Miss Spoken Is Moving!

Dear Readers That No Longer Read Because Miss Spoken No Longer Posts,

I'm outta here!  Gonna take this filthy mouth over to my new spot, Car Bombs and Pageant Moms.  It's not quite home yet, but the ice maker works and the rugs only smell a little bit.

Yours Truly,

Miss Spoken

Regrettable Me

Whoever says that they can look back on their life and have no regrets is full of shit. These are the people who say things like, "Every decision I've made, good or bad, has made me the person I am today."

Ass biscuits!

I know because I've used this sweepingly generic excuse once or twice in my life but what I was really saying was, "Yeah, I'm an idiot who does lots of dumb shit ... who often makes the same mistakes twice and who doesn't care to talk about it, so kindly shut your face before I get all kinds of stabby."

I have a garden full of Regret and What the Fuck Was I Thinking. Enormous blossoms of regret, like not saying I love you or even goodbye to Seltar the morning he left for work on the day he died. And regret for my monstrous lack of parenting that stretched from 2001 to 2007. That regret grows like ivy, smothering and destroying everything it creeps over if not routinely cut back.

But not all of my regret is so blue. There are also these gems .......

• I regret the day I stumbled across nude pictures of my daughter's 16 year old boyfriend. **Shudder. Gag. Shudder. Repeat**

• I regret my affair with a married man and I regret that it lasted six years. The Karma Police are still in hot pursuit over that one.

• I regret not learning how to swim. I'll blame this on my mother for never sending me to camp.

Dear Whore Mouth,

It is because of you that I cannot swim, nor am I any good at horseshoes and have never learned the art of creating those twine-string-friendship-bracelet-key chain-thingies. My life would totally have been different if you just sent me to camp for one fucking summer!

• I regret going into labor a month early and missing the first ever Lollapalooza. The lineup: Jane's Addiction, Siouxsie, NIN, Rollins Band, Butthole Surfers, Violent Femmes and Fishbone. Ughhhh ..... babies are so selfish!

• I regret watching Desperately Seeking Susan and letting it define my style for the next two years. Seriously, no adult figure in my life could tell me not to go to school dressed entirely in lace? Fuckers.

• I regret that one night stand with the guy with the Irish accent. I in fact regretted it so much, I took half the paint off of his car when I peeled out of his drive way the next morning. Oops.

• I regret not doing any of the things my crazy neighbor in San Francisco accused me of. Like putting voodoo statues in the garden to torment her, spray painting the word Bitch on her car, dragging dead bodies across the floor and especially, my personal favorite, throwing pots of piss at her back door.

• I regret tequila. 'Nough said.

Needlepoint

It took four long hours but taaa-daaaa ..... here she is, my latest tattoo:

It's an original piece inspired by Georgia O'keefe and the Native American blessing for family prosperity. And now that the tattoo is paid for, I can start focusing on the whole prosperity thing.

The Elusive Vagina Tribe of Africa

It was your average morning here at The House That Miss Spoken Built. The Boy was consuming his first round of sugar for the day, Boss Lady was eating cereal and contemplating the five day weather forecast and I was busy trying to mainline coffee while packing lunches and pulling clothes from the dryer.

Very typical.

Until Boss Lady said something that sounded like the word "vagina."

"What did you just say?"

"Vagina."

**Blink. Blink. Blow curl out of my eye.**

"Huh? Say it again."

"Vagina."

**Squinting my eyes, sure that my five year old is just fucking with me. Sip coffee. Act normal.**

"One more time ..."

"Vaaaagiiiinnnnnaaaa."

"Why are you talking about vaginas to your brother?"

"Because it's a tribe of people in Africa."

**Coffee slips from my lips straight down my shirt. Fuck.**

"Who told you that? Somebody at school?"

"No, my brain told me."

"Well, your brain is wrong because there is no such thing as a Vagina Tribe in Africa or any other place."

"Yes there is, Mom."

"No. A vagina is where you pee from. Your lady parts. Boys have penises, girls have vaginas. I of course have fine china."

