There was a time in my life where I decided “Hey! I think I want blonde hair!”
When I told my stylist, she looked at me funny and said it would be a good idea to add blondISH highlights and gradually lighten it. I wasn’t having that, I was like “highlights? Hell naw. BLEACH IT BLONDE. NOW!”

She let it be known that she was against this going all blonde thing and I let it be known that I didn’t care because I wanted to be blonde.

A few hours of processing later, I was a Blonde.

I immediately drove to my sister’s house to show her and she was all “THAT LOOKS HORRIBLE!” Her main issue with that it wasn’t really blonde, but kinda orange, much like the color of my skin, which meant that my skin and hair all kind of blended together making me look like a giant stick o’ bronzer.

My sister has an incredibly awesome sense of style and I trust and value her opinion when it comes to matters of hair/fashion. But, I didn’t want to believe her about this because I wanted to be a freakin’ blonde.

Later that day, when I was outside watering the grass, my neighbor -who happened to be the ceraaziest, most hilarious person I’ve ever had the pleasure of living next door to- drove by and looked at me in a way that led me to believe she did NOT like The Blonde.

She walked over and in her crazy way of talking said “What the fuck did you do to your hair? Your hair matches your skin and you look all one color and it’s creeping me out, woman.”

Even though two people had just given me not so positive feedback about The Blonde, I didn’t want to believe it. I wanted to believe that my hair looked great and that “Blonde was my color.”

Why? I do not know. But, looking at a bunch of old pictures that I found last night, I realize just HOW RIGHT they were and how BAD IT LOOKED (and these pictures were AFTER I agreed to let my stylist “weave in a little brown”.) and how desperately I wanted to believe that I could pull of blonde hair.

“Go Carrot. It’s your birthday. We’re gonna party like it’s your birthday”.

Continue reading →

I spend a great deal of time and energy complaining and crying about things that I don’t have in my life.
A house. Extra money. A thin, toned body. Perky boobs. a nice camera. Etc.
There’s nothing wrong with wanting a house to call my own. There’s nothing wrong with wishing for extra money to take my children on vacations and to buy a nice camera with. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to get in shape and be thin.
However, when wanting and wishing for those things consumes my time, my thoughts and robs me of joy, something is wrong.
Especially when what I do have is worth so much more than what money can buy.

Laughter.
Joy.
Closeness.
Bonds that can’t be broken.
(Unlike the wind that surely broke as this picture was taken.)
But most of all, Love.
(Brought to you by Love Thursday.)

Yesterday, I told my husband that I hated him.
My exact words were as follows. “You know, I love you, but when we paint? I hate you.”
It sounds so horrible and harsh, but you’ve never painted with my husband.
Ever since he got his bonus, we’ve “discussed” what we should do with the money. When you give Perpetually Broke people a check for $1,500, it’s as if you’ve handed them a check for one million dollars and the possibilities seem endless.
“We could take a cruise! Or buy furniture! Or go out for a nice meal at Chilis! AWESOME BLOSSOM, EXTRA AWESOME! Or! Or! Or! We could blow it all on a crazy weekend of bowling, Fuddruckers, smoothies!”
After much conversation and fantasizing about what to do with our WAD OF CASH, we decided it was time to give our teenage son his own bedroom, so we headed to IKEA with the intention of buying him a new bed and dresser.
Surprisingly, the trip to IKEA went smoothly and we agreed on a bed, dresser and a few accessories without a single argument or Flipping of The Fingah. The next day, I picked out a comforter and the color of paint. (Yes, he lets me make the important decisions, but trust me, it’s only so that if they turn out to be bad decisions, he can turn to me, point and say “HEY, YOU’RE THE ONE WHO PICKED IT OUT!”)
I wanted to do a dark gray, PigHunter wanted to do a dark blue. I compromised and got a dark gray/blue paint that we both ended up loving. (See? I am The Great Uniter! The Compromiser Extraodinaire!)
Five minutes after we began to “prep the room” the HATRED began. You see, my husband is a good man. A good man whom I love deeply, but anytime we do a project together that involves paint, nuts, bolts and /or power tools, he becomes this passive aggressive know it all jerk who uses every chance he gets to remind me that I DO NOT KNOW MORE THAN HE DOES ABOUT SUCH THINGS.
When I am right about something, he’ll flat out refuse to acknowledge that I was right and will say stupid things like “I’m NOT going to argue with you about this. If you want to argue, that’s your problem, but I refuse to argue about this any longer.”
To which I respond with something a little or EXACTLY like this “ASS!!!”
I’ll admit that the things we argue about are STUPID and that the things which I want him to give me credit for are ridiculous. Example.
Me: “I DID stir the paint, I’ve BEEN stirring it for 10 minutes. I am not stupid! Why would you assume that I DIDN’T STIR THE PAINT? I DEMAND THAT YOU TAKE IT BACK AND ACKNOWLEDGE THAT I STIRRED THE PAINT!”
Him: “I refuse to argue about this.”
Me: “I’m not arguing! You accused me of not stirring the paint and I TOTALLY stirred the paint! YOU BETTAH RECOGNIZE!”
Him: (rolling his eyes, because, you know, I’m so immature and he’s SO above arguing.) “I told you, I’m not going to argue, woman.”
It’s that attitude that makes me HATE HIM when we paint together.
Don’t hate… just shut your mouth and PAINT.
How can I say that about the man that I love? Seriously, I LOVE HIM. And awwww, look at us, how cute we are together, all in love and stuff.

