Tag: funny

Things I Do Now

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In case you didn’t know, this whole widowhood thing is not all it’s cracked up to be. I’m sure you are over there thinking that I’m just living the high life, what with being a single mother to 2 boys, a single mother to 2 dogs (one of which won’t stop peeing on my fucking carpet) and all these household chores all to myself. I know it sounds pretty awesome, but I’m going to let you in on a little secret, it is not.

Take today for example…I have a large yard. Part of that yard (a too small part in hindsight) is fenced in for the above mentioned 2 dogs (although, the one would be fine without the fenced in yard what with her just using the bathroom wherever she fucking pleases all over my house). The weather as of late has been cold, wet and dreary. Seriously, there’s now a creek running along the side of my house (think of stocking it with fish and charging admission…) because all it ever does is rain. Yesterday and today, we are finally looking at the sun. I woke up a little grumpy today, maybe a little weepy, knocked out kindergarten with my youngest and decided to work out. And I worked out for a really long time because sometimes it’s the best way to clear my head. So while clearing my head, I thought to myself, man, I really need to pick up dog shit. It’s been a hot minute. (I know what you’re thinking, super glamorous widow life). So, between the dog shit and all the rain, my grass is growing rampantly. In the winter. Yay.

I set about scooping poop (side note – I find it really unfair that Ash left me with all these dogs. Don’t get me wrong, I love them both dearly, but there is just way too many things to take care of around here. It’s exhausting.). It takes a good long while 1. because there’s so much (ew) and b. because my wrist keeps cramping up and I have to keep taking breaks (I’m nothing if not sexy. And so young. And so hip.). I get it all(ish) picked up and decide “you know what, I’m going to weed whack this out of control fenced in area.”

So I go get the weed whacker. Do you know what I’ve never used before? A weed whacker. Another job of that asshole who left me here to take of everything while he’s living the high life with God and shit. Sorry, I’m a little bitter today. But, I get it started and set about my mission. Now, you might be wondering why I chose weed whacking over just mowing it and I’ll tell you (I’m certain you’re on pins and needles waiting to read this if you haven’t given up on it already). 1. The grass is super wet and super thick (hey oh! That’s what she said?) and b. I’m terrible with the lawnmower and 3. as mentioned before, the space is pretty small so I figured the weed whacker was the best tool for the job. Oh. My. God! Who the fuck invented the weed whacker? First of all, that thing is the same height, if not taller, as me. Not exactly super easy to maneuver for the vertically challenged. Secondly, do you know how much that thing weighs? I don’t either, but it sure as shit ain’t light. The scooping of the poop, combined with the hellacious weed whacking may be the worst jobs I’ve had to do to date. They did not bring me joy. The yard looks like Jason Vorhees stopped by with his machete and hacked away at it. There are grass clippings all over the white vinyl fence. And my body feels like it’s been smooshed by a damn steamroller that went over once and came back once more just to make sure I was really down. Ash would be rolling in his grave (if he had a grave) if he could see what I’ve done to his yard. Sorry babe, but your fault.

You know what else I’ve done recently that is also 100% Ash’s fault? I saw that match.com commercial where the devil and 2020 met and fell and love and I thought if the devil and 2020 can find love, maybe I can, too. I’m not sure if this is taboo to talk about but since when do I care about being taboo? But I’m lonely. I miss having companionship. And I’m caught between a rock and a hard place of wanting to move on but not wanting to dishonor my husband but needing something more in my life but also still loving my husband. It’s very tricky and complicated and probably taboo. But whatever. So I had a little too much vino one night and I made a profile. Online dating is horrible. Awful. Terrible. 0 stars. Would not recommend. If you are even the slightest bit happy in your relationship, fucking stay there. Because do you know what’s out there for 30something widows with 2 children? Less than nothing. I had a near 80 year old man, claiming he was 35 hoping we could meet. Um, no. One man pushing 70 who progressively got meaner with every message he sent to which I did not respond. A lot of serial killer looking types then I’m totally judging just based on a few pictures. And then, should you meet one that maybe seems attractive and nice and normal, they get a whiff of your crazy and all your baggage and disappear faster than you can say do you think we should meet. It’s awful. Seriously. Stay where you are. Unless you’re with one of the serial killer types.