**Tilts her head to the side, looks at me and considers how stupid I may or may not be.**

"Not China, Mom .... Africa. Duh."

In Anything-But-Vagina related news, today is My Gay's 26th birthday! That makes him a whopping 33 in gay years. Tonight we'll be celebrating at Reno's finest gay bar which means I should really finish vagazzling my African Tribe.

Happy Birthday, Mark!!! Here's hoping you don't puke on your shoes tonight!!

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.

Don't Call It A Comeback! (at least not until there's more than one post this month)

I'm back bitches, gays, mothers who love profanity and anybody else who accidentally reads the word that is Miss Spoken!

Ahhhh, another extended hiatus from the blogosphere with absolutely no reason other than (a) I often question whether or not what I have to say is worth reading and (b) can I make what I have to say sarcastic enough that the collection of words truly conveys the ridiculous recipe of boredom, exhaustion, laundry and random vagina jokes that has become my existence.

Maybe I think too much.

Maybe I think too little.

I'll have to think about that at 3:00 in the morning when Satan's flock of Devil Birds start their early-morning cacophony of shrieks and cackles from their Hell-based nest (i.e. the tree right outside my bedroom window).

It's not that there hasn't been anything to write about. I have actually left my house and not just for butter and wine, although I gotta say, I really do love my butter and wine trips. And I have on occasion used my computer for reasons other than researching the do's and dont's of buying pharmaceuticals over the Internet (note: I think I'll stick to random trips to Mexico like any normal mother of three would do.)

Let me bore you with my June itinerary:

We kicked off week one with The Boy and Boss Lady participating in their school's Spirit Week. I'm told that this is some kind of school tradition and I do have vague memories of Legal putting me through this when she was in school. But the schools I attended in San Francisco either didn't perform these rituals or the memories were so horrendous I have deleted them from my memory bank. My elementary school was a concrete slab with three eight foot poles sticking out of the ground. Maybe a ball had been tethered to them at one point. Who the fuck cares. No jungle gym. No fucking tanbark. Nothing but concrete and benches to park your ass when you made little Susie close her eyes and you walked her repeatedly into the only structure available for your amusement: steel poles. Middle school was no different (except there were no steel poles, just a guy who sometimes walked by the fence and exposed himself). I wish I could tell you about high school but habitual truancy does not promote a great understanding of school pride, Winter Ball themes or even the location of a locker I'm sure I was assigned. But to be fair to my 16 year old self, it was 1988, Jane's Addiction just released "Nothing's Shocking" and you could buy Brass Monkey in 750 mL bottles.

Week one ended with a two night camping trip to Donner Lake. Ya'll remember how this ended last year? This time we managed to escape without too much blood and Legal stayed away from the vodka. Mostly because there wasn't any and she already learned her lesson about what it feels like to vomit copious amounts of wine so at least my Chardonnay was safe. This family of mine is pretty notorious for peddling crazy so it was only fitting that on our last night we almost got kicked out for playing Telephone. You know, the game that involves nothing but whispering. Fortunately for us, Johnny Boy is our go-to guy when it comes to speaking with the police or anybody in a I Can Arrest You capacity. Not only did we not get kicked out, But JB also schooled the Ranger on some of his own rules and regs that for whatever reasons, JB knew better than he did (Note: everybody run out right now and pick up a JB of your very own. It's like bail money in the bank.)

And that was just week one. Stay tuned for the remaining weeks which include belly dancers, an arrest and the subsequent chewing of Xanax like tic-tacs!!

Today Is the Day (even though Today happened days ago)

Miss Spoken Hearts Chardonnay. 4-Ever.

Today is the day.

Today is the day I woke up with just fifteen minutes to feed, dress and drive two kids to school.

Today is the day I wash my hair with a handful of conditioner.

Today is the day I help Whore Mouth (aka Mom) move out so that Legal (aka Daughter) can move back in.

