I have been lacking so much in this blog, that it is near criminal.

I love writing. I love blogging. So why have I put this as well as other numerous things that I love to do, on the fucking backburner?
Specificially this year?

Because, to be honest, my marriage is failing.

There. I said it.

And when one’s marriage is failing, and falling, and pieces are flying, and children are involved, you tend to let things slip away. Including your blogs, and your videos, and your writing, and your enjoyment and your joy and your pieces and parts of everyday life.

This year has sucked. Pretty damn bad. I haven’t had such a shit year, in soooo very long. I should be thankful, but as we all know, when it rains, it pours and I don’t mean a storm of cleaning rain- I mean a storm of shit.
Pretty visual- eh?

I will spare the details. I will spare the insane amount of time that this has gone on. I will spare all that stupid woe is me bullshit.

But I refuse to spare myself anymore. I have to do what I have to do. I Have to go on. And I have to enjoy life again.

I am not going anywhere, I will never let who I am, slip away anymore.

So for two weeks now my husband has been watching constant Michael Jackson videos a la Youtube.
Ok… I have, too.

We can’t help it. No we aren’t strange, and stop lying because you know you have taken a second or two to watch a video from his hey days.
It’s natural to want to remember from back in the day when things were so much more, no pun intended, full of innocence. Wonder. When times were much simpler.

Back when MJ was popular I was between the ages of 5-10 years old. I remember my uncle giving me the Off the Wall album. Michael with his naturally good looks and his afro standing there against a brick wall. I jammed to “Rock With You” over and over again on my Fisher Price record player.

Then came the Thriller album… I remember seeing him dance and wow the crowd at the 25th Motown Anniversary show on TV. I was planted in front of our huge (what seemed to be huge back then) console floor model TV. He did the moonwalk. Then we all tried to moonwalk at school, on the playground, in our yards, on our bedroom floors.

He wore that sequined glove. We all wanted a glittery glove.
My friend Amy in elementary school had an “ACTUAL” LEATHER BEAT IT JACKET. *GASP*.
She would let us all take turns walking around in it at recess time. When it was my turn, I tried to moonwalk, yet I failed.

When I was 10 years old and I had my appendix operation and was hospitalized for 2 weeks my mom decked my entire room out in MJ posters, his Thriller doll, curtains, bedsheets, you name it. She and my Abuelita had taken days to decorate my room and they even bought me a Thriller ensemble to come home in complete with MJ post earrings and a necklace.
I still remember My Abuelita standing in the doorway of my bedroom smiling and saying “Mira! Mira, mamita! El Meeko EJacksons!” (Look, Look! Sweetheart, Michael Jackson!”) completely butchering his name in Spanglish yet feeling triumphant that they had made my homecoming so special.

Alas, there was one problem I had with MJ. The Thriller video. I am not a lover of zombies. Some of you know this. That video to this day makes my insides scream, my chonies twist, and I cry as if I were just 10 years old. I don’t like dead peoples dancing.
But, I got over it enough to watch it with my husband last weekend.
Even though I was twisted inside. We watched Beat it and a lot of his earlier stuff and remembered how our memories were so similar from our separate childhoods because of his songs.

As the years went on NKOTB became my thing, and MJ turned weird and reclusive and started to dye his skin, shave off his nose and try to have chiseled features, my love for him disappeared. As did most of the people who grew up with his music.
If you didn’t, then you were one of his many hardcore fans or you may live in some distant foreign country and still jam to his songs as if it’s 1983. Hey- that’s ok too. Not knocking ya.

Let’s face the truth here, the man wasn’t loved by many for the last 15 years of his life. And not only did those strange self mutilation surgeries he continued to have make us fall far from the MJ train, but let’s face it- the child molestation accusations were a HUGE elephant in any room he happened to be in.

This past week I watched the Memorial. To the dismay of my kids who wanted the Cartoon Network turned on.
“Why are they making such a big deal about him, mom? I mean, if one of us died would they be all singing and clapping and making a huge concert out of it?” asked my oldest. I knew she was right. And I was torn. I wanted to remember the MJ that made me dance and sing and be a happy kid growing up in the 80s. But he was gone long before June 25th, 2009.