I don’t usually say this, given that I am grateful for much in my life and because I really really hate acronyms but FML. Not really. Just FTD (fuck this day.)

Fours to the…

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Disclaimer: I’m divulging a good bit of personal information here that you may or may not want to know about me. Read accordingly.

I have written about this before but figured after some recent events that it may be time to go over it again. Some may have forgotten. Some may have never read the last one to begin with. And most really don’t give a shit. But I give a shit so, again, I’m going to re-cap.

In no way, shape or form am I a perfect person. I am flawed to the nth degree. I’m fairly certain God still loves me, though. My friends and family probably do, too and could certainly tell you even more flaws of mine than I’m about to list out (please try to refrain, though. My delicate psyche can only take so much right now.)

In no particular order (except for the end), here goes:

I’m highly impatient – “instant gratification generation” is what my mom likes to call it. I want what I want when I want it and tend to be a little bratty when I don’t get my way.

I have a temper. A big one. My late husband used to call me “The Hulk” – only he said instead of turning green I turn purple

Speaking of anger, I like to hold onto mine. I don’t forgive easily and I never fucking forget. And unfortunately, when I have been wronged, I will use said wronging in future arguments. Which, I realize is unfair and unhealthy, but it’s true. We’re also not talking about things about me that are good at this moment, so there’s that.

I use sarcasm in place of real feelings and emotions. I deflect all things with a solid dose of inappropriate humor. And I rarely take anything too seriously.

I loathe cleaning. I would much rather pay someone to do it than do it myself but that brings me to my next flaw…

Humans terrify me. They make me so nervous most of the time. I don’t like to call people, businesses, places or things. I hate to ask for help. I’d rather just figure it out myself. On this subject, I also care entirely too much what people think of me. Although, the older I get, the less shits I give. So there’s one on the positive side. Sort of.

I pee in the shower. Ew. I’ve also peed in pools a time or two or maybe more. Double ew. I’m also not afraid to pee outside should the need arise and there’s not a bathroom in sight. Side note: this summer I was a wee bit hungover at my kid’s baseball game (mom win), I’d downed 3 cokes on my way to the game, not realizing there were no bathrooms at the field. Had to pee, obviously, and ended up in the back of my car with a gatorade bottle. My pee comes out like a 1984 sprinkler head, so the gatorade bottle was none too helpful. After peeing on my hand, floormats and everything but the gatorade bottle, I found my youngest son’s hydroflask with the wide mouth opening and peed in that (and that’s how you win at momming.)

I’m kinda vain – which seems rather contradictory given my proclivity to pee nearly anywhere. But there you have it. I love clothes and makeup and doing my hair and making myself look as good as I possibly can.

Here’s another ew – I flush my tampons down the toilet. Apparently that’s a no no. But I do it anyway.

Sometimes, especially here lately, I let my kids play video games for far too long while I watch some kind of television show that shouldn’t be on in their presence. Hence why I let them stay on the video games. In a different room.

I constantly lose the tie thing that goes on a loaf of bread.

I’m never up on current events as I don’t watch or read the news. Well, sometimes I read the news. But mostly I just skim it.

I don’t walk my dogs nearly often enough.

I spend way too much money on way too much shit that I don’t need.

I’m terrible at making decisions on little shit – like where to go for dinner or where to go on vacation. Things like that. Stuff that’s really important, though, I’ve got that pretty well down.

I am way too competitive at way too many things. And now my children are just like me. Hell, they have competitions to see who can eat the most green beans, which, let’s face it, is a win for everyone.

Sometimes I drink too much.

I can be loud and obnoxious (drinking or not).

