Bathing, French Style

I really have a bathing issue. Which worries me. (And worries my husband as well.) Cuz what kind of old lady am I going to be? (I know I am old now, but I mean, REALLY old lady.)

Will I be the lady with the gray, greasy hair, wearing the same sweater for a week, with the tissue tucked up the sleeve? Oh Shit, that totally describes me right this fucking minute. (Note to self – dye hair, wash sweater.)

So this daily bathing ritual…it is lost upon me. I don’t bathe in the morning cuz I walk my kids to school. It’s a bit of a walk (hey, it takes like 10 minutes ONE WAY – I consider it a full-on workout) and I get sweaty. Then I get home. Well the house is quiet and I have five hours until pick-up time.

If I don’t have appointments (which require some attempt at hygiene and dressing) why would I waste 30 fucking minutes of nirvana IN THE SHOWER?

Then before you know it, it is time to pick up the kids. I’m still wearing the same pilly yoga pants, the sports bra that is 10 years old, the T-shirt with a tiny smudge of marinara over the left boob. Oh, and it does feel as though each of my teeth is wearing its own small angora sweater.

So I pick the kids up in a hat and dark glasses (because no one will recognize the marinara-sauce-on-the-tee-shirt-Mommy if she has dark glasses and a hat on). Then the kids get home.

The Witching Hour begins of homework, reading, piano practice, snack, Jazz Clothes, Ballet shoes, etc. Then I am literally too busy to bathe.

And then after dinner, I am so tired. So tired. And I really want to put my feet up and watch TV.

You know, I could bathe tomorrow.

"Best of" TheDeeView That's right baby, Sloppy Seconds!

So here's my new "Best of" because I wanted to share my joy and laughter. Or, I was just too lazy to write another blog after my Birthday martinis!

Now some of these Tweets got major RT action, some didn't (which I'm still bitter about that BTW), and others involve you (you know who I'm talking to)!

Enjoy!

I love a flat iron that sets off the smoke detector. #HotHairImplementsRock #GoingBald

Who knew so many women ran the risk of conflagration for beauty?

If I don’t get up from the computer and pee, then maybe I should just add Depends to my grocery list. #Tweettoomuch

Ah, if only it wasn't true!

I am thinking about keeping a salt shaker in my nightstand, so I have it handy when I'm hiding in the bedroom eating potato salad.

So nice to know that I'm not the only Mommy hiding out with her stash!

Then my #Mom2Summit bitter, bitter rant. How could there be a party and me not be invited, let alone know about it (of course we are correcting that with...#bloggybootcamp)

#mom2summit I hope all you girls had fun. No really, I mean it. I'm glad you got to do this for yourselves. Good for you. #Don'tReallyMeanIt

#mom2summit Reading all your tweets and weeping softly into my tissue, ah, sleeve, I want to play with you next year. #juniorhighflashback

Yah, that was just a sample of my bitterness since it went on all night (and I can't even blame alcohol since Vodka had nothing to do with it!)

Unlike these drunken tweets - Don't judge me! Oh, go ahead, I am! #headpounding

It started innocently enough (well... maybe not quite so innocent)

I'm going @mommyisdating What the fuck else do you need? #bloggybootcamp @craftycmc is going too. There will be cheetos, swearing and vodka. #itisallgood

@mommyisdating u should check with @ taxes007 about taking tests while drunk. He loves to do taxes over wine! Can u say big refund?

@mommyisdating: I am to be a respected CPA and @thedeeview says I shouldn't engage like this. Ah "F" it I love to b out there!

which prompted:

@craftycmc: New Rule: Neither of you is allowed to tweet drunk @taxes007 @thedeeview #willhavetocleanupinmorning

Followed by: @taxes007 and @craftycmc just made me pee my pants. Goddamit. #needtochangepanties

And finally the misery was ended with...

@craftycmc Please call if we are not off Twitter in 5 minutes. By call ... I mean call 911. #setthefuckingtimer

But enough about me... Wait, did I really just say that? Anyway here are few of the fav Tweets from my favs Tweeps:

@shaunaglenn: Just so you know...It's 10 days until my 40th birthday. 40! Surely that's a typo on my birth certificate right? RIGHT???

