Confessions.

I confess: my big ol' brown topknot up there will be no more after today. If you follow me on instagram, you know I am majorly majorly chopping off my hair and going blonde. Not boy short by any means, just a new 'do. I went shorter and blonder a couple weeks ago, but I think a few more inches and a few more highlights are in order. I will report back tomorrow via my instagram account.

I confess: being a skinny bitch sucks. Not that I've been one in a year or five, but I'm trying, and let me tell you, it ain't no walk in a German Chocolate cake. I could use a few more adjectives and synonyms but I think I summed it all up when I said for reals though, being a skinny bitch sucks!

I confess: is there anything worse, like, I mean anything worse, than being alone in your house and suddenly being startled by your pet who gets up and stands at attention -- ears cocked -- at well, nothing? Like you are dead asleep, or watching a show late at night, and your dog suddenly jolts up and seems to be looking at something…or someone…yet you don't see a thing? We all have heard that animals have a six sense, so when out of nowhere, this happens:

and your animal has that look in their eyes…is it not the automatic response to assume they see someone or something? Evil enough to torture you and kill your soul? Talk about scaring the living shit out of a person!

I confess: I understand working out, going to the gym, wanting to be healthy and look good in a bikini…but doing so at the expense of alcohol or pizza? What kind of world would that be?! Besides, I'm pretty sure that one can consist on only alcohol and pizza alone and maintain a svelte figure. I mean, I haven't personally tried it, but I'd be willing to take one for the team.

I confess: If you have been around these parts for more than a hot minute, you know I value my beauty sleep over my kids' well being. You also know I tinfoil the windows in my boys' room. Reason being, obviously, I want them to sleep in later. I have done this since the day they were born. Not even kidding, they haven't known sunlight from complete darkness in their rooms in well, ever. So when my boys started waking up before seven! a!m! I had to put the kibosh on that completely. 

I went into their room during the day and noticed a few slivers of light peeking through the tinfoil. No can do, not gonna happen, fixed that problem right up. But it was the group text with my sisters and cousin that I knew I had to share here with you all. Because if you ever thought I had any shame...

(I'm in blue.)

Hey. I'll take it.

The Show

via my wisdom pinterest board

You're damned if you do and damned if you don't, right?

One second, you can be on top of the world. Everyone singing your praises. The next, you make one little lapse in judgement and those same people are even more eager to burn you at the stake. You succeed, they cheer. You fail, well, they usually cheer even louder. 

That's just life. It's going to happen no matter what kind of person you are. Good, bad, Britney Spears... no one is immune. I've been accused of a lot of things, but delusional I have not. Negative? Pessimistic? More than I'd like to admit. However, I still stand by to this day that I am a realist. I don't sugarcoat, won't pretend and most definitely solemnly swear from this day forth to not give a f*ck about the bullshit. If that makes me negative and pessimistic, then by all means, burn me a Scarlet Letter. 

Because two things:

1. Consider your source. You get praise? Wonderful. But consider your source. Hitler was praised by millions. You get lambasted? Consider your source. Hitler lambasted millions. 

2. Know yourself. In my blogging career, let alone my life, I've been praised and accused of many things. People have said I'm an "inspiration, an amazing mother, ballsy and gutsy and brave," and as much as I appreciate these comments, I know the people saying these things don't really know the real me, all they know is what I present, when the truth is I have the exact same problems and issues that they have. Yes, I may speak my mind and do so with conviction, but I don't let the "praise" get to my head because I know who I really am: someone who is flawed and definitely not foolproof.

On that same note, people have also commented that I'm a terrible mother, wife, and person. If I didn't know myself, these comments could very well get to me and ruin my day. But I do know myself, and so when I read things like this, they float straight into the abyss. These opinions hold no water. They mean nothing. 

Because let me tell you. When my two little boys wrap their arms around me and kiss me and hug me and tell me they love me fifty times a day? That means something. When my husband says to me "you know, sometimes I really can't stand you but I ultimately love you and will 'til the day I die," well, that right there means something. When my mom says I'm doing an amazing job of raising her grandsons…yeah, that pretty much means the world to me. 

So when some rando comments something nasty and negative on my blog/facebook/instagram/life/whatever, it's pretty easy for me to see it for what it really is: a worthless waste of human decency.

We all rise, we all fall. 

You will have an abundant audience for both.

Just always consider your source

and know yourself. 

(which is pretty much what I have figured out is the secret to happiness.)

We Can't Be Friends If...

Part II.

- you don't like practical jokes. That includes watching them, participating in them and or being the target of them. Like this. That right there is some funny shit. And if you don't watch that and laugh tears? We will never be friends.

- you can't take a butt slap. Sorry not sorry but I do 'em.

- a dry sense of humor is foreign to you. I can't spend our entire friendship saying over and over again "that was totally meant as a joke." If you didn't get it the first time, we can't be friends.

