Revamp From Head to Toe

Hola my friends!!  I missed you all!

It's been a while and I've been pretty few and far between with the posts...it happens.  Sometimes life runs away with you in crazy uncontrollable situations and things like blogs and sanity get tossed by the wayside temporarily. But no worries, I kept my sanity to a whackadoo level and below so we're back in swing now.  There will be no more long hiatuses, no more blog down for revamps, and I no longer give a flying rat's ass about stalking.

So why the revamp??  Because my entire life needed an overhaul and got it, so why not my blog too.
Face it.  You can try and try and try to force a square through a circle but it just doesn't work sometime...
My 21st Century Domestic Goddess blog was all about my attempts to avoid being branded as a domestic wife, mother, care taker, etc and maintain my freedom and gypsy (albeit flaky) spirit.  My husband said it best...this:

...is just not me.  It's  not who I am.

A leopard can't change his spots.  I'm a damn good mom, a kick ass fun wife, I keep a clean and fairly organized house...I can cook like a son of a bitch (thus the extra poundage I'm trying desperately to shed) but forcing myself into the cookie cutter shape of the housewife and feeling like I was competing with some of my favorite mom bloggers who shine like Martha Stewart all spiffied up on her 1st post prison tv appearance...made me a snarky, pissy, unhappy biatch on wheels.

So.  Fuck it!

I'm not a domestic goddess.  I never will be.  I'm a goddess of my own sort who can do domestic things but refuses to force herself into a mold that wasn't made for her because quite frankly, when I do that...I hate myself so I can't imagine I'm much fun for anyone else who's around me.

Time to let myself shine through.  The husband gets home from work, dinner might be made, it might not.  Or  I just might call him on his way home and say "pick up Taco Hell".  I may or may  not mow the lawn, I may or may not do the dishes.  I will allow myself to let a pile of laundry build up on the floor of the laundry room and not spaz that someone might be upset about it, because the only one ever upset about it is me.

I will go out, I will shoot pics, I will shoot guns, I will continue getting tattoos, and I will embrace my gypsy so long as she comes home to the man she loves.  I will have wild passionate crazy sex with him because that's how we roll.  I, though I dislike referring to myself as a square, will not shove my ass through that circle that I don't fit in.  No more domestic Goddess.  Just me.  The angel my husband loves.  THIS is me!! (27 lbs lost since Jan 1st, btw!  Uhm...kickin' ass and takin'  names?...I say so!)

In honor of my new found attitude, er...old re-found attitude...and decision to stop trying to force myself to be something I'm not...I have new ink, some new toys, a new attitude (at least about some things), and a newly designed blog focused on anything and everything that I feel like talking about because face it, the laundry though funny at times...is still just the laundry.  Who cares.  It's not about fighting domesticity anymore, its about being me, expressing myself, venting and generally just ranting about whatever the fuck I want to because as of now, this is still a free country.  And YES...I'm entitled to do so ;)

So welcome to the new and improved blog run by the new and improved me.
Now...introducing my new (unfinished) ink (3 hours in...have another 3 hours to go):

From a2a

From a2a

This is me...my new wild red:

From a2a

I'm untamed.  I'm unbridled.  I'm rowdy, I'm loud, I'm obnoxious, I cuss.  I do not believe the kitchen is only for cooking in.  I vacuum crumbs off the counters because I think it makes sense.  I shoot guns, I hate working in the yard, as a matter of fact...I'm really just not a big fan of the outdoors unless it involves a beach or something to photograph.  I like to be dirty, I work on cars.  I want nothing to do with scrapbooking, PTA/PTO, or playgroups (no offense to my friends who have invited me to theirs...I love you all but I just have other shit I'd like to get done).  

I'm not going to apologize for who I am or how I act and I'm not curbing it just to keep anyone happy anymore.  The people who love me, love me for the person that I am...so take the domestic house wife expectations and shove them square up your keister!  I'm doing it my way from now on.  No more 21st Century Domestic Goddess...this life is being lived according to Abby now.

I have a right to...

