I miss your independence

That Irish fire in your veins

You could hold your whiskey

and your Valium just the same.

Your red hair, your smile,

Your laugh and your wit

Nobody’s ever been quite like you,

They’ve tried, but they’re just not it.

You didn’t mince your words

And always had something to say

For your advice just one more time

I’d give everything away.

Not a single day passes

That I don’t miss your voice

I think of you all the time

To help quiet the noise.

This family’s gone plum crazy

In the time that you’ve been gone

How desperately we need you here

To help us carry on.

We’ll trudge on, it’s true

For there is no other way

But you’re ever in our hearts

We miss you every day.



Meghan Trainor, Please Stop Being a Stereotype

Any of y’all who follow me on the Facebooks know that music is immeasurably important to me. I love some of the best and worst the musicians of the world & time everlasting has to offer. Country, pop, rock, metal, alternative, indie, I’ve even started taking a liking to jazzy bluesy stuff as I’ve aged (see, Mom, it was but a matter of time!). The first genre I ever fell head over heels with was doo wop. Some of my earliest and fondest memories are of me helping my gearhead Daddy out in the garage, the silver boom box in the corner, singing out the local oldies stations. In the late 80’s and early 90’s, when I was but a wee deviant diva, a lot of those oldies were doo wop hits. I spent many a Saturday afternoon wiggling my mini jiggle to “I Only Have Eyes For You” & “Why Do Fools Fall in Love?” Recently, there’s been a resurgence of doo wop in popular music. The artist that comes to the forefront of my mind is Meghan Trainor. I want to like her. I do. I even bought “All About That Bass” (and enjoy the song on occasion, nevermind that there’s only 1 truly plus size dancer in that video)! But… “Dear Future Husband” bothers me, a lot. It’s so chock full of misogynistic stereotypes it’s like Don Draper himself wrote the damn lyrics.

Exhibit A:
“Take me on a date
I deserve it, babe
And don’t forget the flowers every anniversary
‘Cause if you’ll treat me right
I’ll be the perfect wife
Buying groceries
Buy-buying what you need”

Ok… For starters, there’s no such thing as “The Perfect Wife.” That is some unattainable Stepford shit and you are setting the wrong expectations, MeggyPants. “Take me on a date, I deserve it, babe?” What has your ass done to “deserve” a date?! Date’s aren’t things you *earn.* Maybe if you weren’t a tyrant, your spouse would take you out willingly. And don’t even get me started on the perfect little wifey hittin’ the grocery store. *Gag McPukerson*

Then, there’s this little gem: “You gotta know how to treat me like a lady/Even when I’m acting crazy;” Oh, right, I totally forgot women aren’t capable of being reasonable human beings and any display of emotion must mean they’re crazy! Maybe if you want him to treat you like a lady, don’t act crazy? Or maybe don’t be with somebody who is going to take every display of emotion as crazy/unbalanced/PMS-ing (because, remember, you should be ashamed and apologetic about how your body can build humans unless it’s actively doing so!)

“After every fight
Just apologize
And maybe then I’ll let you try and rock my body right
Even if I was wrong
[Laugh] You know I’m never wrong
Why disagree?”

UGH. Perpetuating the idea that women withhold sex to “punish” their spouse is ridiculous, and that they are shrews who never compromise only sets the Feminist movement back about 40 years. I mean come on. The ability to take accountability, compromise and build stronger partnerships with open, honest communication should be the goal with any spouse, present or future. What you’re describing here sounds like your future (ex)-husband is ’bout to get stuck with a punishing, narcissistic Trainor-wreck. You know, pretty much the stereotype of every joke that features femininity as the punch line.

“Open doors for me and you might get some kisses
Don’t have a dirty mind
Just be a classy guy
Buy me a ring”

Open your own doors. Pull out your own chair. Take care of your damn self. I’m not saying chivalry is totally bygone, but damn! Learn to do for yourself. Open a woman’s door, she walks through it once. Teach her to open her own doors & you better get the hell out of her way. Again, using sex and affection as a manipulative tool and not giving it out of genuine love? This is a disappointingly oft-repeated theme throughout this song. Do you have any other tired ass cliches you can bull out of your undoubtedly pricey handbag? Do I even need to address the gold digging implications with the immediately demanding he buy you a ring? By the title being “Dear Future Husband” I’m going to assume this is not somebody you are with *yet;* might want to calm your tits on demanding jewelry before you’ve even met! Sheesh! And if you don’t want your future spouse to have a dirty mind, what are you going to do with him?!

