Epilogue

We finally found out what Evilina said Beeb said. Kinda. Evilina told Beeb that she never told Marilyn Beeb said Marilyn was an Effin Bee, she told Marilyn that Beeb almost said it but didn't actually say it. Riiiiiiight.

I asked Beebie if she believed that Evilina told Marilyn that Beebie almost said something rude, and Beeb said, "No, because Marilyn told me that Evilina said I said it. And anyway, why would she be mad about something I almost said but didn't really say?" I'm so relieved that Beebie knows Evilina is fulla shit. Beebie's got her head on straight.

Oh, and Frances wrote R and me a personal apology for "her behavior on April 13th," which I thought was very sweet, but it was interesting to me how Frances very clearly pointed out in her letter that her mistake was in going along with Marilyn's idea to leave the messages. Yeeeeeah.

I've just started reading Queen Bees and WannaBe's. I think I might summarize and comment on the chapters for the benefit of the other mothers of pre-teen girls who very kindly offered their encouragement during the Mean Girl ordeal. Thanks, all of you.

My thanks go out to everyone, parents and nonparents alike. I appreciate all the nice things you said about my Mad Parenting Skillz and what a cool kid Beebie is. And if you just sent me some nice thoughts and didn't actually comment, well, thank you too, Lurker.

Anyway, after a week like that, the normal everyday drama of my life seems pretty boring. It isn't, though. I've got other stuff goin' on, so this is gonna be kinda random.

- I finally took Tito to the Ear Doctor to get the stupid tubes put in. I'm sick of his ear infections. Y'know, cuz I suffer too. He failed the Kindergarten screening. Twice. And of course the administrator tells me in the hushed, sympathetic voice...

Mrs. Karma... your son... (barely whispering)... failed ... the hearing test...

I think they're alarmed that I'm so nonchalant about the whole thing. Yeah, his ears are fucked. I know. So we're getting the tubes put in June 2nd.


- Pie finished the first Harry Potter book and is a good 80 pages into the second. I'll have to take a video of him reading out loud, he is really hilarious.


- Ren Faire is coming up. I'm actually excited about going. I might dress up and I might not. I'm totally gonna munch one of them big ol' greasy turkey legs and rip it outta my mouth and growl like a drunk Viking. SOOO sexy.


- Also coming up is Mother's Day. I don't think I need to remind you how I feel about Mother's Day. There are links in the side bar under Archival Highlights. I don't even want to think about it, really. Suffice it to say that I get to spend a day that's supposed to be just as much for me as it is about my mom or R's mom at my inlaws', the one place on the planet I LEAST want to be.
Gotta love that.

Father's Day is worse just because I'd prefer not to celebrate the man who physically and mentally abused my husband as a child and who emotionally manipulates him to this day, but at least I get to take fiendish delight in my covert plot to murder FIL slowly by feeding him pound after pound of butter in the form of some delicious treat I baked. I've been at it for a while. The man's got some strong arteries, apparently. But I'm not giving up. Oh, hell no. They're gonna have to clog someday. There's probably melted butter running through his veins right now. I bet if he cut his finger he could drizzle it over popcorn.


- Ok, American Idol. Dreadlock Boy needs to GO. David Cook had me at Hello. Paula gets weirder and weirder all the time. I can't wait for America's Got Talent. That shit's hilarious.


- School's almost out. I haven't made many plans for the Apes other than Summer PSR. Oh, and they haven't asked me for money yet. One year when we were a food pantry family Church Nazi herself called to let me know that they didn't have record of our payment for Beebie, and I told her about our Food Pantry Adopt-a-Family status, and she got all flustered like "Oh! Oh, well, then... of course..." She was totally embarrassed for mentioning it. It was absolutely fuckin delicious.

Now, c'mon, I'd never lie and say we were still a Food Pantry family when we're not anymore, but I'm certainly not going to volunteer the information. I'm hoping Church Nazi will assume we still are and not give me a hard time about it. It's not a lie that we can't afford it.

I'm also reeeeally nervous that summer's going to prompt Swamp Thing into her signature Ambush Playdates more often. That's all I fuckin need. But admit it, you're sitting there now secretly hoping the freak shows up at my house JUST so you can read about it, arentcha? How catty of you. Y'all go gitcher own Swamp Thing and let ME read about it instead of having to LIVE it.
Bitches, alla yuz.

Nah, I'm just kiddin. You bitches know I love you.
Love you FOR your cattiness, even.

What else, what else, what else? Ummmm...

OH! OH! OH MY GOD!!!! Can't believe I forgot this.

We upheld the cherished Karma family tradition of going to Grant's Farm on Opening Day and buying our Parking Pass for the season. It was like 55 degrees outside. I had on a coat and a fleece pullover, but I got my free beer on at 10am. HELL YEAH!

Photos from my amazing cameraphone.






Yay!!!!

An Update.

Basically, it's pretty much over.

The police have talked to both Frances and Marilyn, and to their parents. Yesterday the school counselor called me to see how Beebie was doing, and she's really doing great. Both girls have apologized to her, and she's forgiven them, and it's in the past.

