The ick factor

I'm house sitting for my sister this weekend. She has 5 dogs (two of which went camping with her) and I have to take care of them and their fish and their turtle.

So I arrive at her place tonight after an especially busy third day of work. I ran through the house to let the poor little guys out back (before taking off my shoes...don't tell her it's a secret).

After a few minutes I got up to let them back in. No one is allowed to wear shoes in her house. So there are a couple pair of their crocs at the entrance to the dog room. I put my left foot in one of the brother-in-laws' crocs. Next came the right foot. As I was stepping in, I felt something tickle my foot. Thinking it might be a hair or something similar I shook my foot...you know, to shake it off. I then felt the "hair" tickle up my ankle. I look down and see nothing, so I keep shaking my foot. It crawls up my leg. I frantically convulse my leg to shake off whatever is causing my panic. I feel wings flutter. Finally, it's off. I look down and see it. A big. Huge. Cockroach. It was the ick heard round the world.

I didn't know what to do. I absolutely HATE...and I mean hate with a fiery passion...cockroaches. The are disgusting little freaks of nature. Usually I make the closest boy kill it for me. But alas, I am all alone. I jumped up and down for a second or two trying to decide what to do. I decided I had to take action because there was no way I was going to be able to sleep with such a creature in the same house as me. I picked up a croc and very quickly, very forcefully smashed the roach.

I slowly lifted the shoe to make sure that I had, indeed, successfully killed it. It was smooshed to the ground. Although creepily enough still moving it's little head and antanae. I strategically placed the shoe back over the remains. There is no way I'm cleaning it up. I guess I'm just going to have to find a big, strong man to clean it up for me. Helpless isn't the right word, but it's the first that comes to mind.

Irritatedsville, population: Me

When I painstakingly write out an entire blog that's longer than five sentences (which doesn't happen often) and all of a sudden, it's gone. Poof. Just like that. I guess I wouldn't really say poof. I guess I would say that the cursor was on the 'x' from closing a second window and my finger grazed along the touch sensitive pad and closed the window. Meh, what's a girl to do. Nothing. Because hell if I'm going to write it all down again. Stupid apple iBook.

Whistle while you work

I got a job. Hallelujah. You are now looking at (reading?) the newest counter bitch at Club Tattoo. Save it, I know what most of you are thinking. You know who you are.

I'm excited that I'll finally be making more than $5 a day. Mama needs a new pair of shoes. Not to mention that I get free tattoos and piercings. I've seen a few of the artists custom work and it's really good. So irregardless of all the tattoo snobbery I'm surrounded by, I'm excited. I get to see my old best friend, money. Oh how I've missed him.

My not-so-great adventures in Horrorland

You can call me a bitch. You can call me a mom. You can call me bitchin'. But one thing you can't call me is graceful.

When I was in high school, when the ex and I had just started dating, I went looking through his backpack. Not for anything in particular, but just because I'm nosy like that. Besides, he was sitting right there, so I don't count that as snooping. As I flipped through the loose sheets of papers in his English folder, I glanced my name. I pulled the paper out and realized it was an essay (read: three four sentence paragraphs) written about yours truly.

I read through it against the ex's wishes and thought it was the sweetest thing anyone has ever written and/or said about me. Although one thing that caught my eye which I knew to be false was his analogy of me and the gracefulness of a cat. I laughed so hard when I read it and asked between fits of giggles if he even knew me at all. When asked to explain my utter lack of appreciativeness, I explained that I, in fact, was not as graceful as a cat. In all actuality I have the gracefulness of a bull in a china shop, so to speak. Maybe even worse, because while a bull in china shop merely breaks and ruins everything in its wake with clumsiness, I tend to hurt myself, usually pretty bad.

Severely sprained ankle. Sprained wrist and thumb. Busted knee. Torn meniscus. You would think all these injuries occured while doing roller derby. Or maybe some other sport. Well, you would be wrong. With the exception of the wrist. Everything else, in addition to an endless list of other such disablement, was the cause of me simply being alive. Sometimes, and I'm not even making this up, I fall over from just a standing position.