I’m sure you’re a lovely woman; how about you show us the real, genuine version of yourself that isn’t just a poor carbon copy of everything everybody else thinks you are and should be as a woman? Try pairing empowering, positive, uplifting lyrics with these decent beats and watch magic happen! Just because the music is a throwback to the 50’s doesn’t mean the lyrics and sentiment have to be.

I’m Back, Bitches!

So, it’s been a red hot minute since I poked my head into the blogosphere. After a conversation with a colleague this week about the origin of my atheism which necessitated my pulling this blog out to assist in explaining, I remembered that I had a bit of a knack for this. (Is it pathetic or awesome when reading your own blog makes you laugh out loud so hard that tears run down your leg?) So, to that end, I am making my grand re-entry into blogging. I make no promises; The Bloggess I am not (though I totes mcgoats want a metal chicken named Beyonce). However, writing has always been therapeutic for me, and I owe it to myself to invest a little time in self care. (I am but a pitcher who can’t fill anybody else’s cup unless I take the time to replenish myself.)
Twinkle & Stinkle are 12 & 8 now. Still hilarious, still too much like me for any of our good. I intend to ride this blogpony (giggity) as long as I have the energy, and what good is motherhood, really, if you can’t use them as canon fodder in an embarrassingly public arena?? I am often ridiculously hilared by their shenanigans and expect that y’all will be, too. However, at the mo, they’ve elected to abandon their dear parents for the wild freedom of Grandma’s, and have advised they don’t plan to return till they miss the cat. So. Y’all get an update blog this time, and are forced to come back for T&S hilarity. *cue evil laugh*

The biggest update is that I am no longer peddling smut! I know, I know, you’re all SHOCKED at my reduction in deviance. (Rest assured, though my job has changed my shenanigans have not.) It’s been a little over 2 years now since I bid adieu to a dildo. The straw that broke the dildo’s back was the day I had a skinhead (not being judgmental – he had a swastika tattoo on his neck, to advertise how good he is at making decisions) come in and threaten to stab me because I ID’ed his lime green eye shadow-wearing, 12 year old looking girlfriend. After convincing him to leave (by picking up the phone & dialing 911 after hitting my non-functioning panic button and getting no response), I called the Dildo Hut Regional Manager, Kim Jong Dong. My request was simple: “My panic buttons aren’t working and I just had a guy in here making trouble. I asked ADP the last time they were in to service the alarm what it would cost to replace them and he said since they haven’t been replaced since I’ve been here that it would be free, but you’re the authorized user to order things like that. Can you call them for me so we can replace these in case Captain Stab-a-Ho comes back?” His response was also very simple: “I don’t really have time to deal with that right now. It’s not a priority.”  Nothing has the ability to make you feel worthless and unappreciated like being blatantly told that your safety is not a priority. I applied online at my current employer that night and was hired there within 3 weeks and haven’t looked back (despite Dildo Hut’s repeated requests for me to come back part-time). It’s amazing the loyalty that develops when you are paid and treated like a human being.

I am far more worldly a traveler since last I demonstrated my blogging prowess!! I have had the great fortune to visit the beautiful city of Minneapolis, Minnesota twice since I left y’all last, and take a few weekends a year to myself to get away with friends in Dallas. I’ve also attended my first concert(s). I saw the amazing Noah Guthrie (check him out, yo, especially “Adore” & his “Sexy & I Know It” cover), and I’ve seen #thatbeautifulginger Ed Sheeran TWICE. (And let’s be reeeeeaaaal honest, I’m probably going to hit DFW to see him when he tours again in September.) I’ve been slightly obsessed with him since I heard “The A Team” in 2011, and my love for him only continues to grow every moment that I spend basking in his awesomeness. He’s so good, he makes shitty songs AWESOME. (If you don’t believe me – check out his “Trap Queen” cover with The Roots, or the Hit Impulse remix of his “I’m in Love w/the Coco” remix. For realsies.)

