Many moons ago, on May 10, it was a Sunday, and that day was Mother’s Day. Also on that day, my mother entered the world, kicking, screaming, naked, and mad as hell. Just like every Saturday night since she was 20.

Today is my Mom’s birthday.

I have often complained about my birthday in relationship to Christmas. It’s too close, no one wants to hang out, no one wants to buy you a present, they JUST. GOT. DONE. with all their holiday spending. Bah. But it really did not dawn on me until today that my Mom’s birthday is exactly the same. When she was a kid, if her birthday fell on that Sunday, that must have been sucko. And once she became a mother —  which was entirely too young for today’s standards and I’m not being judgy but seriously maybe my Pops could have been brought up on charges — her birthday was a birthday/mother’s day combo no matter WHEN it fell. One gift and done. It’s for mother’s day - AND – your birthday. Enjoy your maccaroni fish picture frame!

How rude was THAT?

Well, here are some truths about my mother:

• She calls me ‘Baby Girl.’ Now granted, I pretty much picked out this nickname myself. But she and my Pops picked up on it. Because I am. Their baby girl, I mean. I walk into a room, and I hear, “Oh, Baby Girl is here!” And you know what? That’s kind of awesome.
• I adore my Mom. She is a pain in the ass of epic proportions. I mean, where else could I have possibly gotten it from? But I adore her honesty. She does not know how to sugar coat what she is telling you. And sometimes you need that shit.
• My Mom is the most generous person you will ever meet in your life. She will strip herself naked for you if that is what you need. She will be the unlikely voice of reason when you least expect it. She really *does* have eyes in the back of her head, and she SEES stuff, even when she keeps it to herself.  There is no age where I stop craving her approval. There is no time when I am too grown up to need her. There is no place in life where she is too busy for me, even when I have been too busy for her for weeks on end. She will never not want to see me, or my boys. She will never be empty-handed even if we ask her to be. She will never let you pick up the check. She will never have nothing to offer. This is who my Mom is. Generosity in its purest form.
• I do not tell my mother nearly enough how very much I adore her, how generous I think she is, or how loved she is by her children and grandchildren. I let the gifts get wrapped into a single birthday/Mother’s Day gift, which hardly seems like it is ever enough.

I know several people who have lost their Moms, most of them way too early. And I know I take mine for granted. But I really do know how lucky I am to have Patty Carey as my mother. Because my Mom is a beautiful lady. And I’m not just saying that because I look like her.

Happy Birthday Mom!!

Love, Your Baby Girl

Not the kind of themes that made Ralphie and Schwartz and Flick groan and moan when they had to write them in school (“What I want for Christmas is a Red Ryder carbine-action, two hundred shot Range Model air rifle with a compass in the stock and this thing which tells time.”). But overall THEMES. I have a secret desire to have a theme for nearly everything I do.

Okay, it’s a problem.

Today, for example, is Wednesday. Wednesday is my day off. So naturally, this is Stay-At-Home-Mom Wednesday. Other days have their themes, as well. Some are specific, while others can be generalized to any day. Bears Day, of course. Boys Day (when I get to do whatever the hell I want, I have no junk). Zumba Monday. And there is Naked Saturday nothing specific for Saturday.

I am uncertain when my decision to start listing the days of my life in theme form started, but I cannot remember the last time I did not do it. I wonder if I am searching for direction, or if I am a secret organization freak, or you know… mentally ill. Like when I got all off kilter this morning when I had to get up, shower, and go to work. ON STAY-AT-HOME-MOM WEDNESDAY.

I think it may be possible that my unending themes — which are ultimately just lists — are why I am so blocked. Because I’ve made myself such a long list of themes to follow, I am overwhelmed. And constantly thinking about what I have to do tomorrow is making me struggle with what I have to do today.

Gah.

This project of mine to try to work my way through my writer’s block by writing whatever comes to mind is already starting to suck ass, and it is two days in. Maybe I should re-think my themes. I should work on the following themes:

• Stop worrying — Life ain’t that hard.
• Stop trying so hard — Life ain’t that hard.
• Stop being such a downer — Life ain’t that hard.

Of course, I am going to work on these themes later.

Today is Stay-At-Home-Mom Wednesday. I have some sitting around to do.

I was thinking I could give it a title: Operation Bust my Block.

That is pretty crappy. I will work on it.

As I was working on a story for this week, I had some sticky notes near by, and I quickly jotted down a couple of poems. If I remember correctly, from my high school creative writing days, poetry is an easy way to get a few thoughts and ideas out there. I assume this is because poetry itself is, by definition, disorganized nonsense.

