The Heartbreak Tour 2013

St. Patrick’s Day weekend is the equivalent of the Super Bowl to Irish punk bands.
These past couple weeks have been a whirlwind of shows, 12 in 6 days to be exact, and it feels like I haven’t seen my husband in weeks.

I now fully comprehend why many Rock Stars and their loving, supportive wives, find themselves stopping in for a stint in rehab somewhere along their heart breaking tours.

Last weekend was pre-game warm ups – 4 shows in 3 days. The girls and I spent all weekend at the Irish Faire while BTB played their sets. We ran home to catch a quick nap for D and a wardrobe change before he and I were out the door for the House of Blues show Sunday night. One week later, I am still “recovering”. I tossed back 2 Blackberry & Jacks on an empty stomach in an effort to meet the HoB $20 minimum for an early entry (Wives don’t qualify to be on the list for back stage access at HoB, so we gather at the bar, commiserate about the shitty service and wait for the doors to open). Half cocked inside the venue, and after 2 more Jamesson & Gingers, I broke my fun meter.

I found myself dancing in 6” platform heels and thrashing in a mosh pit swirling full of people.

My girl friend and I left the show, her in my boots and me in her oh-so-comfy, just-like-butter rainbow flip flops and four fists full of warm, fresh-out-of-the-vendor’s-window churros. D came home to find me naked and giggling, blathering on about how much I loved those cinnamon and sugar laced snacks. He had the shot; there was no danger, so he took it.

This weekend, the band has 8 shows in 3 days ranging from Riverside to San Diego. In true “V”, horrible timing form, I have decided this would be a great week for me to start a full detox and have stayed behind with the kids. D’s diet has consisted of Starbucks and 5-Hour energy shots to get him through. I woke up with him at 4am this morning to “Hoist the Colours” and paint his platinum blond mohawk like the Irish Flag. He was on the road by 5am for a 7am call to play a live set on one of the local San Diego news channels. During our “in between” phone calls, he mentioned he was thinking about taking “another one of those diet pills” from his band mate’s fiancé in order to maintain. They have 3 more shows to play, their last set slotted to end at 1:30am. I can hear the exhaustion in his voice.

“Don’t worry – It’s the good fen not the bad one” he pleads. He can tell I am less than thrilled about his need for speed, herbal or not, but I refrain from punching him in the face in hopes to not add anymore stress to his already over flowing plate.

“Awesome, I just burned the cinnamon rolls.” is all I can muster as a response.

And so begins the spiral descent of self-destruction.

For them it starts with venti, quad mochas and a 5 hour energy chaser or diet pills in the form of herbal speed to chase the dragon of show biz. It is “coming down” by means of an over indulgence in alcohol or bong rips in the bathroom, to help them slip back into the dull hum of day time jobs and domestic life in suburbia. The wives, left behind to hold the fort down, and keep the kids schedules “normal” end up in love affairs with Jack (Daniels), Jim (Beam) or (Makers) Mark in an attempt to numb the pain of lonely nights waiting by the phone for that call between sets. A desperate answer to the insomnia and early morning anxiety laced with fear when the phone rings. This slippery road dead ends into drug and alcohol addiction or worse, that phone call we all dread where instead of your husband’s voice, it’s the CHP on the other end telling you “there’s been a terrible accident”.

Being a Rock Star or a loving, supportive spouse of one isn’t for the faint of heart. Us wives may not be under the lights performing to packed houses of roaring fans, but the dedication and strength it takes to maintain both life styles is really like nothing I could have ever imagined. The taunting and merciless teasing by the beast that is this industry, taking our husbands away from us on a regular basis, is heart breaking. We bite our lip and fake a smile as we send our men off into the venues bursting with groupies, hoping for the best for them; A packed house, A record deal, A sold out tour, knowing full well that we have now created our own brand of living nightmare in an effort to support or mates’ dreams.

I really only get to experience a small taste of what the major-league players do and I tip my imaginary hat to those women who are the solid foundations for their mega performer husbands. For those about to rock (and those who stay behind so that they can do so), I salute you!

Horns Up, Lovers, and never let them see you cry.

Advertisements

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.

Horseshoes & Hand Grenades

Love is like walking through a mine field. You can make it through okay or end up blown to pieces. It’s a dance of will (s)he, won’t (s)he, (s)he loves me, (s)he loves me not. Am I ruining my kid’s life by not allowing her to date until she’s graduated from college? OK – maybe I took creative liberty on that last one but you see where I’m going. We are all put here to love and be loved. A common denominator in everyone’s lives is relationships.

A former boss of mine used to say, “Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.” I absorbed many of these “isms” over several years of working for him and now feel many are poetically apropos for where I find myself on this tour. This one has become a mantra.