Ok, kiddies. That’s all the blogpony feels like trotting tonight! I will leave you with these words of wisdom: “Let it Be.” Just kidding. Those were the Beatles words of wisdom. Mine are this: Benches get sit done.

My Absolute Refusal to Play the Body Shame Game

Inspired by this: (seriously, go check it out. She is awesome. And waaaay cute.) I have decided to write a blog dedicated to something very near and dear to my heart; Fatism. It’s a real thing. It exists. People fling around the word “fat” as if it’s something that should send the target into hysterics. It’s not. Just the way using the word “gay” as an insult makes you sound like a stupid redneck, using the word “fat” in the same context just makes you seem like a lazy insulter. To me, that indicates that you can find nothing else reproachable about my character or intelligence to resort to such an obvious statement. Yes, I’m fat. Good job, Captain Obvious! My weight is not a detriment, but your level of intelligence and lack of creativity will be to you!

For years I have been puzzled by how offended people get that I don’t possess the “proper” amount of shame about my body. For those readers who don’t know me in real life, I’m a fat girl. (I’m also a mom, a Scorpio, and a smut peddling degenerate. I don’t view any of those things as something to be ashamed about, either.) I weigh nearly 300 pounds. And I’m fine with that. Being fat has never affected my ability to make friends or live my life (except an isolated horseback riding incident when I was 19, but that had more to do with poor upper body strength than my weight). As a matter of fact, being fat has forced me to develop other characteristics that are much more important and make me a much more fabulous person than being a size 6 would. I am funny, intelligent, creative, articulate, outgoing and delightfully snarky. I may not have bothered to enhance those attributes had I been “traditionally” beautiful.

One of the things that cracks me up the most is men who come into the store who tell me “I don’t normally go for fat girls, but there’s something about you.” Newsflash, Paco. You’re not the only pony at the rodeo. If you’re shallow enough to let somebody’s size be a determining factor in whether or not you’re attracted to them without knowing anything else about them, there’s a good chance you wouldn’t get to ride the sausage train to my velvet palace anyway. Some of them act like I should be grateful for the attention. Like I should be soooo thankful for the fact they’re willing to make an exception to their Skinny Bitches Only Rule that I should just immediately fall on their penis with my vajay. Bitch, please.  I get more ass than a toilet seat! And I don’t ever have to feel ashamed because I am loved for who I am and NOT what I look like, and would be loved at any size. I am grateful for THAT loving, not for some shallow asshole who is willing to have a meaningless one night fling with me because I’m cute and he’s curious. I have never in my life had a problem getting attention that way (the great tits really help, but so does being bubbly and outgoing and funny as all hell. Oh, and modest.) and I’ve never felt like I owed anybody anything for giving it to me. I am just as deserving of love, and affection and attention as any skinny bitch out there.

Being fat is not something I should feel bad about. I am fat the same way I have blue eyes or a great rack. It’s simply a physical attribute. I am not lazy, stupid, or out of control. It doesn’t make me any less awesome. I am still a good mom, good friend, and great in the sack. haha. Being fat does not define me or how I feel about myself. I have more confidence than most people, and what some refer to as “seriously overdeveloped self-esteem.” But I would take that any day over looking in the mirror and crying over something that doesn’t make a damn bit of difference in the grand scheme of things.

I am weirdly lumpy in places. I have bingo wings and big thighs. I have stretch marks and no ass.  I don’t just have a muffin top, I have an entire cake explosion. And goddammit, I am beautiful. If you don’t agree, we don’t have to be friends. I’m not holding a gun to your head and forcing you to spank it to topless photos of me. If you can’t deal with my weight or the fact that I refuse to be ashamed of my body, you have two options: 1.) Get the fuck over it. 2.) Fuck off. 🙂

Wherein I Steal My own work and Re-Present It!

Whilst awaiting that wicked temptress, my Muse, I have decided I am going to cannibalize old blogs and put the things I am particularly fond of here so that I can have them all handy in one place! (Very occasionally, I have brief periods of productivity!)

