Blog Hoppin'

Hey Y'all, I like blogging here, but I'm gonna be blogging over here now.

My old stompin' grounds. Fertile. Because I can't blog at work since they block this site due to the word 'sex' in it. omglol!

But it's true.

So follow me over yonder...

love, me

http://ferrtileblog.blogspot.com/

How bout them apples?

So it's 12:15 am and I am booiiiing! bbbboinnnng! Wide.frigging.awake. It's not fair. I turn 37 and magically develop insomnia? Next I'm going to be suffering from what my mother called 'Private Summers' and complaining about my gray pubic hairs. Wait, I already do that. Sheesh. So, here I am, having snuck out the bed and left a sleeping redheaded snorer to cuddle with the shithead dog who growls and snarls if you so much as roll over and grope for an extra fistful of covers, and I sit fixated zombically on the neon glow in the darkness. Hello, world.

Today Lily and I were walking out of my doctor's office, which is more of a free clinic type place, since my El Cheapo health insurance isn't accepted at many reputable places, and we passed a table of colorful, neatly arranged pamphlets. Lily stopped to check them out and I didn't realize until we were in the car and she was really quiet and I saw her lips moving in the rearview, that she was totally engrossed in a little piece of literature she'd picked up. This one featured poorly-drawn-yet-happy-go-lucky-looking cartoon images of latino gay couples, lounging on the couch, getting ready for bed, chilling at the park. The title of the pamphlet was "Living With HIV".

So this started a convo (me ever being the 'approachable, teacherly' type mom)about AIDS and what it is (the very, very diluted version) and how its important to take good care of yourself and be 'healthy', especially when you get 'older', and that I would explain more about that when she was older. She said, "Well, you must have a lot on your shoulders, then, because you're older."

I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried. And I don't need to, because it is my waking life. Speaking of being awake...

MMM HMM, THATS RIGHT!

This photo is not intended to titilate (though I know you're all a bunch of sex perverts, stop drooling, will you, and put your tongues back in yo moufs)...its intention instead is to illustrate, in one simple photo, all of the reasons why I generally tend not tot:

1. wear much liquid foundation makeup
2. buy new blue tee shirts (although they are my favorite)
3. wear padded bras

Because the minute I do all of these things, I spill the makeup on the new blue tee shirt because my boob is sticking out further than it should due to the wearing of the padded bra, thereby catching the makeup and becoming a permanent home for a smear of stain that will not come out, no matter how much I rub, rub, rub. Now I look like a lactating mother who didn't make it to the baby on time and is also secreting flesh-colored milk.

Happy weekend, you bastards.

To Die By Your Side...What a HEAVENLY Way to Die!!!

I can't sleep. I can't get that Smiths song out of my head, the one that, when I was 14 years old and sitting in my room on some Monday night, staring out the window, waiting for my real life to begin, would play continuously on my record player until it skip, skip, skipped and I had to explain to my friend Katie why I fucked up her cool older sister's record album, which we'd stolen anyway and I'd somehow snuck out of Katie's house without her even knowing.

Anyway. I spent a lot of time in my room then, with the blue plaid wallpaper that I'd chosen because it seemed so 'modern' at the time (think Ricky Stratton in Silver Spoons)...I, unlike my unfortunate little sister, had a lock on my door (it was there when we moved in, and my parents never thought to take it off, since I was such a good kid and never the type to lock myself in during a tantrum and threaten to jump out the window)...so it gave me lots of privacy to scribble angstily in my pile of notebooks or act out sex scenarios with my barbies waaaay past an age that was appropriate. Look, I went to an all-girls Catholic school. I didn't have a lot of opportunities for...release. If you get me.

The record player, though. Oh, I loved that record player. It was one of those suitcase-looking things that actually folded up and was portable and it looked like it was covered in a light denimn fabric. It was cool in a Holly Hobby sort of way. Katie and I listened to that record player the first time we got tipsy...it was on wine coolers that our bus driver had bought for us for some creepy reason that, at the time, didn't seem creepy at all...it just seemed cool. He offered to get us all some booze and drive us all out to a field to drink after the last day of school before our Christmas vacation. Yeeeech. Strangely enough, he didn't do anything weird, he just wanted to help some nerdy, sheltered teenage girls have a good time. I think. Or maybe he had a secret camera somewhere. Anyway. We listened to that Smiths album over and over and sighed heavily, thinking of the futureboys we would meet who would love us and declare their undying devotion by promising that if they had to die, well hell, let them be hit by a doubledecker bus while riding in the passenger seat next to us.

