Amy

She's not the best guard dog around...



But she's a bad ass when it comes to plastic chew toys.

Get yourself a furry friend and join in the fun with Camera Critters

A Week Of Crap

My dog has eaten too many figs and has diarrhea.

The bird poops on everything and everyone.

I have skin cancer, and when I went to the dermatologist to get a small spot frozen off of my face I didn’t realize that I was wearing underwear that read “spank” on the back of them. I don’t have skin cancer on my butt, so I never thought to consider what kind of underwear to wear when I went to get something frozen off MY FACE!

No, I’m not posting a picture of my underwear, or my butt or my beet red face when I realized which underwear I was wearing as the Doctor examined the back of my thighs with a magnifying glass, with his face inches from my underwear.

Fun times. Luckily I caught it early, it was the bad kind, the kind that metastasizes and takes over your body--Wear sunscreen you guys and go to the dermatologist.

In other news, we have Chris’ kids here again this weekend and next weekend too—three weekends in a row—which is totally awesome for Chris and for them. They need ‘manly’ time, time to burp and fart and talk about how fantastic they are and how fast they can run. You know...guy stuff. Last weekend they had hilarious discussions about genealogy and how they are a quarter black (Chris is half black). I’m not quite sure if they understood the whole concept of the conversation, but it was funny nonetheless.

They still need some reminders about certain rules, but sleepovers are getting easier and they almost sleep through the night without screaming "DAD!" at the top of their lungs, thank God. Amanda has given up her bed when they’re here so they can sleep closer to our room(their room is downstairs)—seems to be working. Amanda never complains about it, because it gives her a lot more time to play kissy face on the couch with her boyfriend.

I asked my kids what kind of food they would be if they could be a food…

Amanda said: “A corn kernel so I could live with all my friends on the cob”

Cody: “I would be a pineapple because I would have built in defense”

Megan: “I’d be a grape hanging on a vineyard in Italy and be all like what’s up? to all the other grapes and I’d just hang there, It would be totally awesome. Can I text Ava and ask her what SHE WOULD BE? AND ALEX TOO?”

Christie: “I’d be something gross so nobody would want to eat me”

If I was a food I’d be a cherry, because they are shiny and cute and hang in little bunches. Plus they’re super delicious...tart and sweet all at the same time.

What food would you be?

Now go buy some sunscreen and call a dermatologist.

Carpet Munchers and On-Line Spies

Dear top secret spies~

I totally understand the need to feel involved, important and nosey. I do. When I was 17 I made business cards that read: Private investigator for hire… let Mariah do your dirty work—because I was nosey. I spelled investigator wrong on those business cards and I looked like an idiot. Much the way you on-line spies are looking.

Here’s a tip: See those little kids on my header—the skinny stick figure ones with the blacked out faces?? Well, let me tell you a little secret…when you read what I write here and on Twitter and then report back to their mother, they get hurt. It causes unnecessary turmoil in an already ‘turmoiled’ house. You don’t really know the details of the sticky situation that we have over here, and if you did I think you would shut up, unless of course you are just a spiteful cruel person that wishes high school never ended. And, if that’s the case then carry on and be your super stealthy self and report EVERYTHING we say on-line to their mother, because I’m sure it makes you feel really important to be involved in something that has NOTHING TO DO WITH YOU!

Here’s another tip: High School ended.

In my defense, I’ve been nothing but good to those little rugrats and I say rugrats with the utmost of love. Shit, when my kids were younger I called them ‘carpet munchers’, without realizing the sexual innuendo (I just thought it was funny, because they were always crawling around on the carpet)—until the day my sister told me what ‘carpet munchers’ meant and then I started calling them floor fuckers and slumber suckers. Again, with the utmost of love…

Oh yeah, and about that whole ‘carpet muncher’ innuendo thing??

It’s not necessary…

Three words: SHAVE. WAX. LASER.

That goes for you men too, nobody wants to end up picking pubic hairs out of their teeth all night, it’s not very polite.

Much love,
your super stealthy ex-investigator friend, Mariah

I need a ten foot pole for this one

Proposition 8

This is a really hard one for me…

A) Because I am religious and I tend to go with what the bible says, although you will notice that I did not capitalize bible, because I don’t believe the bible is God. God is God, and I believe that God would want people to marry people that make them happy and complete.

B) I don’t have a problem with porn and I’m sure that somewhere in the bible it states that porn is wrong—so if I go with, following the bible, I am contradicting myself.