With all that said, here's a gander at my day. Upon waking, I got up to pee. I ran into the wall. That doesn't sound so bad since I had just woken up. As I was peeing I reached for the toilet paper...and hit my hand on the counter. Hit at just the right angle, it can bring tears to your eyes. Fast forward to my afternoon theory class...the aestetician doing a demonstration on facials wheeled her chair over my big toe...twice. Now there you would think that wasn't my clumsiness but her mistake. I assure you this would only have happened to me. This evening as I was walking out the front door in my platform flip flops, I stepped on and fell over three pairs of shoes...I ate shit. Now I sit here with a throbbing big toe, two scraped knees, a cut on my elbow and foot rubbed wrong by the canvas material on my flip flops. That's gonna leave a mark

Cumbersome is as cumbersome does, some might say. And by some, I mean me. Futile isn't the right word, but it's the first that comes to mind.

Sidenote: The genius has, in fact, inherited my gracefulness, or lack there of. Gawd help him.

An ode

"Daddy, how did you know I was a girl when I was born? Did I have tiny earings?"
How my dad laughed at that. Ask him and he'll tell you all about it. Over and over and over again. He'll also tell you how I used to say "I wanna do it my byself". If you can believe it, I was stubborn. Well read and well spoken by the age of three thanks to my pops, and I was still dyslexic when it came to certain phrases and naive as to the ways of the world. But he was always there to softly giggle and humor my beliefs.

Growing up, he was a columnist for the El Paso Times and the El Paso Herald Post, respectively. About twice a year he would write a story or other about me, his, at the time, youngest. Most children would shy away from and be embarassed about said articles. But surprisingly enough, not me. I read his column every day. And if there was even a smidge about me in it, I would rip the article out of the paper and take it to school waving it in the air for all to see and admire. "My daddy's a famous journalist!" I would say, chest swelled with pride, old articles crumpling with sweat in my little hand. "He likes to write stories about me on my birthday! I'm special!" I would brag to all who would listen, friends and strangers alike. I pretty much thought I was the shit.

An accomplished playwright, poet, opinionist and published author, he was recently named El Paso's very own journalistic icon. Using his words to paint pictures about a life in Mexico, to support Chicano Activism or simply to entertain. He is my dad. And I was, AM, proud.

Being the literary lothario that he is, he had high expectations for my sister and me. Though at times, they seemed higher for me. I would get grounded if any of my grades dropped below a C. However, C's were just as unacceptable as F's. He always told me I was smarter than the average kid. That I could do anything I wanted. Granted I attend college. Preferably an above-average university. I'd hoped of attending his alma matter Colombia. I wanted to be just like him. Traveled, relaxed, an intellect in his own right. Hearing about all his adventures and travels, I'd decided at a young age that I would travel. Experience life before I got tied down by the proverbial travails that are suburban America. My dad shared in my future dreams for me. He often told me that he always pictured his baby girl traveling the world, writing poems and basically just enjoying life.

Then came the day I found out I was pregnant. At the ripe young age of 17, I was terrified to tell anyone. Though completely lax in attitude, I still felt pressure from the expectations my family had of me. After telling my mom and sister, it was time to tell my dad. I. Was. Petrified. I cried and pleaded with my sister to not make me tell him. Or worse yet, for her not to spill the beans. We argued for about 20 minutes. "You have to tell him!" she said, "This is not something you can keep from him, he's your father!" To which I redundantly replied, "Why?! I can just be pregnant and he doesn't have to know. Ever. He's in El Paso, we're here! Don't make me tell him, please. He's gonna be so pissed!" I eventually relented at the behest of my sister. She dialed the number. "Daddy, I have something to tell you," I said somberly. When I broke the news, the floodgates opened. "How could you get pregnant mija?! You had so much going for you. Your life is going to be so hard." I involuntarily received a new ass hole. Four years later the second pregnancy wouldn't go over so well either. Lectures about how now being a mother of two and a housewife would make it even harder for me to go to college, get a degree, be a writer like I'd so wished. " I'll go to college daddy. I'll be a writer. I promise."

Twenty-eight years later, his baby girl is all grown up. A mother of a six year old girl and a soon to be ten year old son, I've somehow reached adult hood, no matter how immature I may seem at times. A writer in my own right, a soon to be licensed cosmotologist and most importantly, still a dreamer, I owe a lot of my wit, charm and sardonic humor to him. Granted, the other players in my life who made me who I am today are my mother and my big sister, but in different ways. Every time I talk to my dad is like sitting with Plato, Socrates, Chuck Pahlaniuk. At least in my eyes. So tonight I'll raise my glass to him. A little late on the sentiment, but you know me, better late than never, right. Happy Father's day daddy. Now I get to write stories about you.