I realized a few things, also, I didn’t see Lionel Ritchie, Brooke Shields, Mariah Carey, Al Sharpton, John Mayer, or anyone else that was singing or jamming or giving speeches EVER- and I mean EVER- defend MJ when he was accused of that freaking ugly assed elephant in the room. Nope. I didn’t. In fact I remember his family with him during the SECOND allegations, but I don’t remember seeing or hearing ANY of these people who were up there paying homage to the “KING OF POP” during those times.
I am sorry but that Al Sharpton speech and his “Wasn’t nothing strange about yo daddy… what was strange was what he had to put up with….” pissed me off. Because MJ was strange. He was reclusive. He was self loathing.

So where does this bring me?
Feeling confused and strange.
As probably many of you feel that grew up with his music. Or danced to Thriller. Or had a Beat It jacket, glittery glove or a pair glittery socks.

We feel strange because there was… WAS a normalcy about MJ when he performed and was a pop star that made the music that most likely is on the soundtrack of your life. His music played when you were at your first dance or played in the backyard with the Boombox blaring.

And because of that, we mourned. We mourned because those songs and that man were part of our memories. What we don’t mourn, is the strange man he became. The strange shit that surrounded him. The man that made us all wonder and will make us all wonder for years to come, did he really do those horrible things?
And it’s hard to say- that there was nothing strange ’bout that, Daddy.

Tis Summer Season.
Season of sun.
Season of heat.
Season of {insert dramatic sound effects here} SUMMER VACATION FOR MY KIDS.
Season of…
NO SCHOOL.

No more free time for me and the 4 year old.
No more lazy, relaxing, chill time.
No more.

Now my house is covered in insanity from the moment I awake until these tiny heathens go to sleep at night.

I have to remind myself, summer used to be one of my favorite seasons.
Fire flies.
Crickets.
Warm breezes.
Beaches.
Picnics.
Sunshine on my face.

So I will survive. I will.

Right?

My friend Madeline and I were giggling a few weeks back over this video. I can’t figure out if the actual video makes me laugh like a maniac, or the fact that the owner of this video felt so compelled to add porn-like music to a video of his cat rolling around on a rooftop.
All sorts of wrong. But it makes us laugh and it’s a must see.

I am a huge Oscars freak. Ever since I was a tiny gal growing up in the slums of Mumbai… I would hold a shampoo bottle in my delapitated bathroom mirror and pretend I was winning an Oscar while wearing my mother’s torn bed sheets and say an acceptance speech. Well it ain’t a shampoo bottle anymore, is it?

Ok, ok. You caught me. I took parts of Slumdog Millionaire’s synopsis and part of Kate Winslet’s acceptance speech and made them part of my own. But seriously, I have loved the Oscars since I was a tiny brat. I would watch it every year with my mom or dad and I would wear my mom’s satin red bedsheets, and a pair of her high heeled shoes. I would carry around a hair brush and interview my stuffed animals or my parents. The year that E.T. lost and Ghandi won,  was severely earth shattering for me. My dad told me that “diapers are in, aliens are out” for that particular year.

I love every part of the awards show. From the beginning, to even the horrible awful long drawn out acceptance speeches from some short film documentarian, to the outlandishly insane musical numbers, to the wonderful parts of the end- the best part- best actress, actor, and best picture.

I watch annually. It’s my super bowl. So my husband knew if he didn’t stop playing his Xbox on our flat screen that I would whine and throw a baby fit from our bedroom the entire night. So he was kind enough to put it on for me and even watched some of it with me! Thanks baby! What a nice husband you are.  It was also our 12th anniversary of meeting, so I think he was just being extra nice to me

Anyhow, from the red carpet “OMG what is she WEARING! EW!” to the ending night of best picture, I watched it in it’s entirity, this year. Here are my post Oscar 2009 raves, faves, utter disappointments, funny moments, WTF moments & so on.

