Jeremy's got the new-moan-ie

That's how Mama Ann says/said it--not pneumonia, but new-moan-ie. "Chrystal (Chrustal) you'd better not go out with a wet head, or you'll catch the newmoanie."

Only a couple of you know of whom I speak. I'm talking about my ex-stepmother, "Mama Ann." She insisted that everyone call her that as if she were mother to all the motherless. She is/was the most crude (not in an good or entertaining way) woman I've ever encountered. Pure, unadulterated filth. She was a proud, disabled woman with a lot to say about absolutely nothing. (Disabled like get a check disabled. She fell on some ice and broke her leg when she was twenty-three. Rheumatoid arthritis set in. There is no way I can give you the phonetic spelling of how she said "rheumatoid arthritis.")

Ann met my dad at a bar, Oak Hill, on his birthday. As I recall, she was the one that picked him up. She pulled her shirt out, and told him to "blow out the candles." The reason I recall this story is that it was shared with me....at ELEVEN. I know. I was telling Jer today about how Mama Ann, when she was about seventeen, told some thirty-something guy at a bar, "Hey, I'll sit on that dick for you." This is what I grew up with for a few years. These types of stories and a lot of action that backed them up kept me in my room doing crunches and listening to The Wallflowers, Boys II Men, and other for obvious reasons non-torturous, non-NIN music.

When I had to come out of my room to do my chores, I was often embarrassed and appalled and disgusted and many other things. Also, when I was out, I was forced to eat things like "Ann's famous chili" or fried chicken. "Colonel Sanders ain't got nothin' on me. Does he, Dad? Does he," she would ask. My dad, that's who she called "dad." Okay by me; I wasn't really territorial with the title given to him by accidental sperm donation. She could call him dad if she wanted, because as soon as I ate my one drumstick or one scoop of chili that I'm convinced had pubes in it like the Radiohead episode of Southpark (This took place years before that episode: further proof that there are people stealing my thoughts for their make profit.), I would go back to my room and do some more Jack LaLanne style exercises from memory. At cheer camp, they were shocked to discover that I had very visible abdominal muscles in the form of a four pack. I wasn't surprised. Every crunch, up to a thousand a day sometimes, was representative of some uncouth thing in my life.

This has taken on a direction I really didn't foresee. I was going to talk about Jer's illness. But, this is therapeutic, and I think I'll continue it in some Mama Ann blogs. I feel like I just did an exorcism.

Eggstravaganza!

We went golfing yesterday. A sweat bee made its way into my sports bra, and it was not good timing as I was making my attempt at bogie. So, I jumped around and shrieked and shouted like a cartoon. Then, what the hell, I pulled my whole boob out right there in search for the thing I knew was there. Immediately I thought about an epipen or benadryl, but I had neither. I didn't have a reaction (a miracle), so I went on for the last four holes.

We hadn't played since last July, and needless to say, I missed the ball a lot. To make sure I wouldn't be too sore today, I mowed yesterday. I felt like the bumpy ride on the mower would help. Then, I picked up trash (effin litterbugs) and sticks. This morning I was sore, so to work the soreness out, I thought I should do the thing that could've given me some of the pain (like a hangover remedy). So, I mowed the backyard and picked up more sticks and limbs.

Now I'm really excited because I have a huge pile of sticks and brush that I can burn and roast jenny-o turkey hotdogs on for Easter. Roasting hotdogs on a brush fire is just as relevant as hunting eggs in my opinion. This is what we like to do. We like to put the eggs on to boil while we start the fire. Then, while the eggs are cooling, we roast the franks. When that's over, and there is no danger of burning down our barn/property, we come in to dye and decorate eggs.

I want to make compost really badly, and I don't know why. I feel like a good compost will help to get me some good, acidy tomatoes and some spicy peppers. The thing is--I'm not super great at planting things. I think the compost is key. I have all this property. I feel like maybe I should be using it, and I certainly don't want livestock. So, compost?

My dad is Coolio than your dad.

I think a.) The guy I have been told is my biological father is related to Coolio., or b.) Coolio is my daddy. They both have fierce eyebrows and scary eyes.

I wish I could have found a better pictorial representation of how they look so much alike.

Vote in my poll at the bottom of the blog.

R.I.P. Three Frogs

The not-so-good things of spring made me feel guilty for wishing it were here a while ago. I assassinated three frogs on the less than half mile drive from my mother-in-law's this evening. From now on, I will walk her food down to her, and she can nuke it if need be.

Hey, Amanda, this one's for you.

The rest of you will enjoy too. Look what came out on DVD this week. Oh, DES. We should feel badly about making fun.

He ain't heavy. He's my brother.

I feel bogged down right now. It's midterm at school, and I am the consummate good student. It is just such a burden to want to do well. I don't feel like practicing essays of English Literature; although, I have enjoyed the class. I don't feel like studying body parts. I don't think I should have too. I should get a free pass in any type of A&P; I'm a friggin mortician. It all just seems like drudgery at my age. Why can't I just settle for the C? I am irritated beyond words. I'm irritated at the direction of this blog.

My break from it all is when Ethan does or says something really cute or smart. He's dressed up as Mario right now with his daddy's hat and a tool belt made by his Grandma. He's walking around the house humming (very loudly) the Mario theme and jumping with his fist to the ceiling. He says that his Daddy is Luigi and that I am Princess Peach. Cosmo is Toad, and Frodo is Baby Princess Peach.

So, I don't wanna be melodramatic, but I'll risk it. I have to remember that I am going back to school for him. I want to be able to spend time with him. With my previous career, I worked ALL of the time. Of course, I want to be a good example, and at four, he can tell you what essay and paper and test and homework mean. So, I'm proud of that. But, I have to worry that he may see the stress involved in what I'm doing now. Do you think he will one day say, "Why bother?" Having a kid, and knowing that his longterm memory is now close to in place is terrifying. I raise my voice at him sometimes, and it breaks my heart later. I hope he doesn't remember that I was busy with schoolwork and got frustrated with him. I don't think my parents worried too much about these things.