Not In Candy Land Anymore.

Mr. Goodbar wants me to go through my photo’s today and par down.  He says that I especially have too many photo’s of our cats.

I disagree. strongly.  It’s important that I document their every precious cuddle, curl, and sprawl.

I will reluctantly comply.

He wants me to repeat: “I am a digital hoarder” each time I delete a photo or an email.

I love where our relationship is headed now….

We’re not in Candy Land anymore folks.



And It Makes ICE!

Life is moving right along.  I can’t believe i’ve already been in the new house for almost three months.

I’ve been dabbling in cooking again… (no, not taco’s) just a bit though; nothing too fancy yet.

I’ve been cooking things like quiche, stews, broiling chicken, grilling steak dinners and pot roasts.

I enjoy cooking again.

I enjoy cooking again because I love my fridge.
I love the layout of the kitchen and the colors and the shiny equipment.
I love my counter- tops, and I love my fridge.
and I especially love my fridge.

I’m trying to let it come back to me gradually. It’s been about four years since I’ve really cooked anything.much.

To say that I detested the kitchen at my old house would be an understatement.  It made me mental.
The stove and range top were so old and gross they made me want to cry when ever I had to use them to cook, and don’t even get me started on the fridge.

I had this thing with the fridge- where I just could not bring myself to clean it very often because it was so gross it never got clean. Not ever after I had taken every cleaning product known to man and scrubbed it like the crazy bitch i am did it look an ounce better.  It had mold all over the exterior-that grew like, well.. mold-  and nothing on it,  or in it worked very well -if at all.

It was all broken and dark on the inside like a bad neighborhood and and stopped making ice I think around 1984 .  I would clean it though- time and time again.  I’d get up all my courage and pretend i was a frat boy being hazed and get er’ done.  Only to then repeat the dreadful cycle of avoidance and muster… over and over again….

I became like some weird woman that was afraid to go in her own kitchen.  I practically had to plaster the thing with magnets and kids drawings just to fool myself into thinking it was a nice place to go wandering to get the milk for cereal in the morning for the kids sake,  but inside I was screaming “NOOOOOO!”

I had massive aversions to eating (this does not bode well for your family when you are the mom who should be cooking yummy life sustaining meals for your small children.)  Yeah… I sucked pretty much at this portion of momdom in general while I was there but I’m feeling much more secure in my role now that I can actually cook a meal without having to drink copious amounts of wine just to “get through” or calling in a “buddy” to sit with me so I did not go awol while cooking annie’s mac n cheese. Less ingredients meant less trips into the abyss. My children suffered.

When we got to the new house my daughter and I just stood in front of the fridge – opening and closing the door like we had special needs.  We just stood, looking at the clean sparkling white interior. Feeling the cool clean stainless steel surface. Open. Close. Open. Close.  It has a built in ice maker on the side that has the freezer…” IT MAKES ICE!!!”
“MY GOD IT MAKES ICE!” We just stood there… looking at each other in a state of wonder.  It was obviously a very emotional and touching time for both of us.  It was transformational if you want to know the truth.

You think i’m over-reacting right? Well- I mean, truthfully I am an ungrateful bitch compared to many who do not have the luxury of any refrigeration what so ever so please, do excuse my complaining..but I was seconds away from digging a hole in the ground and keeping my food chilled in the mother earth instead.

I just want to share the magnitude of my appreciation for what I have now…

Before I left that big nasty stain on my soul-  I photographed it just in case I ever wanted to feel ungrateful about anything in my life- ever. again.

I hope you enjoy these as much as I did.

It had a mind of it's own.  It would decide when and IF it was gonna work.

Five Alarm Taco Shell’s


It’s not even 5:00 yet and there’s no wine in the house.  Is it age? or am I just getting blonder as my roots go darker?

I just calmed myself down from the upsetting incident that just happened in my kitchen.  No… this time it did not involve a knife or butter... but instead 2 seemingly very innocent taco shells.

Taco’s are my “easy ticket” meal.  I can whip em up in my sleep – but…if I should be wide awake and turn my back as they “bake” in the toaster oven… not so much.   One minute I was chatting with my daughter about one thing and the next minute I was screaming “RUN!” as I watched the taco shells burst into flame and once again I found myself doing what any blonde would do in such a situation….

1. Scream “Fire!”

2. Scream “Shit!” “Fire!”

3. Scream “Oh God!” “Shit” ” FIRE!”

4. Where are my Oven mits?  (“If I would only put them back where I found them… then they would always be here for emergencies such as these…) “oh shit. GOD. FIRE!”