C) The Catholic Church that I belong to has an enormous gay and lesbian outreach program—that in itself is enough to make you drink under the dinner table. Talk about contradictions.

D) I believe in Separation of Church and State, but sadly that never happens. The two seem to go hand in hand.

E) The last time there was a Proposition 8 rally my father was threatened while working in the Mormon temple. That scares me. Rally away people, but keep it peaceful.

F) If my child was gay I would want him (or her) to have the right to marry whoever they want and live a happy life.

G) I can’t marry who I want to marry because Chris’ divorce is STILL not finalized. If you know me from that other blog you would know that this ridiculous divorce of his has been going on since April 2006 (when the papers were first filed) and separation six months before that.

Soooo

H) I’m starting to understand what it feels like to not be able to make a legal loving commitment to someone because of 'technicalities' and I can tell you, first hand, that is sucks.

Aaannnd….

I) I’m staying far away from this topic from now on.

You can call me Ma, but I'm not sleeping with Pa

Things around here are just a little bit batty.

My ten year old is completely obsessed with Little House on the Prairie, I was too. I totally get this obsession—and I’m OK with my name suddenly becoming Ma instead of Mom.

She has insisted that I call her 'Laura' for the past few weeks.

We’ve been making homemade butter, little 'Laura' and I.

We’re planning a trip to Minnesota, Kansas and Wisconsin to visit some of the Ingalls homesteads and museums… just 'Laura' and I.

I think 'Laura' just about had a heart attack when she learned that her class was doing a presentation on the Pioneer days. And when her teacher requested that the students dress up in traditional Pioneer Clothing, I may have had to revive little 'Laura'. More than once.

She’s absolutely giddy over this time period and I can assume that it is only a matter of time before she starts crawling into her quilted bed in a sleeping cap.

As it is, she already has an old - fashioned gas lamp by her bed and has been sleeping in my grandma’s old nightgowns—which are dotted with blue forget-me-nots and trimmed in lace.

So I dug through boxes and boxes of stuff (I really have a lot of stuff) to figure out a costume for Open House, and I came up with this.







Personally I think she looks like she should be yodeling atop a mountain in Switzerland. She is easy to please though and thinks it’s just perfect—which is a really good thing, considering that I had about an hour to just whip a costume up out of thin air.

Sorry about that whole Debbie Downer post yesterday, I'm fine. Sometimes it all punches me in the face though.

Dangerously dancing through life

Sometimes I wonder as I sit on the safety of my roof staring up at the night sky; I wonder if I am deserving of these gifts that I have, these children. So many incredibly stupid mistakes have turned out miraculously fine. So many fine lines have seen the bottom of my feet whilst I danced around above gaping canyons and rushing rivers, daring them to take me away.

Pills once rushed through my veins with enormous speed causing me to weave, forcing me to grab onto the wall for support. I remember clutching the small white pills in my sweaty hands, I thought about flushing them… but instead I greedily chomped down a few more. My bloodshot eyes stared at their reflection in the mirror as tears welled up. It was as if my reflection was not my own. My mind—the physical one, was seeping emotion—while the reflection in the mirror cackled at what a pitiful mess I had become.

That was three years ago.

Three.

What a completely selfish act for a mother to do, it sickens me that I was that person, that I was weak. It’s incomprehensible and unforgivable. The amount of pain and worry that I caused my innocent children and my family is something I cannot forgive myself for.

Everybody has their story to tell, big deal right? But this one is mine this guilt is my story and it hurts.

So, when it’s late at night and I’m alone on the roof squinting up at the stars through my welled up eyes, it’s because I am thankful. I'm not exactly sure how, or why I survived that night, but I'm thankful.

Thankful that I was granted another chance…



And more days with them.

Things that annoy me

Yes, I realize that I may have a problem and YES, I realize that taking pictures of bird poop may be in bad taste. But it's really annoying, and it's everywhere... I'm contemplating stitching up his rear and force feeding him constipating foods.

I'm blaming my pseudo pregnancy

Asparagus with red pepper sauce.




I know, two cooking posts in a month? I must be sick or something. Actually, cooking for my man makes me feel extremely sexy—especially when we are free from any distractions, and it usually leads to total nakedness. Hopefully you don't feel all suicidal when you see my recipe posts, and if you do... I'm sorry.

Ingredients:
Asparagus
3 red peppers
Olive oil
Garlic
Basil
Balsamic Vinegar
Sea salt
Coarsely ground pepper

This is simple, and leaves your taste buds begging for sweet kisses…

Coarsely chop your red peppers and 2 cloves of garlic. Coat them with olive oil and toss them around in a pan until tender, but not too gushy—about ten minutes.



