A Few Notes To The Music Industry...

1. It's not really a "reunion" if your band broke up just three weeks ago and you're only getting together for one song at the BET Music Awards.

2. Likewise, it's not a "comeback" if the only place you've gone is rehab.

3. Though a certain sound effect might be really cool and innovative on one song, twelve songs in a row with that same cool, innovative effect may start to lose some of its freshness (yeah I'm talking to you Kanye*).

4. If you can't find a word to rhyme with another, it's acceptable to go back and change the first line to contain a more usable word. It is not acceptable to just repeat the same line twice. That's just lazy.

5. Scientific studies show that at least 50% of the population does not wish to see a dozen shaking asses in booty shorts every time they turn on MTV. Consider me their leader.

6. This one isn't aimed at the music industry so much as the gentleman behind me at the light yesterday- I'm glad that you enjoy your music so much that you wanted to share it with the entire block, but I must tell you that I do resent a bit, the fact that you thought I needed to feel that ridiculous beat pulsing through every part of my body.

*Actually I really like Kanye's new album, but it's still a point that needed to be made.



Yeah so it's been a while. In fact it's been so long that I'm betting that no one will even read this because everyone has forgotten about me and if you're looking at this right now, you're probably thinking, "hey, who's this chick again?"

Yeah, my name's Yvonne. And I suck at blogging.

You know how sometimes you just have nothing to say? For like months and months?

Well this isn't like that at all.

I've got lots to say.

But sometimes it's better to say nothing at all.

Because if you do, maybe your baby's daddy will threaten to sue you for slander EVEN THOUGH IT'S ALL TRUE AND I'LL PROVE IT IF I HAVE TO BITCH!!!!!!!!!!!!

Um yeah, so I've chosen to just say nothing at all.

I thought about writing a post about how great it is to have Obama as president and how sometimes I find myself driving down the road and bursting into tears of joy. How sometimes I think that maybe I'll go buy an American flag and hang it outside of my door and how if I ever got to meet him, I'd probably either get arrested for trying to make out with him or have my ass beat by his wonderful Amazon of a wife for trying to make out with him.

But that seemed totally cliche.

I thought about writing a blog from the point of view of my new cat, Honey. She's been living with us for about 6 months now and I haven't even mentioned her. But really that seemed kind of pathetic.

(I still might totally do that though)

I thought about never blogging again because obviously I suck at it and the lovely ladies at Blogher are threatening to take my ads down so really what's the point right? I've thought about taking down this site all together and just never going on the internet again. But I am madly in love like the people I've met online. I consider so many of them friends now. I like reading about their lives and sharing mine. So the point is, I'm here to say that I'm not dead and that I'm currently racking my brain for things that I can write about tomorrow and the next day and the day after that and forever more so that I don't have to go this long without blogging again.

I guess blogging is a little like sex to me. It's super fabulous when I'm doing it but if I don't do it for a while I sort of forget how great it is and after a while all I can think about is how much effort it takes and how much I'd rather be sleeping. It's not until I find myself in bed again that I remember how much fun it is and resolve to do it much more often.

I guess what I'm saying is that looking at my old familiar page and thinking about all the blogs that I'm about to visit is totally turning me on right now.


So Sue Me, I Admire People With Rhythm

I don't know this kid and I don't know much about drums. But he seems pretty damn good if you ask me. So, I'm not saying you have to go to youtube and rate the video at 5 stars. I'm only recommending it because if you do, and he wins this contest they're having, he gets a free drum set and a trip to Hollywood. And which one of you out there doesn't want to help make a poor little boy's dream's come true? Don't be a cold heartless bastard***.

Go ahead, vote here.

***If it helps your cold, cold heart, pretend he's dying of cancer. And can't walk. And is an orphan. Bet you want him to win now, don't you?


1st Day of School

Dear Monkey-Butt,

Lately I've been trying to figure out how the world managed before you came along. Not just me, but the whole world. Not just the people who know and love you, but all people, everywhere. How did we all survive before you got here?


I know the world did spin before you, but I just can't figure out how. Or why it would even bother.


I know people laughed and loved before you but I just can't imagine it was as sincere.


I think maybe we were all just living in a different world, a parallel universe, a world that just couldn't be this nice, no matter how hard it tried. Because now that you're here, the flowers seem to bloom a little brighter and the breeze blows a little sweeter and the pains are not so deep as they used to be and I truly think that the whole world has been touched by your very being.


And when your time here is over, I can only imagine that the world will lay herself down in sorrow and end right then and there with you.


And so, on behalf of the entire human race, all who came before and all who will come after, I'd like to say, "Thank you for blessing us with your presence."


Your Mom


Yeah, About That...

I feel like I should clarify that yesterday's post, was NOT about Man-friend. I feel like some people may have gotten a little confused, seeing as how I didn't say who I was writing about but I don't want to get any nasty emails the next time I post something about how great he is and how much I love him so I'm telling you now.

Nope, that post was about my son's father, the man who cheated on me for two years, made me the other woman in my own relationship, then bought a house with the new girl three minutes down the road from me, and who, the whole time, continued to tell me how much he still loved me and not her and was only with her because I wouldn't be with him, and even though I didn't believe him, it still gave me great satisfaction to hear it. And now they're having a baby (this makes 6 between them) and he doesn't tell me how much he loves me anymore. And all of a sudden, the chains are gone. And I'm not so sure how I feel about that.

So, if I ever write something about how great Baby's daddy is and how much I love him, I give people permission to not only send me nasty emails, but also to find my house and throw pig's blood at it. I'd totally deserve it.

So just to be clear:


Baby's daddy=asshole

Me=idiot who has awesome but still wants asshole to chase her because she still desperately holds on to that one time when asshole told her she was the love of his life and since she's really always wanted to be the love of somebody's life she believed it and refuses to accept that it was a lie like everything else he told her even though she doesn't even really like him and was the one who left him and wouldn't want to be with him even if awesome wasn't around.

So there you go, you know the truth. I'm an immature little baby who is way too concerned about her son's father having another baby with his girlfriend who he lives with and is in a committed(??) relationship with because it means HE DOESN'T LOVE ME ANYMORE.

In my defense, because I deserve one, when you have a child with someone and you have to see them all the time, it's much harder to distance yourself from the hurt and lies and love and get over them than with a regular boyfriend with whom you can just stop picking up the phone and stay away from until you've completely healed. Baby's daddy refused to let me heal and that's where the invisible chains came from.