5. Lurch, open toaster door ( fucking idiot… now the flames are coming OUT the door!!!)


7. Under the sink- there is a fire extinguisher! (I am brilliant that I remembered that’s its here!- I’ll save the house, the family)

8. WAIT! I don’t know how to use a fire extinguisher!


10. “WATER!!!” WATER!!!! “SINK SPRAYER!” “WATER!” ( Smoke Detector blares in the background and as the spraying water hits the fire the hissing and steam are deafening… I look around me for the first time and notice my daughter has not moved an inch but is sitting in apparent terror at the table waiting for her serving of tonight’s tasty dinner… )

11.  Electricity and water don’t mix… ooops… too late.

12. Fire is out. water everywhere. Steam. Hissing.

13. Giggling….she’s giggling…

14. Now- full blown hysteric’s – my heart is beating a million miles and hour and my daughter is on the floor killing herself laughing and says….

“I am so telling my class about this one”  and run’s into the other room to tell her brother: “Mom nearly just burnt the WHOLE HOUSE down!”

15. As if stuff like this happens all the time or something. Sheesh.

16. Mr. Goodbar just called to let me know he took out another rider on our insurance.


BCOC (Big Cat on Campus)

Mr. Goodbar has a new name… so I am happy to use them interchangeably as I see fit (naturally)

His new name is “Big CAT” not ,

Big Man
Big Dog



Do you want to know how this new name was acquired?  Of course you do, and guess who’s gonna tell you? (It occurs to me at this moment that he may forever regret moving in together)

So, last night we are on the bed and like clockwork our two cats Blue and Bella climb into their usual positions. which, if your a Ragdoll Cat (the best kind of cat who are not like cats at all but instead rather act like small dog’s) would be right up next to us as if they too will recline beside us watching back to back episodes of Bones.  So – the four of us are in position when Mr. Goodbar gets affectionately bit  as they will sometimes do as the sheets and covers move and they think – represents a play opportunity.  It happens a few times and Mr Goodbar says:

“OW!”‘ a few times…

and then the next thing I know the CAT says:

“ME-yelp!”  and moves location.

“What the heck was that?” i ask making sure the cat is ok.
“I had to bite his ear….” says Goodbar without blinking ….

“So he know’s who the Alpha Cat is….. ” he continues…

“You know- like the BIG cat in the house ” he finishes.

(Oh, yeah, – now we all know who the Big Cat is… beware!)


Totally GAY for V- Day

I just started a pin board on pinterest called “Gay and Romantic” which is completely not PC, however; when I grew up “gay” did not mean “gay” & “queer” did not mean “queer” 
gay simply = queer which was a form of goofy+ sappy meets silly+ ridiculous- and that was all.  It was completely “ok” by us to call each other “gay” or  “queer” or “retarded”. We kids knew what we meant, it was the adults who eventually made it complicated, politically incorrect, offensive, & wrong- *sigh*…. leave it to adults to spoil perfectly awesome and I still want to use them everyday words!!!

In any case-  I love being gay and romantic – especially because:  I am!
Being in love makes it all possible… thank God for love because it inspires me to do incredibly queer and retarded things and I have GOOD REASON ( see: chemical imbalance)  (and again, for the RECORD- let me please clarify that I do not in anyway mean ANYthing derogatory to either mentally challenged adults or same sex lovers!- those two things just don’t EVEN cross my mind in this case!)

With Valentines day almost upon us I am thinking about what I can do for my own “lovah” (which is a term that makes us both cringe and so I giggle as I write it.) However, I realize that the gayest thing I’ve ever done for him is so gay that it might have bought me a free pass for a couple of years in which i do not have to do anything as “over the top” as what I presented to him last V-day!

“TA- DA!” ( I remember it well)  He unwrapped the box that contained the grubby little moleskine journal and looked at it with mild trepidation.

“What is it?” He asked.

I had kept a journal professing my love to him over the course of the year and gave to him.  I think I raised my eyebrows and said something romantic

and gay

like:  “It’s my heart… and, it’s yours now”   (Ok, I am making this part up and I just had to go to the bathroom so I don’t wet my bathrobe thinking about looking into his eyes and saying this… i think he would die.)  As it is I think he’s only read a few pages to this day… (too queer!) so perhaps I can bring it back out (NO!!!!!!- like the JC penny commercial) and highlight a few choice passages for review- read them outloud to him by candlelight in the naughty negligee I don’t own or something equally as cringe – worthy.

