Relief Society Renegades

January brings about optimism and great bodies.  I’m aiming for the second title of Mother Theresa, while Dean is fighting his way to spin class. January at the gym is an absolute nightmare, but it dwindles with goal setting come March, and dies completely with next year’s holiday season. Then it renews its yearly cycle.

It’s the same with charity. Every Christmas I want to give, give, give, than slowly the homeless and fundraisers become an irksome sigh.

How tragic, the cynic I’m becoming, but here’s to new beginnings, hope, and dreams.  There will be much service and bike riding on our list of things to do as soon as the gym bicycles stop being swiped like crispy crème donuts, and people stop being so dreadfully intolerable so I can serve them.

In all seriousness, I love all different kinds of people. I thank God every day for people in all their variety, like chocolates. I love the normies, the strangies, and the uptighties. Thank you to the two minorities and handful of gentiles who moved into my neighborhood, taking a chance with us Mormon whities.

We have a women’s service program in our church called the Relief Society. It’s a phenomenal program that would change the world if it could be thoroughly distributed. I have two women who are put in charge of my well-being, and in return I get the privilege to serve two more women. It’s like the ultimate chain letter of charity.

 We are asked to look after and report on the girls each month, and if anything goes wrong…a whole entire altruistic compassion pose’ might end up on your porch cleaning your house and making you meals. We freaking love to serve. Why? Many reasons.

For starters, it fills my heart with warm fuzzies. In addition to that, my file in heaven is pulled and a golden star sticker is placed by my name. When I start gossiping or flipping the bird at other drivers, another star is placed, but it’s black, charred, and branded upside down to my chart.

 Enough of those wicked stars, and my file is passed to the dark side where the Master of Evil figures out what to do with me. I’m 99% sure it will end with taking an eternal math exam in freezing temperatures, while a baby cries in my ear and I’m forced to chew on a squeaky balloon.

And that is why I’m aiming for the golden stars.

The problem I face, is that people(especially in my community) love to appear entirely self-sufficient and flawless. We all seem to have picture perfect families, and nobody wants to admit that they could use a helping hand.

Another issue, is the dullness that comes with a task. I feel that my visit each month is a chore that my girls endure, allowing me to accomplish my duty. Yuck.  If I’m asked to do something, suddenly I no longer want to do it.

I want to fight bad guys in the night with an alternate identity, but let’s be realistic, the vigilante dream needs to stop. I don’t even carry a gun for starters- it creeps me out. I do, however, carry a knife, and I’m looking to slice and dice something- A little FYI if you happen to read blogs and rape people.

What if… I snuck around at night, but did service instead? I still want to wear a mask, but I’m unsure of a cape- it’s a bit gay. Yes I say gay, and I like homosexuals. I mean it like the adjective gay(cheery, but used in a sarcastic manner) an English word used before homosexuals stole it away and gave rules to its usage. I apologize, but I’m going to have to take your rainbow as well. How about a trade: a marriage certificate for your seven united colors of alternative lifestyle? I just want to put it on my car without assumptions, and say gay without worry of prejudice…that’s all I want, seriously, that and superhero abilities.

I want to creep around like a service elf. You’ll wake up, and your house is “magically” clean. I’m watching and waiting behind your door, vacuuming only in thunderstorms, doing your dishes, feeding your crying babies, washing your nasty clothes. With every smile in your refreshing morning,  I’m getting another gold star. It’s a double win situation and adrenaline rush; a cure for the do-good excitement junkie.  You think someone is in your house at night…don’t worry ‘bout it, we are, the RR…Relief Society Renegades.

Believe

I have dealings with the song writer of “I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus.” Depending on my level of cynicism, I might shake his hand, or slap his face. While listening to this song, I experienced a pinnacle moment in regards to my free agency. I was free to choose what I wanted to believe in.

Up to that point, I had no reason to doubt anything I was told. Why would my parents make stuff up? If they told me an eight foot bunny hopped in our house and filled up a basket of candy, I didn’t wonder how a monstrous bunny came to exist, or how he got in my house and left chocolate poops on my floor; I was just grateful anything brought me candy.

And edible poop? How pleasant.

The same thing goes with elves, and Santa Claus. Mom says it’s true, so it is.  After all, she heard Santa’s reindeer walking on the roof. One thing I did know for sure, I wasn’t going to let any elf catch me doing something naughty. No one wants a lump of coal. 

Recently, I saw my nine year old son actually close the curtains before deliberately punching his brother. He knows, just as I, and all the BYU football players know; there’s always a loophole in getting away with abominable behavior.