I cackle like a hyena.

Sometimes I’m super lazy and sometimes I’m on the go way too often.

I still sleep with a blankie. Like a toddler.

I bite my fingernails. I often forget to cut my kids’ fingernails. And toenails.

Sometimes I eat my feelings. Although, here lately, I have very little appetite. Which is concerning in itself. Because I used to really, really love food.

I am on my phone far too often, which is actually a good thing, because if not, it may have been way too long before I saw my name on a very popular social media site followed by the words “is a whore”. That’s right folks. Someone very publicly called me a whore. And thank the fucking Lord above that I happened to see it within a couple minutes of posting and could very swiftly remove myself from such a derogatory (and very untrue, might I add) post. Unfortunately, before it was removed, my mom saw it and a handful of friends (that I know of anyway) saw it. Thank goodness I’m not that popular, right?! I felt like I was in high school all over again. I’m nearly 40 (if we round up, like a lot). Why are we still name calling and tearing each other down? What in the actual fuck?

Mirriam-Webster defines a whore as “a person who engages in sexual intercourse for pay; a prostitute” or as “a promiscuous or immoral woman.” Ok, well I’ve certainly never been paid to have sex with anyone unless you think about marriage and the fact that I was a stay at home mom for a while, thereby making my husband the one who made all the money, thereby meaning he financially supported me and we had a pretty active sex life so maybe I was, in fact, a whore.

As far as the second definition goes, well that’s pretty laughable, too. Promiscuous is not a word I would use to describe myself, especially now. And believe me, I am willing to call myself nearly anything, if it is true. I am happy to share any flaws regarding me that you may or may not want to know. I am not scared of who I am. I have not performed any sexual acts in quite some time (unless we’re counting the sexual acts I may on occasion perform on myself but I don’t think that qualifies). I have not had any sexual acts performed on me in quite some time.

Now, I cannot say that I have not exuded some promiscuous behavior a time or 2 in my life. There was that time in college when I took Lauren Aponte’s boyfriend home with me for a one night stand and I only knew him as Lauren Aponte’s boyfriend, (even though I don’t think he was her boyfriend, she just wanted him to be her boyfriend, I don’t know, the details are fuzzy – I also didn’t really know Lauren Aponte, she was a friend of a friend of a friend and her nonboyfriend was quite hot). And afterward, we (my college roommate and I) referred to him as “get it girl” because, well, he said it a lot throughout the night. And got it I did. Anywho, that could be described as promiscuous behavior but did not make me a whore. I also used to make out with Dinty Moore Beef Stew (not actually the can of soup, though, just to clarify) every time I saw him in a bar my freshman year of college. I think his actual name was Denny but we always just called him Dinty Moore Beef Stew. Apparently not learning names in college was a thing for me. Is there a name for that? But we made out. A lot. Again, promiscuous behavior. Not a whore. Apparently I had quite a bit of promiscuous behavior in college. But, hey, who didn’t?

I dressed up as a slutty nun for Halloween one year. While poor taste for sure, it still doesn’t qualify me as a whore. I’ve been known to wear revealing clothing, especially when my husband was alive. He was a boob man, particularly my boobs, and he wanted to see them as much as possible. And I obliged. Whore? I think not.

And that leads me to my whole point. I have plenty of stories where maybe some risqué behavior happened on my part. Hell, I hope there are more risqué stories to come in my future, I’m not going to lie. But I have never been, currently am not and never will be a whore. I may not be classy. My sense of humor may be dark and sinister. I may be too forthcoming about my life and details nobody gives a shit about. And, hell, I may be a touch crazy. But I am not a whore.

Try to be kind. Try to mind your manners. Try to think before you speak (or type). And let’s try not to defame anyone’s character in the process.