This is me getting over myself.

**I'm turning off comments for this one because I don't really want to hear how selfish/dumb/immature I am or how it should only be about our son or any other lectures in adulthood that you might give. I don't need to hear it, I already know and I hear from the other people around me enough. So go judge someone else. (This is not addressed to anyone in particular, because you've all been very good to me, just the world at large.)


Cost of Freedom

He owned me. From the moment he laid his eyes on me, he placed his claim. I belonged to him and he would keep me, and I would be his forever.

And he tied me up with his love and his hurt and I fought the bindings but I wasn't strong enough to break free. Never strong enough.

Yet, the more I fought, the more the outrage of being held captive eroded my soul, until there was no more soul and I began to accept my fate.

I. Am. His.

Like a wild horse, he needed to break me. Over and over again, he broke me until there were no more pieces and the mess of me lay on the ground in a crumbled heap.

And even after he was done with me, he wouldn't let go. Years of being held by the man, unable to fully function. Unable to fully love someone else. Unable to get away from his spell, his invisible bindings.

For years

and years

and years.

I was his. Forever his.

But then, what's this? I wake up and my shackles are gone. He let me go in the night, without warning, without explanation.

And slowly, the realization breezes through me and for a moment, I find my peace. I can go. I can pick myself up and I can leave.

I am free! To love and live and be. Free.

But I don't know where to go. If I was his in the name of love, then what does freedom mean?

I don't know how to move from this familiar place. I don't know life without being his prisoner. I try to put the shackles back on. I want to be held. I want to be a captive again.



I always thought that when baby's daddy got another chick pregnant I'd be deeply heartbroken.

Turns out, I'm only mildly heartbroken.


Responsibility Is...

...not stopping to buy sour gummy worms and diet coke at 8:20 a.m. on the way to work this morning.

Someone should probably give me an award or something for my maturity.


3/52--Troll Fingers

3/52-- Troll Fingers

I had a really cool self portrait this week but then my (imaginary) dog ate it. I'm not a quitter though so I'm leaving you instead with this "portrait", fondly titled Troll's Fingers because my toes are exactly what I would imagine the short, stubby appendages protruding off of a troll's palms would look like.

And posting this shows just how truly secure I am with myself because those feet are U-G-L-Y!


Child Magazine Should Totally Give Me My Own Advice Column

I'm not saying parents should beat their kids.

I'm just saying that if you send your kid around me and they act like rude, bratty little babies who don't respect others or listen to their teachers, I will be tempted to beat them myself.


Baby Toes, A Delicious Treat

baby toes, a delicious treat

Welcome to the world,
Miss Amber Belle.

I'm glad that your mommy's my friend and I get to be part of your life. Pretty soon I'm going to take you dress shopping and paint your little toenails and put bows in your hair and do all the other things that my boy refuses to let me do with him. Pretty soon. Like in a month or so.



2/52-- Flapper

All I'm going to say to you about this photo is the same thing I said to my dad when he saw me all dressed up and asked what the hell I was doing.

The kid is with his father this weekend and the hours are long.


The Death Of The Love Peppers

When we moved to this house from our old house, the differences were numerous. Instead of convicts running through our backyard (great story- I'll tell it some time, it involved one bad guy, several police officers, an entire neighborhood in my driveway, and my naked, mud covered little sister), we now have a plethora of wildlife including turkeys and bats. Instead of cars backfiring and the sweet opera of spousal abuse filling the silence, come midnight, the only sounds around here are the crickets.

And as much as I sometimes miss the used condoms littering the sides of the road, it's the deer who share our new backyard that have always been my favorite part of living in this house. I might even love them more than the shiny oak floors in the living room.

My parents, of course, hate the deer.

My father has been known to throw rocks at the deer. I've been known to dash through the yard yelling "Run! Run!" before they can get hit by the rocks.

My mother has been known to spray deer deterring concoctions around the edge of the property. I've been known to bring home a salt-licks and place them in the backyard so the deer feel compelled to stop by more frequently.

You might even call me a deer advocate.

Until today.

Because when I went outside to check on our little garden today this is what I found:

Damn Deer!

Six hot pepper plants is what was there yesterday. Secretly calling them our "love peppers", I've spent months planting, watering, transplanting, and singing to them, not because I love spicy foods and want to make homemade hot sauce but because Jimmy does and I love him. And after the breakup that almost ended the world, I put a lot of hope in these little peppers, hope that they'd grow and flourish and that our relationship would follow suit. Somewhere in all the craziness of my mind, these peppers began to represent our relationship. And now they're dead. Do you have any idea what that means for our relationship?! Do you?!

And even though the sensible part of me knows we're not going to break up again just because the peppers died, if we do, whether it be today or twenty-five years from now, I'm totally going to blame it on those stupid deer.



I've joined a group on flickr, 52 Self Portraits in a year. I joined this group because between all the graphic design, illustration, photography, teaching art to children, and writing that I do for a living, I've been feeling like I don't have enough creativity in my life.

1/52- In My Mother's Garden...

1/52-- In the Garden


...for the splendor of which she refuses to take any credit even though she's spent months planning for, planting, watering, and loving each and every one of these beautiful flowers.

For the past 25 years, my mother has been trying to pass down the sacred gift of modesty to me, just like her Irish-Catholic mother passed it down to her, but it's a lost cause because I have a huge problem not acknowledging all my awesome.


If I was to, at this very moment, stand about twenty feet away from you naked, and you were to squint your eyes, this is what you would see:

A star with stumpy pink extremties that all meet at one pasty-white, never touched by the sun middle.

Seriously, badly distributed sunburn is sexy right? Man-friend's totally not going to be able to keep his hands off me tonight.


The Fine Print

"One-on-one time, it's in the agreement. 2 hours of it."

"It doesn't say in the agreement that other people*
can't be there during our one-on-one time."

"What part of one-on-one do you not understand?"

Sigh. I've never met a man who would work so hard to spend less time with his son.

The frustration is real.

*Just to clarify- other people= his girlfriend, her two daughters, his son and his son's sister.


Biology Lesson

"A tadpole is a good pet because you can watch it grow into a frog and it's kind of like watching a human baby growing in its mommy's belly."

"We start out looking like tadpoles?"

"Well part of us does at least."

R.I.P. to "The Tadster"
June 2008-June 2008

You were the best tadpole/tiny frog with a tail ever. I'm so sorry for killing you by pouring fresh water into your tank with the old water instead of properly cleaning the whole thing, purchasing filtered spring water, letting it sit for a few hours before putting you in, and then monitoring the whole situation for a while to make sure you were handling the change well.