So, come December 1988, I enraptured myself with the magical spell of Christmas. Lights aglow, leaped and swirled, reflecting off every hanging bauble. It was bedazzling, dreamy,... surreal.

I have these moments, even now as an adult. Brief enchanting moments, were I step outside myself, and view my life as a artist views his work. It's a discovery of something I didn't know was missing. Happiness. In those moments, I want to declare aloud "I am happy."

I am. I'm a happy person, but those moments are seldom. It's as if the world feels threatened and yanks you back to reality. It was a song about kissing that reeled me in that night. The smooching involved my mother, and Santa Claus.

 My ten year old brain did some serious business in deductive reasoning. I far as belief went, I had three choices. If this song confirmed true, it meant:

A.      Santa’s a pervert

B.      My mom kisses other men when dad’s away.

C.      Santa is my dad…and I’m not talking about the jolly red fat man from the North Pole (even though that would be crazy-awesome and slightly disturbing).

Something clicked in my brain that year, and the wheels began spinning. If Santa’s not real, then what other outlandish things did I need debriefing from? Oh my gosh…Noah’s ark?! I love that story! I experienced that same uneasy feeling that happens when something I love disappears.

I had some serious thinking to do.

Ponder, pray, pursuit and believe is the cycle I’ve created throughout my life.  It comes down to choice. I choose to believe in things not seen, in things greater than myself, in miracles and a higher power. It’s uncomplicated, much like a seed growing into a tree. It’s faith.

I really do believe those animals entered the ark without killing each other and Noah. I wonder, however, if it was difficult getting the giraffes to bend their lanky necks while herding them inside. I can sympathize with their projective height.  Like a tall man washing in an Asian size shower, they fumbled and positioned themselves next to the talking donkey.

Donkeys’ talk you know, it says so in the Bible.

I have a few missions to accomplish after I die.  I’m going to find Noah; and discuss how all that went down. I intend to haunt my neighbor, James Morris, because he doesn’t believe in ghosts, and lastly, I have to pull out the water sprayer from the kitchen sink, and leave it hanging from its cord. Dean hates it when I do that. I interjected his fussing with the truth; those are the things he’d miss if I died.

Then I delivered to him a promise: my ghost would leave the sink sprayer in disarray as a sign of my eternal love, presence, and dedication.

In addition to my ghostly  hanky-panky, I've also planned out my demise. I’m to be charmed and bitten by a vampire.

 I have a feeling my blood will taste quite savory, even at a ripe old age. The execution can be done by the vampire two streets down from me, or any other vampire, I’m really not picky. It will be a most delightful death concluding a phenomenal faithful life.

hot zones

I’ve been married long enough to pinpoint the hot zones.  I’m not talking about anything erogenous (sorry to disappoint, maybe another time), actually I’m speaking about arousal of tempers. I guess it can be sexy, depending on how you fight, what the fight's about, what you’re wearing, location, etc…

Dean and I don’t argue very often.  It’s not that we agree with everything each other says, it’s because experience has pinpointed our hot zones, and we’ve become masters at tiptoeing around them. We’ve become domesticated; like a puppy wearing a shock collar, which consequently avoids peeing in the house.  We avoid the peeing by selecting our battles. Then, once selected, we electrocute the hell out of each other.  It’s a bit like the “alive” scene from “Frankenstein.” We switch off playing Doctor Frankenstein, the monster, and Igor(he’s my favorite).

We enter hot zone territory the minute we share a kayak. We’ve seen the monstrosity that rowing together creates.  In fact, the emotional and physical damage it inflicts has inspired me to start a couple’s therapy business.  We’ll work together paddling from point A to B, then discuss the results afterward.  Don’t judge until you’ve tried it, seriously.  It leaves scars to the soul if not the body.

We don’t row kindly, or in unison. We just can’t do it all.

Other hot zone topics

1. Driving advice

2. Music opinions

3. House cleaning tips

4. Critique in every form, let’s be honest.  Constructive criticism doesn’t exist.

 Sometimes it’s hard being a team player, but we’re learning to fight fair. It’s an art form we occasionally succeed at.  Our recent match took place in the car, like many other matches begin. I’m on one corner, fists and lips clenched; we’ll call me stubborn number one. Stubborn number two is in on the other corner gearing up for the fight.

 Stubborn number one loves to road trip with giant sodas and sunflower seeds.

 Stubborn number two likes efficiency, which means limited stopping.