Burnin’ it Down

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There are many things in life at which I do not excel. Cutting grass, for instance. I suck at it. I tried it a couple of times over the summer because I absolutely had to and it just didn’t go well. I tried push mowing. I tried the riding mower. It didn’t matter which one I used. They both shut down on me, I cursed a lot and the yard ultimately looked like I let an ADHD goat gnaw it down for us. So, mowing, not my thing.

Something else I have learned that is not my thing is anything pertaining to bikes (other than riding one, I’m pretty mediocre at riding one). Low tires? Can’t figure out the pump. Popped tire? Ummmm?????? Gears twisted more than an Auntie Anne’s pretzel? Yeah right!!! Can’t do it. Don’t want to do it. That’s why I have a brother. And a brother-in-law. And nearly any other human on the planet that is not me. Mechanical fixes are not my jam. And I’m ok with that.

Also not my thing – assembly of any and every thing. I’ve been searching for Christmas gifts for my children, trying to fulfill *most* of what they are asking for (that’s not even a little bit true – Jack’s list is so over the top ridiculous and expensive, I’m not even pretending that I’m getting him anything remotely close to what’s on it – other than the scooter (only needed because his brother may or may not have left it in the middle of the driveway and Uncle Randy may or may not have run it over) which is really the only affordable thing on his list). Seriously, his list consists of a Playstation 5 (impossible), an iPhone, a Chromebook, an iPad, a gaming chair (umm, isn’t that just like an office chair and won’t that require assembly on my part?!) and a million dollars. Get in freaking line kid. That’s one hell of a Christmas list. I’m not saying you’ve been bad this year, but you sure as shit ain’t getting any of that. Anyway, I got a little off topic there. Assembly. I suck at that as well. Shocking, I know based on the above where I’m proving some pretty impressive skills. I’ve been searching for only things that do not require assembly. And when did everything stop coming assembled? Has that always been the case? I bought a new vacuum probably over 2 months ago and just opened the box YESTERDAY and it was all because I knew it had to be assembled and to me, that seemed very daunting. (It wasn’t, by the way. I did it just fine. It even mostly works as long as I don’t take it on the carpet. It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.)

You see, Ash was in charge of lawn mowing, bike mechanics (or any other mechanical things that may come about), assembly of all things including Legos (seriously, I cannot follow Lego instructions to save my life. I put at least some portion of any Lego project together backward, upside, inside out or all of the above. Every. Fucking. Time.) and grilling. Ash was in charge of grilling.

Which leads me to where I’m at right now in my current state of widowhood. I have been grilling for a while now. And I haven’t been terrible at it (unlike everything else listed above). I’ve been succeeding. I’ve been doing it regularly. My kids have even been impressed with me. They’ve been begging me to try grilling steak again for the last few weeks. So, I finally bought some ribeyes and tonight was going to be the night. I poured a large glass of red wine, started the grill, went about cutting up potatoes and seasoning the steaks. I had fed my dogs and let them out. The Lumineers radio was playing softly from that stupid Alexa bitch that can never seem to get anything quite right (it seems we have that in common). Everything was right with the world. Until I hear my old Bogey girl barking like crazy (which isn’t weird for her, the older she gets, the mouthier she gets, kinda like me). But it’s starting to annoy me so I can only imagine how the neighbors feel about it. I go outside to see what all the fuss is about, look to my right at the screaming banshee/crazy old dog and then look to my left to see my grill up in fucking flames. I mean, the bitch was on fire. Big fire. Scary fire. I look at it for a few seconds, open the lid (flames everywhere), open the doors underneath where the gas is and and (proudly) smart enough to know to turn the gas off. I notice the little tray that I guess catches all the yuck that falls off all the shit you grill (including the fat and grease and stuff) and pinpoint the source of said fire. I turn the burners of the grill off and shut the lid thinking certainly that will solve all my problems (it doesn’t) and then I just stand there for a minute, staring, entranced by the heat and the flames, wondering should I pour some water on the grill. But then remembering that water is sometimes bad for fire but I can’t quite remember why or when or how. So then I go grab my cell phone and call my parents house. They don’t answer (umm, parents, why do you have a house phone if you never ever intend on answering it?) so then I call my mom’s cell phone. I very calmly (and I’m serious here, my mom even commented later on how calm I was) explained that my grill was on fire and I wasn’t quite sure what to do. She suggested flour or baking soda/powder (I can’t remember) and I very calmly marched inside, got the flour and threw that shit all over the grill, the grill pan, the porch, the dogs, myself. Wherever I could throw flour, I fucking threw it.