One of the other rules of writing is to write what you know. So here goes:

Mindset of a 4th Grade Boy: A Haiku
Noogies and swirlies

Punching is how I show love

Now I scratch my balls

and

Mindset of my Husband: A Haiku

Go to work today

My clothes get clean by magic

Now I scratch my balls

It is a start.

But every once in a while, the crap is fantastic. Or dare I say, CRAPtastic.

I recently saw this post somewhere on some … page … somewhere …. about the worst things ever. One of them was a house centipede. You know what I am talking about, right? The bug with 1,000 legs? Moves faster than any naturally occurring creature should ever be able to move without an injection of some sort of nuclear power by-product. You see it, you grab a shoe, it is gone. And all you know now is that it is there. Somewhere. In your house.

I saw that on this list of awful things and thought — icky. Then, that night, there was one in my room. I picked up a shoe to smash it, and it was gone. An hour later it was crawling up the wall. So of course I woke up Jim to kill it. The next night — another one. The next day — A THIRD. That one was in the bathroom, and I was neekid. No shoes around! Ick. It is like that internet post created those evil bastards IN MY HOUSE. They really are one of the worst things ever, and that is the truth.

Which inspired me to think of other truths.

Truth — I have writer’s block. It is a real condition, but most people only associate it with famous writers like F. Scott Fitzgerald, as if it is really only a first-world problem for the writing elite. I mean, seriously, between all the craptastic stuff out there on the internet, and in print, and in e-print or whatever you would call stuff that you can only get on an electronic device, there is SO MUCH CRAP available. It makes the idea of writer’s block seem ridiculous, because the wealth of what is out there is so immense that there is never nothing to read.

These days, everyone is reading some idiotic porn book called 50 Shades of Gray. I read an excerpt. Holy crap is it bad. They keep calling it “mommy porn” and all I can think is, why don’t these women just watch porn? You can get it for free. But my real irritation comes with the fact that someone wrote a fan fiction trilogy (read — she didn’t even come up with the idea herself, she just stole the Twilight story, added a few throbbing appendages and BAM … mommy porn) which is embarrassingly bad, and half the women in the country have decided to pick it up, read it, and covet the hell out of the characters. Meanwhile, I have writer’s block.

NOT. FAIR. Seriously ladies, just go have sex with your husbands.

My writer’s block has gotten in the way of a lot of things. It does not help that I write for a newspaper. I am getting my copy written, but it sucks. And I am pushing the deadline every week, because I cannot think of how to start a story. Headlines alone are killing me. I think I have struggled on my by-line, for Pete’s sake. I am lost in a sea of  “what the hell am I doing.” I think it is fair to say that every story I have written in the past month has been half-assed. But it is not because I am half-assing my work. It is because I am blocked.

It sounds really stupid, but when your outlet for “creativity” is writing, and you cannot write, or write well, it’s fairly maddening. Even the stupid post about the awful things — I could have written that. But I didn’t. Because I have writer’s block. I have writer’s block so bad, I am struggling to write a blog post about writer’s block.

I think I need a vacation. A week in the sun. I am frustrated. I am writing poorly. I am working poorly. I am not winning any awards any time soon.

There is a saying that applies to how some people make it though really tough times — Fake it until you make it. I think I need to take this approach. I need to bust through my writer’s block by writing like a crazy person. I need to try to work on this here blog every day.

So I am apologizing in advance. The next month (or months but Lord I seriously hope not), this blog will be disorganized, idiotic dribble, as I try to work through this blockage. I think I need to write it, and put it out there. Even when what I write is crap. Because let’s face it, it won’t be the only craptastic crap on the internet.

Truth.

I think it is possible I spend entirely too much time on these here internets. There is little if anything that does not attract my attention. There is not a chance in hell that I will not click on something that has the word “Kardashian” in it, despite the fact that I have actually lost any interest in their show and am therefore no longer keeping up with said Kardashians. Did you know Kourtney’s baby bump was photoshopped out of her swimwear advertisement photo? I sure did! Because they sell that crap at Sears, so lord knows I am tempted to buy it at least twice a week.

The written word is my buddy. It is how I make my living and by “make my living” I mean how I make the paycheck that Jim considers “super cute!” I like to write. I like to read the stuff that is written. But dammit if it is not getting me in trouble these days.

It seems I have gotten so accustomed to putting everything I want in writing, I have forgotten how to talk to actual people. I write e-mails and posts on the facepage and then I am ASTONISHED that my tone is not coming through. People think I am full of funniness when I am irritated and ripping them apart when I am just talking and apparently my awesome wit and sarcasm are not making it through. Conversely, I seem to talk the way I write — so when I think I am telling my funny funny jokes, I am actually bugging the crap out of someone.