 Stubborn number one buys a 32oz big gulp with seeds and a smile.

 Stubborn number two gives the evil eye and a no stop warning.  

 Stubborn number one has to pee.

 Stubborn number two gives the “I told you so look” and refuses to stop.

 Stubborn number one threatens an in car showdown with the promise of traumatized children.

 Stubborn number two pulls over angrily.

 Stubborn number one begins to discreetly do her business.

 Stubborn number two slowly backs the car away exposing stubborn number one’s bareness to the world driving by.

 Stubborn number one, unable to restrain, teaches her children cuss words.

 Who won the match? We both did, and I’ll tell you why. Stubborn number two does a little research and shopping, then stubborn number one opens a peculiar “present” while she happens to be in front of the whole extended family.

 What stubborn number one finds makes her blush with bewilderment.

She can’t decide whether to say thank you, or check if it vibrates. What is this thing, and why is stubborn number two laughing?

 Here’s how it goes now. Stubborn number one is afraid to use the device. She’s trying to figure out what’s more frightening;  A nasty fight with the husband, an exposed bum on the freeway, or a woman peeing while standing.

yin and yang

My life is pretty smooth right now. It’s currently a delightful sail. It makes me nervous. No one goes through life too long without bumps. It’s been a while now, and I’m scared because I actually had the nerve to write out that disclosure. I just knocked on wood (for real, that wasn’t just an idiom.) Life is bumpy. It has to be that way to stay balanced.

Remember being young, and wanting to look like everybody else? When you're young, anything that makes you stand out is  a bad thing. Being drastically tall with a starving Ethiopian body frame, I was a walking bad thing.

Even to this day, any thoughts of anonymous streaking are tossed out the window. You can’t be a six foot/ size four woman and stand a chance in a police line-up.

Memories ago, everyone around me used to wear these name brand jeans called Girbaud. Don't ask, it's a weird Utah pastime. How does a stupid label makes you instantly cool? There’s no logic to it. It just does. The irrational game of acceptance starts early in life, and tends to get worse before getting better. I still don’t get it, so really, don’t ask.

You take overpriced jeans, combine them with a common sense mother, and you get a missed opportunity for "coolness." But wait...add in my spoiled neighbors, and their hand-me-down clothes, and we're back in business. The business of popularity; mine about to plummet and explode with a distressing combination of  oil and water, or in other words, a normal pair of pants with an abnormal body. This was a daily dilemma solved with elementary brain power.  All it took was extreme sagging plus belt wrapping. YES! It worked, and I looked ridiculous, but I was wearing Girbauds!  I had no rear end, and the jeans barely hit my ankles, but again, I problem solved. I tight rolled them.

I rock.

After a few years of monotony, we decide those "fitting in" days are over, and we enter a new quest. It’s time to stand out and be different. All sorts of weird things start happening, aside from puberty. I can’t even say that word without feeling gross and gangly. I remember a girl coming to school with a piece of toast strung around her neck, like jewelry. I also recall an enormous amount of exposed naked skin. What a strange, insecure time of independence seeking.  I could write a whole story about the awkwardness that comes with breasts and the catastrophe of not having them. Everything about this phase is egocentric.

The world is a strange place in the eyes of children. My kids are constantly asking me why that person “has their earlobes stretched out” or “rings in their lips”. They’ll ask directly in front of the perpetrator why he/she is smoking. It’s a reasonable question, but still, embarrassing for me. I wish I knew all the whys. A psychology degree later, and I’m still asking.

 “It’s about attention,” I tell my kids. “They’ll grow out of it.”  Then I grab my designer purse, jump in my flashy car,  blast my music out the window, and head to the beauty salon.

 As an adult, I don’t care about blending in, and I don’t really wish to stand out. I want to contribute  to something bigger than myself. I want to know that I am leaving an impression in this world. I want to matter, be acknowledged. I want to make a difference.  I do not want the highlight of my day to be something that happened on “Oprah.” I do not want to write a story that sounds like it should be read aloud on Oprah… but crap,…it is what it is.

There's a friend and foe to every stage of life. It gives the universe balance. What goes around-comes around, what goes up- must come down, for every good-there is a bad. Food, religion, activity  and love all need balance. I obsess over this theory. Sometimes to the point of neurotic, which then take pills to void my nervousness. Run your brain over that paradox.  Here's to healing, yoga, faith and family(but not in that order.)

I never want to forget what's important. We speak about these things at funerals. It takes the dead to give direction to the living, and guide our priorities. I need a permanent post-it note reminder, and that is the reason for the giant tattooed yin on one butt cheek and yang on the other.

