Fuck The Pain Away

How's that for a title? It made you think, huh? Well it just so happens to be a song, like most blog titles of mine. So I am running with it and the devil. Sometimes, even Lois Lane likes it on the raunchy side. Here's a link to the song if you want to hear it for yourself.

Seriously how can a closet Barry Manilow fan, a Fanilow if you will, enjoy such crap music like that? I have no clue. And it's annoying as hell if you actually listen to the whole song.

Anyway, that song was the first thing to come to mind when I sat down to write this bad news, good news post. (Skip to the 10th paragraph of this post if you want to avoid my Debbie Downer crap and get to the good stuff.) I am not in pain, nor am I currently.... a-hem...fucking.

January 14th, I was having a craptastic day. I just read that Chelsea Handler is writing another book. I like her, don't get me wrong, but what she described, sounded way too much like my manuscript. The manuscript I wrote, rewrote, and lost half of on a computer problem, recreated, then rewrote again. Guess what? I am in another round of rewrites.

Obviously I have been dealing with self-doubt issues. Not pretty, but real. And you guys who have been reading Home Fires over three years, knows, you can't make this shit up, it's all real. What gripes me is she is already out there. People already know her, and will buy her book. My first thought was everyone will think of me as a copycat... except for you guys.

I still can't find an agent. My stats on this site have dropped along with my regular daily posts. Which brought more doubt. Seriously, if people don't want to read this shit for free, who is going to buy a book written by me?

I have a jealous side too that I wish didn't exist. Did you know that about me? It's true and ugly and I hate it, so I am trying to wish it away. Mr. Lane never reads anything I write. One day, I "caught" him reading a Chelsea Handler book that a blogger sent to me. He was smiling as he read.

Ridiculous as it sounds, it felt like the man was cheating on me. I literally felt sick inside of my stomach and wanted to cry. He still hasn't read the tribute I wrote for his mother, which was published in a book over a year ago. The book sits covered in dust upon a shelf in our bedroom. He still won't help me proof read the manuscript, or offer input. And any time a freelance story of mine is printed in a newspaper, they send me a copy, and he turns directly to the classified section, never reading my contribution.

I guess it would be like being married to a plumber and calling out RotoRooter while he was standing right there. Does that even make sense? In my head it did. But like I said, there is good news, and I am trying with every inch of my heart and soul to lose these stupid feelings and focus on the good.

So good came wrapped up in a handsome comedian. ANT, who was on The Tonight Show last night doing a skit. He was a judge on Last Comic Standing, is on Celebrity Fit Club and has toured the country doing stand-up, currently in Tahoe with Paula Poundstone... read my shit. And he didn't think it was shitty. On his blog he has been talking about the laws of attraction. Seeking out what you really want in life. I feel like I have always lived by those standards, and accepted his 30 day challenge happily. One of his posts made me feel like, this man is opening himself up to random anyones and I am going to shoot for the moon. As a judge on Last Comic Standing, I've seen how fair and accurate he is to people. I thought, I've got nothing to loose. Worst he can do is say "It needs work" or "sorry I just don't have time to read it" but he didn't.

I sent him an email asking if he would read a few chapters of my manuscript. He emailed me back right away saying he would "love to" and would be "honored". Seriously, I thought, was this man just buttering my buns or what? Fuck it, I love buttery buns, and I hit send.

Oh no, he didn't just send an email giving me a little pat to my stupid head, he posted on all four of his websites, something that caused my doubt and jealousy to step back and trust in myself. Read what he said here scroll to the top of the page.

I've never told Mr. Lane in detail how I feel about his lack of enthusiasm for my love of writing. I never had the balls, I guess. Plus you all know that in love you aren't going to get everything perfect, and that little shit of mine is pretty damn close.

So, after seeing that post, and all of the comments his readers gave, I felt like a real jackhole for even thinking the way I had hours before. This is not about my old man. It's about me. And you guys, my best blogging buddies in the whole wide world, always had faith in me. Which I really should have trusted. This was the moment the clouds parted and the hand of God reached down upon me and biffed the shit out of my head.

I rode the high for a solid week and wrote like the wind. I was back in the saddle again. And when I was done with my writing roll, you bet your sweet ass I threw that man of mine onto our queen sized mattress and made him ride this reading rainbow.

Have a great weekend everyone!

She's The Queen Of My Doublewide Trailer

This weekend we really crapped out. We started pulling more things apart in this 80-plus year old house, only to decide it was too cold and we were too tired to finish. I guess that is how projects can overrun your house. We aren't that bad... yet.

