This Is My Town

9.23.2013


We all have that place we grew up. 
That one place we know very well. 
That place we call "home."

This is mine.

I was born here in 1980.

By 1981, the stars were practically aligned. 

This is the town where I fell in "love" with a boy at 11 years old. The same town where he went on to marry one of my best friends thirteen years later. We are no longer friends as she turned out to be a total whorebag.

This is the town where I got my very first car, a cherry red Ford Probe, and drove it over 135 mph on some crazy windy country road. This is also the same town I managed to stay alive in.

This is the town I skinny dipped in. I would put a finger on all the spots I did so but that would take up an entire episode and a half of Dr. Phil and in this town, I don't miss happy hour.

This is the town where my parents forced me out of public school and into private. The same town (and the same private school) where I learned the ins and outs of "mastering the art of male attention." I may not have gotten a 4.0 in chemistry but I sure as hell earned that grade in "how to get ahead when you have boobs." Which I am still using to my advantage as we speak.

This is the town where my friend and I waited until my parents went to sleep, and then we snuck out of the house, put the car in neutral and pushed it half way down the street before we turned on the engine. This is also the town where my friend and I were geniuses.

This is the town that I left when I was 19 years old, to quit college and go snowboarding full-time. This is also the town I moved back to after I quit my full-time snowboarding job and two weeks later decided to move to Las Vegas.

Obviously, this is the town I ended up back in when Las Vegas panned out. This is the same town I made a very bad decision on my 21st birthday, and also the town I got my waitressing job in where I met my husband. This is also the same town in which I denied my husband my presence because he wore tight tapered high-waisted jeans and I would have nothing to do with that. (Obviously that situation has been remedied as I know do all the clothes shopping for us.)

This is the town I bought my very first condo in. The town I lived in on my own and the same town I got married in. This is the town I live in now and this is the town my kids will grow up in. (As long as I threaten them correctly.) 

This it the town I write my blog in and this is the town I live in.

This is my town.



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A Real Man

9.20.2013


As I was rummaging through facebook last night (you can find me here) I came upon a status update from "Gun Owners of The United States." (A different post for a different day.) Below is what it said:

I drive a truck. I work with my hands. I drink beer and whiskey. I take my coffee black. My 5 o'clock shadow is 4 days old. I got a rough exterior but a heart of gold. I live by a set of traditional American values. I'd take a weekend in the mountains over a weekend in the city any day. I shoot guns and love my country. My dog is my best friend and everything else is a distant second to my family. I am a dying breed. I am the American man. 

THAT, is my husband to a T. That is the kind of man I actively aspired to marry. That is the kind of man I want my boys to grow up and be like. That is the kind of man I respect and that is the kind of man I love.

And it's funny. Because a lot of the time, I think women today don't appreciate a real man. The "women's movement," whose goal is to empower and help women, have told their own kind that men aren't really needed. That men are irrelevant, replaceable, and God forbid "don't ever let a man tell you what to do" or they are brutes, barbarians, and are trying to diminish your existence as a female human.

I don't know about you, but let me tell you about my personal experience...

When I first met my husband, he pursued me. I rejected him at first - a few times - for various reasons (and it wasn't because he had an awesome ass), but he never gave up. After asking me out in person, a few slips of his business card and one brightly colored rose left on my car windshield, I finally agreed to go out with him. On that first date? He paid for everything. Had he not paid for everything? I would have never agreed to see him again. Was that because I was a money hungry gold digging honey?

Quite the opposite. I knew my worth and I also understood how men worked. If he wanted the honor of taking me out on a date, he was going to pay for it, pun absolutely intended. People value more what they have to work for. I can't even tell you what I would do if a guy asked me out on a date and insisted on going dutch. I would probably pay my share and walk out without saying a word, and then warn all my girlfriends what a douche he was and to stay far away. The extreme feminists, who are supposed to have your best interests at heart, will have you believe that a man who insists you pay your own way is "beneficial" to your well being, to your place in this world as a woman.

What the f*ck does that even mean? I am here to tell you that it absolutely does not belittle or cheapen your womanly virtues to have a man work for your attention. To have a man put forth extra effort to spend time with you. That it absolutely does not debase you as a woman to have a man provide for you and protect you. Yes I know you can open a door by yourself but isn't it nice when a sweet studly man does it for you? Yet so many women out there will tell you the opposite.

After my husband wooed me and we got married (he paid for the ring, the parts of the wedding my parent's didn't and oh yeah, no prenup), and when we decided to have children, he didn't even bat an eyelash when I said I would be staying home full-time to raise our children. In fact, he said it was what he expected. And right then and there I fell in love with him all over again, because I knew he realized and valued the importance of a stay-at-home mother. He has never, ever, made me feel less than for not working outside the home. And to have my husband's support in something that I feel so strongly makes me a fulfilled woman means the world to me.