How strange

The past few weeks have been strange, at best. Nothing too bad, but a little surreal, to me at least.

First we have the whole situation with the ex-psuedo bf. He's called me a couple of times, nothing too bad. Last night he woke me up because he "wanted to see" me. It was 1:30 in the morning and I had been in a very deep, drool inducing sleep. I caved and had him come over. We just talked, but we talked until about 2:30 or so. Needless to say, I overlept. Right through my alarm. I was so late to school. No more late night visists for me.

Today I ran my first student council meeting as El Presidente. Ambular (whom I miss severly) got terminated for two months and I moved up in student council rank. I think it went pretty well. After wards, I went into the new class to make some announcements and they were damn quiet. I made a joke and laughed. They stared. I asked if anyone had any questions. They stared. I made fun of someone. They stared. It was a little awkward. But hey, I remember what my first couple of days were like. Speaking of which, I have approximately only four more months to go. F'n f'yeah. Move over Sally Hershberger, make room for Mal Vicious.

That's all I can think of for now. My bladder is so full right now, it's about to explode, thus making it hard to concentrate (read: i'm doing the pee-pee dance right now).

Aneurysm bop

Stressed out. There's really nothing I can say right now that won't launch me into a 5 page long rant, so I won't say anything more than this. I'm not taking a 2 week leave from school like I so hoped. Hate my instructor. Presidential duties. Miss my sbff. Kinda don't wanna be single right now. Poop.

Take a few drinks. A couple of pills. Repeat.

Update on my so-called life

School: school is slow. I need clients. So if you know anyone who wants a bitchin' hair style, send them my way. As much as I like to sit on my ass and do nothing, the day drags when there are no clients. Not only that, but my tip quota goes down.

Boys: I told the psuedo bf that we should just be friends. I'm kind of high maintenance. And he doesn't have room for me in his life right now. But of course, in true fashion, I'm jonesing a boyfriend. Go figure. Seriously, and any other boys I find are married. What's up with that?

Job front: I just had a job interview with Club Tattoo. I hope I get it. I needs to get paid.

Kiddos: The genius is going to be 10 in less than a month. TEN. Weird. I still can't get used to the fact that I have a kid so old.

I think that's pretty much it. Besides my random thoughts on racism, sexism, stupidity and idiocracy, its pretty much the same shit, different day scenario in my little horrorland. Take a few drinks. A couple of pills. Repeat.

A brief history in Whoreland

Last week, my pants ripped at school. It could only happen to me. And I'm not talking about a little rip...I'm talking about a huge, from-the-top-of-the-pocket to the bottom of my ass rip. Were the pants too tight for my fat ass, you ask? No. They just decided to rip. Renee said it was a good thing I was wearing cute butt covering underwear. I said it was a good thing I was actually wearing underwear.

I've been super busy at school. SUPER BUSY. I'm tired. Oh so tired. So I've decided I'm going to take a two week leave of absence. I need the break. I had to try real hard to hold back tears on Thursday after my frustration over the perm I was doing took over. Maybe considering I'd already done a relaxer that morning, all the chemicals were getting to me. Cause I was stressed. So I' taking the couple of weeks to:
1. try and find a job
2. find somewhere for my kiddos to stay for the summer while I'm in school, and
3. try and find a place to hopefully, maybe move into by July. I have some shit to take care of. Plus, being uber stressed at school is making me not want to be there. As much as I love it.

And speaking of embarrassing things happening to me. This last Thursday, I was rocking it at karaoke. Angela and I were singing a duet, of course, on stage. As I jumped off the stage in my platform flip-flops, I landed on Angela's shoes, and in front of the whole bar, ate shit. But, being the graceful klutz that I am, I stood back up and kept singing while shooing an old man's hands from my ass. It was funny. Although my ankle is currently throbbing with pain and is swollen. Meh. Wouldn't be the first time.

I'm going to now try and finish off the week without embarrassing myself any further. A girl can dream, right?