P.S  Don't believe everything you read, it puts you out of balance with reality.
P.P.S I'm not showing you my tattoo







        

Footloose

          Almost any place has its claim to fame. I live where the original movie "Footloose" was filmed. It's a bit more city than country now, but the roller mills still exist and I salute and sanctify them as a holy place. Miraculous dancing graced those mills in 1984. Ren McCormack (played by Kevin Bacon) finds himself in multiple moral dilemmas.  Aside from his rebellious literature reading and wild games of vehicular "chicken", his character loved to dance. Problem number one: dancing in this conservative town is unbecoming and unallowed.

        This is where the title "Footloose" comes about. Kevin Bacon picks up a cigarette and a bottle of booze and...you know what happens next. Imagine what it would feel like to live your entire life wrapped  like an Egyptian mummy, to finally become unraveled. What do you do next?.................. You know exactly what... you dance.

        You dance like you're freeing every bit of caution, indignation, sadness, and frustration that's been locked inside and fuming. It's the powerful anger dance that turns the key and releases all opposition and aggression. It's an emotional expression that proclaims "I no longer fear."  Hopefully everyone has seen the "Footloose" scene I'm talking about, and marveled at its intensity. Also, I challenge you to watch it without laughing...or crying...or both.

       Metaphorically speaking, we all want to dance. By definition of the verb, I mean breaking through a wall that's holding you back. Everyone has walls, some thinner than others, but ideally we want to bust through them. And when we do...

       Ren McCormack and I  know the feeling.  Elation,...freedom.

       I will never tell my kids they're shy. Why? Because it's a euphemism. It's a nice way of saying "you're awkward".  As a woman who used to be a painfully shy girl, I'll tell you right now, it sucks. I bet money other shy people would agree. It's a feeling of wanting to break free and interact, but you can't, you're scared. A thick barrier is wrapped around you and taking you hostage. Everyone seems alive in the world, except you. That barrier is a label that sounds like this: "This is Emily, she's really shy." It's a mindless, trite label. You couldn't have replaced "shy" with thoughtful or observant? Think of what I would be now if my introduction was "this is Emily, she's incredibly awesome!"

         People laugh when I disclose this past life; my life as a social prisoner. It's the opposite of what I am now. Our weaknesses can become our strengths, which then lead to our next weakness. And now, I'm that uninhibited old person who talks openly to strangers. Balance is good, and so is a comfort zone. I'm overeager to invade yours.

         The new me overspills. I vomit out comments that are sometimes a bit shocking. You know, the ones people think but don't say. Reason being: It's my way to distance myself from that overcrowded airless elevator otherwise known as shyness. I'm done with those suffocating years; I refuse to return to that awkwardness. The irony now, is I've created a new kind of awkwardness, but now it's me in control- not you. How do you like them apples?
  
Liberation.

       When I say what I feel,  I'm free. Every time I write, I gain a new feather for flying. When we stop labeling each other, we're limitless. We'll fly to the freakin moon and back, or never never land.

I've always wanted to see a mermaid.  I hate that there's no such thing... a world without labels.

      Moral of this story: Find a wall to break through.  Be careful though, don't go all Incredible Hulk on me, some walls are healthy. There are certain things inside of us that should always remain restrained, no matter what Sigmund Freud says.

     You just can't lose all control, or you end up with the hippies, living in a nudist colony, doing all sorts of drugged out kinky shenanigans.

       

            

 

Saying I Love You Without Roses

     There are so many boring ways to say "I love you". You can declare it on Facebook because it's really fun for us to read about, or you can send roses, which are totally cliché' and incredibly lame. Roses remind me of grandmas, high school, and heavy metal butt rock, but not love. My hubby gets it. He speaks my language, or I should say our language.

             He said “I love you” just the other day when he hung Ryan Reynolds on our bathroom mirror.

                                                  

         Come to find out, Mr. RR eye candy serves three purposes. He's full of daily  suggestions. His suggestions are slightly different, depending on who he's talking to.

1. To me- When I look at him he says "I want you." Then I  think "that's flattering Ryan, but Dean is still numero uno. It does feel good, however,  to be doubly wanted by two different men.

2. To Dean- He says "you can have this body if you really want it."  We do Ryan, we both really do, except my husband already looks like a Michelangelo sculpture. I don't know why he's aiming to look like you.

     What does a married man do with a body like this? I want Dean to stay Dean and Ryan to stay Ryan, there's no need for my two loves to combine themselves.