And real life changing observations:

@MiddleAgedMomma: Grandkid put a penny in the toilet. Learned 2 things: 1) our toilet doesn't flush pennies 2) no one wants a penny bad enough to go after it.

@RenegadeMoms: Im making chile for dinner because I like my house to smell like farts all night. #fartsarealwaysfunny #blametheDog

@redheadwriting: I take a perverse pleasure in closing unnecessary windows on my desktop. It's my own little private click war. #cagefight

Alright, that's it for today... I have a life you know!

Oh, who am I kidding, I just want to get back to my sweet Twitter!

Leave comments, compete to be included in the next installment, or go RT my blog shout out…

It's up to you!

(I'm a giver that way!)

Happy Birthday to Me, from Twitter

Already the day has barely begun, but the Twitter love has been pouring in cuz . . . Twitter is there for me.

In September, we had a business retreat where we closed our office and got a hotel meeting room and paid for our out of town staff to travel here. We hired a business consultant and went to work on developing strategies for growth and success in our Accounting Firm.

Are you bored yet? Cuz this is BORING!

But the consultant insisted we put a half day on the agenda to discuss Twitter and Social Networking. I refused.

“That shit’s not for us.”

“Thanks so much for the input, but we don’t have the time.”

“Wait, aren’t we paying YOU to carry out OUR agenda? No Twitter.”

“Don’t know what the fuck Twitter is, but I’m sure I don’t care.”

“FINE, is Wednesday afternoon going to work?”

So I set up my @TheDeeView account and made a commitment to tweet once a day. And I was bold and consistent. Once a day it was.

Then a few weeks later, because I am a disciplined and driven person, I made a commitment to go for twice a day. Yep, I’m that kinda girl.

And I worked it and got my first 100 followers. And called the Business Consultant to receive praise and accolades. (That is what we pay her for – praise and accolades. I’m shallow that way.)

I didn’t know to look at my name @TheDeeView to see if people were mentioning me, I didn’t thank people for following me, I didn’t know to follow back etc.

Then around Thanksgiving in the mountains, everyone locked up in a small space, too cold to go out, I felt stir crazy, so I started pulling Twitter up. And I met @RenegadeMoms. And I thought: these chicks say what I feel. What if I started saying what I feel? (Except of course, they are anonymous and I am ah . . . not. But that thought never crossed my mind.)

And that was my Twitter Turning Point. It was a downhill slalom since then. (Hey, I’m in the know. I followed the Olympics on Twitter while watching Real Housewives of OC on TIVO.)

I started to get the feel of what Twitter could actually be and found a bunch of mothers who spoke candidly about their Mommy experiences and frankly, their desire to not be with their kids, whether through hiding, drinking or throwing the children breakfast bars to shut them up. (Oh wait, that was me.) Furthermore, I just can’t take polka dots, ribbons and cute stories about spit up. I can’t. Spit up sucks. (Not that I remember. I’m very old and my kids are in elementary school, which I think is the Holy Grail of ages.) And I was unleashed. And no longer alone with my feelings of irritability, exhaustion and embarrassing thoughts about alcohol at 11 a.m.

In this journey of 140 characters I found my voice and it felt delicious. I have things to say, bitter things, angry things, food things, political things. I can use the word “fuck” and “pussy”. I have loving and nice things to say, but I save those for my kids and husband. Twitter was my “unleashing” and it changed my life.

Though I was afraid, I started a blog. And now I have a forum, with my blessed 20 something followers. (Don’t look too closely, I follow my own blog and of course, make my husband do the same!) But for me, this has unleashed the long held back, procrastinating, paralyzed writer.

And I always talked about writing a book, but now I am actually doing it. (Well, don’t get excited, most of the time I’m too busy tweeting to follow through. But I started and that matters to me.)

And I am different in relationships – speaking the truth more, being less “nicey nice”. And trust me, I still hate it when I get negative feedback, in life and on Twitter. And I am shallow and my self esteem is wrapped up in what other people think of me. (And let’s be clear. I am a pretty “out there” person, yet I still get stung easily when someone doesn’t “get” me.)

