Gorillabuns

random rambles from Crazy Town

Today is my Mother's birthday. I hope she doesn't mind me saying this but I'm going to anyway. She turns 61 today. Might I add, she looks light years younger than her age and has better taste in music than I. Sometimes I feel like my mother and I live a "Freaky Friday" kind of existence. Thinking about what my life might be like at her age, I'm blown away at the differences. A) Celia will be 26 and Moira 25 and probably still living with us. B) Can't think of a B. All I know is, I don't feel 40 so I can only imagine how she feels at 61.

Aging is such a bitch. Too bad we can't stay 25 forever. I'll even take 30.

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I have successfully/unsuccessfully blurted out in the past few days that I have a dead son at which point, I made one of the ladies bust out crying. My "frankness" or as most would say "directness," sometimes/most of the time gets in the way of how I deliver or probably shouldn't deliver this piece of news.

I really need to work on my delivery. Maybe I can find a class on "tact" at the local Community College.

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A teacher asked if I wanted to substitute teach her First grade class tomorrow. I looked around to make sure she was really talking to me because, are you really asking me? I'm not a kid person, well other people's kids I should say. I laughed and said, "Sure! If you want me to pass out gin shots to all the kids and dissect the inner workings of the dramatic love scenes on General Hospital!" Funny thing is, I think she'd be okay with my lesson plan.

Need I remind you, my kids go to a Catholic school.

chocolate bar

 
And now for something completely different and not-so depressing.

From the words of my husband, "are you really making fun of my daughter?"

"No baby, I just think her answer is funny."

You be the judge.

I would have given anything to see Celia's teacher's face upon reading Celia's answer about her favorite treat.

one down and another one to go

The results are in. We went with trashy or should I say, I went with trashy. I am pre-TrimSpa Anna Nicole Smith with her husband, J. Howard Marshall. Well, I think his name was this. Screw googling it to see if I'm correct.

And NO! I'm not drunk here. I was stone cold sober in this picture.

Quite scary indeed.

Let's take a closer look shall we? The boobs are au natural and the make-up - a major hatchet job.

Actually, I think I look more like Cruella d'Ville and Dolly Parton but whatever. I dressed up and let's just, we were quite original in our concept. ahem..

I'm not too sure if Anna's husband needed a voice box in real life but this one had one blaring all evening. Too bad you can't see the fake blood hanging on the I.V. pole that dripped all over my friend's carpet. Yea, one could say we committed a major party faux-pas. Destroying the host's carpet in 1.5 minutes upon arrival but since we are fun peoples, she let us stay anyway.

Personally, I would like to kill the person who took this picture or more likely, kill myself. Because what the hell? I'm not sure if I was posing or actually acting like a blank slate of hot messness. I guess we should consult the babysitter since she kept exclaiming, "Dude, it's 4:30 in the morning!" when we arrived home.

Me: "I know, let's not discuss the time."

"But really! It's 4:30 IN THE MORNING!"

Me: "I thought we weren't going to discuss the time."

Then I went to sleep for three hours and woke up to face the jury.

Good times, good times.

 

 
 
 
 

sexy, slutty or just plain ugly

It's that time of year again. The time of year of hounding/hoarding costumes, goblins and ghouls. and no, I'm not trying to figure out what the children will be for Halloween but what WE are going to be for Halloween because seriously, what's more important? Okay, okay, the kids are more important but their outfits were purchased over a month ago. Go ahead and give me a high five or raise your evening/morning cocktail in my honor of preparedness. I know, I sometimes even scare myself.

Again, this is another year of "adult" parties in which we try to decide to be sexy devils or naughty wenches. Who am I fooling? We've never been these characters as we are NOT able to pull off these persons. Every year, we try to out do the year prior leaving the next year full of performance anxiety waiting in the wings.

As seen in a most auspicious pictorial viewing for your visual pleasure:

Raging postman and believe it or not, I was a very skinny some kind of fairy slut nymph (the only time of my life).

Also on a side note: We weren't dating at the time and let me tell you his angry postal mail carrier act made me swoon (of course not outwardly because I couldn't/WOULDN'T! let him know I was in lust with him at the time because WE WERE ON A BREAK!) because I have always liked a man in uniform. 

1999:Blair Witch Project. We were back together and engaged. The idea came to Rich in 1.5 hours before a wild basement party. Man, I so missed this couple's parties of yore. Odd doesn't even seem to begin to describe their parties. In a good way of course.