Gah.

Look at me now, not making any sense.

Truth is, I feel like lately I am one big vehicle of miscommunication. It used to be that if you wanted to say something, you wrote it. That way you got it all out, thought about it, it was not interrupted, just you and your thoughts, THEN you passed them on to someone and they could see all the things that you were not eloquent enough to say. But now, everyone is so used to writing things out on the fly, there’s no longer thought to it. Written words are just as mumbo-jumbo-ed as the hastily made comment was in days past.

I don’t think this is fixable. It’s just the new way of how it is. My once beloved treasure of writing, journaling, note-taking… It’s not something that just a few of us do anymore. It is no longer what “artsy” kids do when they actually have no artistic talent so they write and wear black skirts and act like nothing is more difficult than having to drive your mom’s Buick to school. EVERYONE is a writer anymore. Even if just a status update.

Proof — abandoned donkeys. Abandoned donkeys are trending on Yahoo. It’s kind of a serious story. But somehow, “abandoned donkeys” (which by the way is a kick-ass name for a band) is how the story is being described. Not “animal rescue” or “farmers in danger” or “drought affects animals.”

Abandoned donkeys.

Sure to get people’s attention! Sure to not really come anywhere close to relaying the facts behind the story.

This is possibly my lamest post ever. I think I am simply finding myself irritated with the written word — so much so that I am having trouble explaining WHY I am irritated with the written word. Maybe I should just start making phone calls. The spoken word is such a lost art form.

It has something to do with the way the earth orbits the sun. Seems it does not orbit in 365 days, it orbits in 365 days and six hours. So every four years they have to add in that extra day or else eventually the seasons and the calendar will be all messed up. It’s rude of you think about it. The earth struggles and struggles to get a little bit faster, and every four years we send it to the back of the line to start all over. Like rotational hell. Mother Earth will never get ahead.

It happens every four years. Yet still, every four years, people are completely stunned by its occurence. Oh my God, Y’all! It’s the 29th day of the month, but it’s FEBRUARY! Can you believe it?? And honestly, unless today is your birthday, you are a little bit lame if you are THAT excited about it. If I see one more post on the facepage about how Leap Day and Hump Day happened on the SAME DAY this year I might have to start swinging.

Huh.

Apparently I am rubbed the wrong way. I think it’s the election. The election is making me grouchy. And it’s not even here yet.

I’ve decided maybe I need to run for office. Here is my platform:

1. If I am elected, I vow to implement the “I can see you” rule. This is a simple rule. If I can see you, stop what the hell you are doing. Stop it right the hell now. Stop picking your nose in the car. Stop wearing those ridiculous pants. Stop telling people you like Cold Play. Stop it. I can see you.
2. If I am elected, I vow to implement instant legislation that makes it illegal for you to make hand signals that should only be made my sports officials. No asking to throw a flag, no pointing to FIRST DOWN, and not even indicating a touch down. Do you think the officials have forgotten these signs? Do you think you are explaining something to the other fans that they cannot otherwise figure out on their own? Player or fan — it’s now illegal. Not only is it ridiculous, but I can see you (see rule 1).
3. If I am elected, I vow to pass a law regarding public nudity. If you have boobs, they must be covered. I’m talking to you, college men. You’re not as in-shape as you think.
4. If I am elected, I vow to grant all citizens of these United States as well as ones we like best from Canada the right to enact a citizen’s arrest for anyone who pulls up to the ATM, and THEN starts to do their paperwork. Pull up, press buttons, do business, drive away. Do not sign your checks or balance your checkbook in front of the machine. Do it at home. Or at the office. Or in a parking space. But for God’s sake get the hell away from the machine if you aren’t ready. Because the power of this particular citizen’s arrest includes giving you a titty-twister.

These are my ideas. I know, they don’t involve limiting contraception choice or taking away health care, so they are kind of lame. But it’s a start.

Paid for by the people to elect Marney 2012. Effective February 29.

January 4 this week marked my annual trek into the abyss of senility, as I exited year 37 and kicked into year 38. And you want to know what  really learned over this past year? I learned that I am not as awesome in everyone else’s eyes as I am in my own.

I know, right? Says who?

I’ll tell you who says: Facebook.