Red Carpet, Gowns, Men’s Fashion:

Many of the gowns of the night consisted of strange origami-type folds. Me no likey. No likey at all. The dresses would have been fine and elegant with just one or two little folds here or there, but it looked like some of them had a hard time WALKING IE: Tomei, Evan Rachel Wood.  Amy Adam’s dress was a beautiful red, but those strange black lines at the bodice did not appeal to me.

If the gowns did not contain folds from space, they contained too much rufflage. Penelope Cruz for example. Or Miley Cyrus anyone? (WHY WAS SHE EVEN THERE???? The fact that my ten year old daughter adores her is enough for me to wince at, but she was at THE OSCARS. Ugh…) Too much ruffle, or even- too much sequins, lame or just plain fug. All in one in Sarah Jessica Parker’s dress. Sarah, please don’t bring Matthew with you anymore. The man looked like he was miserable and rather be bathing in acid. Yeesh.

Makeup? Oh god. Alot of it, was either too washed out, or too much. Reese Witherspoon looked like a skeleton. Gaunt, and in need of a porkchop. Someone told her she looked hawt, but she was nawt. Someone also paired her navy blue colored dress with her eyeshadow. No highlighted brow or anything. Just ALL NAVY BLUE. Again- she looked skeletal, in need of a hearty meal.

Did I like anything? Of course! I actually loved the elegance and dapperness (is that a word?) of THE GOLDEN COUPLE: Brangelina. He looked sophisticated. She looked elegant. All in black both of them, but with their own touches of color. Angelina had gorgeous emerald earring droplets that added great color against the black. Her hair was simple, wavy, flowing, beautiful. I also loved Josh Brolin and Diane Lane. Again, simple, elegant.
Oh and let us not forget Mr. Mickey Rourke. A lot of people said he looked like a pimp gone mad. I thought he brought his own style (an example was his locketed picture of his beloved Loki, his doggie that died this week) and how refreshing was it that he wore WHITE? I liked it. So sue me.

The Awards Show Itself in bullets

• Huge crystal droplet curtain things. Gorgeous. Me liked.
• Five of the past winning Best Actors, Actresses etc. coming out and paying the current nominees respect and words of praise. Me liked.
• Basically the entire stage settings with glamorous sparkles that reminded me of extravagant shows of yesteryear paired with cool visual effects on back dropped screens. Me liked a lot.
• Hugh Jackman. Me liked. Did a decent job hosting.
• Hugh Jackman singing a huge overdone musical number with Beyonce. ME LOATHED. WHY WAS SHE THERE? I wish she would stop trying to sing “At Last” as if it was HER own song and not Etta’s song. She reallllllly needs to stop that before Etta delivers a beat down on her.
• Heath Ledger winning Best Supporting Actor. Me cried. His family accepted the award for him. His sister saying “for his Matilda” made me tear up. You could tell there was not a single dry eye in the audience.
• Eddie Murphy looked high.
• LOVED the Pineapple Express bit. Oh how I love Seth Rogen’s comedic self and James Franco. The part where they are laughing at a clip of Kate Winslet while she was crying was hilarious!
• Sophia Loren was hot with her cleavage.
• Goldie Hawn needs to accept she is not 30 anymore and wear something age appropriate, do something with her hair and stop getting plastic surgery before her face splits in half.
• God, I do not like Nicole Kidman. Does she wear the same thing every year? She looks so BLONDE. And washed out. And PALE.
• Slumdog Millionare won so many times I lost count. But it seemingly deserved the award- marking that one on my “to see” list.  Those kids were adorable. I wanted to adopt them.
• Sean Penn won for Milk. Me liked. But I wanted Mickey to win. Sean’s a decent actor, but he forgot to thank his wife Robin. Who has dealt with a lot of his midlife crisis bullshit this past year. Come on Sean! WTF?
• Loved Alicia Keys dress and makeup. She presented with Zac Efron. I don’t like his hair and make up- he he.
• Kate Winslet won best actress and said some cute things about a shampoo bottle and being little pretending she had won. Her dad whistled. How adorable.
• Slumdog Millionare won best picture. Ok good. I can deal with that.