Remove from heat and let them cool.

Go give your man a neck rub while letting your breath warm his insides with your whispers of love…

Pour yourself a glass of wine and get your man a beer.

*If you have sprouts vacationing in your back house you will need to sneak out there and retrieve your blender that you loaned them without disturbing any of their belongings while your man distracts them in the driveway by making small chat. And by sprouts I mean your tenants from Belgium with really bad teeth. *

In your blender add in about two tablespoons of vinegar, a bunch of fresh basil from your garden (if you don’t have a garden that’s OK, but I suggest starting a garden) and your peppers and garlic coated with olive oil. Add in the salt and pepper. Press the puree button.

Go make out with your man like a love sick teenager.

After you have carefully washed the dust from your great grandma’s china (that was passed down to her and is over 200 years old) cover the china with your super yummy fresh and delicious red pepper sauce.







Add your cooked asparagus (bought from the farmers market, not from your garden because it’s really hard to grow in your garden—trust me).




He gave it a thumbs-up and horizontally thanked me later that night.

Mental Illness, AKA: Life...And I want to make out with an enchilada

On being Bi-Polar-

Sometimes it sucks, but for the most part it’s just who I am, like being tall, anemic or blind—it’s WHO I AM and it’s OK. I don't bite and foam at the mouth-not anymore at least.

My mom thought otherwise. She felt the need to discuss ‘my condition’ with her church friends, speaking in hushed voices behind the safety of the pulpit. Hiding. As if I contracted this by using a dirty needle to numb a vicious addiction. IT’S NOT AN ADDICTION! IT’S NOT SOMETHING I DID!

And then my mom would call me(with the best of intentions) and say “Hey Mariah, you know my friend Carol from church? Well, she married a man whose cousin is Bi-Polar too!” And then she’d ask if MAYBE I could talk to him. Um, no.

Shit, trust me, if I could have controlled this insanity I would have, but I couldn’t, so I diligently took pills for years—little yellow and blue pills, which evened out my mood so that I couldn’t feel shit. I didn’t feel the mania, or the depression. I didn’t feel anything. I couldn’t feel the good; I couldn’t tell if I was depressed, mad, or agitated.

I couldn’t even tell if I was hungry.

Sometimes the medications would leave a salty residue on my skin and people would stare when I was caught licking my arm in the grocery store. AND SOMETIMES,( because I have lived here FOREVER, and people know me and my history) people took my arm licking as if I was having a meltdown and then they would over step their boundaries and wrongly inform my family—which led to unnecessary worry for my mom.

I WASN’T HAVING A MELTDOWN!!!! I was craving salt. Morons.

The thing that gets me is that people will NEVER talk to me about it, except for Dr. B but he’s a flipping idiotic baboon who tried to drug me and locked me up against my will in a looney bin, so I don’t talk to him anymore.

It’s not like I want to talk about it all the time, but you know what?? If it comes up it’s a little rude to excuse yourself to the restroom or suddenly lose eye contact with me while you shuffle your pretty feet in the sand. It’s also a little rude to shun me and to think that I can’t handle my life and my responsibilities.

I handle them just fine.

Confession: I quit the pills.

Dr’s ALWAYS tell me that if I needed to take medication for blood pressure I would. If I needed to continuously check my glucose I would. YES, OF COURSE I WOULD! But this is different; these are drugs because I am considered 'mentally ill'.

Mentally ill. Those two words leave a bitter aftertaste in my mouth, like I’ve been munching on coffee beans for days (I suppose it easier to just stamp 'Mentally Ill' on my forehead than actually figuring out the underlying problem, but I'm NOT a Dr. with a fancy PHD degree, so what do I know?).

My life is a circle of chaos, a swirling pit of mistakes and DAMMIT, I wanted to feel those mistakes—I wanted to feel the warmness of my children’s love. I wanted to wrap my tongue around a cheesy enchilada and taste it. I wanted to burst into tears at Hallmark commercials like I used to and I wanted to wake up in the morning and relish in the happiness of my life—but those things were not possible when I popped the yellow and blue pills.

So I flushed them a few months ago, and I feel fantastic! My head may be a bit swirly, and I may have a bit of mania and depression here and there, but who doesn’t?? I'm sure it's just a matter of time before I flip out, but until then I'm enjoying my drug free life. Well, almost drug free, I'm not quite ready to ditch the happy little white pills just yet.