Even my family sees the change in me. My 10 year old Blondie wrote in my Birthday Card today: I love you and your personality. It lights up the whole house. You have so many friends, both here and on Twitter. I think you have these friends because you are enjoyable. (She also made mention of my big belly laugh and my zesty approach to eating, but hey!)

But instead of holding that voice back in fear, Twitter has given me a forum to shout out. And when I shout out in Twitter, it turns out it is harder to be “nice” in my real life. I am more myself. Profane, bitchy, nasty, exhausted, exasperated, bitter, overweight and Goddamned happy. I have found my voice and I like it.

Twitter has changed my life. Happy Birthday to Me.

A Letter to the Mommy Tweeters and Bloggers

It is my birthday this Thursday. I will be 51. (Hey, don't click away cuz you think you have nothing in common with me - yet!) Which makes me the age of most of your mothers. (If I am old enough to be your fucking grandmother, you should not be reading this blog or my Tweets.)

Which makes me self-conscious. I know most of my Twitter Bitter Mommy friends are in their 30’s. I just read that one of you will be turning 30 this summer. Yikes! (And yes, Aunt Becky, getting out of your 20’s changes everything, for the better!)

I had my kids in my 40’s. There were all sorts of advantages. First, I didn’t meet the Tax Man until I was 35. We didn’t get married until I was 37. Now he is one awesome dude, and well worth the wait. Cuz we have quite a thing going on!

We had a successful business enterprise that we built together. We had resources. We had a calmness about us. We also had each been married before and could really appreciate what we had found in one another.

So age gave us an amazing marriage, a solidly successful business, calm maturity and resources.

My spotty health history probably impacted our ability to get pregnant, so after we did the fertility thing (all while my daddy was dying), and by the time it all worked out I was 40 when we adopted our sweet Blondie. (Damned good thing we had those resources!)

By the time our second baby came along, I was 44.

Which wasn’t such a big deal where we used to live. I found a group of about 4 older moms, all around 40ish. We were liberals in a conservative town, hanging together and comparing our joint pain and stiff backs when we picked up the babies.

And it’s not such a bad thing in Palm Springs. Most of our friends are gay, childless couples our age. The parents at the kids’ elementary school are all younger than I am, but they are mostly real women, with bellies and bad crop pants, just like me.

But then I found this great community on Twitter. And my life changed. Cuz I found the Real Yummy Mummies. And by Yummy Mummies I mean Mom’s who knew what Yummy really was: pop tarts, cupcakes, swearing, vodka, beer, sex (that one is for you @Mommyisdating) bitchin’ about their kids.

And there was nothing sappy about these women. And I felt good. I felt at home. I felt safe, understood and cyber loved. (Hey I’m needy – I take love and adulation wherever I can get it.)

And then I realized that I was old. Older. No, old actually. There are grandmas out there tweeting who are younger than I am. And I knew I was REALLY old when I posted about menopause, my pussy and Hormone Replacement Therapy and one of my favorite Moms commented: “My mom LOVES her Hormone Replacement Therapy!” (@Randaroopoo – I love you so much.)

So I write all these Tweets and Blogs about being so old. Cuz I feel old next to 30 somethings. (Are you all too young to remember the show “thirty something”?) So I haven’t wanted to say my age. And when some of you asked, I would only tell you in a DM.

And it is one thing to say “I am 50”, and another to say "51”. (I know, if you are in your 30’s, there is no difference between 50 and 51.)

But here is my commitment as a blogger. I will tell the truth. Hopefully I can make you laugh, and most importantly I want others to feel like someone “gets” them. I want to say the shit that many think but are too afraid to say out load. Cuz I’m older, I’m braver, I’m more therapized. So listen to me, the Older Bitter Mother. I’m here to guide you through.

Cuz in my 30’s I was thin, hot, a successful career chick, married, divorced, dating, sick, well, then married to The Tax Man and childless.

In my 40’s I was NOT hot, still successful running our family business, very married, sick, well and a mom. A bit of a bitter mom, certainly a tired mom, but a mom.

For my 50’s my goal is to be hot, successful in my own right, run a majorly successful business, blog, write a book, do a show, be well, be a mom of perfect angels who never bother me while I accomplish my goals, and not be embarrassed of my age.