Our 10-year-old daughter/equestrian/cerebral maniac responds best to me when I speak to her in horse terms. After several unanswered attempts asking her to take the dog’s harness and leash off, I resort to playing horseshoes to get her attention. “Make sure you untack Jezebel and put her up before you go out to play.” or “Can you be jump crew and take down the course you set up?”. At any time my garage will become a “covered arena” complete with an entire course of skateboard ramps, softball bat & water jug jumps and serpentines for Jezebel’s events. Zoe digs it & has a happy heart when working with animals. Plus, speaking in horse terms is our thing. I think there are two, maybe three, people who speak this language fluently – and that keeps us close to her. Which is crucial for coordinating this chaos positively. For now.

This language will change soon enough into make-up and what shoes go with what outfit, dressing age appropriately and Instagram. This is what I speak with the Jr. High Schooler. I like to add a valley girl twang just for emphasis. If I do it right, I will be rewarded with an “Oh-my-gawd, Mom, You’re SO embarassingah!” (Scoff!) The technology we have to police as parents is exhausting. Social media is going to be a major part of their generations successes and failures. It is written like code into their programming and we best embrace it and learn it so we can teach them to use this tool for good and not evil.

Then there are the bombs that Big D likes to hurl my way without warning. Sneaky, sneaky – very CoD of him. Like, Thursday Night Football. Meeting up with the guys to catch the Seahawks vs Niners game. “Where ya going?” I inquire.
“I dunno – Todd said he wanted to go to Hooters or something like that?”

Or something like that? Like what? Like more naked and with a hint of mint & a side of rhino or big tittied waitresses in short shorts? Why can’t he just shoot straight? When will he learn to not give my over active imagination wiggle room?

He can see through me like a cheap plastic shower curtain. He’s mindful of his breathing and trying not to smirk knowing full well he has just pulled the pin out of the grenade. Dramatic pause…I can’t hide my laughter. “I’m totally cool with that. You know Kaylin was talking about waitressing there.” See what I did there? A true statement, and with a giggle and a twinkle in my eye, I have turned every one of those waitresses into a reflection of our 19yr old daughter. Counter strike.
“Just don’t sample the titty-sprinkles and you’ll be alright.” I lean over and seal my approval with a kiss. He exhales and relaxes. Big D lives to fight another day. That was close!

I sit cross-legged in the middle of our bed as he’s getting ready for his show. We talk about softball coaching strategy, his lack of show shirts and what costume he’ll be wearing for the Adult’s Only Halloween Party we’re going to this weekend. He casually works into the conversation the shows the band has booked in Arizona this February. I can feel my entire body tense, fists clench and nostrils flare – Big D has now casually tossed this grenade over his shoulder and right into my lap. He has roughly 10 seconds before he loses his face in an explosion of razor sharp claws and swear words.
D: “We talked about this”.
V: “I’m sure you have had this conversation in your head but you have never said these words out loud to me.” He thinks he is going to mind-trick me on this one. Energetic stand-off ensues. Big D makes no eye contact and braces for impact. I acquiesce but only because I am calculating the cost of a very large tattoo I will now book for myself in February. “It’s fine. Really. It’s fine.” I purr, twirling a strand of loose curls around my finger and retracting my claws. Kiss of Death.
D: “We talked about it”
V: “I was not included in that WE.”
D: “This is FOUR MONTHS NOTICE – I’m sure I told you!”
Convincing, yes. But only to the untrained and this isn’t my first rodeo with Captain Omission. I would recall something like OUT OF STATE gigs. I am chewing the inside of my mouth raw, trying not to crack a smile, singing Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face” in my head as a distraction.

You can’t Jedi mind-trick a Jedi, Padawan. Especially a Jedi wearing a crown of snakes.

He drops it. Was it survival instinct or the power of the snake helmet I was wearing? (I’m going as Medusa this year for Halloween and have been donning a viper head-piece at home since I bought the costume. My neighbors look at me like I am insane. Most of the time, they’re right.)

The Art of Doing Nothing (and squeezing in a smallish nap or two)…

Loving, Living, Coordinating – it’s all an art form in some way or another. An individual interpretative dance of sorts. As a whole, it seems like we must be busy doing something – scheduling more chaos, planning predicaments, in order to feel some shred of accomplishment. Before we know it, we are falling victim to our own impossible-to-please self judgements and ill-tempered inside voices. Slowly turning fetal under the self-induced pressure to be productive and in dire need of a nap.

We are like the White Rabbit – hopping from task to task, errand to errand, reciting “I’m late, I’m late” in between heart palpitations and caffeine fixes. Never once stopping to smell the freshly painted roses before the Red Queen called Time lops our head off.