Beeb never heard how bad the messages really were, and I'd like to claim that I did that out of some sort of supreme parental wisdom, but it was really out of laziness. After I heard a few of the messages, I just figured the rest were going to be basically the same and I quit listening to them.

It was beyond excruciatingly painful for me to see her being picked on. I myself was picked on quite a bit when I was her age, and there's still a part of me that will never, ever fully trust another woman because of how I've been bullied and backstabbed by other girls for the better part of my life.

I've been burned and betrayed by women more times than I even want to recall. I guess I kinda expect a guy to treat me like shit and screw me over, but when a woman does it, it hurts and scars me so much more deeply because no matter how guarded I am, it surprises me every single time - girls just aren't supposed to treat each other like that.

I saw my daughter handling the situation in a far more mature way than I did when I was ten. On the one hand, it made me think of what a jackass I would have been to those Mean Girls in retaliation. Ok, probably wouldn't have done anything back, but would have wanted to reeeeeeeally, reeeeeeally bad, and would certainly have cried myself to sleep a couple of nights a week. Really, I would have handled it like a complete pussy, who am I kidding?

On the other hand, however, it made me feel really good, like I've somehow actually managed to raise a well-adjusted kid. A kid more mature than I am, sometimes. How is that possible? The child is cursed with my neurotic DNA, including but not limited to my deep-rooted self-loathing, my OCD/antisocial tendencies and my constant sense of worthlessness and inadequacy.

Where did I go right with her?

I've tried to help her get involved with different activities at school so she can develop her interests and meet other kids who share them. Both of the Mean Girls are in the school's Special Chorus, along with Beebie. She hasn't asked to drop out; in fact she said that she really enjoys the Special Chorus and she's not going to let any Mean Girls ruin it for her. Wow. Here I am thinking I'm protecting her by trying to shield her from conflict, and here she's saying Mom, it's really okay. She's so much wiser than I am. It's enough for her to know that I've got her back.

It's really been rather uplifting to look back and see some of the choices I've made with regards to her over the last several years and how they've impacted her in a positive way. The one incident that stands out in my mind most prominently is when her best friend died three years ago, when he was eight. I wrote about it back in March of 2006, if you want to look at it.

I had the responsibility of calling the parents of the other kids in Jack and Beeb's class to tell them about Jack and the visitation and funeral arrangements. I remember other parents asking me if I was going to let Beeb attend the service. How I could let my daughter attend the visitation and funeral, knowing it would be so difficult and sad? I couldn't believe they were asking me, because to me, there was never a question.

How could I possibly deny her the chance to say goodbye to her best friend? How could I tell her No, I just don't think you're old enough to handle it? I couldn't fathom that. I didn't want her to resent me years later for not letting her go. And I thought it was important for us to let Jack's family know how thankful we were for the chance to have known him, even for what was really a very short time.

That was a call I made that others questioned - including my own parents and my husband's - that I have never regretted for a single moment. Yes, it was sadder by far than anything I've ever experienced. Yes, she and I held each other and cried the entire time, but I can't imagine not having the opportunity to remember Jack with so many other people who loved him as much as we did. I've never, ever regretted taking her with me to the visitation, the funeral and even the cemetery part. Beeb handled ALL of that shit with a maturity beyond her years. I was a snivelling wreck, of course, but she was amazing.

And I think that her friendship with Jack also helped her see how a real friend should treat you. I trust her ability to judge character and know who's a good friend and who's not. I've always believed that was Jack's enduring gift to her; a gold standard of what to expect from a true friend. And I love Jack for that.

The Jack experience was the closest I've ever been to questioning the existence of God. And sometimes I still can't believe that God would let this amazing kid live for eight years and then take him away. He never got to learn to drive a car, never went on a date or a college visit, never did all the things that parents look forward to their kids doing. And yet, the life he had was full, and the fact that we got to meet Jack at all is truly miraculous.

But enough about that. My point is just that I got some stuff right. A big thing. I made a choice in the moment and I've never doubted that it was the right one, and Beeb is the mature, well-grounded, self-confident kid that she is partially because I gave her a chance to experience something difficult. There is wisdom in pain. Nobody wants to see their child hurting, but it's important to keep in mind that This Too Shall Pass, and when it does, wisdom will remain.

It's our parental instinct to cover our babies with our wings until the storm passes, but shielding our children (and, for that matter, ourselves) from pain and suffering denies them the opportunity to learn and grow and gain from the experience. It denies them wisdom. What parent would deny their kid wisdom, no matter how they acquire it?

Flashlight TO THE HEAD. I still can't get over it.

I know I did the right thing, I mean, I guess I did. I feel good about it, and I'm so proud of Beebie. She hasn't let the whole experience make her feel bad about herself or about the other girls. She's moved on. I, on the other hand, hold grudges forever. FOREVER. It's awful.

I should let shit go and make room for more important and edifying stuff in my heart, brain, memory and soul, but I never do. I totally have to figure out why I'm like that.

Why can't I just grow up and act like my ten-year-old?

Why would ANYBODY think they could fuck with MY KID and get away with it?