Cuz I’m 51 on Thursday. And I’m needy. So love me up. And dammit – respect your elders!

Look At These Baby!

I have a girlfriend who suggested to me the other day, that I need a better bra, cuz, ah, when I was running . . . well, I just needed a better bra.

Now really, what I need is a tummy tuck, but I’m too scared. Or a diet, but I am far more afraid of that than a tummy tuck. Or, in the modern vernacular: a new lifestyle eating approach (if I had a dick, I would suggest that someone suck it right now).

Now these boobs have been through a lot. These boobs were my calling card for many years before middle age and weight gain took over my body. Then, when I had my kids, I did this thing called adoptive breast feeding. (Don’t ask, really, if you don’t know, don’t ask.) I will tell you, this required pumping my breast every three hours for 6 weeks before our first baby was born.

And you get a little something, not much, but a little. But besides wanting to experience the Bonding Experience of Breast Feeding as an adoptive mom. (and if you know me by now, you know that I hate to be LEFT OUT of anything) adoptive breast feeding made my breasts grow. And grow. And seriously grow. I’m talking humongous things down to my waist (oh, how I cringe in embarrassment as I type this). And long after I had stopped the nursing, they continued to grow . . .

So when I found a lump in my breast, requiring a lumpectomy, this little nasty 24 year old Fellow in Oncology said to me:


Uh, have you thought about doing something about those?

I’m here, right? I have a lump . . .

Uh, no, their uh, SIZE?

Yeah, they are really big, I get that but . . . the lump?


Bottom line is, this guy made me feel so terrible about myself, but it ended up being a good thing. Cuz not only did I get a lumpectomy, but I had a breast reduction at the same time. My breasts were so huge that they could take all this tissue around the lump and still leave me with some size D’s.

And I loved my new, scarred up but perky breasts. I would whip my shirt up at cocktail parties and scream: “Tits like a 15 year old. Wanna see?” Okay, there was some vodka involved, but also . . . I had breast pride.

So when my friend said the other day . . . you need a better bra I thought: “Do you wanna see these? 50, but the nipples STILL POINT UP!” Cuz 40 pounds and nine years later, it turns out I still have Breast Pride.

I am an Amazon Goddess! Goddess, I Say!

Okay, I’ll get to the Goddess part in a minute, but first you must know, I just had a hip replacement last year. I know, little kids AND a hip replacement. My bones are shit. What can I tell you?

So I suffer through with my fucking walker, then my cane, then my limpy, gimpy walk. I get through the first 6 months in practical, orthopedic, mother-fucking ugly shoes.

But at the 6 month mark I feel GREAT. Not 100% but better than I’ve felt in years.

Finally, finally, finally I get to put on something other than butt-ugly padded strap Velcro shoes. When I put on a pair of 5 inch heels, I feel like I look 50 pounds thinner. 50 pounds! I feel amazing.

My feet may be bleeding, but I think I look good – waddle aside.

So, of course when we hosted a business event a few weeks ago, I strapped those 5 inch stilettos on. I could NOT walk in these shoes, of course, so I just planted myself in one spot.

I had a wonderful time accepting complements on my amazing shoes and fabulous sense of style. I discussed business and hopefully picked up a few new clients. But I also had a couple of martinis (they were brought to me, for reasons which should be quite obvious by now).

After that I began asking our guests if anyone had a vicodan, so I could squeeze another 20 minutes out of my party shoes.

But I am telling you, I put on these high heels and I feel like an Amazon Goddess.

I feel like I’ve got Michelle Obama’s arms and Arnold Schwarneggers abs. I have a mental picture of myself that is HOT HOT HOT!

Of course, I am too “full-figured” to actually bear these 5 inch torture rack heels for more than about an hour. That’s why I carry a fabulous bag with orthopedic, shower flip flops in it.

So anyone that showed up more than an hour into the party, you will find me in my wonderful hip, plus-size outfits (which really rock with my heels, not so much with rubber flip flops), and think “my, that mildly attractive woman has on a cute outfit, but what was she thinking leaving the house in those shoes???”

Sigh, there goes the Amazon Goddess.

It's Fucking Lent Already?