Now, excuse me, I have a cheese enchilada to make out with.


*

Sisters

Sisters are for giggling and cuddling...



and for being serious...

(I take nose picking very seriously, always have)



For sharing secrets that you can't tell anyone else...



And for checking out each others boobies during family reunions...

It's gonna be a wacked weekend

This is where I spend my summers.



I take my job as 'camp goddess' quite seriously. I'm really good at my job, as you can clearly see.



I go to sleep to this, while the waves lull me to sleep.



And then I wake to this. The official stick wrangler always sneaks out of the tent to take an early morning swim.



Ah, good times.

We were supposed to be at this beach this weekend, camping with all of the kids, including Chris' rugrats. However, my ex husband just called to inform me that he is taking my kids this weekend. He's such a doll.

Whatever, I have learned how to choose my battles. It's not like I already went to Costco and stocked up on camping food and supplies...

Oh wait, I did, I have enough S'mores stuff, hot dogs, and juice boxes for a small army.

Sigh.

So I'll pack up my kidlets and send them off to Texas for the long weekend.

BANGDIGITY!!

Chris just told me that we have his kids this weekend.

SHITCRAPITY!

What are we going to do with his kids when we don't have my kids here to entertain them???

SHITFUCKITY!

Do we take Chris' kids camping without my kids there and HOPE that they are able to sleep in a tent?? They've never camped before, and we were hoping that my kids-the professional campers- would show them 'the ropes'.

This whole blended-family scheduling thing is a mess and apparently I am always the last one to know of any changes.

Sheesh. Oy. Crap.

If you are intoxicated skip this post, it barely makes sense to the sober

Oh Blogger... Let me bitch at you for a second OK??

That post that went up earlier today was scheduled to post upon my death.

Yea, I have planned out my death post, morbid huh?

I also know exactly WHAT I am going to wear to my funeral-think flannel.

Also morbid I know, but what if??

What if I fell off of a cliff tomorrow, wouldn't you at least want some type of explanation as to WHERE I am??

So... I have a little death box with directions of what to do when I die, including keys to my safety deposit box which contains further instructions and money to pay for my funeral.

Creepy huh?

Think about it, it makes sense. It's like a will, sort of, except that it's just creepier because I have detailed instructions on some things and one of them is to post my post that mysteriously went up today.

In case you didn't see it, it was basically me fighting the depths of hell and finding heaven through my ancestors and the mysteries of the desert.

I'm not making much sense, lets just pretend that this whole thing never happened and look at my silly kids instead. Well two of them at least. The one in green is a friend.



Hey, did you notice my new title?? Cute huh? Aren't the step-kids growing like weeds? Don't you think they look just like Chris? Mine are cute too.

Oh, to distract you some more in hope that you will forget this whole mess...

Here is a picture of my sweet dog, Amy, giving a ride to my spoiled ass bird, Sammy.



Hey Blogger, lets not mysteriously post things anymore, OK? Can you imagine my horror when I saw my death post go up? I had to pinch myself to make sure I was alive. AND NOW I have to rewrite my death post because I can't use one that has already been published.

Thanks Blogger, have a great day.

Things that irk me...

I just got off the phone with a mom who was asking my advice regarding her daughter’s grades. I’m not a professional, or an expert on anything regarding being a parent, but my kids are straight A students and have NEVER EVER been in trouble at school. They’ve never even had detention, except one of them for chewing gum and she cried about it. Of course they have pushed the limits at home and have done some stupid stuff, but NEVER at school.

My kids know I don’t take any shit when it comes to school—(or talking back, or whining, or acting spoiled, or being selfish, or being heartless) but mostly school. I’m the nazi bitch from hell when it comes to school.

So the mom says “Should I let her attend the end of the year school dance?”

Her daughter has D’s and F’s and is always in trouble at school.

HELL NO!

In our public school here, you wouldn’t even be allowed to attend the school dance with those kinds of grades, so I asked the mom about it…

She said that because her daughter attends a private prestigious school she would be allowed to attend the dance, regardless of her grades.

??

So if you put your child in a private school they don’t have to follow the rules? They can slip by with bad grades and act like spoiled little brats in class AND still attend school functions? What kind of bullshit is that?

That’s what’s wrong with society—people make excuses for their children’s behavior and the children grow up to think that they can do no wrong.

Makes me want to throw- up.

Phew! I'm glad I got that off my chest...