As it goes

I am currently hanging out in my actual Horrorland. Things could be worse...I'm exaggerating a little...but I am choosing to be irritated by this list of woes.

1. I ran out of toothpaste and am having to use kids Colgate with Spongebob on the package...ick x 10
2. The mosquitoes (those bitches) are STILL feasting on my oh so sweet blood...it's no wonder I'm anemic
3. My bottom lip is still swollen...not too bad, but bad enough to be bothersome and hinder my speech

That is all I guess. Ya'll know me though, I'll find something to bitch about soon.

On a kid-note: This morning as I was getting ready for school, I heard the kitties go out to the backyard. As they came running into the room to brush their teeth, I noticed that the princess' hair was wet. I thought nothing of it...she sometimes wets it down or puts massive amounts of product to spike her hair. A few minutes later I saw her again and really noticed how wet it was. I asked her if she'd wet it down. The genius, of course, is quick to tell me that "she got it wet in the sprinklers! I told her not to!" I then noticed her shirt...sprinkled with water all over her shoulders. She stood there with a sheepish look on her little face as I asked what would posses her to do such a thing. She shrugged her shoulders.

Sometimes I wonder about my kids. They're funny. Obnoxious. Weird. Tall. Silly. Irritating. Cute. And maybe just a little crazy. I often find myself wondering what I got myself into.

Today was the last day of school. The genius will be in the 5th grade this fall. It still weirds me out to know I have such an old kid. And speaking of old kids...the princess will be in the first grade. FIRST GRADE. I no longer have any babies. I have two kids that will be in school all day very soon...too soon...and who will be taller than me, at least the genius, within the next year. Surreal isn't the correct term, but it's the first that comes to mind.

Eaten alive

I am officially a feeding ground for mosquitos. They. Are. Eating. Me. Alive. I may not have any blood left. I believe I am AB positive. Get those blood transfusions ready. Im just saying.

A smile is worth a thousand words

I've been holding the ex's laptop hostage the past few nights. And since I've been all alone at the wife's while I'm housesitting, I've had not much else to do other than cruise the net. Since I've been working (read: procrastinating) on my book, aptly titled "Adventures in Whoreland",I thought I'd cruise the infamous Craigslist to get other people's experiences, good or bad, with the whole net dating thing. Namely, men's experiences. All the research I have so far is female related, so I thought I'd gain a different perspective.

I started by posting an ad asking for anyone's tales in the sometimes unforgiving, sometimes scary world of online dating. Some of the responses I got. Man, some men are so desperate, it seems. Right off the bat, I got a always welcome (read: funny) cock picture. I simply replied, "Thanks for the cock picture, but I am in fact, actually just looking for stories. I have a boyfriend, thank you." That was just the beginning of it. Along with the ad, I posted a picture. Just me smiling. Just my face. Just to show that I am not some weirdo just looking for sex. Apparently that picture said more than that.

It's been interesting. Fun. Something to do while I sit here today, absent from school. But alas, I have to give the laptop back so now I'll have to sit here and watch t.v. instead of having random people entertain me.

The research is going on swimmingly though. I have a lot of very interesting, very funny stories and I can't wait to start compiling them. Now it's time for me to switch to mom-mode and go pick up the kiddos. Leading a double life sure is exhausting.

Right now...

My lip is swollen...I guess that's what I get for sticking a needle through it
I'm starting to get a migraine...I may have a brain tumor
I'm sleepy, but can't sleep
I'm bored and lonely, but don't want to hang out with anyone
My lips are really dry because my bottom lip is so fat I can't close them all the way
My right eye hurts
Am full of nothing but complaints right now
What else can I say, other than I'm a pathological complainer. Lather, rinse, repeat.

My life as a walking contradiction

I am in love with the weather right now. As I sit outside in my underwear typing away, I can't help but think about my cabin fever. The weather right now is reminding me of the beach. As most of you know, I absolutely love love love the ocean. Not man-made bodies of water. Not dirty lakes littered with half naked underage girls trying to get on the next installment of Girls Gone Wild. I mean the Pacific Ocean, to be exact. Sitting on the beach, for me, is next to gawdliness.