And it worked. The fire went out before my house burnt to the ground. It’s safe to say I need a new grill. But all in all, it could have been a lot worse. But that brings me back to my whole point. Grilling was not my job. Grilling clearly should not be my job. I had no idea about the grease trap pan thing (probably definitely the technical name for it) – didn’t know it was there, didn’t know it was full, sure as shit didn’t know it needed to be changed (probably frequently).

I’ve never lived on my own for such a long time (I mean, my kids clearly live with me but they’re not so helpful in the way of chores and getting shit done and knowing how not to burn the house down). I lived with my parents (obviously) until I went off to college. In college, I had a roommate every year except for one (and even though I paid rent on a one bedroom apartment for that one year, I actually lived in my college boyfriend’s apartment and literally never stayed in my own apartment. Sorry mom.) There was a brief time after college where I lived by myself but that was only for a month, maybe less. I’ve always had a family member or a roommate or a boyfriend or a husband to pick up where I leave off, to fix what I may break, to balance out all the shit that I can get so incredibly wrong, to know that the grease trap pan thing in the grill needs to be changed or your whole grill will go up in flames. And now, at age 38, I have lived essentially on my own for almost 13 months. I guess I was bound to almost burn the house down. I’m sure I’ll make hundreds and hundreds and thousands and thousands of other nearly detrimental mistakes. That’s both the pain and the hilarity of becoming a young(ish) widow.

But, I guess the whole point is that I didn’t burn the house down. We ate steak from a cast iron skillet. We’re all still here. We’re all still healthy. We’re all still sane(ish). We’re doing it. It’s not always (ever) perfect. It’s not always pretty. It’s not always (ever) normal. But we’re still ok. And if we’re still ok (especially in 2020), then I absolutely know, that no matter what, we will always be ok (I’d better knock on some wood STAT). Even when we (I) almost burn down the fucking house.

One Is Very Much Not Like the Other

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Here’s a question? How the eff does one get an email from Babycenter and Silver Singles Dating Site in the same fucking 5 minutes? How do those go hand in hand? First of all, Babycenter, I am done with you. I’ve had my babies and I care to have no more, thank you very much. Also, considering the present circumstances of my life, couldn’t make a baby if I even wanted to unless I’m just pulling some guy off the street with sexy words such as “put a baby in my belly.” I guess that’s where the Silver Singles come in? 🤷🏻‍♀️

B, Silver Singles, how the fuck did you get my email address, who the fuck are you, and WHO THE FUCK are you calling silver or old and, I mean this with every fiber of my being, go the fuck away. Seriously. Stop harassing my email account. I am not silver, I am not old. I am 37 years young and not interested in your geriatric love matches. Fuck right on off.

Rant over. Carry on.

Suck It, Mickey

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Full Disclosure: There is a LOT of bad language in this post.

I know I am going to be in the minority here when I say this, but Disney World fucking sucks. It is not magical. It is not the happiest place on Earth. It is a load of money-stealing, over-crowded, germ-infested, heaping pile of shit. We did Hollywood Studios for the Star Wars factor. The boys were all pumped up. We had light saber building and droid making on the agenda. Our entire goal for the day was getting on Rise of the Resistance, one of the 2 new rides in the overpriced, overcrowded asshole of a theme park that it is. I was forewarned that I had to get in line an hour before the park opened, get through the gate and sign up for this ridiculous shit show because only so many would receive access on any given day.