Today is the day I dream about a time when I will live alone. A day when there won't be one fucking chicken finger/nugget/tender in my freezer and I won't ever have to walk down the cereal aisle again. A day when I won't have to say things like, "What is this brown stuff dripping on the wall," or, "Please try to piss inside the toilet, not around it or above it or behind it."

Today is the day Legal will receive notice from her bank that, although her account has been active for less than two weeks, and although her overdraft was just $10, she has accrued $105 in overdraft charges.

Today is the day I will urge Legal to call her former employer and apologize for being an idiot.

Today is the day that she will not do it.

Today is the day every single kid within a one mile radius (total exaggeration) will play inside my garage and pull out every football, remote control car, basketball hoop, soccer ball, bubble blower, frisbee, doll and hula hoop (total non-exaggeration). With the exception of Miss Perceived, no other parent will supervise. One kid will crap his pants and will require escorting back to his home. This same kid will also try to drink power steering fluid. This cycle will repeat itself tomorrow. And the day after.

(Pausing to hug myself and rock back and forth)

But today is also the day that I will wash my sheets and fall in love with my bed again.

And today is also the day I will feed my children pizza and feed myself cold Chardonnay.

(Dear Chardonnay, I love you. For reals.)

And today is also the day that the little blue pills will arrive in the mail.

(Exhale...)

Today is a beautiful day.

Note to reader: 'Today' may have happened over the course of several days but for the purpose of expressing my extreme cuckooness, I've consolidated them into one. Plus, one day simply blurs into the next so fuck it.

Suicidal Cars and My Quest for Silence

The view from up here is stunning. Where is up here, you ask? I'm perched on my cross of martyrdom, removed from my body and watching the chaos that is my life unfold below me. The pity party is in full swing.

Somebody pass the vodka.

Whore Mouth landed a job as a caretaker for those who need their colostomy bags changed and suffer from violent mood swings, angered that they can no longer recognize the faces in front of them. Unfortunately, her car committed suicide before she could begin her first actual day of employment.

Pops loaned her his car and sure enough, she inspired suicide in yet another vehicle. She hasn't actually made it to work and has once again proved that "Irish Luck" has nothing to do with four leaf clovers and more to do with potato famines and hereditary substance abuse.

Didn't I ask somebody to pass the vodka?

She won $100 on a slot machine and sent half of it to my brother. It never got there.

But maybe her luck would change because she's been trying like hell to win one of those online sweepstakes or blog giveaways and maybe a win would be like a catalyst into the world of Lucky Bastards (yeah, I'm talking to you Johnny Boy). And when she got that email with the subject line that read, "Congratulations! You Won!!" she certainly thought that she was moving out of the shadows and into the sunshine. That is until she discovered that what she actually won was some air freshener. For her car. That she no longer has.

Even from up here on my cross, I can hear her crack and splinter.

Where the fuck is that vodka??

Ahhh, Whore Mouth. This bad luck comes at a time when she is supposed to be moving out of my house and into her own place so that she can get her granddaughter out of foster care.

And Legal has also moved back home and is sleeping on my couch. This translates into a number of things:

• My phone will never, never, never stop ringing.
• My grocery bill will skyrocket yet she will complain that there is nothing to eat.
• I will gather tumbleweeds of red hair that roll around the house because she sheds like a Siberian Husky in the summer.
• I will discover a trail of discarded clothing, hair ties and hoop earrings that will lead from the garage, through the house and to the outside porch.
• My computer will be loaded with songs from a bunch of artists with the first name Lil'.
• I will not find my makeup because it will have moved into her purse.
• I will never be alone.

Seriously, what does a woman on a cross teetering on the cusp of sanity have to do to get some vodka around this place??

Not Exactly Bonnie and Clyde

With a heavy sigh, I return from yet another extended vacation from my blog. A furlough from extracting the funny from ordinary moments. A sabbatical from analyzing this life that is all mine.