But then again, since I do stay home full time, my husband also expects a tidy home and dinner every  night. But let me clarify: what he does not expect is a "spit-shined model home" nor dinner piping hot the minute he walks in the door. Almost always, whenever he walks in the house after a days work, the house is in chaos. Kids running ramped, toys strewn everywhere and there is usually piles of clean laundry on the living room couch. But every night after the kids go to bed, I take about twenty minutes and pick up the house, make it orderly and comfy. No he doesn't have dinner waiting for him the second he gets home but he does eventually get fed, and he doesn't complain when we are eating in front of the TV watching the 10 o'clock news.

He doesn't complain because he's a real man and he knows that staying home with kids is hard work. And I don't complain when he comes home and kicks his feet up to watch a little football because holy hell, he got up at 5 am and worked his body to the bone. And he gets up every day and works hard for me. For our kids. He makes so many sacrifices daily so I can have the opportunity to stay home with my kids. So we can have nice things, take vacations. And he does it every single day because he prides himself on taking care of his family.

And guess what. Sometimes my husband does tell me what to do. And sometimes I tell him what to do. And I do it, because he never tells me to do anything harmful or to do anything that devalues me as a person. It's called marriage and it's about give and take and respect and I think I'll go ahead and trust that my husband has my best interests at heart and not those "other people."

No, I'm not "lucky." I didn't blindly stick my hand into the pot and pull out a provider and protector. I chose wisely. Like I've said before: I told my husband on our second date, "I plan on one day being a stay-at-home mom so if that is something you don't believe in, thank you for dinner but let's go our separate ways because I will never budge when it comes to my stance on this subject."

Now here we are, ten years and two kids later. Yes, we have had our tough times. I've made no secret of the fact that we have our counselor on speed dial as she is crucial to our success as a married couple. We fight, bad sometimes. But at the end of the day, we have a mutual respect for each other. I love being mother hen, I love being a homemaker and I love making our home a "home" for my husband. And I love that my husband supports my decisions and respects the sacrifices I make for our family.

And if that isn't female empowerment, then I don't know what is.

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An Open Letter To My Mom. Love, Gunner.

9.10.2013


Mommy dearest.

I hate to tell you, but I am not your little boy anymore. In fact, just yesterday I got out of bed and made myself bacon in the toaster. I know you don't like to be woken up before 11 so I took matters into my own hands. If that doesn't scream "I'm a grow-up now," I don't know what does! (ps. sorry that the fire truck woke you up prematurely. I'm not too familiar with outlets.)

  Oh, and by the way, I have officially decided to change my name to Gunner MacGyver Optimus Spongebob MileyGaGa Smith, but you can just call me Tinkerbell for short. "Tink" for short short.

I'm a very precocious child. I love learning and bugs and chicken nuggets and licking all your makeup brushes and lots of creepy crawlers, so when you said "hey Gunner, want to watch a movie about spiders?" I excitedly responded with "yes!" thinking we were in for some super awesome version of Charlotte's Web. Except what proceeded to happen was you put on that super scary "Arachnophobia" movie, and now I have nightmares, every single night, that Obama is my real daddy and he makes me give my toys away to the brat next door, who does nothing but sit on his ass all day and wait for the ice cream truck, and yes I realize this nightmare has nothing to do with spiders and more to do with snakes, but still. Scary is scary and that sh*t is scary!

I know mom that you want me to be what you call "fashion forward." I'm sorry for the big fight we got into on my first day of school, when you wanted me to wear those off-pink jeggings and I kicked and screamed and in the process accidentally deleted some of your iphone apps.

 I understand your frustration that maybe some of the other mommy bloggers won't think you are as cool as them but for the love of all things double stuffed (like oreos and when that one girl at my school comes looking extra "lady lumptious"), what the f*ck are you trying to do to me? And the hell with that fedora? I'm five years old mom, let me wear disney characters and mud flap girl tshirts.

Last but not least, next time you think it's "convenient" to put vodka in my sippy cup for your own personal use so it doesn't spill all over your ugly designer bag (seriously, dad should have splurged on new extensions for you instead), maybe you should cover the cartoon characters up with big black pirate skulls and maybe slap on a few green Mr. Yuk stickers so when I think it's water and take a huge chug when I'm parched, I don't almost die from choking and my lungs don't cave in from your complete neglect.

Then again,
that was pretty good.

Can I have some more?




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