3. To us- He stirs up humor. I ask Dean if he's jealous about the way Mr. Reynolds looks at me. Dean replies "you're delusional, he's looking at me."

      Divine intervention brought Dean and I together. Seriously, we have a significant love story that started with a Hawaiian dalliance, that leaped, twisted and turned for 12 years to this domestic, traditional home of three kids, a white fence, and a now incontinent dog named Kolohe. Poor puppy, he gets weaker as our marriage gets stronger.

     When Jesus was born, a star was put in the sky as a sign and directory. I'm thinking a star was placed specifically for Dean and I to solidify our love. How's that for sappy? Seriously, I'm encouraging anyone to outdo that statement.

     There's just not enough time in our mortal lives for half-ass marriages. I fear dormancy more than drama. I'm trying to decide what's worse: a dead marriage, or a dangerously alive marriage that ends up on the t.v show "Cops." If we ever stop connecting and laughing, I'm 
insisting therapy. It will instantly reconnect us, because I'm betting therapy is funny. We love each other through laughs...it's just our way.

     I'm hoping for some interactive role playing. I want to play him, while he plays me.

    The results: him realizing how crazy he is.

      I adore the good crazy Dean; the playful uninhibited crazy, where he answers the phone as "my uncle Leroy from Louisiana."  I'm still trying to figure out where he learned how to speak like a southern black man who eats chitlins and collard greens with his hominy and grits.

      But the bad crazy Dean? My "uncle Leroy" turns excessively efficient, giving everything a two step process. I forget to turn off the lights and leave open doors and all kinds of hell break lose. That will be the crazy that televises our faces on "Cops."

     Here's how it all adds up: Me+Dean+3 kids= a mental house, but an upscale one...you know... the kind you take a crackpot to and convince him it's a resort.

     Through average, good, better and best...he's my man. My Statue of David. My Adonis. He's my little lamb and roaring lion, my sly secret agent and computer geek. He's my Rock Star...I'm his groupie. I've got my own personal Adam Sandler+brains + spirituality. Take a little Kelly Slater and add in some Brad Pitt and Kevin Bacon and you've got a taste of Dean. He tastes good, like fresh peach pie.

     It really is the little everyday things that count. Remember how I said that we show love through laughter? I pulled out a couple of our love notes to share. It is our twelve year anniversary after all. Also remember, I hate ordinary roses.

     There are no rules saying when or where to leave love notes. You might use the lunch box for an exchange, Dean used the tampon box.  I laugh every time I see this box. Again, laughs=love.

     What's funnier than five different tampon sizes leading up to the big mama super plus fit? It's my husband noticing, and further, taking the time to write it out for me. Not only do I go jumbo size to save money, but I get  the knockoff Equate brand as well. I'm cheap. 
Dean says "I don't work all day to buy Equate, and Western Family doesn't go on or in me." He's a product snob, I'm not.
  
      I never know what's coming. Then one day I look up and notice it in the mirror.  What the ....?

       I told him the truth, these were bikini cut, it says so on the label. 

       He didn't believe me. 

      I'll get him back,... I always do. He's had it coming for a long time now. I'm going to have the last laugh when he sees me in these.

     They're looking mighty comfortable these days. Nothing says "I love you" like these do.

                           Happy Anniversary Baby!

    

Media, Morals and Mayhem

           Here's the thing.....

If my children turn out to be completely bizarre and hyperactive, it's not because they have me as a mother. I was actually a very calm, gentle, soft spoken, shy child. It will be because I didn't control the television.  It starts with cartoons. 

       You might think "It's a cartoon, how strange can it be?" If you find yourself saying this, I encourage you to sit down and watch a little Cartoon Network. I watch it often, for multiple reasons. First, being it's a bonding moment with my kids. And second, well, who am I kidding, I freaking love cartoons. Saturday  morning... waking up with the sun, cuddling in front of the tube in my footsie jams. Hours of cartoons are checked off the list before mom and dad even roll out of bed. Ahhhh, good times.

       Somewhere along the way, however, "Smurfs" turned into "Total Drama Island," and He-man turned into "Almost Naked Animals." A few other titles to avoid... you might want to write this down.