You will be missed. Your stinky tank will not.


Big Momma Recommends Part Deux

I've got two videos that may just blow. your. mind.

This first one is an 'Atheist's nightmare'. Depending on what you believe, this video will mean different things to you. I won't say what I believe but I will say that I watched this video eight times in a row in complete and utter amazement.

Oh yeah, I got it from I Want A Pony

Number two, which I really can't embed but if you're at all concerned about the environment or even remotely unhappy with your life or the way this country is going or want to save our planet or care about anything at all, I'd recommend clicking on the link and watching. It's a twenty minute clip with awesome animations and because of it, when I went to Staples today to buy ink for my printer, I did NOT buy a funny little light up pen for 1.99. Because somewhere out there, someone is paying for that little pen with their life.

Click here--->>


A Very Poor Benefits Package

One of the downfalls of being in an authoritative position-

You can't really try to get someone else to fish out the bloody maxi pad floating in one of the toilets in the girls' bathroom and clean up all the blood in the stall. That's YOUR job.


Small Comforts

Small Comforts

I call this piece "Love Note and Key Lime Merengue Pie".

I could also call it, "Things that are currently making me feel better after seeing that this:

is the best house I can afford, if I'm lucky and can even manage to get a loan at all."

By the way, that's fake brick in the kitchen there. Wallpaper brick.

(Tomorrow I'll be grateful that I this is what I can afford to buy and not some shack in Africa, but today, people, today I wallow in self-pity.)


In Case You Were Wondering...


My monkey collected over 200 items for the local food pantry at his birthday party on Sunday. And by over 200, I mean 201. That's the final count.

And the grand total of tiny little action figures that will be left on his floor and stepped on by his mother in the middle of the night, games that will break after a week, and trinkets with one hundred pieces that don't really look like they belong to the toy but CAME IN THE BOX SO THEY MUST DO SOMETHING, DAMN IT!!! is a whopping zero.

The number of nervous breakdowns I've had since the party because all the little toys and packaging is laying all over my house plus the number of temper tantrums the kid has thrown because THIS TOY DOESN'T DO WHAT IT'S SUPPOSED TO! also equals zero.

Life is good.


Pieces Of You

Dear Jacquai,

Today is your 7th birthday. Do you want to know how that makes me feel? Do you?


Tired. Amazed. Exhausted. In love. Famished. Proud.


Mostly proud. More than anything else, I'm proud to have such an amazing kid.


It's been a stressful 8 months or so for us. I took your daddy away from you back in October and as hard as you've been trying to understand, I know how confusing and unfair it's been for you. I tried to explain things to you but unfortunately "You're daddy's a first rate fuck up who doesn't know a thing about parenting and is so selfish that he doesn't deserve to kiss the ground you walk on" just didn't seem to cover it all.


But then he took me to court. Finally. And that right there son, was so refreshing, exciting, and joyous to me- to be taken to court by your father for joint custody and visitation. Because more than anything else, it means that he gives a fuck.


So we went this week and with the agreement that I got him to sign, he's going to be spending a lot more time with you and more quality time at that, time that you two can be together without you having to constantly compete for his attention with his girlfriend, her daughters and his other two kids, and the president of the United States, and Janet Jackson, and whoever else it is he insists on having there every time he takes you. Now, for at least 2 hours a week, you are going to have your daddy all to yourself. And now you're going to know when he's coming and going, and he can't just take you when he wants to show you off and leave you with a lady you barely know, he's going to have to be a parent now. He's going to have to show up. He's going to have to be a man.


And I know that maybe some of the things I insisted on and the measures that I took to get these things for you seemed a bit unnecessary and even a little selfish. But in my heart of hearts, I hope that the sacrifice of a few months apart will allow for a better relationship with your daddy in the long run. I hope that you guys are able to find a closeness and bond that you never would have been able to achieve with the way your relationship was going before. I hope that he can teach you how to be a good man and father so that someday you can be one too. I really hope things work out with you guys this time because if he hurts you again, I'm going to have to kill him.


But back to you turning 7. This is going to be the year that challenges me as a mother more than any other year has. From the day you were born, I've had this terrible feeling that something bad was going to happen to you when you were 7, that somehow I would lose you. And I've tried to ignore this feeling, deny it, push it back, but honey, it's there and it's strong. And I'm sorry that this whole letter has had a pretty negative vibe to it, but someday, you're going to look back on your seventh year, and all you'll be able to remember of it is you mother. Attached to your hip at all times. Your mother. Every time you turn around. Your mother. Always there. And I want you to understand why. Understand that this fear that I have of anything happening to you is so crippling that I couldn't help myself from hovering over you constantly, following you around, making you get down from high branches and yelling at you for hanging upside down from the swing. Because I'd rather die a million painful deaths than lose you.


You. Who is so sweet that he agreed that instead of presents, it would be nice to collect canned goods for the local food pantry at his birthday party this year. You. Who composed and recited an eight minute opera about how much you love your mother the other day. You. My little caramel boy. You.



Happy birthday Mookie.




My Little Caveman

Presently my kid is outside trying to make a fire by rubbing two sticks together.

"Okay, well just be careful" was all I could think to say when he informed me of his plans.

I didn't have the heart to tell him that with the thunderstorms the other night, there's probably not a piece of wood from here to Georgia dry enough to make a fire out of. Not like that would stop him anyways.


Why My Group Of 7 Year Old Boys Is Better Than Your Group Of 7 Year Old Boys

When I ask my team, "who's wearing a cup today", half of them look at me like they have no idea what I'm talking about, even though on at least three occasions, I've had to explain with much embarrassment, that "it's the thing that protects your penis. You have to be wearing a cup to play catcher's position so I need to know. Are your penises protected today? "

And the other half, who do know what I'm talking about and have protected their penises today, choose to, instead of simply raising their hands, reach down and start knocking AS HARD AS THEY CAN on their crotches so I can be absolutely sure that I can put them in the catcher's position without the fear that in 20 years their mothers will be suing me over their lack of grandchildren.

Now that's class.


The Coolest Monkey On The Block

"Look. That's my website. I have a website."

"I know. I don't."

"That makes me cooler than you."

"Yeah well, I'm a monkey. So that makes me cooler than you."

Touché, my son. Touché.


