Don't Quote The Raven


Word Stew

"step inside my office" he says.

All I gotta say, is of course that hoe is a ginger. But of course.

So it's Halloween week and starting last Monday, I had been telling my kids every single morning "only four more sleeps 'til you get to wear your Halloween costume to school!" because I remember being so excited to wake up and wear my costume to school when I was a kid. Turns out things are a little different these days, and schools apparently don't let kids wear their costumes to school for political reasons or some bananas. 

Ok so my kids attend a private Christian school so I get it. At least they still say "under God" when saying the Pledge of Allegiance and use old-school words like "Indians" when explaining the meaning behind Thanksgiving. I think when my kids do attend public school (still not sure I can get behind that idea...I loathe public school for so many reasons) I'm going to tell them it's absolutely acceptable to yell out "under God!" when the phrase arrises. They may be a few beats behind at the finish but at least they won't be politically correct atheist robots.

And yes, I do make my kids play outside. I force them to play outside. They don't have a choice in the matter. And yes, I have locked the doors before so they couldn't get back in for a while. Why? Because they are kids. And boys. And they have mass amounts of energy they need to get out and I believe kids need to get wet dirty and exhausted before the end of each day.

I mean, Colt has built himself an entire "playhouse/office" out in the bushes. He can stay out there for hours and all I gotta do is walk out onto the deck and yell "Colt?" every now and then and see his little head pop up with a "yes?" and go back inside and read or clean or binge watch Dr. Phil for a bit until I do it again. 

They are kids. The shouldn't be allowed back in the house until it's so dark they can't see their hand in front of them. I am very very old-school when it comes to raising my boys. They don't have any video games, no xboxes or handheld devices or anything electronic and I limit their TV and movie watching. It's the funniest thing...when you turn off the TV and leave them to their own devices, they will ratch on and on about how booooooooooooooored they are but after a while, being bored gets really boring and they find something constructive to do. 

I'm old-school in the fact that my kids will respect authority, no matter who is in charge. They go to a friend's house with completely different rules? They will follow them. They don't like the grumpy old man at the grocery store who gets in their face and tells them to calm down and respect their mother? Too damn bad and high five gramps! I have zero problems with other adults and even strangers speaking sternly to my children if it's warranted. None. Don't like it? Behave.

One of my kids are sitting in the only remaining chair and an adult walks in? Get your ass up. Two adults are talking? Don't you dare interrupt. You disobey an order? Whack.

My kids are not special little snowflakes, and I would never treat them that way. I love my kids too much to not prepare them accordingly for the real world. And I've said it before and I'll say it again...even if we had millions, none of it would go to our kids. You want it? You go out and work for it.

Oh, and it hurts my feelings zero when they say I'm "mean" or that they wish they had another mom. I can't even believe some of the times I have heard a parent say it "hurts their feelings" when their child says something of that nature to them. Are you kidding me? We have weak children running around because there are too many weak parents. 

Anyway. After that little rant.

This mom needs to find something better to do with her time. If she doesn't like the little slut clothes available for her daughter, don't buy them! Geezus. Does everything have to be made into a huge issue?!

And these parents should be locking their child up and throwing away the key, not suing the school for 3 million. That or just kick him out of the house. He's 17. Please. Just another example of weak parenting and placing the blame elsewhere.

Finally, she is what is wrong with the world today.

And yes I read the Daily Mail for all my news information. 

Have a good day.


I'm Artistic.

^^my losing pumpkin^^
^^a finalist...whatevs^^

So I think I'm pretty artistic. I know you aren't supposed to vocalize impressive traits you think you possess (like for example: no one who is really funny declares how funny they are...'cause if you do, you ain't) but some things can't be denied and in all seriousness I'm one artistic individual. I am.

So when I heard my sister's bar was having a pumpkin painting contest, I knew I'd win. I mean, I just knew it. How could I not? I'm artistic. People are jealous of how artistic I am. People are less than when it comes to artistic ability compared to me. I'm the best. I'm the winner. I'm freaking artistic for crying out loud. Artistic.