Adventure Time
The Problem Solverz
Ed Edd N Eddy
Regular Show
Angry Beavers

       There is a good chance I just saved your child from ADHD and alarming weirdness.   
                                                       You're welcome.
        I can't pretend, though,  that I don't love Spongebob. I think that show's ingenious.
The guy that plays spongebob's voice probably never gets laid, but man, the character development is brilliant.  Some lame "study" suggested that Spongebob watchers have lower test scores than non-Spongebob watchers. I can't trust statistics. We don't need to run no study to show what makes them kids dumb. I can tell you right now. 

Dumb parents.

         It's not just cartoons I'm worried about. Have you noticed that every year around October, the scary movie trailers get more and more demonically demented ? Like cartoons, I love scary movies, but when did it get taken too far? Is society getting so numb that we not only seek for, but pay for these twisted movies?

          I love a good cinematic thrill, but really?  Seeing this movie would brand my name on the psychopathic spectrum. I'm not saying you're a psycho if you've seen this, I am just saying you're baby stepping that direction. As if it's not gross enough that body parts are being sawed off, it's now offered in 3D!  And if that doesn't do it for you sickos, you can rent the "uncut" version which is very misleading since everything in the script is getting cut. Gross.

         How does a mother train her child's brain to be repulsed by "explicit" images instead of enthralled by them? This is one of the many reasons I go to church. I don't want to raise a sociopath!  I need  good vs. evil, or my life is meaningless. I can't be perfect and that's o.k, but I 'm comfortable wearing these naivety goggles.  Everything around me is a pleasant shade of light gray.

        It's important to me to raise honest, hard working, morally clean children. This is why I've saved my Human Sexuality college textbook. Some images I want far away from innocent minds, but others, I plan on using to instill fear. "This is what happens when you have premarital sex...cue genital warts picture. Mary Jane wasn't born retarded, she became that way when she did the pot".

       Alright, I'm not really going to do that to my children. I just find the following

claim ridiculously  humorous: "Organized religion is used to instill fear and control." I'll tell you what O.R. is really about; It gives me structure, choice, and truth. It takes away fear, and shows me a higher level of happiness(we repeated this phrase over and over last Sunday). Truly though, the only thing I fear in life and death is regret. That, and raising children. It's enough fright to last me two lifetimes.

       If there's a God, there's also a Devil. It's the balance of nature. Every good has a bad. For everything moral, there is something immoral- and you can find it in Vegas. While wearing my naivety goggles, I had this great idea of taking the kids on a Vegas vacation. If you remember, the theme wasn't always "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas." There was a time when Vegas appealed to families.

       Here's how my decision played out. First I said "screw that" to the Vegas theme, then booked a room in the Excalibur castle. After telling my kids we were staying in a castle, I told them our plans for "seeing white tigers, humongous fish tanks, light shows, water fountain shows, rides, circus circus". They had saucer sized eyes full of astonished joy and excitement. I couldn't wait to see their first look at a casino. We see with greedy eyes while they see with video game eyes. Thrills begin early in life.

       My husband didn't share the same enthusiasm. He hates the "City of Sin".

       Regretfully, the only thing left in Vegas was my seven-year old's virgin eyes.

       He can't remember Disneyland or previous Christmas's, but he still remembers to this very day the "naked lady  on the ground". Damn pornography. It pollutes both the streets and human minds. "She had red hair" he says, he remembers every flippin detail. If he grows up and has either fears or fetishes of red heads, It will be all my fault.

      I hate pornography. It's a mother's worst nightmare. It's obvious I'm a mom. Not because I wear high waisted jeans with nine inch zippers(because I don't). I became a mother when my view of the world turned to the protection of children. It's no longer about sombody driving too fast, it's about a person who's going to run over a child. To quote my kids, it's no longer "that girl dancing on the table in her underwear." It's somebody's daughter who needs to put her clothes back on. So now my kids have seen a stripper perform in the Excalibur casino. So much for good parenting, and our castle experience. While simultaneously exiting Vegas and discussing  wrong and right with our children, I discreetly rolled down the window and gave Sin City the middle finger.

       Everyone believes differently; what a relief that is! What I think is horrible might be perfectly fine to somebody else. You can go to Vegas and become a Chip n Dale, good for you-really. Maybe your mom shows up to cheer you on, good for her. I am trying to find happiness in God and religion while you're finding it in strip clubs and horror movies. I'm not better than you, we're just different -really.

       I don't want to sound condescending, I sincerely want to meet someone who enjoys the movie Saw. If they promise not to kill me, I want to pick at their brain....but not literally.  No matter where we stand in life, everyone of us can find common ground,  something to agree on. For instance... Paris Hilton sucks, Donald Trump's hair is ugly, and reality T.V is not really....uhh....real.