Big Momma Recommends 1

"Big Momma"- that still makes me laugh, and also kind of cringe every time I call myself that. I decided a long time ago that when I'm a grandmother, I want all the children in my life to call me "Big Momma" or "Big Ma" like we used to call my neighbor growing up. She was about 300 lbs., the most yummy chocolaty brown color, and had the coolest gray streak that highlighted the rest of her jet black hair. Also, she made the best collard greens and macaroni and cheese I've ever eaten. My mouth still waters when I think about them.

When I shared this dream with Man-Friend, he suggested that I might need to gain some weight first. Also I might want to gain some pigment in my skin. Oh yeah, and learn how to cook. Anything. But never one for being deterred from my dreams, I decided I'd be Big Momma anyways. And since I'm skipping all the other crucial parts of being a Big Momma, there's no reason to wait for the grandmother part either.

The end.

Things that have made me laugh this week:

Corporate Cuddling ala Ms. Terry

Anal With A Man? It's True ala Ms. Fertile

and THIS marriage wisdom gem also courtesy of Ms. Fertile.

Go to these pages, enjoy their contents, and have a great weekend!


Point Well Taken

Dear Sophie, The Cat-

I now understand that a live rodent in the house is much better than a dead rodent that has been left to decay under the refrigerator for several days. You have made your point and a very good one at that.

And yes, I apologize for complaining about you and your neurotic habits to the Internet. I vow never to sell you to the Chinese food restaurant down the road like Man-friend suggested, so you can stop hiding under the bed now.



P.S. The cat door is officially closed for the summer.


Darwin's Theories In Practice

"Is that a cold sore?"


"Are you sure?"


"Well what is it?"

"That's what happens when you try to use cream hair removers to get rid of your girl mustache."

"Why the hell'd you do that?"

"I thought it'd be less painful than waxing."

"Was it?"

"It burned through my skin and made me bleed. It's been three days and I still can't move my lips."

"So no?"




7:45 a.m.- Awake, bright and early, despite the fact that there's no school today.

8:00 a.m.- Kid asks if he can have three waffles instead of two because there's three left in the pack and he doesn't want to have to eat just one tomorrow.

8:00 and 30 seconds a.m.- I consider his reasoning but then tell him no, he can only have two waffles because only two waffles fit in the toaster. I consider his acceptance of my shoddy reasoning a parenting victory.

8:05 a.m.- He eats one bite of one waffle, decides he feels sick and can't eat anymore.

8:30 a.m.- Kid is still feeling sick. I get worried that he may have caught the strep throat that I had last week and if we don't take care of it, I will be single handedly responsible for the illness of all children everywhere. Forever.

10:00 a.m.- Take kid to doctor's office. Pay $30 for them to tell me that he's fine.

12:00 p.m.- Baseball game. Only 8 kids show up from our team.

12:29 p.m.- My kid throws up in the outfield.

12:31 p.m.- I call doctor's office and demand my $30 back.

12:32 p.m.- They refuse. Ball, hit by one of my players, smacks me in back of head.

12:33 p.m.- Give team the classic "Try not to hit your coach with the ball while she's on the phone with the doctor's office instead of coaching the game" lecture. They've heard it before. They roll their eyes.

1:00 p.m.- Game over, take sick kid home. Let him watch Harry Potter and forget that you told him he had to clean his room today. Kid vows to be sick more often.

5:49 p.m.- Kid falls asleep three hours earlier than normal.

10:30 p.m.- Bedtime for me. Since he's sick, I'll let the kid sleep with me tonight, but first I wake him up and take him to the bathroom so he doesn't pee all over my bed.

10:31 p.m.- Instead of peeing in my bed, kid throws up in it. Day ends in vomit. All in all, a very typical Saturday.


It's All How You Look At It

I used to get really upset when Sophie, The Cat, would bring dead rodents into the house. I would yell and cry and vomit until she would storm into her bedroom and send text messages to all of her friends like "OMG MY MOM IS TTLY BUGGIN!!!! I H8 HER SHE DOESN'T GET THAT DEAD RODENTS ARE SO MUCH KEWLER THAN HER! LET'S GET HAMMERD. I'VE GOT CATNIP!"

dead rodent

It wasn't until she started bringing live rodents into the house that I realized what a blessing the dead ones really are. And now I thank God every time I can see the mouse's kidneys lying next to it on my living room floor because that means I won't have to spend the next two hours chasing the damn thing around, trying to get it back outside.

Intimidating Ain't She?
I have no pictures of live rodents inside my house. I'm too busy chasing them out.

Now, all Sophie's text messages say things like "MY MOM IS THE BEST!! SHE TTLY GETS ME! LET'S GET HAMMERD. I'VE GOT CATNIP! "


6 Servings Of Yum!

It's probably because most of my friends are the kind of people who just skip the whole marriage thing and go straight to getting knocked up that I haven't had to deal with too many weddings. But about two years ago, Jim's best friend decided to ask his girlfriend to marry him and that all changed. And with the big day now looming close on the horizon, this upcoming marriage has begun to become very inconvenient for me in many ways, including but not limited to:

  • Man-friend's newly renewed fear of commitment, as any type of commitment will undoubtedly result in the worst kind - Lifelong Commitment.
  • The $25.00 I just spent buying someone else a new set of baking dishes as a shower gift is $25.oo I can't spend on things like, oh I don't know, gas or food.
  • When hanging out with or hearing about engaged people, the focus revolves entirely around them and their wedding. This leaves very little focus left for me and my awesome.

But none of these things, not even having to whisper into the deep dark nights "I promise not to make you miserable and take half of your money" while Man-Friend holds his pillow in terror, has caused as much distress as this portion of an email I recently received from the mother of the bride in regards to the upcoming bridal shower:

"I also sent cards for everyone to give her a recipe. You can just write your recipe on a piece of paper or index card and I'll transfer it onto the actual recipe card. If this is something you want to do."

If this is something you want to do. . . like I have a choice. Like I'll dare be the only woman at the shower not giving the wife to be a recipe. And really it shouldn't be a problem except that all of my recipes involve three easy steps- 1. Pour contents of box into bowl 2. Cover with milk 3. Eat.

This is probably why I'm not the one getting married right now.

I thought about just copying down a recipe from Pioneer Woman's stash but they want it on a recipe card size and I'm almost positive that all the supercool pictures with her recipes wouldn't fit. I could copy one out of one of the cookbooks in the kitchen collecting dust but that almost feels like cheating. And cheating at recipe giving is one thing I just won't do.