Endings

Lacrosse season has come to an end…

No more screaming inappropriate things from the sidelines. Things like:

“What kind of shot was that? You better step it up if you want dinner tonight”

“What are you doing? RUN!”

“Get your sissy butt off the ground”

“Quit your whining and man-up"

No more finding random athletic cups around the house or smelly sweaty socks bundled up in the bathroom.

No more waking up at dawn to drive two hours away only to sit in the sweltering heat.

No more carpools to practice while listening to the teenagers rag on each other from the backseat.

No more cheering with my friends or chewing on my finger nails while injured players squirm around on the ground.

No more sitting in dead silence waiting for the referee’s decision and when he announces a goal, there will be no more dancing on the bleachers while singing:

‘That’s the way ah huh ah huh I like it ah huh ah huh…’

No more hugging my sweaty guy after a game and smelling all his teenager ‘stuff’.




No more embarrassing my son with our ridiculous outfits, at least for a month or two.




We are his biggest fans. Us and the teeny bopper girls that watch behind the safety of the chain link fence, too shy to sit with the rest of us.

All good things come to an end I guess and I guess it’s pretty good timing because half of the team is in a cast or a sling from injuries.

The real reason I’m sad it's over? I no longer have an excuse as to why the house is such a mess.

I'll miss you lacrosse.

I'm a domestic goddess

I know how to cook Chile Rellenos, but please don't tell anyone, because they're time consuming and I don't really have any spare time to cook said chiles but I'm 'nesting' from a pregnancy that I do not have.

I'm sorry, are you new here??

I don't usually post cooking posts and I'm not pregnant, nor do I want to be, but my body thinks I am, so hence the cooking post and my monster boobs. Shall we commence?



Ingredients: I have a lot of children, and they like to eat, so this recipe can feed 6-8 hungry people. If your family is smaller, cut it in half. If your family doesn't like Chile Rellenos get into counseling.

8 Pasilla chiles
14 ounces Queso Fresco (Mexican cheese, tis yum)
4 eggs
1 Large white onion (I'm not prejudiced, it just works better with a white one)
7 Tomatoes (If you're lucky like me swipe them from your mom's garden)
1 Garlic Clove
Oil ( I took a picture of it with olive oil, but I gotta be honest--it's WAY better with vegetable oil. Your taste buds will thank you, your butt will hate you)

Not pictured due to shyness:

A dash of paprika
A pinch of salt
Three shakes of pepper
A hand full of flour



Throw your pasilla chiles on a (dry and un-greased) grill or skillet until they bubble up and get brown spots. I'm sure there is a technical term to this procedure, but I don't know it.


Once you have flipped them around a bit and burned your fingers, put them into a bucket of water and let them sit for about 10 minutes.

At this point it might be a really good idea to get yourself an adult beverage to dull the pain in your burnt finger.

Remove the insides of your chiles by making a slit and scooping all the insides out like this: Poor little chile, all naked and without his insides.



Mix finely chopped onion (half of your large white onion) and garlic (one clove) into your Mexican cheese (tis yum).



Stuff your naked chiles with the Mexican cheese(tis yum)garlic, and onion mixture.




If your finger still hurts, you might need another drink at this point.

Take your eggs and beat ONLY THE WHITES, but save the yolk.
Beat them until they're nice and fluffy like little pillows...
Or marshmallows
Or clouds
Add a handful of flour and beat them some more.
THEN add in the egg yolks and beat SOME MORE.



Take your stuffed chiles, free from their nakedness and coat them with your egg mixture and then dump them into a pan ( I use a WOK) of VERY hot oil.



Cook them--flipping once.



Once you're done cooking your chiles, get busy on the sauce.

It's SO fresh and yummy and simple.

Throw some (if you're lucky like me--fresh from your mom's garden)tomatoes, and the remainder of your onion and garlic into your blender. Add a little water if you need to get it going. Shake in some salt, pepper, and paprika.




If it looks frothy and pink like this you have had too much to drink and should not be cooking.



Ahh, that's better. I fixed that near disaster just by by adding a few more tomatoes. Cook your super delicious sauce and chiles together until boiling.



Take these to your bedroom and eat them in peace. Or, if you're in a good mood you can share them with your family. Just don't admit to cooking them, if you play ignorant nobody will ask you to cook them again.




If your teenager doesn't show up for dinner you can leave her a plate on your cute 1950's O'Keefe & Merritt stove, if you don't have a cute 1950's stove it's cool, don't worry about it. Allow your teenager an hour to call and check in, if that phone call doesn't come eat her portion.