All in all it was a decent show this year. Despite some of the scary clothes, makeup and bad musical numbers.

Below are my faves and not so faves of the red carpet:

Thoughts?
Eyebrows?
Camel Toe?

I met my husband eight years ago today.

During a blind date I almost didn’t go to. But my hair was acting good that night. So, I went.

Lots of love, blah blah blah. Good sex, blah blah blah. I love you, blah blah blah. Will you marry me? Blah blah blah, pretty baby girl, blah blah blah. Gorgeous baby boy, blah blah blah. Sad stuff, blah blah blah. Gorgeous second baby boy again blah blah blah. Eight years later.

The rest is history.

I was going to write a big assed mushy post, worthy of mush awards.
But I had a bad night.
Filled with children chaos, hair, baby chaos, baby poop, hair, and a fried chicken gut that is bloated.
And more random hair.

I attempted to give The Girl’s hair some layers. It looks good now, but I dunno what will happen by morning. Or better yet, when it grows out.

I don’t feel good. I ate too much chicken.

And also, my brother called to tell me my mother has taken a turn for the worst. She’s not dying, but I keep thinking she is. She has had the flu since friday and now is vomiting madly. So, now my brother who never freaks about anything, because he is cooooool- is freaking.
Now, I am freaking.
And wondering if she has something worse.
She is also working while being sick, because she just started a job so she can’t call off kinda thing- and so she comes home heaving and hysterical. And a few minutes ago, I heard half of a newscast that said something about a possible epidemic of the bird flu, so now of course, I think my mother has the bird flu. And also my kids are going back into crystal bubbles. Because the newscast said something about plague like proportions possible and a 72% mortality rate, and that my county has had plans since 9-11 to set up vaccination areas in schools and to vaccinate 20,000 people at a time. And then the last shot they showed on the newscast was a snowy cemetary with violins and organs playing. So, now, I got terrorists in our backyards in my mind that planted the bird flu and we are all gonna die. And also, since we all ate chicken for dinner, we are gonna be one of the firsts. Why don’t they give out the vaccinations before it gets to epidemic proportions? And then I start to freak, and my husband reminds me that I only saw half of the newscast and that, in particular, that station likes to run news stories as if they are soap operas.

How is that for a bad run on sentence/paragraph/freak out?

So, yea. That’s why I don’t feel romantic tonight.

Did you hear about Paris Hilton’s cell getting hacked into over this weekend?

Not that you would care, neither did I. But, my husband was reading one of his Sports boards and they had a link to the site that had the numbers and email addresses. Interesting. I was giggling.

Eminem? Giggle! Vin Diesle? Giggle snort! Ashlee and Jessica Simpson? Giggle snort guffaw!!

Many more actors and actresses, Benny Medina, Mr. Iovene. Some interesting people. I wish I coulda jotted those down. Because today when I came back on they were gone. DAMNIT! DAAAAYAAAM!

Not that I would call Eminem. What would I say to him? You are washed up? I heard your peter was small from some chick in the Enquirer? Or what about Jessica Simpson? “YOU SUCK ASS HAIR!”? What would you say to these people? And then there is the fact that you are invading someone’s privacy.

I mean, they are people, too. That must have sucked. I heard they all got about 300 to 400 calls in one day. Eminem and Vin changed their numbers. And one unamed actress screamed “Why would she put my phone number in her cell phone!?? I mean come ON!??” I dunno, unnamed actress. All I know is, if anyone meets Paris “spoiled brat” Hilton, don’t give her your phone number. Or email address. She is careless.

I wonder… in there, there was a code name for someone.
Who the fuck is Eggplant Dike?
I guess we will never know.

I got a bouquet for Valentine’s Day.

A nice viral bouquet.

What’s a viral bouquet, you say?

Here is what you need to make a viral bouquet:

1 baby with a cough and head full of mucous.

1 six year old girl with a stomach virus.

1 three year old boy with a fever of unknown causes.

2 parents with sore throats and mucous filled noses.

