I’m not sure if I’m watching too many movies, or where this bug up my ass came from. However, I would say during the entire year of 2010, I’ve had this urge to go to Italy. Not travel Europe, Paris, etc. Nope, I want to go to Italy.

When the whole, I lost my job thing happened, I received my little unemployment debit card in the email, and it’s sat on my desk unused since May. Of course I request my deposit every two weeks, but I made a pact with myself. If I never had to use it, I would use that money and go to Italy.

Well, my whole good fortune is a whole other topic for another time. But through friends, a new business that’s doing very well, and some other things, I’m going to be just fine for a while. I decided you know what, there’s never going to be a better time, and I’m freaking going to Italy.

So the trip planning has begun. My plane ticket has been booked, and for two weeks in October, I’ll be traveling through Italy all by myself. Of course there’s always the potential to find some hot Italian ass to be my tour guide, but I’m just going to see what happens. I think for the first week I’m going to do a tour. That way as I travel through Rome, Venice, and Florence, I know I won’t miss out on the monumental things. Then the other week I’m going to be on my own and decide if there any other places I want to see again, or just go hang out at the beach.

It’s my own little adventure. No, I won’t be buying a villa. Well, I guess never say never. If you have any must see places, etc…let me know.

Was it here that someone was talking about how the older you get the more you revert back to childish ways? Well, my mom’s childish decline is happening. NOW. I’ve talked about how it’s hard to leave my kids with her because for some reason the phone is now the most important thing in the world. If she has just a split second that I am not with her, she is immediately on her phone calling some random neighbor back home asking about the weather then bragging about how much worse or better the weather is where she is. I’m not kidding about the split second thing either, we were at the airport…THE AIRPORT and I had to use the restroom. I left the kids with her while I ran in. I come out, she is standing outside the restroom with my kids and all of the luggage just randomly calling someone…. REALLY? This couldn’t wait until we find our gate and sit?

When it comes to the phone, my mom is the equivalent to at 15 year old.

She also likes to play games, the whole I won’t call to see how long it takes you to call me. Then give you a guilt trip over how I don’t want to bother you since you are just too busy. Or the game of hurt feelings if she thinks for one second that my MIL (who lives 10 minutes away from me) might know something before her. She even pulls out the whiny voice. Her emotional maintenance is very high and for me impossible since

A: I am surrounded by testosterone 24/7 and

B: she raised me to be unemotional (funny, isn’t it)

When it come to my mom’s emotional state, she is equal to a 14 year old.

We have now come to the day where I pissed my mom off so much, she quite literally threw a tantrum in my car. Causing her to revert to a bratty 12 year old. On the verge of tears, whining, turning red, fidgeting in her seat and trying to say anything to manipulate me to change my mind.

What did I tell her to bring her to this state?

Simply, that Hubby and I had decided to not announce the name of the baby before he was born.

Readers… this lady can not handle it. CANNOT! I have never seen her so upset with me. I think I could have been 14 and knocked up by the local drug dealer and she would be happier. She has now announce that certain things she did for the other boys before they were born she will not be doing for this one since I will not tell her the name.

Now… what age does this shit put her at?

So I belong to a book club. Don’t judge. I initially had to be talked into it by one of my girlfriends; not because I didn’t like to read but because I didn’t think that I would enjoy “assigned” reading or sitting around a circular table heavily debating books that I didn’t choose to read in the first place. It sounded too much like school. It sounded BORING.

Well, as it turns out, “book club” was actually code for “girl’s night out.” Sure, we read the books. We discuss them and its fun. Then we cut loose and polish off as much wine as we can in a four hour time frame before retiring back to responsibility outside of the book club bubble.

Well, I blew my cover on Friday. I came home from book club with a brand spanking new tattoo. My one. My only. Permanent tattoo.