FUCK YOU DISNEY. I did all the things I was supposed to do. I had my children, their Mimi, and their Aunt and Uncle in an Uber before the sun even thought about rising. We got through the damn gate. I had my phone at the ready and guess the fuck what? I was placed on standby for this God forsaken ride, the whole reason we were at this awful, money hungry park. Screw you Mickey Mouse. Screw you Walt Disney. And screw Star Wars.

At the time, we thought, it’s ok, plenty of other shit to do. We did get to ride the Millennium Falcon ride and we (we, being just Jack, Colt and me) also got to ride some stupid Toy Story bullshit that went around in a circle for approximately 48 seconds after standing in line for a fucking hour. The boys did build their very own droids as well as their very own lightsabers. How sweet. Except for the fact that it cost me an additional nearly $1,000, yes, you read that right, $1,000, after already spending however much I spent on the fucking tickets to get in the fucking park. The fucking park where there are approximately 8 rides and 3,479,423 people all trying to ride said rides. How fun. Said no one ever. (Also included in that additional $1k were 2 Mickey Mouse pretzels and a 32 oz Coke, so really, quite a bargain.)

The other highly irritating thing about Disney is the fact that I’ve now been there twice (both times terrible) and I haven’t spotted that fucking mouse not one time. Apparently, you have to wait in line to meet Mickey and he’s only available at certain times during the day. You actually have to wait in line to meet everybody at this ridiculous park. We waited 1/2 hour to meet Darth Vader and literally were in the room with him for 7.2 seconds. You have to ride a bull for a full 8 seconds for it to count but you can only meet Darth Vader for 7.2.

I kept checking throughout the day to see if possibly luck was on our side (ha! ha! I’m cracking myself up with that one) and we may potentially get bumped from Standby to Group Number 104 for the stupid Rise of the Resistance (I actually can’t say if the ride is stupid or not because we didn’t get to go on it) but no such luck. By this time, it is 2:30 pm. The boys (and possibly me) have had no less than 6 major meltdowns and we grownups have had quite enough.

So, we skip the rest of “Fast Pass” selections. (don’t even get my started on the fast pass bullshit), call an Uber and the fuck out of dodge.

And to make matters worse, I got informed at 6 pm we were taken off standby and it was now our turn to “board” Rise of the Resistance. There are not enough hand signals in the world for the way I feel about you. The boys do not know this bit of information. Please do not tell them.

Never again Disney. I have given you multiple chances and you have let me down every. single. time. You will dupe me no more. Your parks will get no more of my money. You can go fuck yourself. You certainly won’t be fucking me and my family anymore.

 

Dear Mike Trout…

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I will preface this by saying that the contents of this post are intended to be funny. I, in no way shape, or form believe the Mike Trout is going to move into my home and raise my children with me (obviously we would move into his house, he has a career to finish after all). Or any of the other people on this rather hilarious list. I am nothing if not honest, though, so do with it what you will. I will also say that I am 37 years old, and while I will mourn the loss of my husband for the rest of my life, I also do not intend, nor did he intend for me, to spend the rest of my life alone. So there.

As you know, my children have asked me for a new dad. I have explained to them that there is no dad store and that it will take time, patience and actual love for that to happen (all of which none of us are good at, well, we’re probably good at love I would assume. We love each other without issue, so I’ll claim that as a positive attribute in our favor.) Colt mainly copies what Jack says, but I do believe that he longs for a. his dad but since that’s not possible 2. a male figure in our home daily that will also play endless legos with him (I am not the parent that is good at playing with her children (unless it’s a sport in which I can dominate), that was always Ash’s territory. I’m more the clean your shit up, put your shit away, don’t talk back to me disciplinary bad ass of the home).