NOTE: If you missed yesterday's post, stop now and read it first.

You couldn't PAY me to go back to Junior High. Not even if I had 25 years on the other girls in my class.

COULDN'T. PAY. ME. And I totally need the money, too.

This morning I told Beeb that I'd let her finish out the year at her old school if she wanted to, but she said, Mom, if I changed schools, I'd just be running away from my problems, and I don't want to do that.

A proud moment in my illustrious parental career. Almost as proud as I was when I discovered that my boys knew that the answer to the question Why Do Witches Burn is Because They're Made of Wood.

And right before Beeb left for the bus stop, R and I had a little pep talk with her: Beeb, have you ever heard the phrase, "The shit's about to hit the fan?"

Around lunchtime, I got a call from Beeb's Principal. She was shocked and appalled at how absolutely horrifying the messages were that I had forwarded to her. And get this - I honestly hadn't listened to all of them when they came through. I kinda got sick of them and I just figured, whatever, dumb bitches... but I forwarded ALL of them to the principal, the counselor and the two teachers. The Principal told me that she had listened to all of the messages, and because there were actual threats of physical violence, I needed to contact the police immediately.

Physical violence. THE POLICE.

Apparently, one of the messages I hadn't heard listened to came right after the threatening photo that I did see. It was a picture of Frances (obviously taken by Marilyn) holding a flashlight over her head like a knife and her mouth wide open as though she was screaming. I wish I could post it, but I shouldn't.

The message that came after that, I'm paraphrasing, said something like "If you do anything on the field trip tomorrow (which was today), like live, or breathe, or be yourself, you're gonna get a flashlight to the head... and you better not tell anybody or it'll happen again...we're your worst nightmare..." Yeah.

Some of the other messages they left told Beebie that she's "ugly and fat" and she has "a huge butt" and that "she'll probably be anorexic" and "hopefully she'll hang herself someday."

Those little bitches said that about MY KID.

Thank God Beebie didn't hear all of the messages either. Beeb didn't even have the phone when the messages came through yesterday, so I know for sure that she didn't see or respond to them. Whew.

And for the record, before I escalated the situation, I told Beeb that if I defended her and later found out that she had indeed talked smack about Marilyn, I'd be more pissed off than I've ever been in my life, and she's seen me pretty pissed off. I gave her a chance to confess with impunity, and she still said she never said anything about Marilyn, and I believe her.

I talked to Marilyn's mother yesterday, and in a way I feel kinda bad that I went to the school after she said she was going to handle it at home, but I brought it to the school's attention because Frances's mother's phone number is unlisted. Otherwise I would have called her myself.

I'm nonconfrontational UNLESS you fuck with my kid. And if you do, prepare for a shit storm the likes of which you have NEVER fuckin seen.

So I called the police because the school told me to. They sent an officer to my house (and thank God the place was clean so you won't be seeing me on Cops), and I told him the whole story and he listened to the messages and saw the picture, and he asked me what I wanted to see happen next.

Dude, I don't know, I only called y'all because the school told me to, I'm just following procedure...

So Officer Friendly said that he would contact the parents of both girls. And my Inner Seventh Grader danced with joy.

Ok, so next the school counselor emailed me to ask if I thought Beeb would want to talk to her about the Situation At Hand. I said yeah, I think she would. This is why I'm so glad that Beebie has a reputation as a sweet little girl who doesn't start shit. Sure, it can make her an easy target, but both the Principal and the counselor agreed that Beeb's not the kind of kid who cusses other kids out.

Damn right she's not. Kind of fuckin amazing, isn't it? I mean, growing up in MY house, right? Shiiiiit. But anyway.

Meanwhile, the school's DARE Officer called to let me know that he was planning to take Marilyn and Frances out of class and speak to each of them. And I confessed to him that I was a bit nervous about escalating the situation to this level because I don't want to make Beeb's life at school a living hell. I'm always afraid she'll be isolated and labeled as The Kid Who Tells Her Mom On You. I told him all Beebie would really want is for the girls to apologize and stop being assholes to her. Beeb said she saw Frances get pulled out of class today.

R just happened to have today off, just for the sake of it, and it turned out to be a great thing he was home because I had to take myself to the doctor after two weeks of fever, body ache and a hideous cough. My illness has been a bit overshadowed recently by The Swamp Thing Chronicles and whatnot. Anyhoo - SO WORTH THE TRIP. I got Prednisone, cough syrup with Codeine and an Albuterol inhaler. Kickass. I'm gonna dope up and pass out as soon as I'm done typing this.

While I was picking up my doobage, Frances's mother called the house and talked to R. She'd already been up to the school and heard Every. Single. Message. R said she basically apologized to him on the phone for a full thirty minutes. She was mortified. She felt awful, and as a mom, I felt bad for her too. I know if any of my kids pulled shit like that, I'd be mortified too. Then I'd kill 'em.

Beeb came home from school and I asked her about her day. Surprisingly, she said it was really fine. Frances apologized profusely to her and even said that if her mom grounded her for two months, Frances would insist that she be grounded for three. I'm thinkin Frances knows she's gonna catch hell at home.