I fall into this rabbit hole often. Tumbling through the pages of paper days filled with lessons, appointments, work schedules, class schedules, ball games, horse shows and pub shows. I fill in the blanks for my family months at a time in advance, referencing two different web sites for Big D and multiple electronic calendars necessary for raising Hell. I have my entire life color coded by family member in my iPhone and on the desk blotter in my office. No matter where I may be on any given day, I am alerted and reminded (to death – it feels like sometimes) as to where I need to be in the next 30 minutes. I awake every morning to an email (from myself – how sick is that?) mapping out each and every stop along this tour, day in and day out.

Every once in a while, I stumble upon a blank square. No scribbles. Empty. Nada.

Of course, my inner nasty nay-sayer perks up to remind me in her cheerful, sarcastic way, “Clearly, you fucked up and forgot to log something in!” I scan my gray matter as I simultaneously swipe through my phones memory in a self-induced sense of panic.

Nothing? Really? A day “off”?

A parade of glittery confetti and streamers float around in my now short-circuiting cranium, the heavens part and angels serenade me in a lovely chorus of Hallelujahs. I double-check to make certain I’m not looking at the wrong square or someone else’s page of paper days. Not a fluke – This is really happening. NOTHING is really happening.

The hyper-active housekeeper in me chimes in, “Great! Now you can do the floors, and deep clean the stove, scrub that fuchsia mystery stain off the counter in the girls’ bathroom and shampoo the carpets.” The creative writer interjects, “After that – you can work on your book and catalog your journals according to chapter and inspirational bits of genius.” The sex kitten purrs, “But before you climb into bed, you really should slather yourself in that brown sugar and honey body scrub, shave your ENTIRE body and give your husband a blow job. You know if you don’t, one of those desperate hookers in the pubs will!” I attempt to hush all the voices with my best Winnie The Pooh impersonation, ” Let’s begin by taking a smallish nap or two.”

As always, after a delicious and well deserved cat-nap, the shame-induced guilt dance begins. Why do we do this? Why do we beat ourselves up for doing nothing? For savouring the nothingness of a much needed, unscheduled day?

The Italians have a phrase, l’arte di non fare niente’. Translated, the art of doing nothing.

This phrase means more than lounging around on your couch watching bad reality TV all day. Although, if that’s what you want to do, do it! Remember, there’s no judgement here. This art form is about doing something, ONE thing, simply for the pleasure of doing that ONE thing. Carve out time to do nothing in the form of a two hour window during the week or once a month, all day long. Whether it is a twenty-minute nap in the car while waiting to fetch your up-and-coming over achiever from a lesson or enjoying a glass (or three) of wine after the day has wound down to a dull roar, after some time the nothings amount to something.

These perceived insignificant, unproductive blank spaces in a society of Go-Getters are just as important as making sure our children live up to their potential and our spouses slumber in a sex-induced, sedated state at night. These undefined, zero calorie sweet treats are crucial for those of us that find ourselves juggling fifteen different things while running in place on a treadmill to shed that last 10 pounds. Blank squares are imperative to our survival and success as rock wives to be able to stop, catch our breath and not feel those twinges of guilt stab us in the side, chipping away at our self-esteem and self-worth.

If something’s going to stab me in the side, it better be a tattoo needle. I am well over-due for some permanent art and the catharsis of an all day ink session. I had better go fill in a square for that right now. In the meantime, take a few minutes to flip through your pages of days and make sure you have left some blank squares. After all, you work hard. Don’t you think you deserve a huge helping of nothing?

Horns Up, Lovers.

Laundry, (White)Lies and Lighter Fluid

It’s dirty. Mine is anyway. Laundry is what I do nights Big D is playing in pubs until 2am. It’s a zen rock garden chore. There has always been something calming about the process for me. The repetition. The smell of clean clothes. It’s one of my favorite tasks on our divide-and-conquer list of chores necessary to keep this show on schedule.

Laundry for me is more than piles in the hallway separated by color and water temperature. Clothes are sorted by texture, family member and purpose. There are show clothes and work clothes. Horseback riding clothes and softball/gym clothes. I am completely OCD about it and cringe when someone fucks up the chi and washes jeans with tee shirts in the same load.

I have removed everything from American Girl doll accessories to hair elastics and bobby pins from pockets. Fished candy wrappers, guitar picks and lip gloss from the recesses of the dryer bin. One time I pulled a phone number from my husband’s pocket. Then I blacked out.

Maintaining one’s balance as a rock wife takes a certain amount of investigative skills. My private dick senses kicked into hyper-overdrive.

Whose writing is this? Who is Roma? What area code is 818?

The voices in my head debated back and forth between “Kill him!” and “Certainly there’s a perfectly logical explanation for this.” I grabbed my phone and searched what cities fell under the 818 area code. I knew well what the answer was but I was desperate, hoping to prove myself wrong. I frantically scanned the fragmented parts of my grey matter trying to piece together where he had been the past week, both for work and the band. He played in Santa Monica last and this was a “show” load that had the shorts he was wearing that night in it. So much for having a zen moment.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” I mumbled under my breath. So I walked into our bedroom, crumpled paper in hand, and did what any perfectly sane wife would do when she finds another woman’s phone number in her husband’s pocket.