I even invited all my friends to come paint pumpkins. Ok so only one of my friends came. And my mom. And my sister...who owns the bar so she doesn't really count as a guest I guess. But I invited them all so they could see how artistic I was and be all impressed. I even got there extra early to pick out a good table and had three circular plump pumpkins ready and waiting for when everyone arrived.

We ordered a pizza, had a beer, gossiped a bit and got started on our paintings. I was so pumped we all were, together, in a room and I was sure all eyes would be on me. Because hello, I was the most artistic of the bunch. 

I had the best idea. I was going to paint a black raven with the word "free" written in white in the middle. In cursive, no less. So amazing. So imaginative. So freakin' artistic. 

I looked over to my right and saw my mom going at it with some Ernest Hemingway nonsense. Now, I would never discount my mother's artistic ability. She reigns supreme in our family and I can only hope to be as good as her one day (probably won't happen) but still, her pumpkin was all words and no pictures, and we all know if there are no pictures, it totally doesn't count. 

Then I looked across the table at my friend Rachelle and she was painting her pumpkin...a strawberry. Pssshht. A strawberry. No competition there. A freakin' strawberry.

Then my black paint didn't dry as quickly as I thought it would. Then my white lettering smeared into the black paint. Then my genius idea didn't go as planned and I got mad really mad and added an expletive to my pumpkin painting masterpiece. 

Fine. I might not get first place but I could possibly get second, third if someone came along and painted the Mona Lisa. Still, down but not out. 

Until some cute little old lady walked by our table and eyed the strawberry pumpkin. And then...and then....she offered to pay Rachelle twenty dollars for it. For her strawberry pumpkin. Her measly little strawf*ckingberry pumpkin. Like it was some masterful work of art or something. Like I wasn't the artistic one at the table. Like my pumpkin wasn't Edgar Allan Poe worthy. Like I was a drunk nobody sitting in the corner eating too many cheesy twists from Round Table and my pumpkin might as well be pie meat.

She must have had some freaky strawberry fetish or something. It's the only thing that remotely makes any sense.

And as if that weren't bad enough, after I bitched and moaned and cried about Rachelle's pumpkin being the center of attention, my mom turned to me, straight faced, eye to eye, and said, "it doesn't matter anyway Raven. You wouldn't win the contest. Yours isn't that good."

Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuze me?!

"No one wants to look at profanity," mom said. "It isn't pleasant."

And then I had no words.

Because artistic.


Some Pretty Random Randoms

love/hate elbow patch sweater found here

- So this one time, like last month, my husband dropped me off at a trailer park and I had to walk to the nearest McDonalds and call my dad on the pay phone to come and pick me up. One might think that situation is cause for divorce but for me, it's just another Thursday. And fine, to be fair, I admit I jumped out of the moving vehicle but the fact still remains that he drove off and left me. So rude.

- I am seriously obsessed with practical jokes. Obsessed. Some people don't like them because it makes them feel uncomfortable (pussies) but I relish in them. And even my kids aren't off limits. Life is short. We might as well laugh at other people.

- Sometimes, I fantasize about the director of the CDC. (Just google him.) Not really sure why, probs has something to do with the current Ebola situation and men in power. Plus, he totally reminds me of a less attractive version of Jim Caviezel. 

- I've mentioned a time or six how I despise wearing bras. I only wear one if I'm meeting with my kids' Christian school teacher or my grandpa. Besides, when you pay five grand for the goodies, you really don't need the restriction. #fakeboobprobs

- I've been accused of being an alcoholic from time to time, and it used to really worry me, until one day I was jonesing for a drink and realized the only thing we had left in the house was Monarch vodka. In case you don't know, Monarch vodka is the equivalent of rubbing alcohol. And instead of opening it up and pouring myself one, I gave it the Mr. Yuck face and chucked it in the garbage. I may have my vices, but no way was I drinking that bunk. So see? A true drunk wouldn't discriminate and would chug away on whatever was available. But not me. I suffered through a dry night. So totally not an alcoholic.