Directions
Put together the parents. Make sure they feel horrible.
The six year old girl must poop in her bed and run to the bathroom while vomiting. Then you take the parents and make them clean up the poop and the vomit.
Add the baby with a cough and boogies and make him real cranky.
Throw in the three year old with a strange fever, that goes on and off for about three days. The fever must be of unknown causes, because he doesn’t have any other symptoms.

And there you have a viral bouquet for Valentine’s Day!

I don’t know where on God’s green earth we caught all this shit, but it’s quite lovely. The smells are just gorgeous.

Actually, I have my ideas on where everyone got sick. All I have to say is:

“IF YOU ARE SICK, AND PEOPLE SAY THEY ARE COMING OVER WITH THREE KIDS TO VISIT YOU, PLEASE TELL THEM IF YOU HAVE THE PLAGUE GOING ON IN YOUR HOUSE!”

How hard is that???? Ugh. Why did we have to go visiting people last week??

I want to hide my children in a bubble for the rest of the winter.

A nice sanitized crystal bubble.

EHEM. Hi. Remember me? Uh huh. If you are still checking in on me and haven’t decided “WTF? Whatever, she wasn’t any good to read anyways, always bitching about her life, herself, blah blah blah…” I want to thank you for having the patience.

I suffered a little setback.

I am back though. I can’t get into details right at this second.

So… the details will come tomorrow.
If I can.
Or days to follow.

Man… I forgot how to write.
This looks like shit.
SEE! SEE WHAT HAPPENS????

Goodnight. And thanks for caring.

~ M.

I did it.

I did what all of you, most I don’t even know in person, begged me not to do.

I smoked.

But there is light, and not a cigarette light, at the end of this tunnel.
It tasted like ass. I choked on the ass smoke and it made me feel not only more asslike, it made me realize it’s all in my assanine head. It’s not gonna fill that void for me anymore. In fact, it never did. I just THOUGHT it did.

It gave me a headache. It made my stomach turn. And when I went to kiss my sweet little baby, who is learning to laugh and giggle and throw his legs in the air when he sees his mama, I felt dirty. I felt like a dirty gross mama for kissing my sweet little baby who loves me so. I washed my teeth like ten times before I kissed him. I love kissing him, that’s a lot of brushing I would have to do if I kept this up.

So, me and hubs (yes, he smelled like ass and tasted the ass and choked on the ass all the same), are starting over at square one. We realized that those nasty things are not what we want. We have something missing inside ourselves that we need to find. Even if it means seeking that filling takes a lifetime.

Thank you, to all of you. To those who are my friends and love me, and those who are my internet friends and care. It meant alot.

Now back to your regularly scheduled ass program.

I am about to go back to smoking.

I can’t take it.

Today- as humorous as it is, is the three month mark for me. It seems like three fucking years.

My kids are getting to me. My life is getting to me. I can’t take it.

I see people with cigs dangling out of their mouths and I want one. I want to inhale the sweet smoke and have a ciggy in my hand, and blow out the stresses of my world.

I almost told the Hubs to get a pack tonight. He is on the verge as well. We are breaking. Cracking. Crumbling.

Reason’s I keep saying to myself are:

Don’t get offended. This is for me to remind myself for my own sake.

1.) We will smell like ass.
I hate the smell of it. And to think of my kids smelling like it bothers me to no end.

2.) More money down the drain. When I wanna go get wings and beer with my girlfriend. I can. I don’t hafta go “I can’t pay tonight. I can’t go…” and then she ends up paying for me and I feel like a moron. I actually pay for my own wings and beer, or my own caramel macchiato and marble loaf. Yes, I said marble loaf.

3.) The Baby. He only knows of mommy and daddy’s smell. Our natural smell. Now he will smell mommy and daddy smelling of cigs. Nasty. I have a smell thing going on, can you tell?

4.) The Girl and The Boy. They don’t get as sick as they used to. Usually they are getting sick every friggin month. They have been healthier than ever.

5.) Running. I can run with my kids and not have to stop because I am out of breath.