But that is because we hadn’t attempted to paint anything together that day.
When we paint together, it looks a little more like this…

I’m not placing all of the blame on him. I’m no joy to work with either. I have a chip on my shoulder (I’m not stupid! I know how to paint! I may not have a college degree, but I know that I need to stir the damn paint!) and I overreact to pretty much EVERYTHING. As much of a jerk as he can be when we do project together, I actually feel sorry for him, because I truly am psychotic in the “home improvement” environment.
Day One wasn’t too bad. We had a few arguments, but overall, we got through it without too much emotional damage.
But Day Two. OMG. DAY TWO.
I thought we should start the day off with a little fun, so we went bowling. Then, Tony decided that we should go to “Fuddruckers” for lunch, because we had never been there and because he “always leaves Rubios feeling hungry.” (Because, Rubios was MY suggestion for lunch.)
We ordered our food and IMAGINE MY HORROR when the lady was all “Ok, that will be FORTY DOLLARS.”
Forty dollars? FOR BURGERS?
Oh hell naw.
I know, I shouldn’t care! We are rich! HE GOT A BONUS! But, that’s insane to me. BURGERS SHOULDN’T COST $40!!!
When she told me the total, my head whipped around, I looked at my son and son “OH MY GOD, I AM SO PISSED. Go tell your dad that I am pissed.”
The woman at the register was like “OH-KAY, psychotic mother in the house!”
When I first got to the table, Tony was all “HAHAH you’re pissed!” But 5 minutes after hearing me bitch and moan, he was all “Take it outside, woman. Chill out, for reals. Yeah, that was a lot for burgers, but it’s not the end of the world.”
Do I need to tell you that the rest of the day kinda sucked? And that when we finally got home and busted open the paint, that ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE?
He was mad. I was mad. The kids were like GROW UP Y’ALL. (Which, (YOU GROW UP, CHILDREN OF MINE. GROW UP AND BUY YOUR OWN DAMN FURNITURE ALREADY.)
At one point, he started “bossing me around.” (See! I AM grown!) and commanded me to start taking the clothes out of what is now Ethan’s room and hanging them in Andrew’s closet. I gave him an attitude at first (“I’ll hang them up after you are done, WHY I GOTTA DO IT NOW?”) but I finally agreed to meet his demand and went to start taking the clothes out of the room.
As I picked up a pile of shirts, I heard a huge CRASH and looked up to see the TV, that Tony had carelessly placed on top of a pile of clothes, had flipped over and hit the wall, putting a giant hole in the wall.
He flipped the hell out and blamed me.
Me! Who was just doing what he had asked and had done nothing wrong whatsoever! It wasn’t my fault that he put the TV in an UNSTABLE place.
Yelling, fingerpointing and blame ensued until I finally snapped and said “You either admit that you were wrong for putting the tv there and that this was NOT my fault, or… I’M LEAVING! FOR THE REST OF THE DAY!”
“HA! Where are you going to go?”
“I’ll go somewhere! (SNAPS) now, say it wasn’t my fault!”
“I don’t have time for this nonsense!”
I lost my shit. I threw the clothes that were in my hand up in the air whilst shouting “OMG. I’M OUTTA HERE!!!”
(A little advice. If you ever decide to go all dramaqueen and declare that you are leaving, make SURE that you don’t have to pee before saying it, because, man, having to come back home after only 7 minutes so that you don’t piss your pants is pretty damn embarrassing , even after you give your “I’m only back because I love my son and want to get his room finished” speech, you end up looking like a pathetic loser.)
The good news is that we FINISHED. The room is painted, the furniture assembled and my son has his own room.
The bad news? We’re painting Ethan’s room next weekend and blame for the hole in the wall has yet to be claimed.