I've had a lot of shit in my life lately.  And when I say shit, I mean shit...not shit as in stuff...shit as in stinky no good crap that has no real positive purpose (unless it comes from some farm animal which can then be turned into fertilizer...which sadly, this shit is not) metaphorically speaking that is.  Although, yesterday was a major baby shit day.  And as a woman, an analytical mind, and an over thinker...I have been processing said metaphoric shit like a cow digesting grass.  That means over and over and over, just FYI.

As I have waded my way through the muck and mire, I have come to realize that people are such assholes!  I mean, I already knew that...but holy fuck, do people think they're entitled, or what?!?

If someone isn't talking shit, and someone isn't being nasty to someone else, you can damn well bet that someone is playing games with someone else.  Not all the same someones, necessarily...although I suppose in some cases it could be a single someone.  ;)  I have sat back and from my own chair in the room full of shit, watched people play with each other's emotions and opinions and actual lives.

In the last 2 months I have witnessed first hand a grown man playing with his friends like they're finely carved marionettes...dancing husband and wife around like little toys while sticking his freakishly small nose in the midst of all their business.  And for what?  Sheer amusement?  Or possibly just because he's a giant walking douche bag in work boots...can't say for sure.  What I can say is that this supposed adult thinks he's entitled to talk shit back and forth to both parties of this marriage...all because someone upset him.
Hmmm.  Let me make this one simple for you.  No one.  I'll repeat that in case you're slow today...NO ONE has a right to toy with people's lives like that.

Perhaps he had his fragile feelings hurt.  Or his sad little ego bruised.  Maybe it's because deep inside him lurks a green eyed monster, jealous because his own pathetic excuse for matrimonial union and lame attempt at family tanked like the Hindenburg...

How's that for entitled?  Ya see, turn around is fair play.  Each person can feel that they have a right to say and do something but so rarely does anyone want something done to them.  The golden rule is like a two way mirror.  Everyone wants to see out, but no one wants someone looking in.  So if said douche bag in boots were privy to internet connections or blog addresses (which undoubtedly...one reader in particular will be happy to provide to him) in his corn crib...I'm sure he would read this with disdain.  But like I said.  If one feels entitled, one must expect others to feel the same.

I have felt the sting, no not the sting, the aggravation of a consistent stream of snark spat my way recently also.  Now mind you, this is nothing new.  From an elder, yes.  But from a member of the upright homosapien species in general...it's nothing new.

Entitlement comes quickly to those involved in close relationships.  Families, close friends, members of the same group.  When someone gets a neat new toy...especially if it's something someone else has already owned in a past life...entitlement rears its ugly head.  No, you don't get to just handle my new toy in whatever manner you want just because you owned one once and never broke yours.  This is my toy.  Get your own if you want another one!  And IF, I stress the I to the F of that...IF you are privileged enough for me to share my toy with you on any number of occasions, I expect you to care for it in the manner which I ask you to.

Don't think that you're better than me, that your ways are better than mine, or that you know what is best.  Bottom line is that the toy belongs to me.  Not you.  Not us.  Me.  And you are not entitled to play with it in any way you choose.


I'm a pretty bold person.  I don't have a problem taking what I want from life and yea, I've stepped on toes, feet, and necks to get where I am today.  I have acted like I'm entitled to do whatever I want whenever I want and where ever I want...hell even with whoever I want.  Does that make it right for others to act that way, not really.  Does that stop them...definitely not.  I guess more than anything I'm shocked as of late at the types of people who have been acting this way and to whom they've been directing their actions.  See it's a rough life, people have drama and stress no matter how they try to avoid it.  Friends and family should be the last people adding to it by acting like they're owed some special fucking prize or have some right to get in the middle of other people's shit.

News flash to any and all who act this way:  You're not entitled.  You have no right.  You need to grow up.

Bust out the horns

In a recent conversation with someone I greatly respect, I heard a term that I fell in love with.  He was talking about having a sit down with someone who he had been...well...tied up in controversy with...and referred to it as "Sitting down to dinner with the Devil".  Suffice it to say, the controversy between them was not a small one.