1.) Thumbing through the memories of the last half decade filled her with longing. The realization that it was all gone hit her suddenly, nearly taking her breath away. The pretty words, the I still love yous, the I need yous… It all rang hollow in the cold empty morning light. The constant internal struggle had worn her down, the resolve she had left fractured more with every passing day. For so long, he had been what held her together. He was the glue that held the smile on her face. Having him ripped away slowly had been excruciating and now she was left to wonder “what now?” Numbness had seeped into the cracks where the pain used to be. It was all so surreal. She often thought this is what the planets in solar systems with the dying suns felt like. Once that sun is gone, the planets lose their orbit and just start drifting. She’d never been the drifting type and it was uncomfortable and awkward. Purposelessness didn’t suit her. Perhaps she shouldn’t have made a man her purpose. Particularly not a man who would never give fully of himself. Looking back, she realized how foolish it was to devote 90% of her life to 10% of somebody else’s. She had never been a table scraps girl. Never the girl to lay awake at night and wonder if she’d ever be enough. Never the girl to turn herself inside out to make it right when she’d done nothing wrong to begin with. The misdirected anger, the withholding, the only on his terms… She had finally broken. And in the fragments, she was free. -Aug 2011

2.) He smiled a certain way when he looked at her, as if he was enjoying a private joke that not even she was in on. The smile puzzled and intrigued her; she wanted desperately to be in on the joke. That smile, in fact, is what led them here; a mass of entangled limbs, inauspiciously flung across a comfortable, but unfamiliar king size bed. She groped through her foggy consciousness, grasping for and missing the pieces she knew would fill in the puzzle. What was it about him that kept drawing her in? Was it the way his green-gold eyes danced across her body, hungrily drinking her in, bemusement playing at the corners of his mouth as he noticed the blush creeping up her chest? (it didn’t matter where she was or who was near, a single look from him could paralyze her with desire). Was it the way his thumb absently stroked the back of her hand when they touched, the feather light strokes a constant reminder that her protector was near? Was it the fact that they seemed to be eachother’s exact complement? That the warmth of her breast could draw out the cold that seemed to seep into his bones? Was it in the way that when they were together, she was afforded fearlessness that was otherwise unobtainable? The closer he was, the farther away her worries were. His presence was a salve to her churning psyche, soothing it. -Feb 2010

3.)  I’m pretty and I give great head
He’d rather play Warcraft instead
I get offers daily
Alas he’s forbade me
From bringing strange dick to my bed

-I don’t remember when (not dated) but who doesn’t love a good limerick?

Why I’m An Atheist

In honor of Easter, I have decided to answer all of those people who have asked me recently why it is that I am atheist/agnostic. It seems only fitting. Or horribly sacrilegious. Either way… I get so tired of the lip service paid to separation of church and state, while every conservative political candidate from here to Timbuktu spends 95% of their campaign hollering about how much they love the big imaginary guy upstairs. They hide behind H/him and attempt to take away a woman’s right to choose (both before and after conception), to deny loving same sex couples the right to express their love and commitment with wedding vows (and the accompanying legal rights), to teach our children that it’s ok to hate anybody who is different, as long as it’s in the name of their Jesus.

Where was your Jesus when my stepfather was diddling me ages 5-12? Where was your Jesus when I had to leave the hospital at age 15 without my infant son, whom I had been forced into giving up in an in family open adoption to drug addicts? Where was your Jesus during the following deep 3 year depression, during which “suicide” beat a steady staccato at the back of my teenage brain daily? Where was your Jesus when my brilliant, promising 23 year old brother in law was tragically killed, 6 hours after we told him he was going to be an uncle? Where was your Jesus when my father in law, easily one of the greatest men I have ever known, dropped dead of a heart attack with no warning while my druggie waste of space aunt, who has not been a productive member of society in more years than than Lady Gaga has outfits, has suffered at least two, and continues drinking and drugging to her (weakening) heart’s content?? Tsunamis, earthquakes, floods, fires… Where is your Jesus then? Hate, bigotry, inequality, greed. Too many believers hide behind their Jesus to perpetuate these ideals, so I guess I know where he is then.

Is your Jesus the one my angry, hateful stepmonster worshipped? The woman who told me I was nothing, and that neither she nor my dad wanted me? The woman who taught my 6 year old brother that it was ok to tell me that HE hated me and that he wished I’d go back to my mom’s because nobody at Dad’s wanted me? (Nevermind that I was living at Dad’s because my mother was still with the aforementioned kiddy-diddling stepfather.) The woman who made my home life such a hell that I literally vomited bile for months (at age 12) from a stress-induced ulcer? Does the fact that she managed to land her ever-widening ass in a pew every Sunday make it okay for her to have made me hate myself for years, because she hated me so?