 I’ve been toying with the idea of getting one for at least five years. I always knew that I would get a smiley face if I ever decided to do it. It’s been my signature symbol since high school. They make me happy.  I’ve always managed to find an excuse not to get one. I’m too broke. I’ll wait til my birthday. I’m pregnant. I want to wait until after I’ve had kids. I’ve gained too much weight. I’m too old for that. It’s kind of gangsta. Blah blah blah. Well, four glasses of wine, a little peer pressure and another girl agreeing to get one with me and all those old excuses went straight out the window and off our book club went to the parlor.

For twenty minutes I sat with my butt crack exposed to five of my closest friends and my ass bent over in front of my new BFF, The Tattoo Man. I was sober enough to be concerned that I might have a butt pimple and that I did, indeed, have candy canes on my panties.  I also feared that I might blow a gaseous hot fart right into his nostril as he was trying to ink in the smile and I would end up with the worlds most jacked up smiley face permanently etched into my skin. I warned him that I had eaten a casserole dish of bean dip an hour before I got there. He said he liked bean dip. Alrighty then.

He said that the color could fade in the sun. I laughed.” Dude, I’ve birthed two kids and have the stretch marks to prove it. This part of my back hasn’t seen the sun since Spring Break ‘98. This smiley face is for me and hubby only. Well and maybe my five good friends here and you, Mr. Tattoo Artist, of course and all your artist friends over there behind the counter. Gawd, didn’t that piercing hurt like a mother fucker? That skull on your neck kind of freaks me out. Oh, and maybe my gyno and his army of nurses. OMG, its SOOOOOO cute! Now I will ALWAYS have a smile on, no matter what! Brilliant isn’t it?” (Hiccup)

“Whatever floats your boat lady. That’ll be $50.”

The next day when I anxiously told my husband that I did something well, sort of crazy at book club his first guess was that we smoked pot, and then that we took his Jeep off-roading. I don’t know why, but that made me laugh. He wasn’t surprised when I told him that I got the tattoo. Although, he did do the “I knew it! I kneeeeeew it! You guys don’t even READ the books do you? That’s such bullshit. Book club my ass!” rant shortly after. 

I was loving my new body art until I told fun neighbor what I had done and he said…. “A smiley face. That sounds cute and so you. Is it yellow and black? Oh! Oh! is it like the Wal-Mart roll-back smiley face?”

Fucking book club.

XOXO

Roxy

So It’s 2:00, I’m just now sitting down to my computer and realized ‘Shit, I haven’t done a post today.’

Life has been good…busy,  but good. Male Elanah and I are are still on a roll. Partially why I’m so freaking behind on today.

And then my friend called me two days ago and the conversation went a little something like this:

Friend: ‘I just scored free Gaga tickets for Thursday, you in?’

Me: ‘Hell yes.’

And so now I’m about to get ready to head downtown, eat and drink something and see Ms. Gaga. Can’t wait.

I’ll think of something better next week. For now I need to get a nap in. Male Elanah kept me up late again last night.

Hubby and I went out the other day, without kids. For some reason instead of doing really romantic stuff we end up getting things done that are just harder with kids. This time we needed to drop by a baby store to check out car seats. But before we did that, Hubby wanted to go by one of his favorite “window shopping” stores.

Let me say this, I will always say yes to Lowe’s, Home Depot, Best Buy…. I like them. And Hubby is very nice about heading to the stores that I like to go to, so I feel like I need to say yes to his one request. But it’s hard. I hate, hate, hate his favorite store.

Are you guys trying to guess what it is?  It’s that fucking crazy electronic/appliance/random junk store…FRYS.

Ugh, I get annoyed just typing it.

As we were driving there Hubby asked the question, “What exactly bothers you about that store?”

Me- “Do you really want me to answer that?!”

Hubby- “Yes”

Let the rant begin.

Ok, lets start with the second you arrive, the parking lot makes no sense. You have to drive all the way UP to the store to then drive around to the parking lot and practically get run over as you are trying to get into the store. I’m not going to start on the landscaping, or lack there of.