At least her arm wont get moldy

Casts sure are easy these days. When I had a cast as a child it was made out of plaster and weighed about twenty five pounds. I remember sitting on the cold metal chair when a large scary man with a saw approached me to remove my cast. I remember staring at the man like he was a lunatic, and when he removed the cast my arm was green with fungus and mold from sneaking into my neighbors swimming pool against my mom's knowledge or approval.



The Doctor yelled at me for sticking a quarter down my cast which left a pretty deep impression of George Washington's face on my forearm. Yesterday Megan stuck her iPod down her cast which had to be pushed out with the aide of a long handled screwdriver and some creativity.

The beauty of these fiberglass casts is that they are waterproof and she has been able to take a VERY OVERDUE shower.



I don't think they're easy to sign though, you could write on the old-fashioned plaster casts with pencil or ball point pens. With these you have to use a sharpie, which Megan has been illegally sneaking into school this week because apparently it's ALL about the signatures.

I know, she went with boring old blue. She has to get re-casted again in two weeks so maybe I can talk her into balck and she can get all her signatures in metallic or gold. I'm pretty certain she is going to be high from sniffing markers all day.

Maybe we need to start recycling toilet paper

Suckiness this month:

1)$600 Brake job on the van,because someone drives too fast and tailgates.

2)$500 Dental work for the teenager.

4)$300 Speeding ticket--see #1 for the guilty person.

5)$150 My portion of my daughter's cast.

6)$50 Parking ticket because we didn't have a front license plate.

7)$47 Parking ticket for street cleaning day. Totally my fault.

Total suckiness $1,647.00 and the month is not even over yet.

Um, hellooo Karma Gods, this completely evens out that bag of gummy bears I stole when I was 13. I think this also evens out the time I got caught on the roof of my neighbors house while trying to install a camera into my brother's bathroom to spy on all of his friends.

Wanna call it even now? Eating rice and beans is getting REALLY old.

Thanks.

Ruthie and her ferocious gas

Um, this whole job thing I have is a bit out of hand.

When I arrived this morning I was greeted by 89 year old Ruth.

Ruth—who smelled of stale whiskey and had coffee stains down the front of her blue terry cloth robe.

Ruth—who held her bridge of fake teeth in the palm of her hand as she smothered me with kisses from her whiskery lips.

“Morning Ruthie” I said with a smile on my face.
“Morning Carol” She said as she turned around to let out some gas and head into the kitchen. As soon as she turned her back to me I vigorously wiped my cheeks free from her slobbery whiskey kisses with the back of my hand.

Ruth.
Ruth. Ruth. Ruth.

Into the kitchen I went with Ruthie and her ferocious gas leading the way.

I got busy chopping onions, tomatoes, ham and garlic to add to her omelet as Ruthie stood behind me breathing her whiskey breath on the back of my arms and babbled about the stress she’s under.

She removed her bridge of teeth several times and examined them.

I dig old people.

Around the corner came Ruthie’s son in a body cast with a walker.

“Morning Dennis, how are you?”
“I need to have a BM and I’m constipated and I can’t shut the bathroom door.”

Fantastic.
Super.
Cool.

I love my life.

Dennis proceeded to squat.

Chop the onions Mariah, just chop the onions.
Keep chopping…
Find your happy place.

I tried, I tried to chop and ignore the sounds and smells of human waste that were wafting into the kitchen from the bathroom.

The combined fragrance of onions, garlic, expired ham, and bodily waste was too much for me so I went to the bedroom to check on Ruthie, who had disappeared.

When I turned the corner I was greeted by a 91 year old naked man who was bending over to pick up his tattered socks and his 91 year old testicles were dusting the floor.

I’m not kidding.

They were actually sweeping the stained up carpet.

Sweet.

I quickly spun around on my heels only to bump boob- to- boob into the real Carol.

Talking to Carol is like talking to a toothpick. I swear she can’t do anything; she’s a 59 year old imbecile. She doesn’t even know how to cook rice. Rice!

I’m not kidding about that either.

I wanted to collapse onto the orange shag carpet on the living room floor and curl up like a small rabbit stuck outside in a snow storm. Then I heard the ‘pooper’ yell from that bathroom that he needed an enema. Gene, the naked old man, hollered from the bedroom that he needed one too.

Ruth re-appeared in the hallway for a brief moment only to hand me her bridge of teeth and kiss me… AGAIN!