Is your Jesus the one my married college debate professor spoke of from his pulpit every Sunday? Where was Jesus when he was seducing students while his wife recovered from undergoing skin cancer treatment? Where was Jesus when he molested his 17 year old foster daughter (you know, the one he met through the church he was a pastor at? the one he and his wife were “saving” from an abusive home?) in his office on campus?

Where was your Jesus when the minister of the Wesley Foundation (United Methodist College Ministries) at my college lied to the pastor of the church Chris had been a member of since birth and several board members in order to get Chris and I banned, simply because he, as a closeted homosexual, could not deal with his feelings of jealousy over the family we were being blessed with?  Your Jesus allows people to be banned from places of worship based on lies and slander? (Did I mention this was AFTER a year and a half of my devoted service, serving free lunch to broke college kids, remodeling the Wesley House after massive flooding, participating and assisting in Bible studies and discussion groups, laying sod over the unkempt volleyball court, and running sound for the Wesley House band?) Vindication came too late when several of the board members he duped later figured out he was lying, far after they helped strip the faith from two 20 year olds with a brand new baby.

Is your Jesus the one who warped the warm, supportive father of two of my closest friends into a hate monger upon discovering his talented, amazing son was gay? The same man who not 5 years before had no problems with the idea of a MFF threesome? Is it only an abomination when it’s penis on penis, Jesus? Gay is gay, as far as I’m concerned. It makes me no never mind where you like to rub your jibbly bits, as long as you’re a decent human being.

These are simply personal anecdotes on why *I* personally don’t believe in Jesus, and why I won’t force my children to worship H/him. That’s to say nothing of the completely illogical mythology and circular reasoning involved in any religion, which is a topic for another post entirely. (Although I would suggest YouTubing Nate Phelps, atheist son of Westboro Baptist Church founder Fred Phelps if you’d like the gist.) Speaking of… Where is your Jesus when Westboro Baptist Church is using H/him to defile the funerals of men and women who gave their LIVES to make sure that all you have to bitch about is credit card debt and having to wait while your favorite TV show is on hiatus, instead of whether your 9 year old is going to be sold into sex slavery or your 5 year old being killed by an IED she thought was a teddy bear? I’m not saying you have to share my beliefs for us to be friends. Unlike Santorum or Romney, I welcome dissent, as long as you are respectful and well-reasoned.

I don’t need my imaginary friends to heal the sick, or give the blind sight. I just need them to be there when I need them. And I gotta be honest, your Jesus is a tad too inconsistent for my taste.

Peanut Butter Jelly Time! Errr, Pineapple Upside Down Cake Time!

I did promise to post a few recipes along the way, and my adopted “Mom” found this recipe on Pinterest. I’m a Pineapple Upside Down Cake FIEND. I love love love it. It is one of the things I miss most about my FIL who passed away last year. That man could make pineapple upside down cake his bitch. This recipe is pretty close to his, from what I recall. This is a cupcake recipe, which is helpful for portion control (one of my MAJOR issues), assuming of course you don’t eat the entire batch of deliciousness. 😉 (Don’t judge me.)

Recipe stolen from:

Pineapple Upside Down Cupcakes

Cake Ingredients:

2 eggs
2/3 C white sugar
4 T pineapple juice
2/3 C all purpose flour
1 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp salt

1/2 stick butter
2/3 C brown sugar
1-can pineapple rings
6-maraschino cherries

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.  Spray your muffin tins with non-stick cooking spray.

In a mixing bowl, add eggs, white sugar, and pineapple juice.  Beat for 2 minutes.  In a separate bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, and salt.  Add to the wet ingredients and turn mixer back on for 2 minutes.

In a small sauce pan, melt the butter and add the brown sugar.  Stir on low heat for one minute.

Place a pineapple ring in the bottom of each jumbo muffin tin.  Add a cherry in the middle of each pineapple.  Spoon over a layer of the warm brown sugar mixture.  Pour cake mixture over to fill muffin tin 3/4 of the way full.  If you are using regular muffin tins, you will need to cut down the rings to fit or just use pineapple tidbits.