I'm about to turn 37 and I can still feel, think, even freaking TASTE 14...it tastes just like strawberry Bartles and Jaymes.

More on (Moron) Dream stuff

I just woke up. This means that the coffee has yet to take effect and I am still all puffy and middle-aged looking and the mascara I forgot to wipe off with the neat little cotton ball and the overpriced Mary Kay makeup remover I got suckahed into buying is caked under my eyes and getting stuck in my crows feet.

Whew! That was a mouthful.

So, here goes with the dream. I am pregnant with my gay cousin's baby and getting married to my boyfriend, who kinda understands my 'indiscretion', because, really, it was with my gay cousin. Then I am going to a fitting for my 'maternity wedding dress' and the tailor happens to be my ex mother-in-law, who insists I wear a white suit like Ellen did in her wedding because it's 'in right now' and will 'be more flattering'. The fitting is in a bathroom in my ex mother-in-law's house, by the way. Not that that means much. or maybe it does.

Your thoughts, my readers.

I have a date with a great bowl of coffee now.

Kisses.

Kick to the head

I should not let my daughter see me naked anymore. It just opens me up for all kinds of ridicule and pokes a million pinholes in the ever-thinning membrane that is my self-esteem.

Tonight she covered her eyes, scandalized by the very eye-raping that is viewing my nude form. "Gaaaah! You got hair!"

In my defense, funds are tight and brazillian waxes have been put on the back burner. Plus, I'm lazy.

Then she goes, "And your legs are all jingly! Look at them! Jingle! Jingle! Jingle JINGLE!"

I think she meant 'jiggle'.

Oh, just you wait, Lil' Miss Six-Pack. I'm gonna show up at your house on the eve of your 37th birthday and hide in the bathroom and surprise you when you're getting out of the shower, and laugh and laugh and laugh...

wait, that's really creepy.

Cheerleading

I have officially turned into my mother. I enjoy Lily's basketball games more than is probably appropriate, but there is something about sitting on the sidelines, clutching my industrial-sized travel mug of FREE coffee (thanks, YMCA!) with the other mothers, watching our kids run around and bang into each other during what is maybe the most entertaining 45 minutes of controlled chaos I have ever seen, that makes me really happy. Lily stands off to the side with her hands up, not really sure why, hopping from one foot to the other, scratching her legs, fixing her socks, wiping her chapped lips with the bottom of her shirt, and flinching when the ball comes near her (awww, just like mama), and I hear myself going, "GOOD TRY, LILY!!!" just like my own mom did so many years ago when I slouched on the soccer field, checking my watch, picking underneath my nails and trying hard as I could to avoid the ball.

Still, Mom was at every single game, the loudest voice of everyone, cheering me on. "Go, Krissy! Almost, almost!! Nice try! Get in there! GOOD FOOT!!!"

I knew she was bullshitting, and I loved her even more for it. Because I knew she got a big charge out of bringing her portable chair and pack of smokes (or 2 lb bag of sunflower seeds, after she quit), and just watching her daughter be a part of the game. And lets face it, there are some talented kids out there. I love watching the little guy who looks like a pint-sized John Starks literally smack the ball out of the opponents hands and shoot a basket from half court. I swear, this kid is 3 and a half feet tall and very possibly will grow up to be a midget, but he's a powerhouse.

And there's an excitement in hoping that one day, just maybe, Lily might actually get a breakaway and shoot that one-in-a-million shot for the team. Most likely not. I mean, really, yeah...no. But she's having fun either way. And a mother can dream.

Oh, and PS...to avoid ball-busting from my dad who inevitably will read this post and leave me a voice mail on my cell: "Ah, Kristin..." (professional-sounding throat-clearing), "I, too was at all of your games...what a selective memory my older daughter has..." it's true, he was. So there. Kisses.