Seriously? I personally love it because I filled the entire thing and mean every word of it and then had the guts (aka stupidity) to give it to him but it was over the top queer and we both know it.  One of the reasons I love him so much is that I know it will mean a lot to him one day though like maybe when we are like 98 we can lay next to each other reading it and LMAO.

It was a once in a lifetime unabashed devotional to the man i love and if anyone ever found it guess what I KNOW they would immediately say upon reading it (especially if they grew up in the same era) they would say:

  “This is SOOOO GAY! What kind of a RETARD would actually write this sh*t?”

and we would all nod and agree because we would know EXACTLY what kind of a retard would do that…..



The V-day Journal for my "Lovah"






Cutting Butter with A Knife: A Survival Story.


Mr. Goodbar left for a business trip and for the first time since we’ve moved in together (it had been approximately eight weeks, 6 days, 16 hours, and 22 minutes) I found myself completely alone (kids with Daddy)  and starving.  I thought I’d make myself a bowl of brown rice with chicken and cut some cold butter with a knife (for the rice) and….

cut my left index finger to the bone and stand there bleeding profusely all over the kitchen. Did I say all over? Did I say bleeding? Profusely?

I stood there for a moment – it was in slow motion and a detached voice said:

“Oooh, that SUCKS!”

and “Damn… that really HURTS.”

When i was done realizing that this was not a superficial wound I gathered my wits about me I ran around the house yelling:



“Oh Shit.”

to no one. but myself. because, well.. no one was home and because the situation called for a cool head and quick action.

Blood. everywhere.

I rushed around trying to figure out the how to stop the bleeding and find my phone was so i could… could what? text? tweet? Interesting how I may very well lose a finger but I am concerned of the whereabouts of my i-phone (at all times apparently)

How ridiculous. I did not need my i- phone !!, I needed my FINGER! I needed my car key, I needed gas, I needed a tourniquet, a rubber band to hold it on,  and I needed stitches so that I can operate and function like the mentally impaired adult that I am! That much was as clear as mustard.

I continued “Oh shitting” out loud as I made my one handed drive to the ER in my ever practical family car: the Mini Cooper stick shift. Holding my hand above my heart well over my head (It has a sunroof)   Not really sure how I got there. at all.

I walked into the ER and the Triage Nurse station was directly in front of me.  I said to myself:


“Triage= YOU”

The little nurse there was all business and demanded I take off the rubber band from around the roll of sullied paper towel that was once my finger (blood trail on floor to mark entrance) so she could re-dress the “laceration” (her words) .

“Oh yeah- this is gonna need stitches for sure” she said as we unwrapped it and although I looked through squinty eyes that really did not want to look but totally needed to see I promptly vomited on the floor.

She seemed unimpressed, but I’ll tell you, I was was just the opposite… the body is completely amazing- you know?  My finger looked ALL KINDS of WRONG and my stomach intuitively KNEW THAT and so it just kind of rejected the whole idea (along with the spoonful of rice I managed to shove in my mouth before the stabbing).

While I was sitting in the waiting room of the ER sexting with the Goodbar (got to keep things spicy) I took a quick glance around the room and it became clear why the nurse seemed so lesefaire about my revolting finger wound “laceration” (her words). – Every guy in the waiting room had one!

No kidding.

There was a big guy to my left who’d done it with a Ginsu cutting bell peppers while preparing dinner for a party of 30 and really working at a clip when …. well, needless to say thank god his finger nail got in the way.  Another who’d gotton the top of his finger pinched off (OWIE) when a dude dropped a massive weight on his hand while at the gym.   Then two more guys who’d been in minutes earlier (being stitched up ) who were both in gourmet kitchen accidents. I felt like part of a brotherhood- (except i was like the sister in the family of wounded hands- like a middle child who’s just stuck with brothers all around her just making the best of her life with men everywhere) we all silently sat there – sharing this horrible event that would make us closer- just so that we could never see each other. ever. again.  of our sliced appendages…we were survivors. i was not alone. (Did I mention that I was totally checking out the size of their finger dressing and comparing them to mine?)

(Mine was the biggest.) 

The guys seemed super impressed by the amount of blood coming from my new tourniquet and the fact that I was able to keep my wits about me with such a terrible “laceration” (her words) and asked me:

how did it It happen?

….and then,

all of my wounded hand brothers were focused on me….

They were all looking at me.



“I, um, I… er, I…”

“I’m not sure..”

“I mean… ”

“I… I didn’t get a good look at the guy… ahh… I mean,  ahh…”

“butter. It was dark… everything happened so fast… I…. I…”



“and I bleed-ed.”