This idea got me thinking about what I would say if I sat down to dinner with my devils.  Uhmmmmmmmmmm...yeah I can't post most of it here.

There's more than one person who's caused controversy in my life, especially recently.  Saying that I dislike people who put ripples in my pond is an understatement.  I like to imagine a Louisville slugger to the temples of those who fuck with my family or me.  Unfortunately, there are laws against things like that and I'm too cute to go to jail.

Sitting down to dinner with the devil...what would I serve...sarcasm and something with lots of carbs in it, & a side of bland watered-down tasteless beer.

So I spent the day today, while doing other things, thinking of what I would say if er rather when I sit down with the devil...any of the many in my life.

Now if you read here much, you know I skipped school on the day where they taught you how to hold your tongue.  I have; however, spent the last 5+ years being groomed by attorneys, counselors, and judges to bite my tongue (sometimes to the point of bleeding...literally) for the greater good.  Yes the "greater good" which is contained comfortably and happily within the 4 walls of our home...though I truly believe that there have been instances where NOT holding my tongue would have been far more productive.

I've been called calloused, confrontational, and combative.  To those statements I say:  Yes, Yes and FUCK Yes!  I mean face it, I only have 2 cheeks so you take more than 2 blows and I say the gloves come off!  But devils are devils and it's not always that easy.  You can only avoid confrontation for so long.

MEEEEEEEEEEE!

This... http://www.punchbowl.com/holidays/national-tooth-fairy-day ... is ridiculous.


Therefore, in light of it's ridiculousity (yes...it's a word! ok maybe not...)

I am declaring tomorrow, March 2nd...National Abby Day!  That's right!  Beers and spicy food all around!

2 kinds of hot

Ok for starters, have you ever picked up something of your husband's when gathering the dirty laundry...realized it smelled fabulously like him...and found yourself huffing it like Lindsay Lohan in a bathroom stall with a bottle of nail polish remover?
Cuz I just did it.

*Stands up*
My name is Abby and I'm addicted to the way my husband smells.

I would also like to note that I'm blessed with a guy who I can honestly say I have never once noticed smelling like...well...like guys do when they're all icky and stinky.

PCness & Hick Groceries

So it's been a while.  I've tossed ya some bones in the form of effortless rewritten posts from my photoblog and such but t'is time to get down and dirty and make time for myself and my mindless drivel again.

I know, I know, but please...try to contain your excitement.  You're only embarrassing yourself ;)
I'm kidding.

So life, as I mentioned recently, has been insaaaaaaaaaaaaane here!  I know I volunteered for this mom/wife/ruler-of-the-world job but holy frick...it's kicking my every loving ass lately!  Sleep is for pussies to start off with.  We, and when I say we I mean me because face it, I'm the mama...finally got my Moose sleeping through the night only to be jungle fucked less than 2 weeks later by molars cutting.  Not only are we not sleeping through the night, we're not sleeping more than 40 minutes at a time.  He also does not seem to understand the concept of "you've already had tylenol...tough it out and go back to sleep".

I shit you not, I was at the pharmacy yesterday and the pharmacist...the pharmacist...the fucking professional drug giver outer guy...tells me to scrap the orajel, scrap the tylenol and just "rub Jack Daniels on his gums" because that's what he did.  He continues to say and I fucking quote:  "I have 8 kids and did it with all of them and not a single one of them turned out retarded."

I lost it.  I laughed so hard I thought I was going to pee myself like we moms all did in our 3rd trimester...just a tinkle...ya know, when we sneezed...or laughed...or stood up too hard.  Hrm.  For starters I was not aware that Jack Daniels could cause retardation.  Well...maybe it can...I, have to be honest though...I don't really have any recollection of those nights so, ya know. I guess this entire scene was one of 2 awesome quick reminders of the hillbilly area I live in.
So much for political correctness, professionalism, and uh just being appropriate at the work place in general. My 60 something pharm just said to booze up my kid and no worries he won't turn into a ritard.  Awesome.  You can't make this shit up!

Once I got myself together enough to pay for our very last round of Moosey reflux meds *triumphant trumpets sounding* I grabbed a small list of groceries, said hi to the freezer dept stocker guy with the jail house tats that loves my boobies so much, and hit the front to get the hellfire out of there.