As for Marilyn, I have no idea what happened with her. Beeb said Marilyn didn't talk to her today at all, which is probably best.

The one I have the biggest problem with is Evilina. She's the one who started the shit in the first place by telling Marilyn that Beeb was talking smack about her, and then washed her hands of it and quickly disappeared from the picture. Here's the most recent email between Beeb and Evilina:

Beeb:
Did you tell Marilyn I called her something bad?
Now she hates me!

Evilina:
Yes I did because it was very rude!!!!

Beeb:
What are you talking about? What did I say?!?

Evilina:
Like you don't know!!! >:(

Beeb:
Yes, I don't know! Tell me what I said!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Evilina:
Don't even tell me that.....you know EXACTLY what you said. Don't you DARE throw this on me. You KNOW what you said.

So I wrote back to Evilina on Beeb's email:
I don't think I said anything, and I think you KNOW I didn't say anything.

Evilina:
OMG, I can't believe you are doing this!!!!! I know you said something and you KNOW that you said something bad.

Me (as Beebie):
WHY won't you just TELL me what I said? What's the big deal, if I already said it, and you obviously told Marilyn, why can't you just REMIND me what it was? I guess I just don't remember.

That little twat's so fulla shit.

I forwarded the counselor the above email and told her that I think Evilina's definitely got some responsibility to claim in all this.

I'll certainly keep you all posted.
Thanks for your thoughts and hugs.

DON'T MESS WITH MAMA BEAR.

Forwarded to two fifth grade teachers, the school counselor, and the principal:


This weekend, my daughter Beebie received some harassing and threatening messages on her cell phone from some other 5th grade girls. The way I understand the chronology of events is that Marilyn Backstabber confronted Beebie via text message on Saturday claiming that Evilina Meanie told Marilyn that Beebie had said something nasty about Marilyn.

Beebie denies that she ever said anything rude about Marilyn, whom she considers a close friend, and has absolutely no idea what rude comment Marilyn and Evilina could possibly be referring to. Evilina admits she told Marilyn that Beebie said something about Marilyn, but hasn't told Beebie what it was.

I've tried to get Evilina to tell Beebie what she passed along to Marilyn, and Evilina hs not answered me. Marilyn hasn't told Beebie what was allegedly said either, so I tend to believe that Beebie did not say whatever Evilina and Marilyn claim she did, since no one seems to be able to recall the words.

Yesterday, via text message, Marilyn called Beebie a F******* B**** (she spelled it out in capital letters), and I responded directly to Marilyn's cell phone, identifying myself as Beebie's mother and telling her that if she could not use more polite language, to please stop sending Beebie messages. At that time, I hoped that would be enough to stop the rude messages without contacting Marilyn's parents.

Today, the situation escalated considerably when Beebie got more than 10 hateful and vulgar messages within about 2 minutes on her cell phone from Marilyn's cell phone. There were text, voice messages, and even a photo that Beebie's father and I both viewed as threatening. I've attached a few for you to see (and hear).

I called Marilyn's mother immediately and was told by Mrs. Backstabber that Marilyn had a friend - Frances McNasty - at her house and that the two of them had been in Marilyn's room. Beebie says Frances was the one whose voice was heard on the voice messages. Frances's mother's phone number is unlisted so I was unable to contact her to alert her to the situation. I'm hoping that the school can intervene and help me bring these events to her attention.

Beebie is extremely sensitive and was very hurt and frightened by these three girls attacking her character for no apparent reason. And of course, as a parent, I feel I must protect and defend her. She had to come to a new school this year as a fifth grader, not knowing anyone, and for the girls she thought were her friends to turn on her so suddenly crushed her spirit and, frankly, broke my heart.

The messages I've attached are still on Beebie's cell phone, should she be asked to prove where they came from.


IT'S FUCKIN' ON.

And THIS is why you love me.

A little before noon, three days a week, the mothers of the other children in Tito's preschool class at the Baptist Church congregate outside the classroom, as they wait for their little angels to be returned to them. Usually I'm late getting there. Sorry if I'd like as much kid-free time as possible. Jeez, isn't that the fuckin point?

This is when Anti-Stella and I catch up on recent events. She blends a little better than I do, but it's completely fair to say that Anti-Stella and I aren't like the other mothers. And I love it.

I don't remember what she said first, but I replied, not in the literal but more in the utter disbelief sense -

SHUT. UP.

I may even have said it more than once. And I didn't yell it or anything, but let me tell ya, I have two voices. The Inside My Head voice and the Out Loud voice. I don't really know how to whisper. And I don't really care.

The other mothers gasped in horror.

SARAH! DON'T SAY THAT!!! YOU CAN'T SAY THAT!!!
THAT'S " THE SH - - WORD " IN OUR HOUSE!!!

Shit, are you fuckin serious?

I mean, it wasn't like I said SHUT THE FUCK UP or anything. And my kids have certainly heard me say that. And guess what, my kids are better behaved than the whiney ass brats who fuckin need to hear the words SHUT UP every now and then. But anyway.