Six stitches.  I am home now, eating my chicken and rice dinner (sans butter).

Can’t be left home alone. again. ever.

Oompa Loompa

Since Mr. Goodbar and I live together now,  I’m a little worried about my waistline.

I usually have great self control, unlessthereiscandyandchipsandsodaalloverthefreakinghouse!

It’s like living with Willy Wonka… and if he does not stop soon he’ll be bedding an Oompa Loompa.

That’s hot.

Chit Chat – WTF is that the Cat?

It never fails.  My son has been coming into bed with me at 3:00 am since he was 2 years old- he’s now six.  I’m sure it’s just habit that wakes him, and although i’ve tried everything to deter/reward him for staying in his own domain nothing seems to work and at 3 am- frankly I’m  just not interested in arguing.

The funny thing about him, however, is how chipper he is when he wakes at that ungodly hour.  He seems to think it’s perfectly ok to make chit chat while he clambers into bed firmly locking my head under his armpit like I’m some giant teddy bear that has no need for breathing.

The Goodbar and I always chat about it in the morning – like- what the hell was he saying last night?

It’s always a little tricky because if i wake up too much – I can’t go back to sleep so I’ve really mastered this half asleep little dance we do at night to insure that my glorious nights sleep is not interrupted.  Every so often it fails… epically- ahem.

Lets see- a few nights ago he stood by the side of my bed and whispered in a voice loud enough to wake the dead:

“Mom… it’s me.” (oh? really? because I kind of expected the Munroe Dairy Milkman to be standing at my bedside at Oh Dark Hundred)

“Mom- Move over, I’m getting in”

I’m pretty sure I whimper or moan or something because I’m previously sound asleep and possibly even dreaming- he’s woken me from a few that I’d really been enjoying.

“Mom- do you think when you get married I can be the ring boy?”

“um hmmm… sure honey (first I have to get officially divorced) but sure… go to sleep honey”.

“Ok- I wuv you mom”

me: “I wuv you too honey” ( because I’m pretty sure that’s how I talk at that hour anyway)

Then last night was a classic…..

“Mom? It’s me… push over”

As he’s getting in I feel the pressure of my bladder and so I struggle over him to get up to go to the bathroom.

“Can I come with you mom?- I have to go too”

me: “whimper mumble- uh huh”

After I pee I make a stumble line toward the bed again figuring he found his way there once – he can find it again…

“MOM!” he whispers in an I just saw and intruder whisper looking over his shoulder as he stands peeing in the toilet and my heart skips a beat.

“YOU DIDN’T WASH YOUR HANDS MOM!….” he whispers with a fierce knowing: and then with a little more compassion:

“It’s bad for your manners Mom”.

me: “whimper” (i’d be so proud if only i did not want to choke the life out of him this very instant)

I quickly rinse and dry them and head for the bed.

We manage to get into the bed and settled with my head tucked peacefully into his pit and thankfully I can feel myself juuuuust on the verge of getting back into a sleep when i can tell that the cat has found something to play with towards the end of the bed.. Shaw seems to be moving too….

me: “whimper… Shaw, are you?…”

“yeah, mom you do this thing where you move your feet a little bit and they think it’s a mouse and they go all crazy n’ stuff”

me: “whimper… ”

he falls back to sleep without effort and I lay. thinking. till the sun. comes. up.

Today after school the little sh*t had the nerve to tell me:

“You’re kind of cranky mom and kind of not very nice”.

Light, Love, Divorce and Family.

I am loving our new home/family dynamic since the move.  It’s always good to plan for the worst and hope for the best and frankly I was not sure how we would all fare living together for the first time.

Throughout the last couple of years the Goodbar and I had never put our need’s or desire’s over the kids.  Our old house was their house after all and so we’d wanted to be conscious and respectful as they got used to the idea that we were eventually going to go the blended family route.  He officially “spent the night” only a handful of times and to the kids it was kind of like a friend having a sleepover (it was kind of like that for mommy too). In the meantime – we did a lot of “discussing” with them what our new “family”  configuration might be like when it was time and I think it really helped them to get an idea and a visual in mind.  In addition I think it prepared them because they were able to ask questions and get answers.