Lent. I usually give something up. Well . . . not chocolate, or red meat. (What? I wanna die during Lent?). One year my husband made his own Lenten discipline. He didn’t drink, except on Sunday. Sundays were a red-wine-filled “event” in our house.

No, what I usually give up is Swearing. It takes about three weeks for me to get it out of my system. If I’m really, really mad, then an inadvertent exception might be made.

And the most interesting thing about giving up swearing? At the end of Lent, when I go back to my frequent use of the “F” word, on EASTER mind you, I find it feels so exhilarating and thrilling to randomly be throwing swear words around. Lent definitely empowers the use of swearing the rest of the year.

But this year, unlike every other year, I have started blogging. How can I blog and not swear? How will people get who I really am without the edge of the Potty Mouth Words? Will people think I am one of those nicey, nicey Mommies, who just adore their cute and silly kids?

Cuz I’m not one of those Mommies. I am the Mommy that had no idea it was going to be this hard. I am the Mommy that actually feels invaded by my children. And I am not embarrassed to tell you, I am the Mommy with the VERY tidy house who can’t stand the detritus that comes with kids! And I am an old Mommy, very tired, very irritable, with a very short temper. I am a Mommy that swears. A lot. Cuz I’m mad and tired and things feel out of my control a lot. (I hate being out of control.)

So this year for Lent . . . maybe I can live without chocolate?

Any Excuse

I can turn a conversation about GROUT into an excuse why I must have a delicious sweet treat, NOW.

And to have something real actually happen in my life? I’m going to put on some weight.

Right? I mean, something good happens – I put on a little weight. You know, like it is Tuesday and the neighbors invite us for cocktails?

Come on, I’m out having a celebration. I am entitled to enjoy myself every now and again. I may put on a pound or two, but it was for a good cause.

Of course the only problem is we get social invitations 2 to 3 times per week, putting me on a 2.5 per week weight gain program.

But wait.

What about when something bad happens?

Well I must nourish my soul with something yummy – perhaps a trip out to dinner?

I’ll just have appetizers and a drink – you know, something dietetic like chicken wings with ranch dip, the fresh baked cookies and a hummus sampler.

And one drink makes drink number two seem like such a great idea. After all, I am upset about something.

I am entitled to comfort myself every now and again. Make that 3.0 times per week.

As a matter of fact writing this blog has been a bit draining…

I think I’ll go see what’s in the pantry!

I’ve got issues (surprise, surprise)…TRINA TURK

I’ve got issues with the designer Trina Turk. I am lovin’ the Palm Springs lifestyle and the Trina Turk store is so representative of that. I love her fabrics and her styles. Bold, bright, and okay, the prices are too high for me but still. I drool each time I look at her store windows.

So what’s wrong with this love affair? She stops her clothes at a size 12. Size 12??? She makes me love her clothes then doesn’t make anything that actually fits over my fucking thighs? (But I can buy a throw pillow for $118 – one size fits all.)

Same thing with premium jeans – 7 for all Mankind, Diesel, True Religion etc – top off at 10 or 12. (Btw, while I was researching these brands, I just bought a sweater from Nordstrom.com.) What the fuck? What about the fat girls?

Really, forever I have to wear “Not Your Daughters Jeans”? (Which I am embarrassed to say, I love! But that is not the fucking point)

During this economy, I think all retailers should be kissing the fat girls’ ass. It is a guaranteed growth demographic. There are a whole bunch of us and we aren’t getting any smaller!

And speaking of Department Stores – Can we talk about the plus size departments? At my Macy’s the Plus Department it is in the Basement with the kids clothes (and the men’s department, but hey – I don’t care about them).

Then at Nordstrom, they call the plus department “Encore”. Really? Encore? The skinny girls get “Point of View” and “Narrative”, “Brass Plum”. The big girls get “Encore”. Why don’t they just call it “Finale, before you stroke out”.

So you know what, Fancy-pants-name-brands? I’ll just take my big bag of Plus-Size-Fashion money and shop somewhere else!

And if I find a pair of jeans that I like, that like me, I’m going to buy them in every color – light denim, dark denim, medium denim. No, I’ll buy two in each color – one for high heels, one for flats.

Take THAT Trina!!!