So I apologized and went on to relay to Anti-Stella a preview of yesterday's post, as she hadn't read it yet and I didn't want to spoil it for her. I told her about how Swamp Thing had invited herself into my bedroom and poked her nasty head into my closets, and,

just to be an asshole,

in my Out Loud Voice,

within earshot of the Baptist church mothers who had just communicated quite clearly that my use of the words SHUT UP offended them,

I said:

"Thank GOD she didn't see my stuh-RIPPER POLE!! "


Hey, I thanked God, didn't I? And didja like that extra syllable I threw in, just for emphasis? Me too.

Yeah, I'm pretty sure they're gonna kick me outta the fuckin PTO.
And ya wanna know what I have to say to that?
One less fuckin bake sale.

That's what keeps ya comin' back for more, bitches.
That shit right there.

SWAMP THING IN THE HOUSE.

Aiiiiight, before we begin, if you haven't read my post from yesterday, please take a minute now and read it so you can get a sense of exactly what I'm fuckin dealing with here. I promise you it's totally worth your time.

Back? Fuckin crazy, right? Did I tell you??
Ready for the next chapter?
Ok, good.

I woke up this morning and laid in bed for a while, debating whether or not to put any effort into cleaning my house for Camille's visit so I don't have to hear her point out just how fuckin slovenly I am. Like I need to be reminded.

And I thought, FUCK NO. You fuckin show up at my HOUSE and invite yourself over THE NEXT DAY, you get what you fuckin get, ya little bitchlet.

I'd practiced my lines. I was totally prepared for Camille to say "Sarah, don't you ever clean your house??" And my out loud response (which I was reeeeeally hoping to be able to say in front of Swamp Thing herself) was going to be,

Well, Sweetheart, when you don't give me very much TIME to fucking GET READY, this is how it is.

And my inside-my-head-voice would say, And if you don't like it, missy, you can walk your bratty ass the 1.02 miles back to your OWN house, where it's clean. So either shut the fuck up or get the fuck out. Your choice.

I was confident as I pulled on my Power Panties this morning. I even passed on the Xanax. I went into total Game Face Mode. Don't for a minute think I'm above kicking a 6-year-old's ass. I'm not. I'm a nonconfrontational pussy, I know, but I'm pretty sure I can mess up a 6-year-old if it came down to her or me.

The whole time I was in the Odyssexy on my way to drop Tito off, my mind was drifting between remembering the brilliant line I'd come up with and experimenting with just how I was going to deliver it, and the thought of seeing Anti-Stella for the first time after she read my last post. And let me just say, she hugged me just a little longer than usual... kidding.

So I came back from dropping Tito off at school, and...

THE SWAMPMOBILE WAS WAITING IN MY DRIVEWAY.

Not at 9:30. At 9:12.

So, apparently her house is not only missing a PHONE, it's also missing a FUCKING CLOCK. What is she, fuckin Amish?
(fuckin Amish sounds funny, doesn't it?)

So I park and get out and I'm trying to get Camille into the house as quickly as possible without opening the door wide enough for Swamp Thing to sneak in behind me. I shuddered as I felt her cold boney hand on my back and heard the gravel in the blender:

Can I be nosey??

Huh?

I just wanna see your backyard!

And kids, I have to confess to you that for half a second, the petrifying thought that she had somehow stumbled across paragraph three of yesterday's entry quite literally stopped my heart. Then I realized that she meant my ACTUAL backyard. The one behind my house.

Um, sure...

Would have been WAY funnier if I had just dropped trow right then and there, wouldn't it? I totally should have. But anyway, I brought her inside and began speed-walking toward the back door. She stopped.

Oh, Sarah!! I LOOOOOVE YOUR DINING ROOM!!! It's probably just as big as... (almost in a stage whisper) well, it may even be BIGGER than mine...

It is.

I explained that the hideous wallpaper in the dining room came with the house, I always feel obligated to point out to visitors that the orange and green Bird Of Paradise print was SO not my choice. I don't know why I care, really. I did keep that shelf paper in the pantry.

Then she stepped across the entryway into the living room. She touched my furniture. She patted my ottoman. She squished my pillow.

Get your hands off my stuff, sister.

Oh, you've got SOOOO much ROOOOM!!!!

I wished I had taken a Xanax or three. I wished I could have had ample time to somehow acquire and train a pet rat to scamper across my living room floor on cue.

Meanwhile, Swamp Thing Junior is running through my house screaming, BYE, MOM!! BYE!!! GO, MOM!!!!! YOU CAN LEAVE NOW!!

My sentiments exactly. Get the fuck out so I can blog about you. My vast readership is eagerly awaiting an update. Only this would be the time she DIDN'T bend to her daughter's will.

Just a minute, Camille! I just want to see Miss Sarah's cute new house!

Not the backyard anymore, THE HOUSE. I fuckin knew it. But I'm still trying to lead her through to the patio door as quickly as possible without physically dragging her by the hair.

Oh, the backyard's right this way...

(Gasp) IT THAT THE MASTER BEDROOM?
ON THE FIRST FLOOR???

Um, yeah...