So I've been stressing over this recipe thing for a few days now and have come to a conclusion. Since I have none of my own, I'll give her one of my dear old Nanny's tried and true recipes. I'm pretty sure your grandmother's recipes count as your own recipes so this IS NOT considered recipe giving cheating. If you disagree, feel free to voice your concerns to me at yvonne621@kissmyass.com.

While I was writing this recipe down, it occurred to me that maybe I should share the recipe with you too, Internet. Just don't claim it as your own. This one's all me Nanny.

nannys famous mac and cheese.jpg

There it is.

Internet, you're welcome.


The Most Practical Place To Store His Deodorant

The Most Practical Place To Store His Deodorant

I'm thinking that maybe he thought the lady on the back of the cereal box was looking a little sweaty and decided to leave her a hint.

Of course I've left the deodorant there on the top of the fridge (laziness mostly) and whenever I go and reach for a cup of sugar I have to resist the urge to pull the deodorant down, take off the cap and lick all the man-friend deliciousness.

What? Don't look at me like I'm crazy, it is in the kitchen!


The Chronicles Of Narnia

When we finished reading the Harry Potter series, it was like losing a good booty call friend. I tried to fill the void Harry left with other favorite books from my childhood. We read Henry Huggins and Freckle Juice, at a really low point we even tried one of the books from the Goosebumps Series.

Though the kid liked them all just fine, for me it was like having sex and never being able to reach an orgasm. Harry Potter was the pimp daddy of all bedtime stories and these? These were that guy who claims he has a great big dick and it turns out he's the size of your pinky.

But then the whole Chronicles of Narnia buzz started up because of the new movie coming out and I started thinking that maybe I'd get the first one from the library and see how it goes. My hopes were not high. But then, one afternoon we were at the supermarket and right there on the shelf, like a shining beacon of light, stood this- the ENTIRE 7 books from The Chronicles of Narnia in one convenient package. And the price was lower than the late fines would have ended up being if I'd taken them out of the library.

So we bought it, took it home, and made love began to read. I swear I just about came after the first chapter. And though no other bed time story may ever satisfy me like Harry, this one, it's coming pretty close.


Just Call Her Mother Teresa of Connecticut

If, one day, fifteen years ago, you were on your way to work and happened to cut through a busy street where drug dealers hung out and where residents were regularly going around getting themselves shot, you might have found yourself wondering what the hell a group of 26 Caucasian kids, dressed entirely in plaid, was doing standing around in a deserted parking lot on the corner of that busy street.

And you might have thought to yourself, "Awww, poor white kids. Maybe I should throw them some bread."

But if you looked across the street, you'd have seen the Catholic elementary school these kids attended and realized that what you were witnessing was not someone's cruel idea of Reparations. What you were witnessing was a Catholic school gym class. What you were witnessing was a Catholic school baseball game.

A baseball game with no gloves.

Or bases.

Sometimes there were no bats either, but really, that was rare.

And if you continued to watch the display, you might have noticed one little girl in particular cowering behind a tall athletic looking boy and thought to yourself, "Wow, that poor little white girl must be very scared of baseballs to hide like that."

But then, on the odd occasion when one of those Catholic school kids actually hit the ball, you'd see that, even though she covered her head with her arms and ran for her life, the ball would still come directly at that little girl every time and manage to hit her, and maybe then you thought, "Wow, that poor little white girl has a good reason for being scared of baseballs. She's like a freakin' ball magnet."

And then you probably drove away and never thought of it again.

Until one day, many years later, when, at your son or grandson's little league game, you see a woman coaching the other team. And you hear her shout things to her players like "Don't swing the ball until you get into the batters' box!" and "Ooops, that was a fumble. Wait are there fumbles in baseball?", and "Touch home base!" and you'd wonder who the hell elected this woman to coach a sport she obviously knows nothing about.

But it wouldn't be until you notice her involuntarily ducking every time a ball comes in her general direction that you recognize this coach as the little girl from the school parking lot so many years ago. And you question how that little girl, who hated baseball, who never played on a baseball team outside of gym class in her entire life, who never even watched baseball on T.V. until a year ago, would volunteer to teach a pack of wild baby wolves team of rambunctious little boys how to hit and field. And you'd conclude that Catholic school had probably made her a touch crazy.

And if that was what you guessed sir, well then, you would be absolutely correct.


The Afterlife

If there's a heaven, I hope mine has a giant library in it.

If I'm to be reincarnated, I hope to come back as a house cat that belongs to a rich person.

If there's no afterlife and this is all that will be, I hope I have the common sense to enjoy every last minute here.


The Post In Which I Link To Many Other Things

My pity party's not quite over yet but it's at the point where we've been drinking all night and I can't decide between the last potato chip or trying to get some sympathy from the cute guy across the room. If I eat the chip, I may blow up and then the cute guy will never want to take me home. But that chip is just so tempting with all its salty goodness.

I'm at the point in my party where things start to get deep, where the alcohol starts to make my vision hazy and since I can't stand up, I sit and think instead.

I've been living with my parents for, well, forever, except for the time when I was sixteen and I moved in with some friends for a couple of months because I was super cool and sticking it to the man (the man being my father) and then there was that time when I got pregnant and my mother kicked me out. But since I've had my son, we've been living peacefully in a small apartment in my parent's basement.

Yes, I live in my mother's basement. Just put a greasy beard, 10 years, and a beer belly on me and I'm the classic 35 year old man living at home.

However, here's the thing. It sucks to be living with your parents for many reasons, yes, but on the other hand, I have a free babysitter, a huge yard for the kid to play in, a great school, and one of the best rent rates possible. I have my own space with a separate entrance, I was able to go to college and start a business, things that I probably never could have done on my own. But now that I'm making money, now that I'm old enough to get wrinkles, I really should be supporting myself.

So I started looking at apartments. Mostly I looked at pictures of apartments on the internet and in the newspaper. But yesterday I went and visited one that's in a little town about 15 minutes away from where we are now and it was great. It was everything I ever wanted in an apartment- it has 4 walls, a bathtub, a place for a dining room table and most importantly, a dishwasher.


The only problem was that there's no mailbox. This was of great concern to me because if I had no mailbox where would all my junk mail go? And what would I do 5 times each morning if I couldn't walk outside, open the door and check to see if anyone felt the need to send me money?

The landlord said they could have one installed before we moved in. She's just been so busy, she hasn't had the time to put one up. Being the helpful soul I am I told her I'd do some research and help find a suitable box if she'd knock $100.00 off the 1st month's rent.