You can see in some of my latest photos here that random furniture seems scattered, which it really is, but it isn't something that can be remedied until all of the other ducks are in their proper-like rows. And, as you will see in today's photos, why I trust my judgment and not theirs.

It's funny how different our ideas are. I watch HGTV, therefore, I know my shit. My old man, not so much. He is very redneck, old school, which means he only has good taste in trashy women. And I am okay with that, as long as he agrees with everything I suggest we do with this old house.




Just look at him. Ha! Here is my old man trying on our daughter's fake glasses. Why does she have fake glasses? Well, because apparently wearing glasses is fashionable these days, and she was "cursed" with 20/20 vision.

While we were trying to get things done this weekend, Lane 1 and Lane 2 were... acting their age.



Lane 2's fashion show included this spicy number. Please take note of the drop ceiling behind her, that I ALMOST ripped out yesterday. Thankfully, I was too tired. But I'm going to in the not too distant future.




Lane 1 drinking a smoothie. This was taken a couple of months ago but had to be posted on the internet to downsize his ego.




The dogs are supposed to sleep in the kitchen and I caught someone dognapping them. Kids are so adorable... when they are asleep.



Proof that we need to get gutters.




Proof that we don't.

Lane 1 discovered the scanner this weekend. First she scanned magazines and drawings she made.



Then, a catscan. Get it?

After my tirade about how cruel it is to do such things to animals, she made herself a sandwich for lunch. She carefully cut cheese into words and a heart. So creative.



Of course, I can't forget the obligatory photo of the boy driving my car.




That was our weekend in a nutshell. What did you do?

Who Let The Dogs Out?

What are you doing this doggone Sunday? We Lanes tore some more stuff up in the house and then decided it was too cold to finish. I'll be here if you need me.

Under Pressure

Here we are, half of a month into the new year and I've yet to tell you guys about our Christmas. It was very redneck. Something was amiss. I don't know exactly what was wrong with us, but we just couldn't seem to get into the mood. Normally, I'm not into it but the rest of the Lanes can get me going. This time, no one was really up for all of the hoopla.

We didn't go out to the tree farm this year. We didn't even get a fake tree. No tree or decorations decked our halls.

That is, until the littlest Lane took matters into her own artistic hands.



She fastened several papers together, got out her tape, glitter and paints and made the best damn tree we've ever had. She also set a crocheted blanket on the couch because it, "looked like a snow tree skirt."

In a very Christmas Story way, we found ourselves dining in a Chinese restaurant. It was only Christmas Eve, so it wasn't entirely like the movie.

My daughter's friend Mojo Jojo came out to eat with us. Lane 2 dared her to eat a clam. When it turned into a double dare, she couldn’t refuse. Mojo Jojo never had one before and felt it necessary to dissect it before putting it into her mouth. As she picked it apart, she said, "Ewww, what's that? It looks like a bug!"

That sent all other restaurant patrons' heads turning in unison toward us like a Meow Mix commercial. The kid is a teenager, certainly by now she ought to know that is the last thing you say while out dining, right?

Quickly, the young, beautiful Chinese waitress came over. Concerned she said, "I help you?"

Before I could stop her, Mojo Jojo asked, while frantically poking the insides of the clam, "What is this?"

"It mus-sir."

"Mustard?"

"No, mus-sir."

"Muscle, Mojo. Muscle," I said, knowing she was gearing up to ask her to repeat herself... again

"Oh, well why is it in here?"

The waitress looked at me as if she knew this kid was about one drool drop away from a crash helmet. I said, "I'm sorry. She isn't mine. She is my daughter's friend."

"Okay den," she forced a smile, bowed slightly and walked away. She was very patient, but we Lanes were embarrassed. Finally noting my annoyance, Mojo Jojo pushed the clam plate away from herself and admitted defeat to the dare. She knew she went over the line and had a sad puppy dog look in her pretty blue eyes.

Other patrons periodically looked in our general direction long after the waitress left. The rest of the meal was silent. In fact, the whole place was. That is until our check arrived with fortune cookies.

There was one for each of us. Mr. Lane was the first to take one. He cracked it open, jabbing his finger into the cookie, pulverizing it to sugary dust, and loudly said, "Hey! What's that? It looks like paper! Why is there a fortune in this cookie?"

The whole place busted up in crazy laughter, and Mojo Jojo finally got a dose of embarrassment. I couldn't get out of there fast enough. The kids followed behind quickly, as Mr. Lane apologized and wished everyone in the place a Merry Christmas, waving like he was a friggin' celebrity.

It wasn't traditional by any means, but as you read and will see in the photos below, it sure was fun.



The kids and I still baked like we do every year. I love that they still get along well enough to work in the kitchen together.











The fruits of their labor were shared with family, friends and neighbors.