(Gasp) And do you LOVE it???

Actually, we...

CAN I JUST PEEK???

Yeah. She peeked. In both of my walk-in closets.

She saw my yarn stash, and my bras hanging from my doorknob. If I'd known she'd be stickin her head in my bedroom, I'd have left some kinky sex toys out on the bed or something. I wished we had a trapeze in there. And shackles on the wall. And a stripper pole. And a disco ball. And strobe lights. And a smoke machine.

By now it's 9 fuckin 40, and we're still not in the backyard. FUCK.

So I finally got her out of my bedroom and beelined it toward the patio door. Our patio is a mess, but it's been raining for like a month straight, so I didn't feel that bad about it.

She came out and took a gander at my glorious backyard. I don't know if I've mentioned it before, but her house is on the side of a huge hill so her "backyard" is basically her driveway and a really steep slope that's covered in brush where no kid could ever actually play.

They can't play soccer, can't roller skate, can't ride bikes because they're on top of this ridiculous hill that wears me out walking up it. I park on the street and walk up so I don't have to either back the van out or turn around in the driveway. So I can understand why she'd be envious of the yard that we got with this house. It's nice and flat. And fenced. And we have nice neighbors who take care of their yards too. It's a park-like setting, really. I love it.

See, I pretty much summed up the backyard and its awesomeness for you in about three sentences, right? She went ON and ON about how nice it must be to have such a great yard where the kids can play.

Yeah, I said (just to be twatty), it IS nice. It's great. That was one of the things that was reeeeally important to us when we were looking for a house.

Like most people with three kids.

We're looking forward to the warmer weather, so R can barbecue on the built-in gas grill that came with the house, too.

Stab. Twist.

She admired my Magnolia Tree. And she thought the other tree I have by the patio might be a Weeping Cherry Tree. The only thing she saw wrong with my backyard (and I KNEW there'd be something) was that my tallest tree has a knothole in it. And of course you know that means the whole tree could rot out and land on my house. So I'm gonna need to keep an eye on it. Thanks.

We stood out on the patio for several minutes. I wished it would rain. I wished for a house to fall on her from out of the sky, like in The Wizard of Oz. I wished a fuckin Winged Monkey would snatch her up and fly away. I smiled slyly to myself as I imagined her flailing helplessly in the Winged Monkey's grasp and the sound of a gravelly blender trailing off into sweet, beautiful silence.

Then we came back inside, and she stood in my kitchen for a full ten minutes. And I swear I was trying to take good mental notes for blogging purposes, but for the life of me, I can't remember how she got onto the subject of varicose veins.

Oh, wait, I remember. I said something about how I usually eat standing up. It's funny, really. On our vacation, we parked the Uplander and I stepped outside to eat my lunch standing in the parking lot. She mentioned that she also rarely eats sitting down, and coupled with her retail job (at a store I don't shop at anymore), all the time on her feet had given her HORRRRRRIBLE varicose veins.

Now you're all visualizing Swamp Thing and her varicose veins, aren't ya? Well, if I had to suffer that visual, y'all are gonna have to suffer along with me.

And then she told me about her sister in law and how her varicose veins were so bad she had to have surgery, and then about two months later she had these horrible, painful clots and her legs were so swollen and purple she couldn't feel them, so she went back to the surgeon and you know what he told her? He told her there was Nothing. He. Could. Do.

Ever pray for a whole swarm of cockroaches to crawl out of the woodwork and dance across your kitchen, wearing little bitty top hats? I'm gonna guess not. Well, I HAVE.

Seriously, why would she (or anyone, frankly) think that was an appropriate topic of pleasant converstion? Like I wanna HEAR that? How am I benefitting from this information? Ick. Just, ick.

I have never met anyone so unbefuckinlievably ill-mannered. She has absolutely no concept of how to function in fuckin polite society. How could she have gone her entire life with NO ONE ever showing her how normal people behave? I mean, I'm no Emily fuckin Post, but show some basic fuckin etiquette, Bitch!

Show a little fuckin respect for people's time and privacy. How basic is that? Seriously.

I would actually love to know if she treats everyone like this, or if I'm the lucky one. I guess she thinks we have some sort of especially close relationship, although I can't imagine what I might have done to give her that impression, other than give in to her ambush playdate requests. Maybe she's figured out that the only way she can get people to say yes to her is if she fuckin backs them into a corner and scares the crap out of them.

This too-niceness bullshit is a total fucking curse. I'm tellin ya.
I'm such a fucking pussy, all I could do was wish for crazy shit to happen. That's the only defense I have. Pafuckinthetic.

She left at 10:05.

Thank God I drew the line and didn't show her the upstairs. I might have accidentally pushed her down, just like Baby Jane. Oops.

Update: Swimming with Count Dooku With a Sack'a Rocks Around my Neck.

Ya wanna know what's funny? When I got up this morning I was thinking I'd cheer myself up with a lil Wookin Pa Nub. Haven't done that in fuckin AGES, and I always feel so beautiful afterwards, don't you? :) But you're getting this instead. Enjoy.