Here's what you missed:

My Gay and I committed a federal offense when we stole a huge box that had been sitting in front of what we used to refer to as The Meth Lab. It was a neighboring townhome occupied by drug dealers community college students who would throw barbeques at midnight and their girlfriends, unsteady in their stilettos and skinny jeans, would point their camera phones to the sky and take pictures of clouds. They were evicted but soon thereafter, a large package arrived at their door. And there is sat, taunting me. For months I would walk by and look at it from afar wondering what could possibly be inside. Black tar heroin maybe? A baby monkey perhaps? Tea cups from Grandma? What the fuck?? Finally, I couldn't take it any longer. I enlisted My Gay into my dirty crime world and together we walked moved like Ninja warriors, grabbed the box and ran like girls disappeared like thieves in the night. With fingers crossed in hopes of discovering a year's supply of Xanax or at the very least a case of wine, we dug into the box and found .... a fucking ham. A six month old ham, dammit.

Later that night we took our two-person crime wave to a gay bar and got ridiculously drunk and made fun of a man who looked like he had hookers in his basement.

Not exactly Bonnie and Clyde but it's hard to be super bad ass gangsters with ABBA dominating the scene. It's not exactly the soundtrack for criminals. Next time, we're going hardcore. Like Pet Shop Boys hardcore.

Sometimes you're better off dead. There's a gun in your hand and it's pointing at your head ...

Menopausing Cheerleaders and Unconscious Gay Men: Happy Easter!

As of late, creating posts worth reading are getting harder and harder to come by. I find myself sitting in front of the computer screen with my coffee getting cold, just staring at the goddamned cursor as it disappears and reappears. It mocks me. Bastard.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

Translation: You Suck. You Suck. You Suck.

Maybe I should tell you about the half time show at the Reno Big Horns D-League basketball game.

The theme was cheerleading. Actually, it was more like a cheerleading age progression, timeline, chronology type of display. It started with tiny little four year olds, decked out in glitter and pigtails. Then it moved on to something in the middle school range where the girls did some routine that included folding chairs and I'm guessing Hannah Montana G-strings. All pretty standard stuff. That is, until Bust A Move started thumping over the arena and four women strutted onto the court wearing lycra pants, sporting six inch roots and a high school graduation date somewhere in the early 70s. Sister Mercy, what a show. Taking mouthfuls of my $8 beer, I watched in total amazement as these women pumped, and gyrated and hip-hopped all over that poor floor. But I can't even rag on them too much because Easter afternoon, I could be found in my garage sipping vodka and dancing to Planet Rock. Fortunately, I left my lycra biker shorts in the 80s where they belong because really, the only people allowed to rock that look are people who actually ride bikes.

Or, I could tell you a story about My Gay who was also sipping vodka that fateful afternoon except he was mixing his with Acai Cleansing Pills and diet black cherry soda. Somewhere between his "total cleanse," and his attempts at purging the vodka with his fist down his throat, he passed out for ten minutes on my bathroom floor.

Because nothing says "Welcome Back, Jesus!" like a gay man passed out in the crapper.

Scrotal Recall

Located in Nevada's high desert sits a little brothel called the Shady Lady Ranch.

Isn't she a beauty?

This Shady Lady boasts a dedication to the working man. Your average Ben Davis wearing, Marlboro smoking, calloused hand man. Had I known you could turn a bunch of broken down trailers into an actual house of ill repute, my high school years may have been a whole lot more lucrative. Maybe I could have banged some low-grade politician (not like Chamber of Commerce low, but you know what I mean). I could have waited in the wings, sex tape in the safe deposit box until their star rose to political fame and then BAM! Pay dirt! My own personal cash cow. But it was high school and I obviously wasn't thinking clearly. I'll blame my lack of vision on Mickey's Big Mouths and an aversion to hawking my lady parts for cash.

Anyway, I had a point about the Shady Lady Ranch and I should probably get down to it.