Jack, however, can’t seem to leave the subject alone. We had some time together, just the 2 of us (a very rare thing) one day last week and he really opened up to me in his sweet, innocent 10 year old boy way. He did request, again, a new dad. I explained, again, how we need time to grieve, heal and you know, meet someone that we love and loves us back, blah, blah, blah. (Not that I’m saying our conversation was blah, just summing up, if you will). Apparently that answer was not sufficient. He dove further into where we would live, would new dad coach sports and would he get to call new dad “dad” or would he have to call him Mike or LeBron or whatever his name happens to be. What a fun conversation.

In reality, I can’t imagine how he must be feeling. What a fucking load of shit both of my boys have been dealt. I was lucky enough to grow up completely with both of my parents. No death. No divorce. Just normal, middle class, American upbringing. Navigating through this load of horse dung is not for the weak of heart, I can tell you that much. Your children will throw so many curve balls, you’ll be lucky if you make contact 1 out of every 30 balls thrown. My average is probably even lower than that. But we’re all trying together. I tried to talk to him rationally. We don’t know what the future looks like. Hopefully we will meet someone when the time is right. He may or may not be as into sports as we are (actually he will have to be or it just won’t work.), I think what you call him will be a personal decision between you and him. All the things I think I’m supposed to say. Who the fuck knows?!

Well, to make matters worse, funnier, even more screwed up than they already are, Jack has come up with a list of potential “dads” that he will allow to move into our lives and assume his new role. Rounding out number 1. Mike Trout. Yes, folks, Jack will allow Mike Trout to come into our lives to step into husband, father, best friend and baseball coach. You’re welcome Mr. Trout (Tom Ferguson, if you’re reading this, you’ve got some work to do 😉 !) Coming in at a close second is Bryce Harper (sorry about your wife and child) followed by Bruno Mars (ummm ok?!), Cody Bellinger, LeBron James (again with the wife and children…) and I threw in Jordy Nelson, Chris Hemsworth (sorry about your wife and children as well) and Cam Newton (hey, we could share a wardrobe) just for good measure. Go big or go home is apparently our motto around here.

So, to you potential suitors to the Jones brood, let me tell you a little bit about what you’ll be getting. Jack and Colt are 2 of the coolest kids I know. Jack is smart, kind hearted, handsome, athletic, funny, sarcastic, compassionate and more competitive than maybe even you. He’s quite stubborn, needs a lot of prodding to get going on any one thing but once he starts, he literally can’t be stopped. My wonderfully weird Mr. Tolt is also smart, affectionate, so loving, hilarious, emotional and really good with yard tools. He’s wildly independent, thinks he knows how do anything and everything and needs no guidance from anyone and is also quite stubborn (I believe that is a big family trait, no getting around that DNA). If I had to take a stab at what each boy would become when they get older I will say that Jack (if professional athlete happens to not work out haha! – this is where you could be super helpful Mr. Trout) will become an officer of the law whether it be a sheriff, detective, prosecutor or something similar. He is a rule follower (and enforcer) through and through. Colt, on the other hand, could careless what your rules are. He will create his own. Therefore I see him owing his own business, thereby making his own rules, in a very hands on, crafty way – landscaper, land grader – something with lots of dirt and lots of heavy machinery. They are great kids and any of you would be so lucky to have one shred of a part of their lives.

Me, on the other hand, I’m a harder sell. I’m 37, a widow with 2 fan-fucking-tastic kids, stretch marks, maybe a few pounds that need shedding (although I can run a consecutive 2 whole miles though, so will probably be unrecognizable within the year). But I’m also pretty damn funny, cute when I try to be, have the mouth of a sailor, love red wine, a good book and lots of sunshine. I, too, am stubborn, sarcastic to excess and have a hard time expressing how I feel with actual words. That you speak. I can write them down like a fucking champ, though!

In all seriousness, I don’t make light of this. Like any decent parent, I hate to see my children unhappy and suffering. I wish I had that magic wand to take all their pain away. But they, we, will persevere. And as all the bull shit sayings tell you, we will be better and stronger for it in the end.

Until then, we await your call, Mike. (Insert hysterical laughter here!)