THE SECRET

So the other day, Blondie tells me she has a secret. Well, I can’t tolerate such a thing. I am the kind of mother that reads my kid’s journal.

I see you judging me. But goddammit. I plan to be one of the first to know when my kids start making out and using drugs.

But speaking of lying and cheating and drugs. I have a policy. When my daughters ask me about my drug use in the past I plan to look them in the eye and, without batting an eyelash, LIE. “We don’t do drugs in this family.”

But back to Blondie’s secret. She’s 10. She informs me that she has her own inner life and that there are things that are personal just to her.

What’s a mother to do?

I’m not proud but I offer her money to tell me her secret.
No, some things need to be just hers.
I offer her extra TV time. No.
I ask if she is using drugs. She’s horrified.
I ask if she is swearing on the playground. More horror.

I ask if there has been kissing going on.
She turns red and says NO. I zero in – is this about kissing?
No. Is this about a crush?
Yes. Who?
I’ll only tell you if you don’t tell Daddy.
Sorry– I may swear, drink, lie about my own drug history but I won’t keep anything from Daddy.

Eventually I wear her down. She is 10 and I am the mommy.

And I can keep a secret. 

I Have An Old Pussy

Sweet, tight, hot, juicy. Not so much anymore. First there are the erratic periods. Then the motherfucking hot flashes. Then there is the trip to the gyno and the blood tests. And the confirmation: Yes @TheDeeView, you are indeed drying up like the old withered prune that you think you are.

And then, in case there is any doubt, the orgasms change. They get harder to "come" by (and frankly, mine were always work. I was never multi-orgasmic at the thought of a big-hard pulsating dick. I needed attention.) (Unless of course, it was with my husband, just the thought of my husband made me clench and scream with joy. In case he is reading this, you know?)

But nothing mattered as much to me as the all consuming, horror of the hot flashes. (Please see www.TheDeeView.blogspot.com for more detailed descriptions of my descent into aging hell.) So after about 6 months of suffering (The Sweet Blessed Virgin Mary never suffered so much) I went on Hormone Replacement Therapy.

You younger women might ask if I am afraid of the side effects. You bet your sweet ass I am. But what is a suffering girl to do?

The hot flashes stopped. And the orgasms are ah, excellent.

So what if I speak out of one side of my mouth? My pussy is all hot and juicy again.

So what if I get breast cancer. My pussy will be tight and moist again.

My cognitive skills may be diminished slightly, but I come like a fire hydrant mowed down by a teenage driver.

Actually, just writing this makes me a little moist down there. Or did I just pee a little bit in my panties?

Ahh, I still have an old pussy.

Why Is The Fucking Heater On?

Besides WISDOM, getting older gives you…Hot flashes. You know, THE CHANGE (how quaint people named things in the 1950s).

Now I had seen women with hot flashes and thought: “Good God Honey, suck it up.” Besides I live in Palm Springs in the summertime, how bad can that be? Pussies.

Oh.

Okay, turns out the term ‘hot flashes’ do not do this life-transforming experience justice. The hot ‘flash’ (a complete misnomer since there is nothing quick or fucking fleeting about it) is a deep hot burning which begins inside your bone marrow and makes you want to tear your clothes off, and in not in the good way. Right – cuz “that way” is fucking over, cuz you are in menopause and need air. Air conditioning, a fan, get the heater off!

“Air, NOW!”

Yeah, nothing sexy about that.

Great, now I have to buy these little ice packs that you put in your bra.
Yes, this is what my happiness now depends on. Temperature controlled breasts.

So, I deeply apologize to all the schvitzing women whom I disparaged as weenies. Hot flashes completely ruined my life. People would ask me in public, if I was aware that my face was, ah, quite … red, flushed. Was I all right? Did they need to call someone?

Once someone touched my back to see if I was okay, and pulled their hand back in quick revulsion. I was so wet and so hot, it was, well, repellent.

And I was a bitch. A big bitch. Bigger than the usual Bitchy, Worn-Out Mommy Bitch that I usually am.

Therefore, with great humility and desperation I succumbed to Hormone Replacement Therapy.