The Shady Lady Ranch employed the first ever official male prostitute. We all know that male hookers have been around for years, and not just the kind of guys that dressed like women, strapped pork chops to their thighs and turned tricks in the dark alleys of Gold Rush America. There's all kinds of male trollops. The 16 year old runaway looking for a Happy Meal, the 56 year old grandfather looking for a rock. I've seen My Own Private Idaho so I know the score. I'm fuckin' savvy to the scene. So although these rentboys have been hustling for ages, this guy at The Shady Lady was the first official male prostitute. I'm sure his mother is proud.

Oh, and he goes by the name Markus Destin. I forgot to mention that earlier because I don't usually bother to get to know my hooker. Makes it easier for me to keep my distance just in case I need to dehumanize them when it comes time to put them in the trunk pay them.

But it seems that poor Markus has had to leave the Shady Lady Ranch. With just ten paying customers in two months, Markus is going to try his hand in the adult film industry. I can't imagine why women weren't flocking to him:

Hmmm.... let me think about this for a second. Could it be because Markus here looks a little.... what's the word .... oh yeah, GAY?

It makes me wonder what genre of adult films we might see him in. Maybe something in the gay porn arena? Maybe Schindler's Fist? How about I'm Gonna Fuck You Sucka? The Fast and the Curious? Dammit, I have to stop. This is quickly turning into a drinking game.

Yes, Markus the gay male prostitute is gone. It's just as well since he compared himself to Rosa Parks and really, if I wanted to fuck a narcissist I'd just stay home and spend some quality time with my vagina.

But if you really did have your Mother's Day dreams set on a romp with a male whore, the Shady Lady has a new guy and his name is Y Not. I haven't been able to get my hands on his photo but based on Shady Lady's previous lineup, I'm going to guess he looks a little like this:

Fun With Over the Counter Medications!

Hello again faithful readers and rainy day friends. I know that I've been gone awhile and I wish that I could claim some fabulous reason for my absence but I can't.

No, I wasn't in Napa Valley, sipping wine and watching peacocks roam the vineyard grounds. No, I wasn't locked away in my art studio creating abstract oil paintings of my vagina (mostly because I have yet to master my oil painting techniques and because my garage can't really be described as an art studio). And no, I didn't pay off some of those old moving violations by doing seven days in County, although now that I think about it, that might not be such a bad idea.

Nope. In fact my absence isn't even really blog worthy, but that's never stopped me before. In fact, writing about nonsense and things that nobody cares about is sort of my specialty. My gift, if you will.

Last week, some kind of virus crept into my throat and very quickly robbed me of my ability to swallow my own spit, breathe through my nose and eventually, I was left without the ability to even speak ... which for me, is abominable. If I can't verbally tell you to fuck off then who am I? Reduced to an impotent version of myself, I took to my bed (which sounds more noble or romantic than it really was).

And because I'm one of the 40 million or so Americans that don't have health insurance, I have no choice but to self-diagnose which in the end is alright because it gives me the opportunity to self-medicate and I'm fantastic at that. I've actually gotten quite good at self-diagnosing, too. Miss Spoken, MD.

For example, after The Boy was born I diagnosed myself with Audio Psychosis. My symptoms included constantly hearing things that didn't exist. I'd put The Boy to sleep and carefully slip into the shower for some much needed hosing down but as soon as I stepped into the shower I would hear The Boy crying, or the phone ringing, or the front door being kicked in. I'd scamper out into the hallway naked, hair dripping, soap in my eyes and yet ..... nothing. The Boy would still be sleeping, I'd remember that my phone was set to vibrate and the front door would be intact. I often accused my roommates of installing hidden speakers throughout the house from which they would repeatedly play the sound of a baby crying. They denied it, whatever. One night, I could distinctly hear music being played from the vacant room downstairs. In fact, it was so clear to me that I could identify the song and sing along:

But as the wind changed direction

The temple band took five

The crowd caught a whiff

Of that crazy Casbah jjjiiiivvvveeee

Audio Psychosis; take a few benzos and call me in the morning.

I've gotten so good that I can also diagnose other people. I've already diagnosed The Boy with an eating disorder. Boss Lady is showing early signs of Megalomania and Legal is clearly crippled with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. Why else would she get so tired just from being awake? Poor baby.

