared to anorexic starlets.

Really, what am I suppose to talk about tonight?

________________________________________________

Other news not involving the voices in my head!

The Mouthy Housewives are hosting a party at BlogHer!  RSVPs will open this Thursday, July 15th, (that’s today) at 12:30 pm EST; follow@MouthyHousewife on Twitter for the link!

And if you’re a brand or know a brand or even know what a brand is, The Mouthy Housewives still have limited spots left for sponsors. Please email us at: themouthyhousewives@gmail.com for more information.

Dear Grandma at the Park,

Hi! I’m Heather. I’m a mom, if you couldn’t tell from the small and loud yet extremely attractive people I schlep around everywhere. And I see you’re a grandma. We kinda have something in common, don’t you think? Well, except the elastic-waist shorts and matching t-shirt. I’m not judging, though! In 30 years I might choose Who-Gives-a-Shit Just My Size Cotton over Merona fitted t-shirts & khaki mid-rise shorts too.

But we’re both at the park with kids. So see? Commonality. I know how kids are, I’m living it! And you know how kids are, you’re babysitting your grandkids!

Except when my boys were three-years-old and peed in their pants, I didn’t let them go down the slide with their pee-pee butts, germing up the ENTIRE SLIDE (OMG) for the rest of the kids with their pee-pee. I took them home instead. I don’t care that we arrived just two minutes before. We went home.

No, actually, we didn’t. Because I’m a Goody Two Shoes mom I kept a change of clothes and wet wipes in the van until they were probably 5.

But your age. I understand. It’s probably Alzheimer’s. I still don’t care. The Goody Two Shoes in me doesn’t like getting my child off the slide that your little pee-pee butt granddaughter just slid down. Eww.

Also? Making a two- to three-year-old run around a playground with wet pants for an hour? That’s not only gross, it’s just wrong. And you old people talk about this generation of parents. Really? As if your rudeness in parking lots, where you think you have the right of way and not us younger pedestrians just because you’re old and crotchety, wasn’t enough. Now it’s pee-pee butt granddaughters going down the slide.

What is wrong with this generation of grandparents?

Signed,
Goody Two Shoes Yuppie Mom

Am I the only one that experiences this senior citizen parking lot rudeness? I mean, what the hell? They are the rudest old bitches and bastards! It makes me dislike old people.  I don’t even take up their handicap parking places, so what gives? I think they are a pretty screwed up generation of grandparents.

I can’t avoid these grocery-slashing budget bloggers, even if I try. Thanks to The Great Recession, they’re very popular. I don’t even search them out, but somehow they find me.  I’m reading one of my regular, completely unrelated to grocery budget blogs and bam! there they are. Browsing the Sunday paper and bam! there they are.

And I still don’t understand how these people slash their food budgets so drastically either. It’s just like me and quantum physics. I really can’t wrap my mind around how it works, but damn, that shit is so fascinating and I can’t stop trying to understand it. I can’t get our groceries under $600 a month (though this includes things like toilet paper, eco-friendly cleaning products and Ziploc bags), so How? How? How?

You know the saying, though. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em!  So I did. I’m now a budget grocery blogger.

I decided to emulate all the budget bloggers who say you can feed your family healthy foods for cheap, some say only $50 per person per month. Oh boy, think of the extra money we’ll have to pay off our mortgage!

I went to the grocery store armed with coupons and sale papers to comp, just like they tell you to, and here are the results:

Payton – enjoy your healthy foods, all fifty dollars worth. Make sure it lasts an entire month!

Actually, Son, by the time I add in 10% sales tax, your monthly food allotment went over by $5. Oh well, I’ll just make it up next month. You’ll get $42.50 in food in August. Sorry, I know you are a growing child and all, so it sucks to be you.

What was that backtalk about hunger pains and needing fuel to play and grow? Show some gratitude, mister! You would have only half of those grapes if I didn’t get them on sale for .88/lb this week. And the blueberries on sale for $1.50! And the green onions for $.67.  Sure, I could have stretched things an entire $.78 more had I not purchased the Omega-3 eggs and just gotten you store brand  eggs instead. But Omega 3 is brain food and I need you to make a lot of money as an adult to support my retirement. You see how mom is always looking out for your best interest? You’re welcome.

What? What’s that you’re saying now? You can’t make fresh fruits and vegetables last four weeks because they’ll go bad?

But I don’t understand? Where did I go wrong? Let me review the math.