Yes, I've admitted that there's shit I don't tell you. And it really shouldn't bother you. Because the shit I DO tell you is fuckin brilliant, right? You love it.

Sometimes, the only thing good about something shitty is that it falls into the category of Shit I Can Blog About. There's plenty of Shit I Can't Blog About, like my utterly phenomenal ChickDate Debut which included dinner, drinks and a drag show and ended with R fixing all three of us post-coital waffles the next morning. Nope. Not goin' there. Sorry.

(And I just heard the sound of jaws all over the world dropping simultaneously.)

This morning, loyal readers, I actually found great comfort in the fact that, even in the eye of the shit storm, I could cling to the bloggability of the whole fucking thing. I truly believe that I can laugh in the face of danger, as I formulate the anecdotal narrative in my head, peppered with every fucking expletive I can fucking think of. I even think of words that sound particularly fuckin delicious next to the word Fuckin. That's one of my fuckin favorite pastimes, actually. Try it.

This morning started off rather typically, at about 9:30am I heard the garbage truck coming down Wisteria Lane and I suddenly remembered, Oh shit, I forgot to put the trash out. So still in my jammies, I slipped into my Hella Sexy pink Crocs and went to the garage, and saw that I needed to move the Odyssexy before I could get the to the trashcans.

(See, all this seems unimportant now, but trust me.)

So I moved the van into the driveway, dragged the cans out to the curb in the pouring rain, and went back to my life, which, on a typical weekday morning, is chatting with Cool Kevin. Yeah, I knew I couldn't fool y'all, you're onto it. It's cool, though. That relationship's another for the Shit I Can't Blog About pile, more just because it really kinda just defies description than because of anything particularly steamy therein. Hell, I don’t even understand it half the time, but I digress.

At this point it's about 10, and I'm still in my jammies (Shut up.) and my doorbell rings. I figured it was the garbage people telling me that the slimy wet rug that R and I pulled out of our wet basement after the major flooding around here two weeks ago was too big for them to take, and that I was going to have to somehow load the smelly, dripping wet thing into the Sexy Minivan and find a place to abandon it.

So that's what was in my head when I answered the door. Where am I going to dump that nasty rug? How am I going to get the smell out of the van?

And then I opened the door.

FUCKIN SWAMP THING.

I had actually kinda been thinking it'd been a while since we'd last seen her, (click here to refresh your memory) so I was about due.

BUT SHE SHOWED UP AT MY FUCKING FRONT DOOR.
UNANNOUNCED.

A SWAMP THING HOME INVASION.

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCKIN FUCK.

Dammit, WHY the fuck didn't I move the van back into the garage and close it? Then I could have pretended we weren't home. Fuck.

I was so stunned, as I stood with the door open in my Hella Sexy jammies and fluffy pink bathrobe, that it took my brain a second to process who she was. And then I heard her unmistakable voice, reminiscent of a blender full of gravel, full blast.

Oh, Hiiiiii, Sarah!

Um, hey... how's it, um, goin?

(Those are the words I said out loud. Going forward, I shall distinguish my inside-my-head-voice with italics, just for clarification.)

Well, we were just in the neighborhood and little Camille said MOM! THAT'S PIE'S STREET!! STOP!!! STOP THE CAR!!! LET'S GO ASK HIM FOR A PLAY DATE!!! so, y'know, I said Ok, Camille, calm down... so I thought we'd just drop by and...

No. NO. NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

... since we haven't had a play date in a while...

And I really hadn't missed you, other than that you're such fuckin PREMIUM blog fodder.

... Camille's been bugging me...

And we mustn't let Swamp Thing Junior be disappointed. You know what, that's exactly it. Camille's actually the Swamp Thing here, she's the one running this fuckin dipshit puppet show.

... so, anyway...

(Notice I haven't invited her ass IN. Here's my out loud voice coming up.)

(Cough, cough) Oh, well, I'm kinda sick...

So, tomorrow, then? What time to you get back from dropping Tito off?

HELLO!!! How fucking creepy is it that the woman knows my fuckin schedule? I don't even remember where I'm supposed to be, most days. I'm sleepin with one eye open, from now on.

About 9:30. That's fine, you can DROP HER OFF at 9:30.

That's DROP OFF, Bitch, and I swear to God, if you invite your own ass to stick around, I WILL OPEN UP A FUCKING VEIN IN MY NECK, RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU, you fucking psycho stalker freak.

(end scene)

Ok, coupla things here. First of all, Jesus Christ, ever hear of a FUCKIN PHONE? Ever hear of maybe TELLING YOUR KID NO? Who's the grown-up?

Tell your kid, We'll call when we get home. I myself would have thrown in the words Jeez, SHUT UP ALREADY, but that's just my personal parenting style. It's not for everyone.

Secondly, it's important to note that the distance from her house to my house, according to Mapquest, which allows for traffic and speed limits and whatnot, is a whopping 1.02 miles. Fuckin WALKING DISTANCE, people. A 3-minute drive, at most. Probably not even that, if you drive like I do.