The check out, that huge line while being bombarded by junk food and when you finally make it to check out you get an under educated person who has to do 50 things just so you can by a magazine. And why do I need a receipt that big? I can’t just throw that shit in my purse. Instead I now have to fold it up and have this awkward paper in there for the one thing that I bought.

Do I even have to mention the annoyances when returning something? You wait in this long line to see some associate who takes about 10 minutes to figure out what’s going on and then they have to call over some community college drop out punk on a power trip to “approve” it. Hand you one of those large receipts to go and wait in the check out line and deal with those people. Please see above rant. Can they not stream line this shit?

And what’s up with the random as seen on TV ladybug pillow being sold at the end of the water filters aisle?

Then the sales people. This is what bothers me the most. Why can’t they have an actual uniform like Best Buy, just a fucking polo. Instead its like this sorta professional dress code that ends up looking sloppy because  not smart but still nerdy “I built my own computer” Joe is borrowing his dads old white dress shirt that doesn’t quite fit him. Or the gangster wanna be who’s baggie khakis are being held up just high enough for his poor fitting shirt to cover his underwear.  My favorite white shirt I have seen is the former football player who was very obviously not wearing his own shirt. It must have belonged to a very fat oompa loompa in a previous life. It was made for a VERY large person with extremely short arms. Not kidding, the arms started at this guys elbows and miraculously were still too short to make it to his wrists. Where do you get a shirt like that?

Polos people, polos.

This is where Hubby stops me mid-rant and says, “gangster wannabes don’t work there.”

Two minutes later, as we are walking in, an employee drives by in his low rider Chevy Impala with custom paint and blaring music. All Hubby said was, “point taken”.

Take a look around yourself next time… ALL of my points will be proven correct.

My first baby is headed off to kindergarten in five weeks. FIVE WEEKS! I’m already getting heartburn.

I signed her up a few weeks ago at the school and left in tears. ALREADY, I’m an emotional basket case. I have packed in as much summer fun stuff as I could before the school system starts holding her hostage five days a week. Seeing all those itty bitty chairs and smelling that strange cafeteria smell made me realize that it’s now a reality. No matter how many adult tantrums I throw, there’s no stopping it.

I’ve started stockpiling school supplies from the beast-of-a-list I downloaded from the school website. We got the important stuff. Princess backpack, check. Hello Kitty lunchbox, check. Bedazzled school shoes, check. What else could the kid possibly need? A trip to the supply section at Wal-Mart almost led me to have a breakdown. I only need TWO rubber erasers, not a package of TEN, dick wads. And why does it have to be a RED pocket folder with brads? Why not green or yellow or carnation pink? Picky bastards.

And then there’s the question of mental preparation. Is she smart enough? Will she make new friends? Will she be able to manage the separation anxiety? Will she get on the teacher’s nerves? Will she say “shit” out loud? Ok, ok, enough about me. SHE will be fine.

I’m not exactly sure where the time went. One minute, I’m changing her poopy diaper and the next minute I am instructing her to not share hats with itchy headed kids. At this rate, if I blink she will be picking out a prom dress. And I will have to tell her “it’s too short.”

Thank God she is excited about starting big kid school. I think the bedazzled shoes might have helped. Maybe I should get some to match. No, wait, that might be weird, right? Right?

Needless to say I am dreading the first day of school. The Husband has been instructed to take that morning off as I will probably need someone to pry me off of her before the bell rings. Ugh, I suddenly feel the need to vomit. I can’t believe I am THAT person.

 MY school supply list is as follows: Kleenex, bacon cheese burger, Kit Kat, camera charger, Prozac and a bottle (or two) of wine. Anything else I should add as a recommendation from people who have been there, done that?

XOXO

Roxy

As an avid Seinfield watcher, this is one of my favorite episodes. It’s where Jerry meets the female version of him, and thinks he’s falling in love.