I get bored easily. I get restless. I like to get away from it all, if just for a tiny while. Right now is one of those times. In this big city, where I can't even see the stars, where everyone is moving fast, no time to stop and smell the roses, where there's time limits, expiration dates, it's hard to find any kind of clarity. Yes, I know, if I really want it, I'll find it. But that's not really how I work. And I know that going somewhere else, running away if you will, doesn't get rid of your problems or make them better...but for me...for me its about gaining the ability to see the answers as the clouds are lifted. Some of you get it, some of you don't. Just like me...some of you get me, some of you don't.

It often amazes me when someone gets me. Though I myself do not think I'm all that complex, many find it hard to understand me or where I'm coming from. Oddly enough, I've run into that a lot lately. I admit, sometimes I'm a walking contradiction. But I'm just a woman. A woman trying to find peace of mind...trying to avoid conflict, though let me tell you, conflict does NOT want to avoid me...trying to educate my kids on how not to be complete assholes...basically just trying to get through life as best as I can for myself and my kids to be happy. Though at certain times of my life that may seem impossible. But as they say, nothing's impossible, only...oh, I can't think of the word here...help me out here.

With all that being said, I should probably be going to bed. I have school in the morning, even if I haven't been wanting to go lately, and I need to actually be there. After all, the new Vice President of student council cannot shirk her duties as the President's "bitch". Yes, that's right, I got voted into the vice presidency. What were they thinking?

I'm getting eaten alive out here by mosquitoes, but of course, outside is the only place I can get the net...go figure. Oh, and more new...I got my lip pierced. I'm not that big a fan of facial piercings for myself, and yes, I know I have my septum pierced, but I can tuck it away if needed. The lip ring is not something you can just hide, especially since it takes about 6 weeks to heal. But, it was something new to do. Besides, the kids think its cool. Then again, they think everything I do is cool...oh, except for walking them to their classes now. The genius likes to get dropped off and doesn't want me holding his hand anymore either. It's a sad day when your kid is too old for that. The princess still lets me do it, but only after I asked her why she was embarassed of me, to which she replied, with a heavy sigh, that she wasn't and that I could walk her to class still...but I'm pretty sure it was only out of guilt. Guilt that she'd made mommy feel bad. ::sigh:: I never thought they would get too old for me or too embarassed of me. I know I don't look like the other moms and some might think that's why they would be embarassed of me, but that is not the case. Me looking like this is all they've known. Tattoos, colored hair, piercings and all. Alas, I guess there comes a time in every kids life when they grow to a certain kind of independance that keeps their mother from holding their hands...walking them to class...I don't think I was ready for this quite yet. They're still so young. Hell, I'M still so young. That's life I guess. Resulting from the path in the fork in the road I chose to take. And to think, I still have AT LEAST 12 more years of this to go through. I. Can't. Even. Wait.

That is if...and it's a big IF...I don't have any more kids. The truth is though, that I've been going through a patch of "baby fever". For those of you who know me, and know me well, you know I DO NOT get baby fever. And yet, here I am, reaching to hold any baby within my grasp. Scary, I know. However, as rash and impulsive as I may be at times, this is not to say that I want one now. I refuse to have a baby out or wedlock. Ironic, I know, being that I got knocked up in high school, but I'm somewhat older and wiser now. This is not to say I want this for my future though, necessarily. As I've said before, I get bored easily...I change my mind at the drop of a hat. Maybe this too will pass. With me sometimes you never know what you're going to get. Bipolar isn't the right infliction, but its the first that comes to mind.

Malice the Wonder Girl

My week has been better. Thank gawd. Yesterday was actually busy for me. As was today. And I'm booked all day tomorrow. It's about damn time. I was about thisclose to taking a leave I'm so bored with school. And yes, I know it'll probably be shitty at the beginning of next week again, but I'm hoping that with summer coming it'll pick up a little more before everyone goes on vacation.

Speaking of which, I've been possessed by the green monster. I'm completely envious of the wife and her impending vacation in Prague. She leaves in 5 days. And that sucks...well, for me. Now who's gonna buy me beers? At least I get to house sit for her so that means 13 days of peace and quiet from the madre. Gawd knows I need it.

So I finally talked to the bf and things are better. Though I have to remember not to drink that much ever again. Not only for my own sanity (i hate not remembering), but for the sanity of everyone I love. Especially Ambular who ended up having to take care of my ass. But enough about that. I'm trying to forget.