6.) Life. I don’t have to one day die of a disease I caused on my own doing because I was being selfish. I can also do that eating a million donuts, but that’s another entry. So, shut up.

Again, if you smoke, do not take offense. These are my own reasons.

Almost everyone I know smokes. That’s another huge reason why I can’t seem to think it’s so bad. I mean it’s all around us. That makes it hard. I see people with them dangling and inhaling and tasting it and puffing it and it makes me WANT TO HAVE ONE.

BAD.

I mean I am gonna weigh like fucking 500 pounds if I keep eating like this, to curb this intensity!

So, please send a little white light our way. Even though these reasons are seemingly very important and well put together. They aren’t enough for an addict.

And that’s what I am… addicted in my fucking mind to a cancer stick that tastes like peppermint.

I had to let go of someone who was once close to me last night.

I had to say good bye. As if I were on my deathbed.

I had to let it all go into the wind. 24 years of a friendship that was started in a little school yard in 1981.

I once had this friend, she and I were inseparable. We went through years of being children of addicts. We were each others support when our parent’s were going through binges of drugs or alcohol. We were each others touchstones no matter how hard it seemed.

She even introduced me to my husband. She knew he was the perfect person for me. That’s how close we were. We could finish each others sentences. Pick up each other’s step in a heartbeat.

She is now an addict. She is now lost. And me? Well, little ol’ me has tried to pick up the pieces of what I thought was the puzzle to the schoolyard picture, and I have tried diligently over years and years to put it all back together. Last night, I gave up.

I had to let her go. I wrote her a goodbye letter that was worthy of a “spilling your guts and letting it all out” award.

Will she reply? I have no idea. I have decided if she calls not to pick it up. If she writes not to open it, and if she emails me I have her blocked.

She has thrown my frienship around like trash. Disappearing and reappearing back and forth over time. I can’t do that anymore. Within two days of her trying to enter my life again, I felt drained, sick, and just not myself. She is not that worthy.

So, like I said to my husband, I could have written her “Abba dabba ooga booga, meet me at fuckensteins castle, where we will unleash the purple fur twats…” and she would read it the same fucking way as what I wrote originally. Because she is that lost. She won’t get it.

But, I get it. And that letter was written for ME. For closure. For my own fucking good and no other reason.

I can’t help but think of being in that schoolyard 24 years ago, and how a lifetime of having her in my life would end up so sadly.

I have vowed to stop cussing so much.

My friend had her kids over today, and all I could do to stop saying FUCK and MOTHER FUCKER and all that goodness, was really hard. I even slipped. I think she wanted to smack me.

My mouth is dirty. Like John Mayer says in his song Comfortable.

” She says the bible is all that she reads and prefers that I not use profanity…. your mouth was, so dirty.”

Even though, my first intitial thought was she had a dirty mouth because she gave good head, or because she needed to brush more often.
I soon realized he meant she was like ME!
She cussed like a FUCKING SAILOR.

So, yea. I need to not cuss so much.
Because I have three little kids.
Like my friend.
She cusses, but she cusses when it’s us, and we are having fun while having a drink, or when we are acting like FUCKING lunatics driving around in the snow trying not to go back home.
Where we SHOULDN’T CUSS.

Example: her youngest son, runs into my middle son, and we laugh. Because it’s so cute as they collide and are falling to the ground and are in pain. Just kidding. No pain. Anyway we call her youngest the baby rhino, ’cause he is so cute and rough when he hugs people, and my middle son is just taking these hugs and falling to the ground and wincing and laughing in half pain, half hilarity.
So, I,  I go “OMG HOW FUCKING HILARIOUS!”
I caught myself like SEVENTEEN HUNDRED TIMES today.
I am turning into TRASH, PEOPLE.
I dunno if she caught me, but if I did.  SHE did.
And I feel bad.

I need to say words like fecking, farking, freaking and effing, or darnit and shitzui. And stuff.
Or GOD- not even that stuff.

I am a horrible mother, people.

I need to stop cussing.
And also, because, I caught my three year old son, calling his Doctor Octopus action figure an asshole the other day.