So how does this correlate to me?  Well, Bachelor #3 and I have been doing pretty well.  We still haven’t had the ‘are we exclusive talk yet,’ and I’ll be honest, I’m still avoiding it like the plague.  I like him, he’s a great guy.  I’m just not ready to say that this is it for a while.  However, I was still willing to drop out of eHarmony, and I meant to cancel my account.  I was off by a day, and suddenly I was renewed for another 3 months.  I wasn’t taking it too seriously, but Bachelor #, damn, I guess I’m up to 6 now, came out of the blue.  We had been communicating earlier, then he just sort of dropped off.  I didn’t think anything of it, and honestly didn’t care.

He reaches out to me, tells me how he’s been busy with work, blah blah.  We start emailing, and he seems super cool.  We exchange numbers, and he was headed out of town, so we chatted/texted throughout the 4th of July weekend, and as time progresses, I’m totally digging this guy.

Our big date came up, and oh my gosh, went so well.  He’s adorable, he’s sweet, he’s smart, and well, from an attitude/mind perspective, he is the male version of Elanah.  I swear, so much so, almost to a point where I should be worried he’s done research on me or something.  The things he said to me were things that I have said to my friends in the past.  It was so freaky.  I mean, really, really, really freaky.

So the question becomes: Do opposites really attract or should you date yourself?  I always said I could never date me.  However, I married the complete opposite version of me, and we all see how that turned out.  Is it cool to be with someone who totally understands you?  I guess it can work as long as you both understand your faults and can work on getting past them.  For example, male Elanah and I are both work aholics, so as long as we’re purposely making time for each other……

This could get very tricky.  For now Bachelor #3 is still in picture.  But date #2 is approaching with Bachelor #6….We’ll see how this thing goes.  (Date #2 is usually the date where I manage to find SOMETHING wrong).

Nothing.

I have N-O-T-H-I-N-G.

Not even a clever website to share. Write whatever is on your mind below.

I watched my favorite movie this weekend whilst strapped to my bed in horrific pain.  I dare anyone, and I really do dare anywoman to watch Unfaithful and not get completely fucking horny out of your mind!  (I would like to remove Snoddy, and Jim’s Wife from the dare and do I really have to explain why?  Fuck off.) 

There Diane Lane is (who is totally on my top 5 women I would bang if I had a chance.) living in a beautiful home, married to (who guessed it?) Richard Gere.  Together they have a dog and a kid, who is simply perfect.  She drives a great car, he has a Mercedes.  Life is fucking fabulous.  Until one, very very very lucky afternoon when she decides to drive into the city and falls down on the door steps of Mr. French Suave Book Dealer.  Oh, oui oui he insists she come up to get a band-aid and some tea, you know, until the wind dies down…oui oui.  And then he fucks the shit out of her.  Again.  And again.  And in the bathroom where she’s having lunch with her girlfriends.  And then in a movie theater.  And then in the hallway – from behind I might add – over a table in the hall.  And WHY DOES SHE DO THIS?  (I won’t end the movie for you, just in case you watch it.)  I dare anyone, with the exceptions above to not get a little pussy twinge the first time they are having sex and Diane Lane is so taken with her French Book Dealer Oui Oui that her entire body starts pulsating – UN-FUCKING-CONTROLLABLY!!!  And you take a breath from just the idea of it, don’t you.

What I don’t understand is this:  She had it!  She had everything we all dream of, a great marriage, an awesome house, an adorable kid, even a dog!  She started buying sexy underwear, wearing heels, things that she stopped doing in her marriage.  I didn’t have that.  I had 2 kids, a job, and a slob-kabob for a husband.  And, then, one day he walked into my life as though it was intended and he took my breath away immediately.  Soon after, I was slammed against the wall in a heat of nothing but our breath, breathing in sync, one leg lifted, still fully clothed, and him whispering, “You’re so beautiful”.  He grabbed my hand and centered me on the bed.  My whole body shaking as though I had just entered an ice chamber, only I was hot.  He slowly took off his shirt.  He lifted mine, just exposing my belly button, to which he blew his hot air into.  I turned my head to avoid his gaze, not knowing how much more my body could handle.  Then in a wild passion we threw off our clothes, between kissing and biting each others lips.  He didn’t have sex with me, I think he just wanted to play with me.  My clothes off and him stroking me between my legs and up to my shoulder with another biting kiss.  When we finally did have sex it was raw and passionate and amazing.  I bought new bras and panties and started shaving my vaj for him.  I started wearing perfume.  I started feeling him in my sleep and waking in a sweat and breathless.  I wanted more and more and more.  But I was married and I started avoiding my husband’s glances and I felt the guilt when he touched me.  I wanted more of my foreign lover.  I wanted to be against the wall again.  As I’m typing this, no one has ever heard this story and I keep looking away from the computer screen, breathing towards the wall.  This is where the story ends because at some point someone always gets hurt, and sometimes it’s you.