I escaped to the other bathroom and sprayed my entire body with Lysol and dipped my hands in bleach.

I thought about climbing out of the bathroom window and running out into the street to hitch a ride from the first car that appeared, but the window was painted shut so I bravely re-entered the kitchen only to find Ruthie at the table crying.

Crying and drinking whiskey.

So I joined her.

Hot Cheetos, Geocaching & Dr. Dreamy Eyes

This is what I woke up to on Mothers day. This IS my living room, however, these are NOT my children.



These four kids (with Chris' help) planned the most memorable Mothers day ever...Chris and Cody said they wanted to go on a hike with me. I should have guessed that something was up because I am ALWAYS begging them to go on a hike with me. Which ALWAYS lands on deaf ears.



When I arrived at the opening off of the trail the girls were waiting and screamed HAPPY MOTHERS DAY! I was completely surprised. They had my favorite snacks...hot cheetos and pistachios with sweet green tea. Complete with roses...






They all gave me cards. Cody's card was a 'congratulations on your baby card' I guess he forgot to actually open the card and look inside of it before he bought it.




The guys received massages from Christie...



We witnessed the forming of a new cult and protected our ears as they chanted and drummed away like wild natives. It was slightly creepy. And now I want to join a cult.



Seriously, I don't know HOW I got so lucky with such amazing kids.




After our lunch we went for a hike up to a waterfall. Amanda, Megan and I went off of the path to return a Geocaching box that we have had at our house for over four months. I don't really get the whole Geocaching thing, but I guess it's not cool to take a Geo box and not return it.

Whatever.

While we were climbing around Megan slipped and fell on her arm. The same arm that she broke a few years ago that never healed correctly because I took the cast off a bit early. Yes, I removed her cast with pliers instead of taking her back to the doctor. I know, I know...bad mom idea. It is also the same arm that she injured the night before while climbing out of her bedroom window to spy on Cody and his friends in the living room.

Sigh.

Poor Megan had to hike 2 miles back down to the car with her arm in a makeshift sling that I made out of her sweatshirt while Cody accused her of making it up to get attention. At that point Christie took it upon herself to be Megan's bodyguard and wouldn't let anyone come within three feet of Megan.

We made a quick trip to the emergency room where Dr Dreamy Brown Eyes confirmed two fractures and referred us to an orthopaedic, but not before announcing Megan's incredibly high tolerance for pain.



Here she is on the phone discussing the very important decision of what color cast she should get. My vote is for blue, or maybe black. We're working on a really cool story to tell her friends, something like street fighting or swine wrangling.

!!!!

Seriously, I am blushing...

This is the best compliment I have ever received...

Go over and read what Chris wrote me for Mothers Day.

Happy Mothers Day Everyone!

I REALLY hope this works out

An Email I received:


to"manicmariah@gmail.com"

May 3, 2009 at 4:37 AM
your blog is fun to read....

hide details May 3 (6 days ago) Reply

Mark and Carol here
we live in new england and are both 42......
we enjoy the reading of your blog, like everyday america... we were also wondering, you may have mentioned this in blog but may have missed it...but what do you two for adult fun..w/out kids??

We would like to know that..esp being as busy as you folks are
We, are recently starting to enjoy ideas with other adults..

Mark and Carol


Dear Mark and Carol,
We'd be interested in speaking with you further, let's get this thing rolling. I've attached a photo of us for your pleasure. Please send a photo in return ASAP! We look forward to speaking with you further and enjoying a lifelong 'adult friendship' with you. This is going to be great. I'm going to go call my ma and tell her the good news!
Love Chris and Mariah--your friends for life!

I'm not really jealous at all...I swear

My brother’s neighborhood is on fire as you can clearly see from this photo, which was taken from their backyard. I just received an email from my brother saying that they are safe and evacuating to St Regis, Bora Bora.




Must be nice.

I suppose if our neighborhood burned down we could load up our van (whose brakes are on the floor of the mechanics garage at the moment ) with four kids, two dogs, two cats, two birds, a guinea pig and a fish and head on out to the middle of the central valley and stay in a Motel 6. WITHOUT AIR CONDITIONING OR ANY TYPE OF VENTILATION AT ALL! Let alone a gorgeous body of water that makes you want to take all your clothes off and flit around like a forest fairy high on pixie dust.


We could always bring extra butter theater style microwavable popcorn and sneak into a stop-n-go market and illegally use their microwave and that would make the whole experience almost the same as evacuating to BORA BORA!