The first time I met Pighunter, I was 14 years old and he was 20.
His ex-girlfriends mother had invited him to church, the same church that my dad was co-pastor of, and so, he came, “got saved” and started attending regularly.
Ex-girlfriend followed him there and so, she started attending church regularly as well and Pighunter became known as “Diane’s Boyfriend.”
I thought Pighunter was the biggest, most giant nerd I had ever met. He was skinny, had puffy hair, wore glasses that BIGGER THAN GOD and OMIGAWD! He talked like a valley girl.
Me and my best friend used to make fun of him all of the time. We’d make fun of the way he talked, of the clothes he’d wear, and of the fact that “haha! He looks like a rat!”
Honestly, we had no right to be making fun of A-N-Y-O-N-E because.
Um.

Yeah.
Eventually, I got to know him, fell in love with him and WANTED TO HAVE TEH SEX WITH HIM EVERY MINUTE OF EVERYDAY.
(One day, I am going to write our “how we met and fell in love” story. And you will laugh because Oh.My.God.Nerds.At.Church.In.Love.)
I’ll never forget the day we announced our engagement in front of the church. I was all “OMG. I LOVE HIM. lala.ponies.rainbows.love.Jesus.love.butterflies.love.LOVE.KISSIES.HUGGIES and I can’t wait to grow old with him.”
Everyone laughed (Except for my mom, who was disgusted by my lovey dovey shit) but I meant it. I loved him so much in that moment that I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him and have kids with him and grow old together and sit on the porch in our rocking chairs and watch our grandkids play together.
I was 18 years old when I said those words, he was only 24.
Today, that beautiful man whom I loved with every fiber of my being and whom I dreamed of growing with turns fourty one years old
A few nights ago, we were laying on the sofa watching television late at night. I scooted close to him and began running my fingers through his hair. His thin, gray hair.
“This is the man that I fell in love with when I was only 17 years old.” I thought to myself.
His hair, once thick and jet black is now thin and gray. The age is starting to show in his face, in his hands, in the way he moves. The energetic young man who would stay up late with me to watch Arsenio Hall, now passes out on the couch before 8pm.
He’s growing old right before my eyes. We’re growing old together.
The other night, we talked about the fact that one day, one of us will have to bury the other. (Because THE LORD KNOWS NEITHER ONE OF US IS EVER LEAVING.) I started to cry and told him that he better let me die first because I realized in that moment that I could not life my life without him in it. I can’t even begin to imagine how I could get out of bed if he wasn’t there to kiss me goodmorning. I started to panic! And then! I PUNCHED HIM (seriously! I did!) and told him that he had better start working out and TAKING THE DAMN VITAMINS I BOUGHT HIM LAST YEAR because I NEED HIM TO OUTLIVE ME.
(See how fun and awesome we are! We talk about beautiful things, like burying each other and who’s going to die first!)
41. Which means in a month, I will be 35. My God. How the time is flying by. I still remember when we were young and pretty, with big hair and VERY LARGE GLASSES and all we wanted to do was be alone so we could Do The Nasty.

Now, we want nothing more than to take a nap and watch “To Catch a Predator” while we discuss what WE would do to those perverts if we could get our hands on them. (Hint: Cut.Off.Balls.)
Happy Birthday, Pighunter. I LOVE YOU AND I SWEAR TO GOD, YOU BETTER LET ME DIE FIRST.
xoxo

Look! My Target clothes!
Have I ever told you that I have extraordinarily small ears? Because I do, and I have been teased about them my entire life. Especially by my dad who used to blame my “disobedience” on the fact that I didn’t actually hear what he told me to do because haha! Get it? My ears are so small that I can not hear very well.