$50 x 4 x 12 + E x YZ/MC x XY/52 + planning sheet x data tables + 64 hours of my time comparing Bruno’s ad to Wal-Mart’s regular price/coupon stacking – 0 coupons for fresh fruits & veggies = $200 a month on food.

Huh. It sounds pretty in theory. I don’t understand why it isn’t working in real life? Well, moving on anyway!

Parker – here’s your $50 of food. For the month. Make it last!

Aren’t you lucky?! Unlike your brother, you got a lot of meat!  It’s because you’re my favorite. This week.

What did you say? It’s a lot of meat and little to no fruit or veggies? Maybe you could barter some of the meat with your brother for some fresh fruits and vegetables. I don’t know. You’re kinda on your own with this.

What’s that? If you take some of your brother’s fruit and veggies, then neither of you will have anything close to proper daily servings, and it still won’t last a month anyway?

Crap, where are my miscalculations?! Let’s see…

$50 x 4 x 12 + B=2V/XYZ x cucumbers + tomatoes from our garden( 3 fruits + 4 veggies + 8 grains +  2 dairy) >$200.

Man, I still don’t know where I’m going wrong?

Dear Saruman, Lord Voldemort, and all other imaginary and mythical creatures with evil powers,

I’m onto you.

Just as I begin to feel remorse for my previous post, as I’m halfway through waxing an unusually poetic blog post in my head, detailing the exalted glories of raising two boys and wearing my readjusted rose-colored 3-D Disney/Pixar glasses, you make your move.

We’re driving home from a wonderful afternoon where the boys and I bond over another animated summer movie when Parker spills his large movie theater drink up under the driver’s seat. And if that wasn’t enough for you, Yosemite Sam, the Wicked Witch of the West, and Count Dracula, to make your point, you make sure I discover my youngest son left his six-month-old DSi up under my seat also.

Baby Jesus has accepted your declaration of war.

Dear Baby Jesus, Tinkerbell, and all other imaginary and mythical creatures with superpowers,

Help.

I’m sure this is where I ask you to grant me the serenity to accept things I cannot change. Things like Parker throwing giagantic fits because Super Mario Galaxy 2 continues to thwart his quest for world domination, or whatever the hell it is you do on that game. All I know is it involves stars with smiley faces and running around on the tops of planets collecting things before it rotates and you fall off. And fit-throwing. It involves a LOT of fit-throwing. Sometimes it involves banging the Wii remote on the floor, which then involves confiscation of said remote and the loss of game privileges, which then causes more fit-throwing.

I can’t seem to change ANY of that. So how do you advise I accept that? I’m really hoping you say this serenity/acceptance thing involves BURNING THE GODDAMN GAME DISC!

Next up, I’m supposed to ask for the courage to change the things I can. Like how Payton comes and tattles on his brother ALL DAY LONG, no matter how many times I tell him to stop tattling. I can change that if only I had the courage, right? It does require a lot of courage to use a cattle prod on a child. I don’t know if I have it in me, but perhaps with some liquid courage I could? I don’t know. Is downgrading to an electric flyswatter an option?

And now Santa Claus, Merlin, and the Good Witch of the North,  I believe this is where you grant me the wisdom to know the difference. The difference between what I’m not sure because, oh my god, the fits, the tattling, the fighting, the messes they make between the hours of 8-3 that I am no longer use to dealing with! We’re talking differences between the second and fourth circles of hell, aren’t we?

So dear Gandalf, leprechauns and unicorns, as you can see it’s a desperate hour for me. I have been deeply tempted to read Twilight so I can mentally escape it all.

Save me.

The other weekend my surrogate mother called me a Goody Two Shoes. Ordained minister aside, I suspect she was drunk. Why else would she call me that?

We were at the neighborhood pool – her neighborhood pool, not mine. We frequently use her pool during the summer, even though we aren’t residents. That’s right! We show up without Susan the Surrogate Mother and pretend to be Susan in order to gain access.

Would a goody two shoes lie like that? I don’t think so. I even have my children in on the lies. I coach them about whose name is what, and that I am actually Susan and, oh my god, DO NOT let it slip that my name is Heather. Instead it is Susan. Repeat after me: MY MOM’S NAME IS SUSAN or they will THROW US OUT OF THE POOL.

This is what you call teaching your children secret agent skills. I don’t think Susan knows the first thing about teaching secret agent skills to children.

On this particular pool recon, a kink appeared in our secret agent field training exercise when Susan came to the pool two hours after we get there. I quickly draw my children over to me in the water, opposite side of the Pool Gestapo.

