.....Turn and face the strain...

....Ch-ch-Changes......

......Don't want to be a richer man....



Whatever the fuck that means.  'm going with it and you should as well.  The Bowie wouldn't lead us down the wrong path. 

So, my change.  I'm back to the old blog address.  The Go Daddy site pretty much sucked the life out of me.  So, F-U Go Daddy.  Momma's out..

To anyone who is still out there, please visit me at my old home, http://www.clintonvillebigmomma.blogspot.com/.  I promise to make it worth while  I have lots to report, including my venture into breast feeding.  Yeah, that's right.  BREAST FEEDING.  My boobs, feeding.  A lot has happened since my last entry.

Yous truly,

CBM

        

For the last several weeks, when I count the number of cars in my driveway, I keep coming up with the number 3.  No matter how I add it up, I get 3.  When I'm in the house and passing one of the front windows, I stop and count, just to be sure that my math was right.  Three, three, three.

But how could this be?  There are only 2 drivers in my house.  I count 2 drivers because I am psychotically delusional and in major denial, not because I am bad at math.  I count 2 drivers because I am not ready to face the fact that my son is growing up.  He HAS grown up.  There internet, you got me to admit what I have been denying for some time.  My son is about to get his drivers license.  And we have a car waiting for him in the driveway.  It is a constant reminder of that fact that he has been teetering on the edge of manhood for some time, and the scale is tipping in a direction that I am not entirely comfortable with.  Wasn't he just 5 years old a few weeks ago?

I have to admit that I wasn't very exciting about getting him his own car.  Was he mature enough for it?  Would he be responsible enough?  Would he be tempted to have sex in the backseat?  Would he use this car to drive over the state line so that he and his friends and his preachers daughter girlfriend could go to a club where dancing was legal?  If only that were the least of my worries?

As I'm writing this, I'm wavering back and forth between feelings of pride and taking deep breaths so that I don't burst into tears and start sobbing like a little bitch. And I don't just feel this way because I am about to get a visit from Aunt Flo.  I'm feeling this way as I'm watching Jr. wash his car. For the last hour.  He is just now waxing it. Wax, on wax off.  Mr. Miagi would be proud.  He started this process without being asked.   He has washed the windows, inside and out.   His pride in ownership is casting light on how the future could be.  A future full of responsibility.  A future full of doing the right thing.  A future full of inexpensive car insurance due to good grades and no tickets.  A future full of him doing right more than wrong because maybe, just maybe his pops and I taught him up real good.
 

        

....and I will tell you it depends on how you look at it.  I did something today that I probably haven't done in the last 32 years.  A milestone?  Perhaps.  It is certainly something that I won't forget and something that I hope I don't do for another 32 years.

So today started out like every other Saturday morning.  I was lucky enough to be able to sleep in, even after being up at 5:30.  I was lucky enough to watch the sun rise before falling back asleep.  Every Saturday I attend a tennis clinic.  I played ok.  Not great but ok.  Pretty normal.  The mister was off to the golf course, so I treated myself to lunch.  A big salad at Bellaria.  A nice quite morning, at least until I ventured home.

I turned off of High Street onto Canyon so that I could enjoy the beauty of the ravine in Spring.  My window was rolled down and the warm breeze rolled thru my hair.  I was in a great mood, looking forward to the weekend.  I turned up the radio in my car and started singing along. 

"You spin my head right round right round as you go down, as you go down, down."  Nothing like some pornograhic lyrics to get me going.  I sang louder and louder as I had the ravine all to myself.  And then it happened.  And when it happened, it happened fast.  Too fast for me to stop it.  Too fast for me to change my course. 

I farted.  And unfortunately for me (and my underwearr), it wasn't a normal fart.  It was a fart that was the wrong state of matter.  The normal feeling of relief didn't come.  Instead came total panic.  Because my friends, I shit my pants.  I Hershey squirted.  I shart.  I took the Browns to the superbowl in the front seat of my car. 

The only good thing was that I was close to home.  And I suppose the fact that I was alone, and not say, with an editor or a professor was another good thing.  And I guess it was also good that my husband wasn't with me because he would have laughed so hard, he probably would have shit his own pants.  Oh, it was also good that I wasn't wearing $10 Vicky's undies.  I had on my standard, tennis playing grannie panties.  Panties that I wouldn't be sad to part with.

So I guess there were a lot of good things that happend.  See how I can turn this tragedy around?

When I got home, I finished my business, threw said panties away and got into the shower.  I continued on my day, which thanfully, was anticlimatic.  That is until I decided to go to the bookstore and look around.

On my way there, I was mooned by a 5 year old girl.  Was she mocking me?  Had someone told her about my unfortunate incident?  And golly, where was her mother?  I looked back at her from my rear view mirror and watched as she stood there with her pants around her ankles waiting for her next victim.

On my way back home, I took the same ravine path as I did earlier.  Confident.  As I drove I saw an animal off on the side of the road.  As I drove closer, this is what I saw:




Yes folks, that is a chicken.  In the ravine.  In the ravine in Clintonville, where we normally don't see chickens. 

So, if you are missing your chicken, give me a call.  I'm off to drink a few beers, in the safety of my own home, of course.  I'm afraid of what more this day could bring.

        

So today is the day that Jesus rose from the ground, took a look around, saw his shadow and decided that we have 6 more weeks of winter.  Because we are all sinners.  And because, I'm pretty sure, that he gets off by torturing us.  At least that is how you feel about Easter if you live in my household. 

I've told you this before:  I am not a big fan of holidays.  Especially the religious ones.  I used to have the biggest problem with Christmas, but I have to say, I almost blew my gasket several times this past week.  What pushed me over the edge?  The simple wish to "Have a Happy Easter."  Why is it that Christians have to throw out this wish to everyone they encounter before a religious holiday.  Are they so arrogant to assume that EVERYONE celebrates?  That EVERYONE is a Christian?   And for this week, that EVERYONE celebrates Easter?  Even those well-wishers who threw out the "Have a happy holiday weekend?"  Grrr.  And we don't even get a day off for this holiday.  Not that a day off would help me get in the festive mood.

I grew up in a Catholic household.  Went to Church every Sunday.  Even went to Catholic school.  Easter, and the weeks leading up to Easter were a big deal.  Special masses, candles to light and stations of the cross to attend to.  I remember hating the stations because they required, at least in the mind of my young body, an excess of kneeling.  Kneeling.  Just another way that the church has decided to inflict it's torture. 

Because I went to catholic school, we always had the Friday before Easter off.  This Friday is known as Good Friday.  In my household, there was nothing good about it.  As the story goes, Jesus died between 12 and 3 on this Friday.  My mother told my sister and I that we had to be quite (no TV, no NOTHING) for these few hours and that we had too take this quite time to reflect on why Jesus did what he did.  Not an easy task for a 12 year old.  I've asked my mom about this tradition before and she wavers between denying in and pleading insanity. 

Easter Sunday to me, will always just be another Sunday.  The day before another gruesome week of work begins. 

 

        

Look at me!!!  Got my own site.  Yippee!!!

        

Dear Go Daddy,

I have only been working with you for a short time, but I'm pretty sure I hate you.

Love,

Big Momma

        

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