And, sometimes you walk away from that (stupid) marriage and you just go ahead and marry that Foreigner.  And when you wake up, breathless, you can just turn to the right and ask for him to play you like a well strung guitar, and he does.

Best friend from high school is an aerobics instructor. She weighs about 95 lbs dripping wet, even with her implants. Yeah, I know….barf. She recently asked me to come to one of her classes near my house. She said it would be like a “party”. Would there be cupcakes and ice cream at the end? No. Now I know how she stays so skinny, she obviously smokes crack.

I decided that it would be good for me to try something different since this whole running in 100 degree heat thing hasn’t really been working out for me. TURBO KICKBOXING. What. The. Hell. Was. I. Thinking?

I arrive at the gym, confident and apparently delusional. The stench of sweat steam hits me like a wall when I open the door. I fight the gag reflex I am getting from inhaling other people’s vaporized body fluids and proceed to the torture chamber, the aerobics room.

At the front of the chamber is my itty bitty crack head friend with her microphone and big cheery smile. Immediately, I look for a place to hide. DAMN MIRRORS, there’s no safe place in this hell. The back of the room is a glass wall, which to me looks like a big fish bowl for the row of MILFS on treadmills on the other side to watch the little goldfish get eaten alive by a shark to the tunes of Lady Gaga. So I nestle into the middle, picking the strongest looking girl to be beside in the event that I pass out and need someone to catch me before hitting my head on the hardwood floor.

The music starts thumping and crack head starts bouncing around. Everyone follows along except for me. I have no clue what I am doing. Crack head cheerily pipes up and points directly at me, drawing way too much attention to me, and cheers “yay Roxy! So glad you made it! You’ll do great!” Then she gives me a big thumbs up and a wink. I’m convinced this is a long-time coming payback for kissing her cousin my Senior year.

Have I mentioned that I was the only person in my graduating class that couldn’t do the Electric Slide?

The music keeps pumping and my undiagnosed ADD is kicking in because I can’t focus on the music and the instructions at the same time. Arms are punching, legs are kicking, feet are jumping and Roxy is rapidly getting a headache. I’m flopping around like a fish on a hook. Each sequence is done four times. I manage to finally nail each move on the fifth sequence, you know, the one that doesn’t exist.  I blame it on the mirrors. Everything is backwards and I am doing EVERYTHING opposite of the whole class. Strongest-girl-in-the-class-who-is-supposed-to-save-me almost stomps on my foot because I have managed to take over her spot. I pray that she stomps hard enough that I can be injured and get the fuck out of here.  Instead she half smiles and moves a few arm lengths away from me. I put my hands on my knees and gasp for sweat vapor.

Then crack head squeals “Great warm-up everyone! Now, let’s get to work!” What. Gasp. The. Gasp. Fuck. Gasp.

They say time flies when you are having fun. The stupid clock on the wall was broken, because time sure as hell wasn’t flying. It was stopped on the runway due to engine failure.

I managed to make it through to the end of the class without killing anyone with my flailing arms, so that was a bonus. I thanked crack head for nearly killing me. Gave her sweatless waif body a hug and crawled to the locker room, leaving a trail of coffee concentrated sweat behind me.

On the way home, I rolled with windows down and pulled over to buys a Snickers, the BIG kind.

XOXO

Roxy