- you don't watch reality tv. I mean, I need someone to talk to about current events.

- you can't swim. I spend all summer on the water so if you can't swim, you're outie. Besides, I've always been a tad…perplexed about the notion that an adult can't swim. It's just…weird.

- you think yoga pants should only be worn to yoga class. No. No no no no no no.

- you sing in front of me. Well, let me take that back. Singing karaoke to Joan Jett's I Love Rock N Roll? Besties for life. It's when you are being serious, like, you're auditioning for American Idol singing. Talk about totally uncomfortable. Shudder.

- you cry. 

- you aren't aware of your eye crust.

- you're a virgin. Sorry but at this stage in life, you should have hit a home run by now. Just as adult non-swimmers are weird, thirty something virgins are even weirder.

- you are an above average parent. Like, if your kids never watch tv, never cuss, talk back or throw things at you, if they never try to swim in the fountain at the mall or randomly strip down naked in Barnes & Noble, then we most definitely cannot be friends! (I mean, f*#k that sh*t!)

**********

So with such a detailed list of what you can't do to be my friend (considering you even want to, it's ok boo my feelings don't hurt easy, but let's be honest, I'm a f*cking good time) there is only one criteria one must abide by in order to make the cut.

Say it with me now:

It's 5 o'clock somehwere!

cheers bestie.

The Best Sweatpants Ever

It was a wild time Saturday night. What with a six year old birthday party. 

Needless to say, I'm hungover. 

We had a small get-together of just our family and my parents. We will do a joint party for both Gunner and Colt this Saturday, until joint parties get the kibosh because they aren't "cool" anymore. 

Listen boys, saving money will always be "cool." You might want to remember that.

So since it was just a little party, Gunner only got a little amount of presents. Now last Christmas, when we were in the thick of opening gifts, Gunner opened one from his least favorite second aunt and quite loudly declared "what is this? I hate this!" Right in front of said least favorite second aunt. 

I was so embarrassed. I mean, who is teaching this kid manners?! So after that little incident, I took him aside and we had a very detailed talk about how it doesn't matter if you like the gift or not, when someone gives you a present, you are always appreciative and "thank you" is always the appropriate response. 

At least in front of their face.

So as we were about to sit down in the living room and open his little amount of presents, I could tell one of them was clothing. Now when you are 33, clothing is something you really want for your birthday, but to a 6 year old, not so much. I gently reminded him once again that whatever it was inside of that wrapping paper, he had better be gracious and not complain. Or else.

Sweatpants. There were two pairs of sweatpants.

I braced myself for his reaction, because I mean, common, sweatpants?!

Gunner: "Huh? Sweatpants? (Pause. Looks at me. I raise my 'brows.) I love these! These are the best sweatpants ever!"

Pat, pat. Selfie fist bump. 

Never doubted him for a second.

The other birthday gift he received was a holster, two guns and ammunition. (Fake, but of course.) He didn't have to fake enthusiasm this time, as he was much too happy to be a real live cowboy. He got himself all set up with the essentials: boots, hat and assless chaps. Cowboys and Indians commenced.

At which my mom decided it was the perfect time to tell Gunner the truth about the Cowboys and Indians. It went something like this:

Mom: "Did you know Gunner, that the white people came and just stole this land from the Indians? They did. The Indians were here first and the white people just came and took it because they wanted to. They weren't very nice to the Indians."

I mean, it's all true, but now Gunner is constantly asking me why the white people were big meanies.

Happy Birthday bud.

ps. my dad got Gunner the sweatpants

as a sort of joke on me. He always comments on

how my kids are never wearing any clothes.

He really isn't that lame.

