If My Happiness Were An Ass It Would Look Like This . . .

Holy Flying Monkey Fucker, it's the first day of school!!!!

Cue the marching band, the baton twirlers and somebody pass me a drink .... yes, it's finally here! I couldn't be happier even if a bus load of midget rugby players pulled up in front of my house and asked if Miss Spoken could come outside and play for awhile.

Yes, I'm that happy and that obsessed with The Little People.

There have only been a handful of times that I've actually been alone in my own house. But now that The Boy and Boss Lady are both in school full time (Legal is in jail but you'll have to wait for The Mother Summer Fucker Letter to read up on that), I have this modest two story town home all to myself. For those of you non-breeders out there, you probably can't grasp how monumental this day is. And if you're one of those mothers who dreads the kids going back to school because you just can't breathe without them needing you all day and you question who will wipe little Jimmy's ass properly, then you really don't understand me and probably quit reading this post right after the "Holy Flying Monkey Fucker" intro. For me, herding them to school is like somebody telling you your ass looks good in those jeans. It feels that good. And even though I have to share all six hours of my solitary time with roughly 400 loads of laundry, I will not allow the soiled clothing to piss on my parade.

It's back to school time and this year, I'm not fucking around.

I will ...

Save money, because vacation time is over and fourteen boxes of Capri Sun is still cheaper than the cost of keeping me inebriated while sleeping outside camping.

Bathe my children, because the pool closes after Labor Day.

Clean the house, and it will actually stay that way for at least the next six hours. Gone are the days of sweeping, wiping, washing and scrubbing in twenty minute intervals.

Write the great American novel, or at least compile my Sunday dinner recipes into a swanky new binder.

Sit in silence, because Spongebob will not be played on a constant loop in my living room. Screw you Sponge, you are no longer the soundtrack of my every move. But I will sort of miss you, Squidward. I was begininning to think that you really got me.

Not eat lunch, because that's why God made coffee.

Rub one out in the middle of the day, because I can.

Mother Summer Fucker: A Prologue

The summer of 2010 was the summer I nearly killed my blog.

Had she been a pet dog, she would have been emaciated and roaming local freeways, dodging cars in search of food scraps and a gentle hand. Had she been a feline, she would of been one of those flat cats you see on an episode of Hoarders. A forgotten skull crushed by boxes of useless shit and feasted on by it's own starving family. My blog is one of my kids, sitting in their pajamas and eating pizza for breakfast at 11:23 on a Friday morning, whining to go to the pool and hearing my mouth respond, "Please stop talking." My blog is homeless, sitting in her own piss with her jaundiced nails. Her sign says she will work for food but she's lying.

But I vacuumed yesterday which means that I'm not clinically depressed.

Back when I actually did feed my blog on a regular basis, played with her hair and called her Sugar, I wrote a post dissing Christmas Letters. I still think they're stupid (no disrespect to Suburban Kamikaze). My theory was based on the obvious -- who cares what I did all year and if you actually held any interest, you could check out my well-fed, much loved, always shaved above the knee blog.

But since this is the summer that my blog turned into a neglected, hairy little beast in desperate need of vaginal rejuvenation, I think I'm going to do the unthinkable and write a Summer Letter.

And all five people that still check in to see if Miss Spoken has dribbled anything out of her mouth will read it and love it and ask me to almost kill my blog every summer. Maybe even twice a year, which should actually happen on it's own but it never hurts to have cheerleaders.