- Speaking of alcohol, last night I instagrammed this photo...

and immediately I got the following text messages...

:: this one from my sister (she's in blue) ::

:: then this one from my cousin Lindsey (she's in blue) ::

and then when I sent those screenshots to my bestie Bre, saying how offended I was that my family thinks I'm completely off my rocker, she responded with the following...

:: Bre is in blue ::

What the hell?! I admit I like to party now and then, but come on. That much vodka would put even Charlie Sheen in the loony bin! I guess now I know what my family really thinks about me.

Guess who won't be getting any Jello shots next time they come and visit...


The Dark Side of Blogging (Hint: It's The Fun Side)

Everyone starts a blog (or so I assume) because they want people to read what they are writing. They want people to notice them, to take interest in them, to bookmark their URL and come back often. 

And sure, we all want words of affirmation. They're nice. They're pretty. But I mean, seriously, one can only hear how unbelievably gorgeous they are a certain number of times a day until it starts to become really annoying. I get it, ok? I do have a mirror in my house. Criminy

Yet many bloggers out there get discouraged and frustrated by the dark side of blogging, aka the anonymous "cowards and chicken people" (thanks Ellen) that give their one cent opinion without backup. Without authority. And quite honestly, without balls.

The ones that comment on your blog anonymously. The ones that create fake social media accounts just to chastise you. The ones that make up super ridiculous pseudo usernames and then post harebrained commentary on goofy sites that have no basis whatsoever. (Just fyi: I wasn't taken out of public school because I had a few pregnancy scares. Actually, I never even fornicated until my senior year at private Christian school. So there.)

And the funniest part is so many bloggers try and claim they don't pay attention to the negativity, that they don't read.

No, no. Lies, all lies. You do. You definitely do. You do because you can't not. You do because that urge is the exact same urge that prompted you to start an online diary in the first place. You are interested in and want to know what people think about you. 

You read, I read, We all read.

Now, I have always maintained that I really, no really don't give a shit what outsiders think about me, and by outsiders, I mean people who are completely asinine. People who have no positive bearings on my life. I always "consider my source" when processing if the information is valid enough to be a blip on my radar.

Look. We all gotta get in where we fit in. There is a place on the internets for everyone. A place for pedophiles to congregate (burn in hell), a place for adult humans who are obsessed with action figures, a place for decent bloggers to write and earn some bucks and a place where the undesirables go and spew all their anonymous idiocrasy.

Listen. I love a good debate. I love and respect opposing opinions. I welcome contending rebuttals, no matter how adverse. It's part of what makes this whole writing thing fun and interesting!

It's the anonymity part that I don't respect. I mean, here I am, writing my feelings and opinions that are open and subject to criticism, with my dippy mug and email address right there on clear display, yet so many who want to interject a thought or feedback are doing so under a false pretense.

It's just silly. I don't bite. I don't censor my writing nor do I censor my feedback section, because I welcome both sides equally. I may be mean and scary during a game of Pictionary, but I assure you I am just a simple, sweet, understanding (most likely buzzed) girl behind a computer.

If someone writes in the comment section, "you are such a nasty whore who needs to stick your body in a garbage disposal so it matches your face," and they have a name and e-mail address attached, I can totally respect that! Because then I can actually correspond and reply with something along the lines of, "you're actually only half right. I was a whore, but now I'm totally not. I sometimes wish I was still a whore, but you know, marriage and all that stuff. As for the garbage disposal business...wouldn't that hurt?!" And then from there we could have a grown-up back and forth conversation.

It's when the unidentified anons crackalack that really chaps my big, yet firm bouncy buns. However I must say, you all give me crazy laughs. Almost better than my snicker Pinterest board and there is some funny shiz over there.

Own your shit! I own mine. Bring yourself up to my playing field. Don't be the pitiful one on the sidelines throwing stones and hiding your face behind a Scream mask. 

I promise, give you my word...I won't get offended and cry or lash out and track you down at your residence and nunchuck your ass. 

Unless you really, really want me to. 

In that case I have to warn you...

if that scenario occurs, you may just come to love me.