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.)

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!


"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