But let me tell you, with all the quality choices on this website, I'm having a hard time picking the best one.

First, I was drawn to this one because it could double as a birdhouse. And since I'm super cheap, I love things that can double as other things.

But then I saw this one and figured it would allow me to use that German accent I've been working tirelessly on. I'd stand by the mailbox everyday, holding a giant sausage link and a potato pancake and every time the mailman came I'd say to him "Guzenhowsen, Mickzenhome".

He'd think I was brilliant.

Of course, this copper one would offer the ultimate in class while still being sturdy enough to keep any prisoners from escaping.

This one though, well, this one might be the winner because it would look so lovely both standing straight up and lying flat on the ground after a drunk teenager mistakes it for a parking space and runs into it. I don't know, call me a thoughtful neighbor.

I'm going to print these out and bring them to the landlord and see what she says.

I imagine she'll be so thrilled with my choices, she'll take $100 off every month's rent.


An Open Invitation... Please Bring Soda or An Appetizer

You're Invited!!!!!

What: My Pity Party

Where: Here

When: NOW!

Why: Because I'm bored and feeling sorry for myself and I want you to be bored and feel sorry for yourself too.

Okay, I'll start the festivities with my sad story. Try not to cry.

I have nothing new going on. Nothing. People keep asking me what's new with life, what's new with work and I have nothing to tell them. No new clients, no new and exciting jobs, no new nothing. And it's depressing.

And my personal life? Well my boyfriend just moved into a new apartment with a new roommate, who happens to not be me. Why? Well besides the obvious 'he's an idiot who doesn't know that he should be sleeping next to me every night', I don't really know why. He was bored maybe? And it felt like the right thing to do. And since he's "not ready to move in together after 2 1/2 years because I have deep seated commitment issues so stop trying to pressure me into marrying you woman!" (I may have taken some artistic license while translating his words there) he decided to take a chance living with a moron who his best friend hates, a moron who has no job, a moron who spent a month painting his new bedroom but did nothing to clean the hellhole that they rented, a moron who doesn't keep fresh batteries in his x-box and most importantly, a moron who said boyfriend is already miserable living with.

I'm a little bitter and I can't even blame it on PMS.

And to top it off, I think I've aged more in the past month than I have in 25 years. I may or may not have found a gray hair last week. Depending on whether the offending strand grows back normal or colorless, I'll decide whether it was really a gray hair or just the result of a home-highlighting job gone astray. Also, I'm getting a wrinkle. Right in the middle of my forehead and it's happening right in front of my eyes and there's nothing I can do about it. And no matter how much I try not to show signs of emotion or in any way move my forehead, it appears to be there for good. The fact that no one else has any idea what I'm talking about, even when I point directly at it, is no comfort whatsoever.

Oh yeah, and I dropped my cell phone today and cracked it. It still works just fine but it's not nearly as pretty as it should be.

Well there you go, that's my sad tale. Please now, share yours. (If you have no sad tale, don't say that in the comments. I really don't care how happy you are right now.)

It's my pity party and I'll feel sorry for myself if I want to.


Talking Is Highly Overated

Sometimes you feel like you just have to say something, because what's on your mind is silently tearing you up inside and maybe, just maybe, talking will make everything better. But sometimes, letting the words that were eating you up inside out into the open just means that now they're floating around slapping you and everyone else in the face. And the burden that was yours to bear is now weighing just as heavily on their shoulders. Sometimes the pain that's caused from your words is more profound than any resolution you may hope to find.

And sometimes, that damage is irreversible.


And There's Pot In The Brownies Too!

Guilty Thoughts: How wrong am I for telling my kid that he couldn't have any of the lemonade in the refrigerator because it had alcohol in it, not because it really did have alcohol in it, but because I just didn't want to share?

Would it be "going straight to hell" wrong or "you're going to catch salmonella from that lemonade and end up with a $5000 hospital bill because you don't have health insurance" wrong?

Because if I'm only going to hell, it was totally worth it.


Merengue Baby

My new favorite video in the world...

This may be the cutest thing ever. I dare you to watch this and not want to climb through the computer screen and squeeze her chubby arms and kiss her little Dora the Explorer cheeks.

And if you can resist? Know what that proves? NOTHING, except that your heart is obviously made of ice cubes.

And I'm not even the least bit bitter that this toddler has more rhythm or behind than I do.

Not at all.


Because I'm Super-Cheap

Guilty Thoughts: It's too bad I couldn't, in good conscience, send my kid out into the world smelling like cooked pork because I'm betting this bacon grease would make a GREAT moisturizer.


The Next Big Social Networking Site

I'd like to give a big shout out to the Connecticut Judicial System for creating this helpful new tool that tracks criminals just by typing in a bit of personal information. If someone's committed a crime in the past 10 years, they pop up with a cute little description of their offense and sentence.

Thanks to this ingenious invention, I can now keep up with the lives and times of all my old boyfriends. It's like Facebook but better.

In the name of full disclosure, I will admit that I've found 3 exes so far (and I've only just begun!). I'm sure there are a few guys from that hazy period in 1999 that would also be there if I could just remember their names. Or faces. Or anything other than the fact that there was one who had a penis the size and shape of a giant salmon. And finding that out was the end of the relationship because there was NO WAY I was letting something that big getting anywhere near my girl parts. And that, sadly enough, is all I can recall of my entire 16th year.

But now for the inspirational message:

May this story be a lesson to all of the stupid girls everywhere who date a whole bunch of losers in their teen years. Because if you wish hard enough for your prince charming, young lady, if you beg and pray and promise to revoke all your moronic ways, if you can prove to cupid that you've changed your mind about 'saving' every idiot pothead you meet, well then, YOU TOO can grow up and find the perfect ex-boyfriend, the ex-boyfriend who puts all the rest to shame, the ex-boyfriend you'll want to spend your whole life being broken up with.


A Very Important Matter Indeed

Dear Man With Whom I Have A Sexual Relationship,

We need to talk.

I know, I know, those are the four most disturbing words a woman can utter to a man and why didn't I warn you before I said that?! I can see that glazed, unfocused look starting to shadow your eyes and am well aware that you've already begun blocking the sounds coming from my mouth and are searching desperately for your happy place (Baseball, beer, Halle Berry. Baseball, beer, Halle Berry) but snap out of it bitch! This is important.