If a pharmacist talking about slow mentality and alcohol wasn't good enough, I managed into the anti-pc queen's line.  This little old lady is a hoot.  She's always got something funny and off color to say and this was definitely no exception to that rule!  I toss stuff up on the counter one thing at a time...and eventually a guy that I would say was in his 40's comes up behind me.  He smiles a little, and I notice thing cuz that's what I do; notice things...like his tattoos:  American flag, Eagle, Bulldog, clover, and Viking.

I get that many people would think He has tattoos...hehe...cool!  But to someone with some tattoo experience those are story tellers and personality hints.
American Flag: pride in country aka good ole boy
Eagle:  Pride in country and strength aka gun owner right wing
Bulldog:  USMC former military aka good ole boy pride in country and self and can probably kick some serious ass
Clover:  this could mean a lot of things but clover+viking=proud of being white.

I shit you not.  Do your homework if you don't believe me.

So he compliments my pastey pale red headed son on his cuteness, and compliments my tattoos while I'm unloading the cart and when my Moose drops my keys on the ground he picks them up for me and definitely made note of the Ruger keychain.

Back to the cashier who has now realized that my tortillas are not ringing up.
Frustration ensues quickly because, "These tor-tilla things (yes she pronounced the L sounds) don't have a price...who the hell stocked these and forgot to scan them in?!"
She's obviously flustered by the line now forming.  So I step in and say that I'm sure they were $2.09 and that I buy the same ones every 2 weeks when I shop.  She said she had to have someone check it...and calls over the intercom for someone to "Come to the front to get a price from the Mexican aisle".

I'll admit it.  At first I didn't see that statement as being weird.
Then the guy behind me gigglesnorted.
I looked up and said, "what?"
He says, "The Mexican aisle...don't they have one of those at Home Depot too?"

Holy shit!  He just said that OUTLOUD!
The little old lady heard him and it was all over, she goes on a rant!

"Was that not right?  Can't I say Mexican aisle...I mean it's full of Mexican food right?  Do I need to say Hispanic aisle or Spanish aisle...We used to be able to say that stuff, its food not like I'm making fun of people who are Mexican...I mean they eat that kind of food right?  That's why it's called Mexican food, cuz they eat it!  It's not like we're selling Mexicans out of that aisle...."

Now I'm laughing, the guy behind me is laughing, the kid bagging for us with the crappy dagger tattoo on his arm from the local crappy tattoo joint is laughing, the guy at the back of the line who was very tall and lanky and appeared to be a scholar of some sort...was decidedly NOT laughing.

It wasn't so much her political incorrectness that had me in stitches as much as it was the fact that she realized the error of her non-pc statement and decided to lecture us all on how stupid it is to have to watch what you say and in the process of doing so, became ever increasingly more offensive with each statement she made.
Well, that combined with my recent discussion of non-medicinal ways to dose your children without resulting in them running around in a helmet and eating crayons from a lunch box.

As I booked it out to my 1994 rusted out red diesel pick up with the door latched shut with twine (no, it's not my daily driver), I realized that you don't get this sort of fun in the city or even the burbs for that matter.  This sort of shit is something I don't want to miss out on if and when this impending move of doom ever actually occurs.  My roots are in small town USA and I can't imagine not having the crazy cat lady's house 2 doors down with weeds that she calls "her flowers"...or the old guy 3 blocks over who claims that his Halloween display is festive when everyone else sees that the figures hanging from the trees are uh somewhat inappropriate...or the guy just outside of town who has an arsenal in his basement that rivals Ft. Hood...or the the vacant beat up unlived in properties that people respect and don't break into a steal things from because...out here we might use terms that not everyone likes and we might say retarded in a manner other than directed but damn it, there's a level of respect for things that while unique to the rural parts of the US and completely foreign to anyone else...is in our core.  You can't get this stuff if you don't live out here and you can't imagine not having it if you've been here for very long.

I sent my husband out for some Jack Daniels.  Don't worry, it's for me not the baby ;)