"White Trash Couple" This inception/conception occurred during our first year of marriage. You know, the time in which we were both discussing what wedding gifts we were going to take with us after our divorce..... 

Side note: believe it or not: I had bubble wrap around my ass and legs to achieve a "full-figured" look. Who knew I shouldn't have tempted fate in the near future.

2004: 8 months pregnant with Moira - Sharon (pre-liposuction) and Ozzy Osbourne. Yes, I'm VERY sober here but I DID win a new DVD player due to my sober trivia prowess.

 
2005: "Dodge Ball". I think the use of the Baby Bjorn for Rich's outfit was a killer move. Oh, my, God! Did I say "KILLER?" Hello, 1990's, pleased to reintroduce myself to you... also let me add, Rich spent 4 hours on our "Purple Cobra" logos to make sure the were "just right." You know, for the sake of artistic integrity and all.

2006: "Dog the Bounty Hunter. And no! That is NOT my actual rack. It just happened to be two drawers full of socks for your viewing delight.

2007: "Rock of Love" The Original Season. Notice the homemade camera and the intricately place pink glued hairs. and yes, the Poison t-shirt was chosen from my vast assortment of actually owned t-shirts.

2008: I was pregnant with Thalon and we happened to afflicted with the vomit bug. Nothing to report.

2009:? Octomom? Anna Nicole Smith (pre-TrimSpa days?) Really, anyone? Bueller? Ideas? before Saturday?

Thank you very much for your participation!
 

  

   

the seventh day

In the bible, the seventh day is supposed to represent a day of rest. In my case, the Sabbath or otherwise in numerical order of events, represents my inability to follow through to wishes, wants,expectations and desires. Going to church, staying off my meds, staying sane....

It seems on the seventh day of "forgetting" to take, refill or by all means ignoring the need of my antidepressant meds, I fall. Hard. This isn't the first time. Surely not the last.

Here, I think I can beat it all and forget about this shit medicine because I don't feel like it's doing any good then, BAM!!! I'm forcefully slung to the ground and pummeled to death with emotions in which I can't control.

Well, I seem to do 'okay' in public until I can go into my closet and wither. Otherwise? I try. I then realize, SHIT! This crap-assed medicine must be doing more for me than I thought, other than making me fatter. Needless to say, I refilled my Prozac today and popped the capsule in the pharmaceutical line of illusion. Praying that I don't have to wait seven more days to feel in control.

Silly girl....control is just that - an unattainable word.

My husband is visiting a friend in Rhode Island. Hiking, laughing, getting away from everything. While I'm happy for him, I'm both sad and lonely. My personal counselor/confidant/partner-in-this-muck is gone. The warm body who may love or hate me in the middle of the night is away and I'm left to be the end-all-be-all for the girls right now. This discovery makes me feel foolish and horrible that I left him a month after Thalon died to visit friends - to get away. To feel real when everything is and was so unreal.

I'm such a selfish bitch because now? six months later? I'm sad he's gone to escape and I'm left to deal with reality. Remnants of thoughts, spirits and emotions haunting our house for me to deal with alone. Children bereft with emotion, sadness, and sleep walking episodes. Yes, I guess, it's all about me. me.mememememememme! How annoying.

Though, many a friend has kept me and the girls QUITE occupied - no one can keep the thoughts from roaming, while my eyes and mind wonder to pictures and stare at the phone as it rings. Both wanting to answer it and not. Because I'm so tired. So tired of pleasing everyone.

Tired of arguing with my youngest that her name is fucking Moira, not Lily. Tired of my oldest wanting her body glued to mine when I go to the motherfucking bathroom because she can't stand me being out of her sight for a minute. Only a GD minute! Tired of dealing with being frustrated and angry at EVERYONE; including God, Buddha, and idols alike. Tired of being jealous that everyone else has a stroller to push but me. (Well, I do have a stroller but I sure would look like a stupid fool if I pushed an empty stroller around with everyone else's complete ones.) Tired of wondering.... wondering what everything would be like....if. only if. Tired of staring at dead flowers and wanting to burn pictures to erase images and memories out of my mind.

From the very quotable words of my mother, "I (meaning her) totally need to take a tranq right now." More like an elephant tranq (tranquillizer) to calm the fuck down. 

Otherwise, I'll haphazardly jump out of my skin, house and ship.