And, yes. I gave in. I did. I'm not proud of it. What would you have done, when ambushed by a Swamp Thing Surprise Attack in your own home? I just wanted her to LEAVE. I really thought she'd hit the pinnacle when she called and attempted to crash Pie's playdate last time, but no. I'm not safe anywhere.

I suppose there's something to be said for the CONVENIENCE of not having to leave my own house to get some pretty good bloggable shit. I didn't even have to get dressed. And here I was thinking the best I'd have to talk about this week was how much fun it is to take two little boys along on a Tampon Run. ("What ARE those, Mommy? What are they FOR? Can I have some? You always buy stuff for YOURSELF, Mommy! Dat not fair!! You MEAN!!!")

Go ahead and say it, I'm a spineless jackass. I know. And it's funny, too, because you can see that I talk a big game inside my head, what with the Open Up A Vein In My Neck talk, but deep down, you know I'd pass out at the sight of it and then I wouldn't get the fiendish delight of enjoying her reaction. I'm such a pussy.

Yeah, I'll tell everybody listening that I'll fuck somebody up if they fuckin fuck with me, but anyone who truly knows me (and really, I think you ALL do), knows all they'd have to do is call me out on it with a "Aiiiiight, Bitch, let's fuckin TANGLE!" And I'd be all... um, just kiddin'... I'm pathetic. I'm all talk.

But it's great for blogging, innit?

Seriously, who fucking DOES that???!!!? I mean, me and Anti-Stella are tight (although recent unbloggable revelations just might make her re-think that - but would it help at all if I told you I think you're gorgeous?), but I'd NEVER just show up at the woman's house. EVER. I know I could in an emergency, sure, and she could do the same at my house, absolutely. But neither of us would do that to the other, just because we have this thing called Social Graces.

And WANTING TO HAVE A PLAY DATE TOMORROW is NOT an emergency, Camille. It's not.

God, now I'm wishing they hadn't taken that smelly wet rug. I could have wrapped Swamp Thing's body in it and tossed it down a fucking mine shaft.

Swimmin' With Count Dooku

I'm gonna tell y'all something, and it's going to surprise you.

There's shit I DON'T tell you.

Some of it's good. In fact, some of it's totally amazing and I wish I could tell you. Conversely, some of it totally fucking sucks and I wish I could tell you that too. I have so much to let out, and I can't. I just can't. Sorry. Nuthin' personal.

My sack'a rocks is realllllly heavy right now.

That said, I deperately need to vent. There's some shit I CAN tell you, and will.

Remember how great our vacation was? Me kissing the concrete at the Riverwalk? Fondling unpackaged undies at the General Store? Luckenbach? Pie climbing halfway to heaven? Apes splashing in the icy-cold waves while I get Pink Sock sunburn? Meeting JD Byars on the beach? Catching crabs from a bikini, all that?

R's parents don't know anything about any of it.
Not a syllable. They haven't asked. Here's why.

We got home at 10:30 pm Easter Sunday. R figured they'd rather he didn't call that late, so he called his parents at 8:30 the next morning to tell him all about our trip. But it wasn't good enough.

They were pissed we didn't call on Easter.

His dad screamed at him. SCREAMED. Accused him of deliberately trying to hurt them. Deliberately.

Now, y'all know good and goddamn well that if I were going to do something deliberately to hurt FIL, you'd have fuckin heard about it on the news. TRUST ME.

We knew we wouldn't be there on Easter, so we made a special trip out there the Friday before. Not good enough.

We were in three different airports over the course of nine hours on Easter. We were travelling. With children. We were exhausted. We were a little preoccupied.

But we're selfish. And inconsiderate. Thoughtless. Heartless.

Yup, that's us.

FIL fucking SCREAMED at my husband. His son. SCREAMED. For a good 20 minutes. At least. Then I all but calmly walked out of the room (screaming YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!!! inside my head) and called my mom sobbing at the injustice of it all.

I couldn't stand listening to R apologizing to him. Again and again. In different words. Yes, Dad, you're right, I'm a horrible, ungrateful son. I'm sorry... You're right, Dad. Yes, Dad. I'm sorry, I apologize....

OVER AND OVER.

R was so upset, I ached for him. I don't know how I didn't rip the phone out of R's hand and tell FIL to FRO.

FUCK.
RIGHT.
OFF.

If I didn't know with 100% certainty that whatever I said to FIL, he would take out on R in one way or another, like "Can't you control your wife??? I knew you should never have married her..", so help me, I'd tell him right to his fucking face exactly what an arrogant, self-righteous dick he is. What's he gonna do to me? Tell us we're not welcome in his house? Oooooooh... promise?

God, I hate that man. I hope I can outlive him just so I can show up drunk at his funeral in a red sequined dress.


So this morning, when Pie told me that Tito had thrown Pie's Count Dooku doll - oh, sorry, ACTION FIGURE - in the toilet, I thought to myself...

I know exactly how Count Dooku feels.

Hanging out, living the life of an Action Figure, minding his own bidniss, and suddenly, some hand out of the sky reaches down and plops him right in the fuckin shitter.

Dooku was a bad guy. I'm not. I don't deserve this.