Facebook has this bizarre ability to trick you into believing several non-sensical truths, for example:

• I have hundreds of friends.
• My ex-boyfriends are TOTALLY interested in my life.
• I was the most popular gal in the class of 1992.
• Roughly 99 percent of people don’t believe in causes (hence they refuse to cut and paste said cause into their status line but come on, buck the trend! Cut! Paste!)
• I must like what everyone else has to say, even if the things they say are negative (I hate the rain! *like*).
• People want to see pictures of my children (they must, why else would so many keeping “liking” them).
• I am totally having an argument with a real live human being.
• That person totally cares about me.

Those last two — man, that’ll get you.

I recently had a Facebook “argument” with someone I do not know. I say “argument” because I do not know this person and therefore was not really arguing with her. I do not know who she is, where she lives, what she is like… NOTHING. Just that we crossed paths on the face page. Via mutual friends we had clearly “crossed paths” before, but honestly, I had never noticed her before.

Long story short — I said something she didn’t like, and she responded, “Keeping it classy per usual.”

Dudes, I was HORRIFIED.

Who is this woman? How dare she!!! What exactly does that mean PER USUAL? Why don’t you just say it to my face? I mean, never mind that I wouldn’t know you from Adam if you were in front of my face. The NERVE!!!!!!!

Then the following things happened on my birthday:

1 – My nine year old son walked into my bedroom at 11 a.m. and said, “Happy Birthday, you want a beer?”

2 – I went to the mall without a bra.

3 – I bought what I would deem as “nice clothing” as Sears.

4 – I received this card from my husband:

(the inside reads, “Wish you a hap-PEE birthday!”)

5 – And finally, we went to a fancy dinner. At the Texas Roadhouse. Where I sat in a saddle on top of a sawhorse while the waitresses yelled “yeeeeeeee-ha!!!!”

That’s not the important part of the story. The important part is, Jim inexplicably told the waitress that I did NOT want my birthday recognized. Which, as he knows, is just plain stupid. I’m a little upset I didn’t get MORE attention on my birthday.

So I pointed my finger directly in his face and said “you better fix this” with a tone that said “you’ll never feel the touch of a woman ever again for the rest of your miserable life if you don’t get those poor minimum-wage paid teenagers to bring their skinny asses back here right this instant and wish me the loudest happy birthday ever.”

Jimmy complied:

Could I *BE* having a better time?

But seriously, look at the woman behind me. How horrified is she? There is NOTHING about this that she finds amusing. Even. A. Little.

So I’m starting to think Facebook girl had a point.

Because look at me, belly roll out, hair swaying, ridiculous smile on my face, oblivious to the death stare coming from behind.

Keeping it classy. Per usual.

Everyone has Christmas wishes. Some dream of mounds and mounds of awesome material possessions, iPads and gadgets and Gaga tickets (oh my!). Others dream of peace on earth. Some dream of peace in their families.

*sigh*

Me? I made a very special wish. To start looking like an old hag.

So I went to the eye doctor and HOORAY my vision is going all to hell and I need reading glasses. I mean, I’m still a BABY. I won’t even be 38 until NEXT YEAR.

Well, at least this will make it easier to give Jim his Christmas wish — to sleep with the sexy librarian. And no dear …. I am not keeping them on.

Food — I eat it all, who needs moderation? Not me, I’ll tell ya.

School — why check backpacks, Jimmy will do it.

Television — Okay, okay, not exactly a priority, but as far as down time that I frankly owe myself, well, I have yet to watch a single episode of The Closer.

This space — if there’s one thing I enjoy, it’s the sound of my own voice, which translates in these here internets to my blog. More than a month! I’ve skipped five weeks of doing something I enjoy. Bummer.

This month on the facepage, people have been doing something obscenely annoying totally introspective: The Month of Thanksgiving. Folks from all walks of life are taking time normally set aside for stalking ex-boyfriends and playing mafia wars to list one thing each day for which they are thankful. You know, for Thanksgiving. Because Thanksgiving in America is all about saying, “Hey Indians, thanks for the food, now step aside while we rape and pillage your land. Oh,  don’t worry, we’ll give you “reservations” where the earth is bruised and rocky and the water is completely non-potable but the Bingo far exceeds any expectation you saw in your latest hot sweat vision quest!” And nothing celebrates that sentiment quite like two sentence quips each day on an addictive website built by a millionaire teenage dork.

Well, I have NOT participated in the Month of Thanksgiving. But I am. Thankful, I mean, For all sorts of stuff. So I present to you, 30 days of thanks, all in one convenient package:

1 – Health. Food might be on my list of things I have been bad about, but at least Zumba Stacey keeps me in check. It’s nice to be able to move like you’re one big sass machine.