For those of you who know me well, ya'll know I HATE commercials. Especially those commercials wherein the sponsor is trying to sway you to one side or the other. For instance; the anti-smoking commercials. Granted, smoking is a bad habit, I know because I smoke a pack every two days and I do not want my kids to smoke, but let people make their own choices. Those ads make me want to smoke more out of pure rebellion. Cigarette companies aren't allowed to put out ads promoting their merchandise for fear that susceptible young minds will want to start smoking based purely on the commercial. I call bullshit. I know kids are stupid, I was once, but society should give them the benefit of the doubt...at least a little.

Another one that bugs me is the anti-abortion ads. O.k., I don't necessarily think that abortion is a good thing, but hey, to each their own. Who am i to tell someone not to do it. And for that reason mostly, I wish their were pro-abortion commercials out there in t.v.-land. "Abortion:it's the right thing to do when your life is turning to shit". But no, only one side of religiously-fanatic right-wing corporate America is allowed to express their "opinions" openly anywhere they please. That is what really grinds my gears.

Thank you for listening. And I'm out *clap*

My life in a shitshell

This week has been pretty retarded for me. And it's only Wednesday. I pretty much want to just crawl into bed and not come out until it's over.

Let's start with me getting so completely wasted on Sunday, I blacked out. At which point I yelled at the boyfriend about his c-bag roommate/ex-girlfriend (while blacked out), yes, he was officially my boyfriend for like two days, and I harked a lot. A LOT. Damn jaeger. Now the boyfriend won't talk to me. Why is it, I keep asking myself, that I keep dating cowards that don't know how to communicate? Seriously, it's like I have a radar for these people. I'm almost tempted to scrap the boyfriend (that is if he hasn't already scrapped me) and go back to 'no-fuss, no-muss'. That seems to work out for me better. No messy feelings, no broken hearts. We'll see though. I'm sometimes rash and impulsive and I change my mind at the drop of a hat. To top off my fabulous week, I just got rear-ended. On the way to the wife's with the kiddos, some dumb bitch decided that she wanted to drive even though the light was red and there were about 5 cars in front of her. Being that my drivers' license is currently suspended and I'm not supposed to be driving, I just drove away. Even though it was not my fault I wouldn't be able to do anything with the insurance information. Add that to my uterus falling out and you've got a not-so-happy Mal. But, that's nothing a little beer and time with the brother can't take care of.

A good thing about me being in reclusivity this week is that I started a 2nd draft of the first chapter of my book...an even better one than my first draft. So I'm pretty happy about that. Suffering really does bring out an artists' best work. Ya, I know I'm not REALLY suffering and there are worst things that could be going on right now, but ya'll know I like to be happy and hate conflict.

::sigh:: I guess things can only get better from here. I have about 22 1/2 weeks left of school. Let the countdown begin. I just have to get my shit together and not get terminated. After all, I don't want to be in school any longer than I have to.

Que sera, sera. Well, this is officially the worst blog I've ever written, but considering my shaken state from the accident, I could've done worse. Oh, and side note, my three middle toes are a little red and swollen. That'll teach me to drive barefoot. Pshaw, who am I kidding, I'm still gonna drive barefoot.

Come on

Here's the thing. If you go get your hair done, tip your stylist. Whether you're at a school or not, that person is spending at least an hour of their time with you to make you feel and look better. I had two client's today, one color and one cut. And...nothing. The thing is, that they both LOVED their hair when I was done with them. But still...nothing. That's my gas money. That's my lunch money. It's not that hard. $5 even, for my time, patience and hard work. It shows gratitude. Not only that, but it IS a service. Grrrrr. It really grinds my gears to work my ass off to make someone look better and to get nothing in return. It's just what you do. You tip for services rendered. Thank you. That is all.