To get straight to the point, we need to talk about foreplay. Or more accurately, the complete lack of foreplay in our relationship that has made me want to tear out my hair, wear sweatpants to bed every night, and refuse to have sex with you again until you learn the importance of a good make-out session.

I know that men don't need much to be turned on. I'm well aware that all I have to do is casually touch your hand or maybe say 'sex' out loud and you're on top of me like a cheetah on a dead antelope. But you've got to understand that I, on the other hand, need a little more than you sticking your hand down my pants to be in the mood. I am a woman and I need kissing and hugging and touching and all the other crazy things that they do in that far away place called The Movies.

Now it's not that I'm opposed to the occasional quickie. But unless we only have 10 minutes until the kid wakes up and we haven't had sex in 3 weeks and my period's coming any second now, I honestly feel that a little more effort should be put into the whole mating ritual. It's not just that I want to be in the mood to have sex, I physically need to be. If I'm not turned on beforehand, then sex is like a fifteen minute fire, burning in my crotch. And I mean that in the most ladylike way possible.

Please understand that it's not that I want another reason to nag and bother you because you are really so wonderful in every other way. And when you do things like change the roll of toilet paper or make breakfast, my mind wants to have sex with you, it's just that my body hasn't sat down all day and isn't quite convinced that this is the most productive use of my already limited energy levels. My body forgets very quickly how good sex can be, and it's your job to convince it.

In order to be of assistance, I've made these helpful charts to demonstrate my point.

So, let's assume this detailed and accurate medical illustration is me:

A detailed and accurate medical illustration

Then this would be an example of proper foreplay:

the route to marital bliss

And this would not:

The Route To You Sleeping On The Couch

In case you need a little more explanation, I have outlined a few important rules:

  1. Crawling in bed behind me and poking around the back door for twenty minutes until you find a hole is a waste of time and there's a 50% chance you'll find the wrong one. It would have taken half the time to just kiss my neck first and let me show you where to go.
  2. If you decide in the middle of the night while I'm fast asleep that you want to have sex, understand you'll have to work twice as hard to wake me up and turn me on and you might get punched in the face in the process. It might be worth going back to sleep and waiting until the morning.
  3. Grabbing a bottle of lubricant does NOT constitute proper foreplay. Other things that don't constitute proper foreplay are farting, leaving your dirty socks on the floor, not putting your dishes in the dishwasher, suggesting that I go down on you, and turning on Sports Center.
  4. You naked laying in my bed, not a turn on. Put on some shorts man and leave a little room for the imagination! Penises are ugly... and finally...
  5. When in doubt, think about what turns you on, and then do the opposite.

  6. I hope that this letter has helped you understand the importance of the matter at hand and that you will take immediate actions to resolve the problem or I will be forced to take more dramatic measures, which I have not thought of yet, but will be HORRIBLE! Feel free to print this letter out and keep it as a reference.


    The Woman Who Loves You Enough To Wash Your Dirty Underwear


The Gospel, According To Jacquai

Reads: I'm messy when I eat ice cream. I'm hungry I want ice cream.
I want ice cream because it is god.

And that bald peachy person with the purple body and black nipples, eating god with him? Yup, that's me.

Disclaimer: The Kid really meant to write good, not god. It's only I who thinks that ice cream is god. Specifically chocolate ice cream with cookie dough pieces in it.


Applesauce And A Little Too Much Cinnamon

Thanks for everyone who guessed in my What The Hell Is It? Contest.

The winner was the last person who guessed, the lovely Ms. Bobbye with (the very obvious) applesauce and a little too much cinnamon.

Of course, a little bit is somewhat of an understatement, as it was about a jar of cinnamon to a bowlful of applesauce and though most people know that you only need a teeny bit of cinnamon to flavor things, my son is going through his "extra" phase. Extra syrup on his pancakes, extra bubbles in the bathtub and extra hot sauce on his taco (boy did he regret that one) because he's a red-blooded American man who knows that bigger is better and more is, well, more.

And a little while later, Man-Friend came over and saw this applesauce mess and lectured me on how I shouldn't let him do things like that, I should discourage the mixing and messes, the climbing on counters and running into things. But I refuse, because in my opinion, discouraging these things would be like killing his SOUL and I just can't bring myself to kill my son's SOUL, no matter how much very expensive cinnamon he wastes.

But before you go getting all mad at Man-Friend you need to understand that he can't help it, he's just a very sensible man who thinks things through before he does them, who believes in safety first, and who, in all his sensibleness, perfectly balances my crazy.

Oh yeah, Bobbye, your prize is going to be...um....let's see...when I finally get it up and running in a month or 6, you'll get a free card of your choice from my store.

This was fun. Maybe I'll do it again sometime. What do you think?


Some Randomness Because I've Got So Much To Say And No Brain Cells To Coordinate All My Thoughts Into Pretty Sentences

  1. If Hillary Clinton becomes the Democratic nominee, I'll be voting for Ralph Nader for the third time.
  2. I spent half of last week seriously contemplating why I haven't made more of an effort to find a rich husband who would be willing to let me fulfill my true calling of lying around in bed all day while he goes out and works.
  3. I've been trying to eat according to the food pyramid for the past three weeks and not once have I managed to have a S-shaped poo like Dr. Oz says I should. This is very disturbing to me because really, what's the point of eating all this fiber if I can't even have an S-shaped poo?!! When I decided to try this new way of eating no one in my life was very impressed. "Oh I already eat like that," they all said. "Bullshit," I say. Eating 2.5 cups of vegetables a day is close to impossible.
  4. I changed my blog address from www.theresneveraline.blogspot.com to www.theresneveraline.com. It's a really small change but it should be easier to type and I paid for the damn domain name about 4 months ago so it's about time to use it. So update your links (again) please and I promise it's the last time I'll ask you to do it.
  5. Finally- a photo of what happens when you're sick with the flu and The Kid is left to make breakfast for himself. I'm not telling you what it is but I will give you a hint- it's two normal household items mixed together and no, neither of them is an S-shaped poo.
10 points to the first person who figures it out. Starting NOW!



What Happens After You Spend 2 Weeks Trying To Eat Strictly According To The USDA Food Pyramid

Do you want anything from the store?

Yeah, candy.

Candy? What happened to all the candy I brought you two nights ago?

Huh? Oh you mean the two bags of gummy bears, the extra large Twix bar, the king sized Reeses Fast Break bar, and two bags of sour gummy bears?

Yeah, those.

I ate them.