2 – Beer. How can anyone dislike a food that will trigger you to vomit if you’ve had too much? It’s barley and hops sponsored bulimia at its best.

3 – Teachers. Without them, I’d have to parent 24 hours a day. No thank you. I didn’t have kids so I could watch them.

4 – Naps. Did you ever notice the way children freak the hell out at even the suggestion that they settle down, let alone lie down, let alone close their eyes? Can you imagine if every single day someone said to you, go sleep for no less than 45 minites. Sweet mercy, I would be in heaven.

5 – Pooping. I’m sorry, that just feels great.

6 – Chocolate. I am not a sweet fiend, but even I can appreciate this one.

7 – Chicago. Everyone has their big city, even if they don’t live there. This one is mine.

8 – Aruba. I’ve never met you, but we have a date. January 4, 2014.

9 – The never-ending saga that is Law and Order. Man was I ever pissed when they canceled your flagship show. IT NEVER GETS OLD. bum-BUM!!

10 -Lady Gaga. Self explanatory.

11 -Selena Gomez.. Your songs are so catchy and my sons are deeply in love with you. Sure, I am totally afraid that the day will come when the very magazines I bought featuring you will become my son’s first stroke material. At which point I will want you banished from all things Disney. Just please don’t Lohan on me.

12 – Smart phones. THEY ARE SO SMART!!

13 – The First Amendment. Totally working for me.

14 – Divorce. Also totally working for me.

15 – Pitbull. Possibly the worst artist ever. But I have never in my life wanted so bad to find somebody sexy and tell them hey.

16 – The Omaha Morning Blend. Making my kids stars at least twice a year.

17 – The facepage SO. Don’t ask, it’s secret!!

18 – Makeup. Zits + splotchiness + 38-year-old woman = your eternal customer

19 – The Winchester Brothers. Damn you’re fine.

20 – Central air. Now hear me out. I despise manufactured cold air. I love few things in life the way I love to sweat in July. But with my love comes fear that the rest of the free world disagrees. And no one, especially me, wants to deal with my husband Sybil when the oppressive heat of summer refuses to let go. Even I know when it’s time to flip the switch.

21 – The oppressive heat of summer. That’s why I have both a front and a back porch.

22 – The Chicago Cubs. Because the only way to stay sane is to deal with eternal heartbreak.

23 – Boobs. They’re right there and even these old gals come in handy.

24 – The Happy Place. Where happiness takes place, 365 days a year. I know there is supposed to be some natural rivalry and lifelong disdain between the cheeseheads and the FIBS, but there are few things in this world as truly beautiful as rural Wisconsin. Just so long as we don’t have to collectively bargain to keep it that way.

25 – Kayla and Nancy. A girl ain’t nothin’ without some girls of her own.

26 – Three sisters and one brother, all of whom are in their 40′s. I am in my 30′s. Suck it hags.

27 – My Mom and Dad. I NEVER tell them how much I love and appreciate them. Because clearly, I am a shit.

28  – Jimmy. Seriously, what were the chances of that ever happening?

29 – My boys, Hank and George. If you’d asked me when I was younger if I’d have sons or daughters or a combination, I would have told you sons. It’s pretty much the one thing I was ever THAT right about. I love those kiddos. They are the best thing I have ever done.

30 – Peace, love and happiness. I have it. I should take the time to notice it a little more often.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

At some point, they met.

And as it turns out, that’s all I know about my parents courtship. It occurred to me recently (yesterday) that while I have heard endless stories of their youth, I have no idea when they started dating, when they fell in looooovvveee, when they got engaged, how he proposed, nothing. I know none of it.

All I know is that they got married 49 years ago today, October 13, 1962.

I asked my mother the questions above. She decided that NOW is the time to be mysterious:

We met right after he moved in, but he was too old for me at the time. I thought he was cute. I am sure he would say getting married was my idea. He asked my dad and then bought me a ring for Christmas. Nothing blog worthy here…..well maybe we had a few secrets. I’ll leave it in a letter to be read after I die. Thanks Mom

Thanks Mom. Not even LOVE. Thanks. Like, thanks for asking!

Nice try — they ain’t getting off that easy.

The 50th anniversary is the Golden Anniversary. The 49th has no traditional specification, though a random website told me that in modern times, the theme for 49 glorious years is luxury. So I am giving my parents the luxury of starring in my blog.

And to this day, my mother will in fact tell a stranger that she HAD to get married. She always waits for the look or the gasp or the “well good for you for admitting it” before she spouts out, “Yeah, we HAD to get married if we wanted to have sex.”

Oh, those crazy kids.