Really, there is a moment where you think – I don’t care what kind of horrible cancer I get. If these hot flashes and fits of rage don’t stop someone will be seriously injured. And I don’t like jail. Those jump suits would not be figure flattering to the full-figured girl.

And guess what Hormone Replacement Therapy gave me? Periods.

Ah, the fucking cycle of life! At least my boobs aren’t on ice anymore.

Ah Facebook . . . We need to talk

Dear FaceBook,

I have something I have to tell you. You aren’t going to like this. And this is really hard for me to say, but I have left you for another social networking site.

Our thing was really good while it lasted. And it’s totally not you, it’s me.

I just need to follow my heart (and I know, because you love me, that you want the best for me). I need to be with someone who can make me laugh in 140 characters. Everything with us just goes on and on. And in your heart, you know it’s true.

I know we both thought we had found “the one”. But it turns out; I think you were my MySpace rebound. I’m thinking this was just a phase.

Also, I know this is shallow, but frankly, I need to be with someone younger. I know that when we got together, everyone thought I was a little old for you. But you know, I’m really a young soul. And now, it’s time to move on and follow my heart.

But what we had was completely real. I loved you. We had really fun times: shared a few secrets, watched some great clips, learned a lot about politics and made great friends together.

I understand that you don’t want this to be happening. And it kills me to hurt you. So we can keep in touch, check in every now and then. But I need to warn you in advance, this new Social Networking Site, we are thinking about becoming exclusive.

For now, can we just be Friends?

Love,

www.Twitter.com/@TheDeeView.com

PS: Ummmm . . . obviously not going on that Valentine’s Day Cruise. Hope you are okay by yourself.

Merry Fucking Christmas

In December, we take the girls out to get the Christmas tree. Now my husband and I have done a lot of Christmases. This is one of the disadvantages to having kids later in life. Just about the time you are “over” the whole big stage production of the holidays, you have kids who care. Really care.

But we persevere. So we follow our annual tradition of taking the girls photo and turning it into a gorgeous Christmas card. They are so clean, and blow dried, with a bit of clear lipgloss. They look like little angels. (OK, so I shot a few hundred pics trying to get the “perfect shot” before they started weeping from the pressure of “Put you heads together and smile. Like you LIKE each other please!”)

We prepare for our annual Christmas party, which means we have to get a tree.

It’s a weeknight, cold out, and it has been a really long day. We load up and do our normal tree ritual, which consists of making pretend I am really considering the ridiculous and pathetic trees my daughters point out, and then making them VERY excited about the special tree which looks like it was “custom made just for us”!

On the way home they start going at each other in the back seat. Well, I’m not that tired, that I can’t put on my Good Mommy routine.
“Now girls, please stop yelling like that, and everyone, remember, keep your hands to yourself. Thank you!”
The silence doesn’t even last a full minute.
Stern Mommy says: “Girls, I have asked you nicely to quit screaming in the back seat. It is distracting while Daddy is driving. Please do what you are asked, and you’re your voices down and your hands to yourself.”
Sterner Mommy: “I mean it, knock it off you two. You are too loud. No TV tonight if you don’t pipe down.”
Angry Mommy: “What is is gonna take? I told you two to BE QUIET and KEEP YOUR DAMNED HANDS TO YOURSELF!!!”
Going off Mommy: “SHUT UP BACK THERE. I MEAN IT!!!”
After one more “episode” I reach around to the back seat, with the full intention of slapping some daughter. In my husband’s large, manly, oddly gangbanger-like Cadillac EXT, it turns out I can’t actually reach them. So while wildly flapping my arm around the back seat (where I indeed catch a little bit of knee skin under my nail) Mommy goes wild: “When I ask you to BE QUIET I mean BE QUIET, SHUT UP, STOP YELLING, STOP SPEAKING, STOP BREATHING, STOP TOUCHING EACH OTHER, STOP, STOP, STOP.”
Quiet.

Ah . . .Take a picture of THIS Christmas moment. You know the one where Mommy has a bit of spittle in the corner of her mouth, eyes somewhat bugged out, Angel Children retracting their feet, holding their little knees to their chest, a bit of Christmas tree branch, rolled up in the window. You know, the picture NOT on our Christmas card?

Say fucking “Ho Ho Ho” to that.