Why am I talking about my ears when there are clothes that need to be packed and big toes that need to be shaved and nails that need to be painted and eyebrows that need to be plucked?
Is it possible that I am avoiding the actual DOING of those things because I am nervous and have cramps?
I’ve shed a few tears over leaving my children. The boys will be fine, they’ve been away from me for long periods of time before (Andrew was gone with a friend in Palm Springs for 4 days last week. This week, they’ve both been gone all week with my sister.) They don’t need me in the ways that G-Unit does. I’m always with her, and she’s very attached to me. Like, so attached that Tony is often heard shouting “CUT THE UMBILICAL CORD, WOMAN.”
I know she’ll be fine with her daddy and brubbers, but I still can’t help but cry when I think of being away from her for THREE DAYS.
My God, I love my children. More than anything else, I love them.
Now, it’s time to shut this thing down, go to bed and get ready to board a plane in the morning. (OMG! A PLANE! I’M SCARED OF PLANES BUT HAVE BEEN TO NERVOUS ABOUT EXPOSING MY FATNESS LIVE AND IN PERSON TO EVEN THINK ABOUT THE PLANE BUT IT JUST HIT ME. AIRPLANE! COULD CRASH! AND DIE! HELP!)

On Saturday, I co-hosted a Party for Vaginas. I was so excited about it because Ben Wah Balls and also Nubby G.
This was the 3rd Passion Party I had attended, but the first one that I hosted. I can tell you without any hesitation that they NEVER get boring. Infact, this one was by far the craziest one I’ve ever been to.

First of all, there were drunk men at this one. Only one of them actually had the balls (ha! ha!) to join in on the party fun and by “join in” I mean “stand in the back of the room and say things like ‘that’s hot’ and ‘I like your technique’ when we were playing ‘pass the Pink Peeny.'”
(What? You want pictures of The Pass The Peeny game? Well, of COURSE!!)

The game was just like musical chairs, only instead of walking around waiting for the music to stop so you could grab a seat, you would pass a giant pink rubber penis around with your knees and the person left with the pink rubber penis in between their legs (ha! ha!) when the music stopped was OUT. I almost bought that rubby penis just so I could play that game at every party I ever attend! Things get boring at a birthday party? “Hey! I know a game!” I start feeling insecure and uncomfortable at Blogher? “Hey, wimmins! Let’s play musical dick!”
That would be so awesome.
But seriously, folks. You’ve not lived until you’ve played musical (rubber) dick.
The second greatest moment of the night had to be when The Hostess whipped out the Numbit.
The NumbWHAT? You ask. The butthole. That’s what.
At least that’s what The Consultant said with a totally serious face, all matter of fact like as she held the bottle of Numbit up in the air. Unfortunetly, I didn’t take a picture of her actually HOLDING the bottle of Numbit, but lucky all of YOU! I did take a picture of myself holding the bottle of Numbit.

In case you’re thinking that you would NEVER buy a cream that is specifically made to numb your butt, I should inform you that it is multifunctional for The Numbit can also be used to soothe the gums of teething babies. You heard that right. “Numbit, not just for numbing buttholes.”
I was so happy that Joelle made the very long drive to be there with me. Not just because she had the pleasure of experiencing the stuff you “put down there” that sets your croch on fire. But in a good way. I wish I had video of her jumping up and down in the kitchen after having applied it to her hahaha you know hahaha in the bathroom. I’ve never felt closer to her. As she was leaving, I shouted “Thanks for coming.” And oh, how I laughed and laughed because GET IT?
HardyHar.
I walked away from The Vagina Party with new found sexual knowledge (Did you know that when you have sex, the inside of your nose swells up? Neither did I!), a new love for certain products that require batteries and most importantly, a new nickname.
That’s right, after 34 years on this earth, I finally have a nickname and it is…
Nubby G.
If you’ve never attended a Passion Party, I suggest you find a consultant near you and BOOK THEE A PARTY.