I set it on fire.

If I kept this slip of paper as evidence the psychotic bitch stalker personality would take over. I would not only call the number but enlist the help of my BFF/PIC to find out where this hose beast lived and pay her a visit. I could tell from the 2nd grade like penmanship that this woman was either incredibly intoxicated when she attempted to earn my husband’s attention or had meat-paw hands with sausage links as fingers. I opted to go with the latter only because it made me laugh.

Several images of death, destruction and smorgasbords flashed through my head as I watched the paper disintegrate into wisps of smoke and flames. I dropped it into the toilet and flushed it, bidding Roma adieu. “Shit ends up at the bottom.” I hissed and went back to reclaim my zen. I suppose I can’t blame a girl for trying.

D and I talked calmly (I swear!) about it later that day. He claims he has no idea who Roma was or how he ended up with her number. “Someone must have slipped it in my pocket when I was at the pub.” he pleaded. I suppose its probable. To this day I am not entirely sure I buy into that theory. I do know that D has always had a tendency to omit details from me. In my heart I understand he does this for my own good and that it does not come from a place of being shady. I chose to let this go and not add any more fuel to the fire.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, you better fucking run!

That was his one.

Backstage Pass – VIP Exclusive

Smart, Sexy, Fierce – In no particular order. That is how I roll. Married for 13 years to a local, Celtic-Punk Rocker and coordinator of chaos to our three daughters, three dogs and two beta fish. After years of hearing “You’re so witty. You should write.” here I am, naked (not literally) and fearless. Exposing all of my trials and tribulations with you. I am a foul-mouthed, painted lady with a sadomasochistic POV. Should you be more of a lily-white sissy la-la, I won’t be offended if you redirect yourself now. This is not the guide you are looking for. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

To be a Rock Wife, one does not have to be married to a rock musician. One must merely be the force that holds it all together. The rock. The fixed asset. The comfortable chair. The warm body – you get it. By the way, if you feel you resonate with more of the latter, please log off now, schedule an appointment with your hairdresser immediately and get in touch with your inner sex kitten STAT! I’ll be here when you get back and you and your husband can thank me later.

I am fortunate enough to have married a man who can not only handle the many states of my insanity, but also rocks the shit out of a bass guitar and looks damn sexy doing it. I mentally divorce him every other day for some insignificant and completely fabricated reason or another and I tend to pick fights with him, but mostly because the make up sex is mind-blowing! No one knows me as well as he does and in my ice-cold, black, heart no one can love me like he does. Madly, passionately and without reservation. So what if I have to reserve a date night three months in advance due to his band’s schedule. He’s living his dream and I am happy to stand front row, tits out (again, not literally), and watch him be the Rock Star he is.

Coordinating chaos (AKA parenting) has been my biggest challenge. I find a wicked sense of humor, an ability to improvise on the fly and a few (ok – several over the duration of many child-rearing years) shots of whiskey essential for good, solid parenting. With my first-born (now 19 years old) I read every “What to Expect” guide published. I consulted at least three different sources for any topic I was second guessing myself on. I phoned my mother, grandmother and sisters before making a decision. Every hair on her head was combed and in place, her outfits perfectly coordinated and her backpack stylishly accessorized to go with her patent leather mini doc martens. By the time our third daughter came along, we were fine with leaving the house with her dressed as a dragon wearing two different shoes. “Whatever works for you, Babe – Just get in the (damn) car!” Each one of our daughters required a different approach and I am convinced my multiple personalities were key in cracking this code. Despite who people perceive us to be, our two youngest still get rave reviews from each of their teachers and the oldest is a full-time college student, part-time employee and intern as a budding graphic designer. No juevie stints, no expulsions from school for profanity or fighting or stealing – just intelligent, polite, well-rounded, super cool kids. So far. Knock on wood! Pretty alright for the guy with a mohawk and his tattooed, potty mouthed wife!

I hope this guide can serve as a “How To” or a “What Not To Do”. You can print it out, roll it up and smoke it if that’s what blows your skirt up, although I don’t recommend it. It can be a validation for those of you that feel like you were not cut out for any of this “til death do us part” or “motherhood is the best job ever” bullshit that’s force-fed to us every way we turn or it can be somewhere you go to sip your coffee and have a giggle at my expense. I’m winging it – throwing it against the wall to see if it sticks. If it doesn’t one of the dogs will get to it before I clean it up anyway.

Hope you enjoy the show.

Horns Up, Lovers!
V.

TheTripletBlogger

"An idea is never given to you without you being given the power to make it reality"

Creative Muse 365

a journey and journal of creative truth

Giggling Ninja

To loving out loud, raising hell & living behind the scenes