Lane 1's bedroom is decked out very zen-like. He's always said he wanted a fountain, and Santa brought him one. Apparently it was the one he wanted.






Lane 2, thankfully still loves dolls. Here she is getting the doll she didn't expect because she, "Didn't see any left at the store." Looks like Santa managed to find one.






Since Lane 1 has taken over my 100-pound set of weights, I thought one of these benches might be a nice addition to his regiment. He never saw it coming. He didn't even ask for one. Santa just knows.






Moon Shoes! Holy hell... um, this would be one of those, "Good thinking, Santa!" moments. Knowing Lane 2 wanted a pogo stick, which aren't made by elves and apparently aren't sold at all of the stores I went to, this was the next best thing. Turns out, Lane 2 saw a commercial for those a long time ago, but forgot about them when it came time to making her list.

Catatouille

Should the boy ever become despondent or think he isn't a handsome little devil, I'll show him all of those nice comments you guys left in the post below. Thank you for sympathizing with me. He is getting his driving permit tomorrow. It's a really exciting time for him, and a scary one for me. I am so not ready for this stage of the game.

I know I said this isn't a pet blog and I would refrain from writing about the puppies unless they were to shit gold nuggets. Sadly, they aren't shitting gold nuggets... but this story was partially written before I made that promise to you guys. Plus, it's more about the cat than them damn dogs, anyhow.

Chip the wonder cat got a nasty case of the green-eyed monster and ran away… again. He hates Daisy and Darla. He caught me making a doggy bed for them. Knowing I’d never made a bed for him, might have been the straw that broke the camel’s back.




He sat there, washing his face as I tried to finish the dog bed. It looks more like he is just covering his face, shameful of his trader mother who ran out and came home with two puppies.

I have the day and night shift with the puppies, and Mr. Lane has the early morning, since he is getting up and ready for work. What you are about to read is Mr. Lane’s fault. He let the dogs out at 3:30 a.m. and left the back door wide open. Chip saw opportunity knocking, and he answered the call for freedom from those mangy mutts.

I wouldn’t have been as pissed and upset as I was if Mr. LaMe had taken a minute to go looking for him. Instead, he called me around 9:00 a.m. and said, “Hey, I forgot to tell you, Chip got out this morning.”

“Oh man, we have to be more careful about letting the dogs out, huh?”

“Well not really… anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he took off.”

“So you didn’t get him back in?”

“No. I wasn’t going cat chasing. I had to get ready for work.”

“And you didn’t wake me because?”

“I knew you’d be pissed.”

“But I woke up and said goodbye to you! And you waited six fucking hours to tell me? You know how far he could be by now, don’t you?”

“I thought you were going back to bed when I left.”

“Like the dogs give me that luxury. Fuck! Even if I could have gone back to bed, I wouldn’t have, knowing he was missing. I’d have had my ass out there searching, and you fucking know it!”

He is a friggin’ bonehead. I can’t even express in words how mad I was at him. Three days of solid hate and discontent over my missing cat seems pretty harsh, I know, but I couldn’t help myself. It was cold and raining the whole time. We even got our first snowfall in that time. It’s something an indoor cat isn’t accustomed to, and being his mom, I could just picture him frozen and dead in a ditch somewhere. Everyday I’d spend a couple of hours scouring the neighborhood for him, calling his name and whistling for him, to no avail. If you know the whole Chip story, you may understand. If not, I come off as just another crazy cat lady with anger management issues. And that’s okay too.

In the TV room, the whole family, minus Chip, was watching Ratatouille. Patches, the evil cat from hell, sat up high on the back of the sofa watching the mutts from a safe distance, as they played tug-o-war over the blanket I was wrapped in on the floor. Lane 2 ran down stairs to get a drink and heard a cat crying. She opened the front door and Chip came running into the house.

He was covered in mud. She scooped him up in her arms. I heard her screaming, but it was a happy Lane 2 screech, which I’ve learned to tune out. She came bailing up the stairs yelling, “Mom!!” I finally looked in her general direction and couldn’t believe she had him in her arms. Beyond thrilled is a good description. Tears came fast as I was overwhelmed with relief and happiness, as that muddy little fucker jumped out of her arms and into mine. He purred his loudest purr. He rubbed his cold, wet, muddy head across my face and neck. I wish someone would have taken a picture for you to see me crying like an idiot covered in mud while squeezing and hugging Chip.

No matter how cute those two puppies are. No matter how many wagging tails come to greet me as I enter a room. No matter how many sloppy puppy kisses I am given. No matter how many times they bite each other and fight to be the one closest to me. I am, deep down inside, just a crazy cat lady.