Not That Kind Of Mom

I am not the kind of mom who:
*wakes up early and makes her kids breakfast. And I don't feel the least bit guilty about it. My kids are my alarm clock and even then, I usually banish them to the freeway until I'm good and ready to get up.
* is sentimental. My kids bring home all sorts of papers and "crafts" from school every day and it's "oh how cute!" and then straight into the garbage it goes. No I don't keep them and hang them on the fridge and no I don't have a special drawer for them to go. I mean… egads! Clutter!
* gives a shit if my boys want to paint their nails: pink, glitter or glittery pink. 
* enjoys playing board games with my kids. I would rather scrape my eyes with toothpicks than play Candyland. That's what grandparents are for.
* goes by the "rules" that "those people" profess. No bottle after age one? No paci after two? Kids shouldn't mix your cocktails and don't lock them in their rooms with tin foil over their windows so they don't know day from night? Only one person makes the rules in my house and it isn't Dr. Spock. (Real quick, with the tin foil, make sure you get every single inch covered so not even a sliver of light shines through. Trust me, it makes a huge difference.)
I am the kind of mom who:
* will always rush to my kids when they are crying and hold them as long as they want. Their dad can be the one to say "brush it off, throw some dirt on it and you're fine."
* will not let my kids puss out. They don't want to go down the ski hill? Too bad. They don't want to ride the inner tube? Too bad. They want an easy ride being pulled behind the 4-wheeler? Not gonna happen. Scare the life out of them on purpose? Absofreakinglutely. I've said it once or twice but mama ain't raising no pussies. 
* sends them to timeout in their bedroom and then accidentally forgets about them on purpose.
* will never allow my child to get bullied. If you are the parent of a child who is bullying mine? You better handle it chop-chop or I will.
* has a zero tolerance rule in our home for bullying. If I find out one of my precious angels is causing another person strife in that way, life as they know it will be over. Like a bat outta hell…
* tells my boys "I love you" about fifty times a day, kisses them on the mouth still and stares at them while they are sleeping. 
* finds it just a littttttttttle bit easier to love my kids when they don't look like total dweebs. Sorry not sorry but it's true. See? 
* reads my boys two books every night before they go to bed. Every single. Never miss a one.   * uses my kids to get out of speeding tickets. Whenever I get pulled over (not that it happens, like, a lot or anything) I say to them real quick before the officer approaches, "now, as soon as you see the police man at my window, start shouting 'we love the police! I want to be a policeman when I grow up! Blue is a good color on you! Please don't give my mommy a ticket, she can barely afford to take me to Hawaii again this year!'"
Works every time.
Curtsy. 

It's kind of like that song...

You know, this is the song that never ends, it goes on and on my friend or something. Except replace the word song with sickness and there you have it.

The above is currently what my bedroom looks like. In case you missed it, I have been diagnosed with strep throat and also one super incredible sinus infection. Colt baby has had the nastiest of I don't even know what but it's bad. He's been sleeping in my bed with me every night as every twenty minutes or so we have to blow half his body weight from his poor raw nose. His eyes are sunken, he looks like a baseball bat made direct contact with his face and that bed above? We have not left it since Sunday, except for one doctor visit and one cough drop run.

Of course, when one child gets to sleep in mommy's bed, the other must also, or life as he knows it is over. No way was I sleeping with both kids in my bed, I may have a California King but I have it for a reason…and dat be space. So I dragged a mattress from upstairs and we have been sleeping over like the ultra modern Babysitters Club. 

Oh and. The doctor prescribed me antibiotics and also threw in some pain pills for the initial pain of razor blades being stuffed down my throat. I took the recommended dosage and it made me violently ill. Do you even know what it feels like to dry heave consistently over a toilet when you have strep throat? I kid you not, it lasted for hours. My throat was so raw and so sore and so razor-bladey I legit wanted to die. And it's so weird, because those pain pills? I used to take them for fun back in the day. Such a huge disappointment, when I really need them.  

You know how when one person in the house gets sick, everyone in the house gets sick? That's usually how it pans out for us too, except Gunner seemed to be dodging "the sickness" this time. Until last night, when he woke up in a startle around 2 am:

Gunner: mom! I can't see!

Me: Gunner, go back to bed. I'm right here.

Gunner: seriously I can't see!!

Me: Damnit Gunner you can't see because it's dark and the middle of the night and you better go back to bed right now or you will wake up your sick brother and I will paddle you!

I didn't hear from him again until a few hours later:

Gunner: (this time whimpering a little) mommy I really can't see…

Me: For the love. (Turning on the lamp by my bed)

And then…well and then I noticed that his eyes were swollen shut. I mean, he literally could not open them. They were crusted and red and just…stuck shut.

Talk about mother of the year I am. 

I felt horrible. I mean, I can only imagine, he wakes up in the middle of the night, can't see and here I am, his mother, the one person he is supposed to be able to trust with his life, wondering why he can't open his eyes and I yell at him to go back to bed or else.

I mean, now I can laugh about it, and I do, but I still feel horrible.

The other thing? Since having strep throat, I can't talk above a normal tone. Which means I can't yell. Which means my kids haven't heard a thing I've said all week. 

But the best thing. The best thing is Rob has been out of town all week. Since Sunday. He left the day everyone started going downhill. He comes home tonight, in which we are all for the most part on the mend. He wasn't here during the bazillion middle of the night meltdowns because one kid couldn't breath and one couldn't open his eyes (shame on me). He wasn't here when I was hunched over the toilet in more pain than child bearing and he wasn't here for all the snot and the throw up and the whines and the cries and the misery and the complete breakdown of this household. 

And he will mosey on in tonight and be all, "so, what did you do all week? Obviously you didn't clean the house."

And then he dies. 

ok so I totally lied. The very best part is obviously the 

5 pounds I lost due to the sickness. What better, more organic 

way to jumpstart that summer get bikini ready plan?