Ho-Made

My sisters and I have a saying, “You can’t turn a Ho into a Housewife.”

I only have a kitchen because it came with the house. If I had my way (which I NEVER do. Scoff!) I would have converted the kitchen into a bar / in-home Starbucks, complete with built-in-the wall espresso machines and IPA’s on tap.

Up until about 3 years ago my culinary repertoire consisted of microwave bean & chesse burritos, quesadillas and stove-top Kraft macaroni & cheese. I feel it is perfectly acceptable to serve appetizers as a meal and I prefer to allocate most of my daily caloric intake to caffeine and alcohol.

In the fall/winter of 2009 – Big D and I were on a collision course barreling toward Divorceville. I was one melt down away from throwing his ass out and doning the “Single Mom” cape for the rest of my life. “Fuck you” was how we greeted each other and we were both incredibly miserable in one another’s company. Fast forward (as this is a period I do not like to dwell in) through couples therapy and some serious soul-searching on both of our parts and I am convinced, without a doubt, that cooking together brought us closer. Well, that and wine. And the simple fact the he plays in a band and looks super hot while doing so, but now I’m getting off…topic.

Last night, Big D decided he wanted to have a Thanksgiving Dinner in a new, innovative way – “Ho-Made”.

D: How do you feel about doing dinner ourselves? Turkey, Stuffing – the real way.

V: It’s less than 48 hours away from the feasting event! I have limits. What happened to Operation China Panda? I’m going to need at least 3 bottles of wine for this and I refuse to shove my hand up a dead bird’s ass! That reminds me, why the hell does Maynard send me an email saying our next wine shipment is ready, charges for it but doesn’t ship it? I stalk the weather in Jerome, it’s been cool enough. I’m going to write a letter and be the first person to bitch Maynard out. ‘Dear Maynard, The high has barely been 70 degrees for the past few weeks. Who the hell do you think you’re fooling, Son? Stop fucking around and ship the goddamn wine! Signed, V is for Violent’  He’s fucking with my head, Honey! Are you going to stand by and allow that?

The panic in my voice was palpable.

D: So then, Yes to doing the dinner ourselves?

V: Well, you’re going to have to get the fixings ASAP or else this may turn into Top Chef, Thanksgiving From Hell. “Your challenge is to make a Thanksgiving feast for five using only the miscellaneous canned food left in your pantry and the wilted veg in your fridge. Your time starts NOW!”

D: Don’t worry, we’ll be fine. You have issues.

This is crazy talk! He’s trying to kill me. He and Maynard are collaborating and this is their master plan to finally snuff me out. He knows I may burn down the house! Is that what he wants? To be hungry, wifeless and homeless on Thanksgiving just because he was feeling adventurous? Why is he so selfish? This house fire will be all his fault.

I woke up this morning and began tracking the wine (it’s on the truck to be delivered this afternoon) and have resigned to bravely face that wasted square footage in my home labelled “Kitchen” on the blue print in order to make some dead bird my bitch. Better yet, I’ll have Big D make the bird his bitch and I will whip the shit out of some potatoes. I will also have shot glasses lined up, the fire extinguishers on stand by along with China Panda’s phone number pre-dialed into my phone.

This may be our last supper or it may end with us in a divorce citing “irreconcilable differences resulting from an unwillingness to fist dead poultry”. Either way – We’re in this together.

I’ll let you know how it turns out.  Wish us luck.

Horns Up, Lovers.

P.S. The UPS guy has driven by twice now and not stopped at my location. What the Fuck, UPS Guy? I know the wine is on that truck! Maybe he is in on this senseless taunting with Big D and Maynard. It’s not cool, you guys. Not. Cool. Don’t you know what happens when you tease a dog? And this bitch bites.

Raising Hell

I live with a horrible secret – I am not a fan of kids. Some days I am not even a fan of my own kids.

I never really envisioned myself as a mother. Sure – I thought about it and even wrote elaborate stories with my friends detailing our future husbands, the houses we lived in and our imaginary litters of kids. In retrospect, I believe it was because that’s how we were programmed. “First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in the baby carriage”. A school-yard song implanted by those before us mapping out the steps to take along our journey. The same song generations of women had skipped to on the playgrounds before us. It’s what we do. Or so I was misled to believe.

Growing up, two of my sisters would babysit for the neighborhood families. I took care of the animals when their people were away. Now that I think about it no one ever asked me to baby sit. My mother has told my sisters, never me to my face, that I lack a single, sentimental bone in my body. I have also been told I have one feeling and it sometimes can be found in the bottom of my foot. Maybe they all knew something I didn’t. Sometimes I wish one of them would have told me. Regardless of who is talking shit to my face or behind my back, kids were never high on my “Must Have” list.

Imagine my surprise when I got pregnant at 19. Yes – I was taking the pill but was also taking antibiotics for a sinus infection. I joke I should have named her Amoxicillin. Once I found out I was gestating a human, I did what my grade-school recess programming told me to do. I got married and decided to name Baby Amoxicillin “Kaylin”. I thought she might struggle in kindergarten learning to spell Amoxicillin and I didn’t want her to start her education behind the 8-ball. Which is most likely what I would have been doing had I not got pregnant and married by my twentieth birthday. Fast forward and I know without a doubt, having her at a young age saved my life. I live to tell this horrifying tale of motherhood with two more children added to our brood and still married. Although NOT to the same husband. (Oh, Come On – You TOTALLY saw that one coming!)

However, this Hallmark-meets-Hot-Topic version of a happy and cohesive family unit has one thing that is still missing. My maternal instinct.

I must have ditched that day they were handing them out and gone to the beach. Or maybe I left it in my other pants, that I accidentally donated to Goodwill because they were actually mom jeans I had bought before I tried them on and discovered they didn’t fit right and I hate returning clothes. Maybe Big D threw it out after I had one of my homicidal, why-can’t-you-pick-up-your-fucking-socks?! episodes and he was panic-cleaning to save his life. Lots of important things get thrown out that way. Like 3 months worth of birth control pills, the mail box key, and the hermit crab named Peter, who may or may not have been dead already.

Yet, despite my lack of desire to bake cupcakes (or anything for that matter) for class birthday parties or dote over my off-spring with every breath, my anti-helicopter approach to raising children has thus far produced three fiercely independent young ladies. We must be doing something right. Big D and I marvel at the vast differences amongst our girls and enjoy watching them bumble and weave along their paths. We lean in and listen closely, encouraging each of them to follow their destinies. To not plot their charts by what routes we took but more by what speaks loudest to them. Hopefully, this way they can become familiar with and trust their inner voices and follow their bliss. Unless those inner voices tell them to hack up someone into tiny bits and feed those pieces to pigs because it’s harder for the FBI to trace. In which case they would have inherited that gene from me and then I must admit I am an epic failure at motherhood and insist you disregard anything I may have to say and you should probably alert the authorities to have my “mom card” pulled immediately before I cause any more damage to another human.

Still, you will never hear or see me gushing over babies or playing peek-a-boo over the partition with the ankle-biter in the next booth at a restaurant. For the love of all things holy, I just want to enjoy the meal I didn’t have to prepare, in peace and without some creepy, life-sized Chucky doll peering at me. I would rather shoot myself in the face then have to attend a baby shower and I have never volunteered to help in my girls’ classrooms due to my overwhelming aversion to small children in large groups and my propensity to swearing.

I am just not G-rated. Hell, I push a PG-13 rating on my best days.

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