Maybe I'll even bring deep heating hair conditioner and a finger nail clippers and call it a spa.

Polka Dotted Bras, PMS, and Raging Hormones

Megan, my 12 year old has been fighting the bra thing. I tried to convince her awhile back that she needed to wear a bra. Up until now, she has only worn a sports bra and only for soccer.

A few days ago Chris nudged me under the dinner table and mouthed 'Is Megan wearing a bra?' I stared at her and then back at Chris with a puzzled look. Of course Megan screamed WHY ARE YOU STARING AT ME??? And then ran off to her room and slammed the door.

Hormones much?? Geez. She's going to be a mess when PMS starts.

The next day I found it; a multi-colored-polka-dotted-bra flung over the back of her chair. I was cracking up, not because of the bra but because of the size. It was a 30B. The child should be wearing a size AA and truthfully it's only necessary on the right hand side. The left is still completely flat. She must have 'borrowed' one of Amanda's old bras.

Sigh.

I guess I am going to have to start hiding my underwear again--in case she decides to help herself to my thongs and my black lacy lingerie--the same way Amanda did at that age.




She's going to kill me if she sees this.

I couldn't have planned this better

About a month ago my 10 year old daughter, Christie, started handing out citations to everyone in the house. Citations for neglecting the dogs.

I received one. We all received one except for Chris, who has been a kiss ass and made Christie little charts on the computer so she can track our dog-worthiness or whatever it is that she is doing.

Seventeen year old Amanda has been working her butt off hoping to get a 'caught being good' card from Christie. She has been diligent about walking the dogs, bathing them, feeding them and playing with them. She doesn't really give a horses wild chin hair about getting a 'caught being good' card. This has just turned into a big joke for her.

However, this is NOT a joke to Christie. She takes this 'job' quite seriously.

So yesterday I find this on my desk:



I don't really deserve this. Honestly, I think she just wants me to make her lunch again and this is her way of kissing up to me.

I'm pretty much a genius, I planned this whole thing out.

The dogs are oblivious, they don't have a clue what's going on, but they're loving all the new attention.

So, basically I was un-prepared for these discussions. Alternate title: I'm re-thinking everything I ever think of doing. Either one works.

So, this whole vacation rental thing in our back house is turning into a nightmare. My children informed me that they would move out if I let the sketchy guy with the porn star friend stay in the guest house after they spied on him while he was ‘working’ down on Venice beach.

I was like, listen little nuggets you can’t judge someone just be glancing at them, look at Susan Boyle. They held firm to their decision though and stared me down with their hands on their hips. So… I texted the sketchy man and said that we had to have an emergency termite fumigation. He was cool with that and texted me back saying he wanted to come when the termite situation was over. Shoot, now I am stuck in a major lie with him.

The next tenants arrived on Friday—they were gay, VERY gay. I loved them, they were cute and friendly and they paid in cash. The thing is, my fourteen year old son’s room is above the guest house. He’s fourteen; his hormones are all over the place. The two rooms are connected via a spiral indoor staircase—there is a wooden sound barrier at the top of the stairs which is OK, but not great.

SO…

I made Cody sleep in the house for the weekend because I don’t think he needs to hear sex all night, gay or straight. Of course the girls were asking me 156 questions about WHY Cody was sleeping on the couch and WHEN is he going to go back to his room? After some deep meditative breaths I explained that we had paying guests out back and we needed to give them privacy and then I rushed them out for ice-cream.

Then…

Megan says, “Are they gay?”
“Yes” I answered
“Do they kiss?”
“Yes”
She thought about this for awhile and licked her strawberry lips. After a moment or two she flung her long ponytail around and said “I don’t want to hear any more.”

Christie, on the other hand, was inquisitive and asked me deeper questions. Christie, the child who collects teeth and still thinks that children are born through the belly button asked me if they showered together, I replied honestly and said, “yes, I’m sure they do.”
“Do they cuddle?”
“Yes”
“Do they love each other?”
“Yes”
“Are they married?”
“I don’t know”
“Do they make the same noises that you and Chris make at night?”
“Yes. NO! I DON'T KNOW! PLEASE eat your ice-cream”

Next up is a couple from Belgium and then a family from the south of France (that I’m assuming sunbathes topless) with their 15 year old daughter whom I’m sure my fourteen year old son and all his friends will ogle over and spy on every chance they get.

So basically, it’s going to be a summer of sex education over here at Case De Mariah.

P.S. I’m moving out for a few months.