“Ok, boys,” I whisper, “Susan is on her way here. When you see her, DO NOT yell out her name, even though you’ll be excited to see her. Remember, I AM SUSAN BERENT! Do not blow our cover!”

“Ok, Mom! Err, I mean ok, Susan!”

Susan gets there and I tell her the instructions I gave the boys, expecting her to be overwhelmed by the sheer brilliance of my mastermind planning skills.

“Yeah, or you could just pretend you’re my daughter visiting from out of town and you’re named after me.”

Gesh, it’s like she thinks she’s more experienced in lying to the Pool Police than I am and knows how to make this less complicated. Hello? This is our second summer stealing this pool! I know what I’m doing, and the more complicated you make your lies the more befuddled the other side becomes. It’s in the secret agent training manual.

The second thing I did once Susan arrived at the pool was oh-so-casually walk over to the Pool Police and report that the addition to our party, please note it in the pool log so you can charge MY club account properly. After all, liars just aren’t honest about those kinds of things! Who would suspect me of being stealing pool privileges if I’m honest about the number of our party?

And that’s when Susan called me a Goody Two Shoes – for FOLLOWING THE RULES by reporting the actual number of people in my party. What she doesn’t understand is it was only about staying in character and making the lie real.

Come on, nothing else in my life points to me being a goody two shoes. Look at me, I attended college, got engaged my senior year, married just weeks after graduation (with honors!), bought a house, waited an appropriate number of married years before having children (none out of wedlock for me!), quit my job to stay home, bought a minivan, joined the PTA, put my husband’s career first and learned to bake the best chocolate chip cookies ever.

That doesn’t sound anything like a goody two shoes, does it? DOES IT?!

Fucking hell, it does. EXACTLY. The only way I could sound more goody two shoes is if I did volunteer work and stayed away from drugs.

That’s it, I’m screwed.

And if that moment of depersonalization isn’t enough, I’ve been talking with Megan about my blog. I’m at a crossroads with it and Megan is trying to help me. While discussing potential blog name changes, she said she comes to my blog expecting to find me either a) funny or b) pissed off.

Attention everyone! Megan has spoken, so my new blog name must be FuckYouAssholeLOL.com.

I had no idea I come across as pissed off. I’d like to know what the fuck Megan means by that!!! Oh, that’s probably what she means by that – the F bomb and the exclamation points. Shit! Oops, I mean, crap. (Did that sound less angry?)

My point to all of this is I can’t see myself. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen myself. I have this idea in my head of who I am, but I’m getting a hunch it’s loosely based on reality. Very loosely. I guess this is why whenever I’m asked to write a bio of myself I get very flustered and mentally flounder for ways to describe who and what I am.

Pissed off, fired up, whichever I’m described. Maybe feisty? I could live with feisty. Except I like to imagine myself being level-headed and rational, and the antonym of impulsive, whatever it is. That word. I’d like to imagine myself that way, if I knew the word.

I don’t want to be a goody two shoes. I want to be a radical mother with absolutely no intentions of getting a tattoo (ew, trashy), but willing to smoke a menthol to prove a point. What point I don’t know, but some point, damn it.

So far the only adjective that fits both my idea of Heather and the outside world’s idea of Heather is funny. Yes, I see it. Except I’d like to imagine myself more of a refined, cerebral comic. As someone who actually deserves to have a humor article published in an intellectual magazine and not as a “diamond in the rough.” But I am rough. I like to cuss. A lot. Shit. Fuck. Damn. See?

How does one go about reconciling oneself with oneself?

I was once told I would never be described as refined. Maybe I should reconcile with that. I don’t know what to wear to country club weddings or how to process the sight of men in seersucker suits. (They actually exist, and not just in Southern novels. I couldn’t help but stare.) But I can belt out the most authentic yee-haw when your four-wheel drive truck slip-slides around in a muddy field. Yet if you were to see me pull out of my suburban driveway in my minivan and Gap jeans, you wouldn’t know that about me either.

I’ve spent weeks now trying to define myself and subsequently rebrand my blog through this new found clarity of self. So basically I’ve wasted a lot of time recently. I’m no closer to anything, except maybe schizophrenia, which is what happens when you take yourself too seriously or listen to Glenn Beck.

Poor Heather, she can’t be the perfect embodiment of fire and ice, of revolution and peace, of impulse and temperance. Boo-hoo-hoo.

Just shut up and get over yourself already.

Hmm. Maybe FuckYouAssholeLOL.com is the way to go.

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Comments are closed this time. Apparently I just want to embody Stacey Anymommy.