Ranteriffic

Saturdays at school are busy. Real busy. Which is usually a good thing for me. Usually. And by usually a good thing for me, I mean I make a fairly good amount of tips. Not today. I was busy all day. I made $2. TWO DOLLARS. I know it's a school, but we don't make money off the 30 plus hours we're on the floor taking clients. We're actually paying to be there. A LOT of money to be there. Not to mention that the services there are actually pretty cheap for a school owned by a $100 minimum a haircut stylist. I guess it's not so much the no tipping on haircuts because I can now whip those out in no time at all. It's mainly the color services. I did a partial highlight this morning...not to mention it was corrective, trust me her hair looked like shit...and nothing. I spent two and a half hours fixing her crappy ass hair, using two different bleaches so that her hair wouldn't fry off, because she wanted it "more blonde". And if I do say so myself, it looked pretty bitchin'. And she LOVED it. I do a lot of corrective color, and I'm good at it. I don't even really need the instructors to help me anymore. And to not be tipped for it, well, that sucks a monkey's ass.

There are some people out there, believe it or not, who don't like me. Usually for something I had nothing to do with. If you don't like me, fine, you don't like me. I probably don't like you back, and even if I do, I could care less. I'm too old for that kind of shit and have more important things to worry about (read: my kids). So if you feel the need to talk shit, do it to my face and not hidden behind a computer using subtext in a blog. Because chances are, someone that likes me will read it and tell me about it. Just for the record, me writing about it here means nothing, it's just a rant. If I did something mean or shitty to you, then fine, talk shit. But when I did absolutely nothing to cause a shitty situation, well get over it. And that is pretty much all I'm going to say about that. Like I said before, I have more important things to worry about...like raising my kids to be good people and not complete assholes...making sure they complete school to make something of themselves...keeping them well fed, well groomed and all around happy. Which they are, so pat on my back

I'm not a huge fan of people right now. Not that I am in general, but people as a whole generally piss me off. I know I'm not the most perfect person, but I know I'm not a complete shitbag like other inhabitants of this planet. Grrrrrr.

Just for the record, today's weather is moody with a 98% chance of drunkenness. Not to mention some fun with the wife and possible loving from the new guy. Although there is a possible chance that I've worn him out this week. I'm good like that.

Bitchy is as bitchy does

Today is National Shit on Mal Day. Everyone's doing it, so join in. The ex-and-mom government are in full support of this day and encourage you to participate to the fullest extent.

Just for the record, it's holidays like this that make me want to pick up and disappear. Then maybe "the government" will actually see that I do a lot and those kiddo's are very well taken care of, smart and happy. Blindness must run in the family. At least where those two are concerned.

Honestly, if I do such a bad job, then why doesn't the ex take the kids away from me? Because then he'd have to take them to school everyday, bathe them and basically do things that aren't just fun. And the mom, well, you'd think since she's a social worker, if I'm so bad at being a parent, she would call CPS. She doesn't. Why? Because she knows. She knows she's wrong. She just doesn't know how to deal with her shit, so she takes it out on anyone around her. I'm the best for target practice, it seems.

Take a few drinks. A couple of pills. Repeat.

The next Rockette

I rocked another night of karaoke. There may have been one or two bad renditions of a song here and there, but I sure know how to entertain. Example: for mine and Angela's rendition of 'I got you babe', I sported a black wig as we were on stage. That's right. I'm getting more comfortable with this whole being in front of a group of people making an ass out of myself. Next stop, American Idol. Not really. I did, however, find another weekly song, besides 'Crazy' (though I haven't sang that the past two times), and that is 'Heaven is a place on Earth'. How can I not rock Belinda Carlisle and why did I never think to sing it before? I actually sang a lot of songs last night. Bon Jovi's 'You give love a bad name' (complete with dedication), Lita Ford, of course, and don't forget Pat Benetar. Good shit. I got way too drunk though and had to go home from school early because I pretty much wanted to die. Alcoholic isn't the right term, but it's the first that comes to mind.

I'm so not drinking tonight. No joke.

Now it's time for me to stop lazing around and take care of the munchkins. The princess is becoming more and more like me every day...and let me tell you, it's scary. I don't know if the world is ready for two Mal's. She went to school today rockin' a 'fohawk' and an outfit I would probably sport...minus the cleavage, of course. I told her I was glad she was my daughter...and she responded that she was glad I was her mom because I'm "gothic". What 6 year old says that? Mine does, apparently. As much as I'm not a kid person, the genius and the princess are pretty bitchin' kids...that is when they're not trying to beat each other up. Little freakishly strong mutants. Just like their daddy.

Time to veg out and not leave my bed until it's time to go to school tomorrow morning. Just for the record, there's always a first for everything.