I don’t think either of my kids really have much of a memory in terms of the “missing” of their Dad and it’s  Because our lives were so very different and our schedules completely opposite- they only ever remember being with one of us really, at any given time. Unfortunately or fortunately (depending how you look at it) we never really had a “family” dynamic.  We were existing, surviving, and avoiding- the kids were used to the tension, the excuses, and the hastily made and cleaned up and all to “rare” family meals… sad but true. In hind-sight I can feel a genuine sadness for all of us-  we just did not know how to “be” together any other way.   In hindsight I see that our break up was eminent… but we delayed, and tried, and strained…. “for the sake of the family”.

I appreciate and honor my wasband.  I always will- because I learned so much, and because I believe we were called to be together to bring our children into the world and be married for a period of time.   We had many many good times together and I believe that our “spiritual contract” was up long before we had the strength or awareness that it was time to officially pull the plug. I find myself amazed each day now as I experience such a different reality. One of happiness, peace, and unity- a true sense of “family.”  Both of us see now how deeply unhappy we were together when we were married, so now- we can simply enjoy each other for who the other is- instead of driving each other crazy that we are not the person we needed the other to be. He too is part of this new hybrid family, as he will always be my parenting partner. This new version is one we can all truly appreciate and that works- finally.

In the meantime I have a deep appreciation, respect, and compassion for those going through divorce. It’s heart breaking and painful- almost every step of the way.  It was one of the most lonely and terrifying experiences of my life and it was only through the support of a few select people that I made it through at all. When you decide to end a marriage a funny thing happens – everyone starts having their opinions, and judgements, and projecting their own thoughts and beliefs instead of just listening and being supportive.  Divorce can wreck havoc on close groups of friends who’ve all known and loved each other over the years.  It’s never easy to know what to do when a loved couple decides to split- it seems to threaten the very dynamic of the group- and we all have a deep need to stay in our comfort zone. So- in addition to the grief and pain the actual divorcing couple experiences, there’s so much more to it that creates all kinds of additional chaos for all involved.

Had I not gone through the experiences that have helped to shape me, I would not have grown so much, or been able to appreciate the difference of what I am experiencing now- and it’s with deep gratitude that I can now have perspective on those dark times &  truly appreciate and know the light when it shines itself into my world as it is now.

Thank you God.

The Indian Warrior & The Muffin Top

Last night I went out to dinner and decided I would wear the pre-worn ( but relatively new) paige jeans I just got on ebay.

As I squirmed into the jeans I sighed heavily when i got to the part where you’re spose to be able to zip them. I sucked it big time so that the zipper could make it’s long sojourn up to the top  … where the button is sposed to do it’s #1 function:  button.  It was at this time that I realized that the difficulty must be that these jeans were “high waisted”  and, lemme tell you, it’s been a while since i’ve worn a pair of those armpit grazing blues.  *sh*t. I didn’t even realize that cool jean companies are even allowed to make high waisted jeans anymore- did I miss the memo? Are Paige like the new mommy jeans? So not cool.

Once I got my tunic shirt on i noticed that the unsightly bulge around my middle was at least a little less obvious.  The gelatinous consistency of my child bearing belly was carefully concealed by the higher tides of my new waistline. I’ve exercised periodically and I am currently giving Pilates a good run in order to firm up my “core” ( core? where is that? )  but I’ve resigned myself to the fact that my middle is kind of like the elastic on an old pair of grannie panties- S.H.O.T.

As I sat down to dinner (I use that term lightly) I realized that I could not quite “bend” at the middle and that i was wildly uncomfortable. My gut protested-  understandably,  it had no where to go and was like a caged version of the blob- unable to be contained.

I pretended to adjust the napkin on my lap and as I tried to distract the Goodbar’s attention I managed to undo the button of my discontent. The young bartender and I traded a knowing glance, and I felt confident that we also passed an understanding until I took some time to check her out more carefully. How could she possibly understand my torture? She was maybe in her late 20’s or early 30’s- was that a smirk on her face? Damn her- she’d have her day. I wandered the bar area with my eyes- trying to find an ally, but I was on my own.  What kind of dinner place was this anyway ? Was this a no muffin tops allowed establishment?  I am still hip – I can pass can’t I?  omg- these girls are all college age- what am i doing here?

Getting home and getting out of my new used jeans was a huge relief.  I felt like I was peeling off an unfair jail sentence. My belly felt free- free at last!

I’m returning these F*ing jeans and if they don’t take returns I will burn them. I will burn them as I dance around the fire as I give homage to the muffin top gods. I am healthy, I am strong, and I am a wanna be indian princess warrior with a fruit bearing womb who does not care.  I am thick in the middle:  hear me roar.

The meal was terrible. I hate that restaurant.  I am never going there again.

I have nothing more to share.