Maybe If I Could Just Touch His Ass One Time

Recent conversation with a friend about one very hot photographer that we both know. Two points before we begin-

My part's in purple, hers is in black. This has nothing to do with the fact that she's black, nor does it insinuate that I'm purple.

2. I sincerely hope that Hot Photographer never reads my blog.

So I heard Hot Photographer got a new job.

Yup. He's moving too.

That's too bad. He's not married yet is he?


Good. Because he's hot.

Yeah well you don't want him anyways. His job's too crazy. Not a good lifestyle for a relationship.

Who the hell said anything about a relationship? I just want to run my fingers through those sexy curls of his.

You should totally pursue him.


Why not?

Well for one, I'm in a very committed relationship with my ex-boyfriend.

Life is stupid.


In My Opinion

It should be illegal, IMPOSSIBLE even, for the horrible smells that kept wafting across my bed last night to be produced by a human butt.

They were so bad in fact, that if I had a couch, I would have gone and slept on it and I seriously considered going to sleep with the kid, who, though stinky in his own right, has a much smaller rear.

And I couldn't help but wonder how it is that women actually live with men (or how men live with themselves for that matter). Because I feel the need to wash everything after they leave and I really don't think I could do that daily. However, it does start to explain the high divorce rate because after the third time of being woken up by that TERRIBLE SMELL, WOULD YOU PLEASE TURN AROUND AND POINT THAT THING SOMEWHERE ELSE BITCH?!, I was starting to have very unloving thoughts towards that ass.


Man Down But Still The Battle Rages On

Sick Mookie :(

My poor Mookie-Rookie has been sick with a fever all week. And so, by default, the job of protecting the house from dementors, hobgoblins, and werewolves has fallen on my shoulders. And I want you to know how seriously I really do take this responsibility.

me protecting the house


A Love Letter To My Son, Part 1

Dear Jacquai,

My aunt Cindy used to write letters to my cousin Sarah and myself on the inside covers of the picture books that she would give us for Christmas and birthdays. They always told us what we were doing, how wonderful we were, and her hopes for our futures. Sometimes I find myself opening those books and reading the letters again, laughing at how ridiculous we were, relishing in the innocence of childhood and wishing that I had done the same for you. So here is my first attempt at a love letter to you, my darling son, in honor of Valentine's Day:

You're six and a half now and in 1st grade. You lost your first two teeth last year and have four more loose right now. Sometimes I tell you that we'll have to blend up all your food soon because you won't have any teeth left to chew with and you really love that idea. Like hot dogs are going to taste even better pureed.

I saved the first tooth you lost, you don't know that of course, but I did. It's in a tiny envelope somewhere. I'm not sure why though, because honestly, I find the whole process of losing teeth a little disgusting and barbaric. And besides, I can't help but feel sorry for you because once kids lose their baby teeth, they grow those enormous ones, years before their faces are ready to fit them.

But that's how life goes, my son. You have to give up some little things now to make way for bigger and better things later, even if they don't seem worth it right away.

You're an awfully good kid, you know. Not once have you ever even considered peeing in the bathtub and you try very hard to be helpful. For example, here is a picture of you mopping out the refrigerator after you'd spilled spaghetti sauce all over it:

And here's the sign you made afterwards:

In case you can't read it, it says Do not go past this sign. You had left the kitchen very wet and very soapy and were concerned that someone might go in there and slip. And even though the only people who go in there are you, me and Sophie, The Cat, the gesture was so cute that I had to resist rubbing spaghetti sauce all over your head and eating you up.

You broke my heart though, not too long ago when you asked me very quietly from the backseat of the car, "Mommy am I disgusting?" Apparently there's a little girl in your class who's been bullying you and one of the things she says is that you're disgusting and you were concerned that it might be true.

It is true of course, because you're a boy and you're six, and darling, if you were anything but disgusting right now, I'd be truly disappointed. But of course, you don't want to hear that from another kid and I had to fight back every urge to march into your classroom and bend down in that little girl's face and yell "BE NICE TO MY SON OR YOU'LL BE SORRY!" Eventually, as it got worse, and you came home upset everyday, I called your teacher and asked her to please deal with it before I did. But, just so you know, I'm pretty sure that when I was in first grade, I was kind of mean to Ryan Shukis, and would bet anything that the words you, are, and disgusting slipped through my lips a time or two when talking to him, but the truth of the matter is that I didn't think Ryan Shukis was disgusting at all. Actually, I really just wanted to kiss him.

Not that it helps, I'm sure, knowing that a little girl might want to kiss you, because you're still convinced that girls are gross and that you will never want to do anything that involves kissing, hugging, or in any way interacting with one. You're okay with the idea of marriage and giving me grandchildren having kids someday, as long as it involves separate households and absolutely no physical contact. Which is alright with me because I know one day you'll change your mind about girls, but if it's not until after you've finished college and are on your way to a great career, it'll probably save everyone a lot of heartache. Either way, you're moving out of my house when you grow up because I refuse to to have a 35 year old son who lives in my basement.

Hear me? I. Refuse.

Which is why I've been trying to help you become a little less disgusting as of late. I suggested we get your hair cut and that perhaps you should shower more often. Both of these things were very hard sells. For some reason, you were really attached to all that hair, even though you hated how long it took to style each day, and even though it hurt to brush it and even though everyone called you Corbin Blue and you HATED that, still it took about a month to convince you to cut it, and what finally did it was promising you that you could watch Harry Potter and The Prisoner of Azkaban when we got home. And I have to tell you, a part of me is a little disappointed that you were willing to give up all this:

for a movie that you'd already seen fifteen times.

And you immediately regretted your decision.

But it's okay, my darling, hair grows back. You don't have to believe a lot of the things I say, but trust me when I tell you that, even after you cut it above your ears and accidentally dye it orange, your hair will grow back eventually. If you still don't believe me, ask your Auntie Em, she was there.

Jacquai, everyday I look at you and wonder how I ended up with such a wonderful little person in my life. How I could possibly have had anything to do with making something so perfect. And Jacquai, my hopes for your future are numerous. I hope that you'll grow up to be a kind, strong, and good man. I hope that you find love, because even though it hurts sometimes, the good always outweighs the pain. I hope that your heart never gets broken too badly and I hope you're never responsible for breaking someone else's heart. I hope that whatever you decide to do as a career, whether it's to become a Jedi knight, a baseball player, or a really powerful wizard, that you love it. And I hope that you wake up every morning for the rest of your life, happy to be alive.

Because, son, every time I look at you, I'm happy to be alive.


Your Mom