It's my prowess as an amateur MD that enables me to feel totally justified sipping Nyquil straight from the bottle, along with some cough syrup with maybe a sleep inducer on top of that. Reading warning labels and all those other words like "recommended dosage" and "do not use if" is for rookies. I'm a professional, or something close to it.

Besides, I'm pretty sure what I had is walking pneumonia. Or maybe bronchitis. Restless Leg Syndrome? Probably some kind of pulmonary vascular disease.

Whatever it was, I mean is, I'm sure I need to crawl back under my 14,000 lb. Ralph Lauren down comforter and stretch my bare legs against my 1,000 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and rest some more. My voice is only just now returning, even though I still sound like a tranny and it makes me say things like, "You wanna see my rope collection?"

Does This Meat Tenderizer Come With Lubricant?

Pampered Chef ... you guys ever heard of it? It's like Tupperware on steroids. And it's ridiculously expensive, unless you think $13 is reasonable for a spatula.

Maybe you're asking yourself, "How did Miss Spoken find herself at a Pampered Chef party of all places?" I'll tell you. It's because my brother, Puppet Boy, works in retail. He'll talk to anybody about anything. So when this woman walked into his job looking for (insert random item), they naturally got to talking. Thirty minutes later she walked away with (insert random item) in her hand and with one more sucker to add to her rolodex of Pampered Chef hostesses. She claims she didn't know he was gay but come on, he just signed up to host a Pampered Chef party and is so gay he can put a lisp in any word in the English language. Whore Mouth, Legal and I called him late one night just to hear him say "crackers."

*Ring .... Ring .....*

"Hello."

"Hey Will, say crackers and cheese."

*Insert muffled sounds of three grown women giggling*

"Huh? What? Why?"

"Just fucking say it."

"Crackerths and Cheesth."

"Bwahahahaha! Shit, I gotta go. I think Mom just pissed herself."

And so it was that Whore Mouth, Miss Perceived and I found ourselves at his Pampered Chef party. We don't get out much, so it was inevitable that we filled the first hour with drinks and the second hour drinking and cracking vagina jokes and assaulting this poor woman with our tasteless humor.

And we were especially full of the filth that night.

But it was her fault for passing around a meat tenderizer with removable parts. If you say things like "toothed side," "pound your chicken" and "cracking nuts" we have no choice but to ask if this thing comes with a suction cup base and whether or not it's seeing anyone at the moment. Because if you're going to spend almost $30 on a meat tenderizer, shouldn't it tenderize my meat? *wink, wink*

I think Miss Perceived tried to smuggle the meat tenderizer out of the house using just her pelvic floor muscles. She's kind of brilliantly criminal like that.

By the end of the night, I dropped a vodka soaked check on a gravy separator (who doesn't want their gravy separated?) and a pie plate. I also got to feel up Miss Perceived and dust off some old pedophile jokes that had been sitting on my shelf for a few years.

And I'm pretty sure Puppet Boy is the new face of Pampered Chef. Hope that works out better than his attempts at selling Girl Scout cookies on the side of the road in rural Alabama.

Whore Mouth Almost Blows It ... Again

My brother and his wife recently asked me to be the Godmother for their son. My nephew is thirteen years old so I figured I'd go ahead and agree to it. Had he been thirteen months old, I might have said no. Because if something should happen to my brother and his wife, the Godmother is expected to sort of step in and do something, right? Well, my days of dealing with babies are long gone. I always say that you'll know I'm pregnant again because I'll be on the six o'clock news.

This just in ... a clearly unstable woman has reportedly jumped to her death from the Golden Gate Bridge. Early reports indicate the woman, who was wearing nothing but anchor chains and a t-shirt that read "No More Fucking Babies!!!" was seen swilling vodka and babbling something about overactive ovaries before she plunged to her death.

Because I can get pregnant using a man's toothbrush, I'm super cautious. I don't even walk down the baby aisle at Target anymore. Too risky. But thirteen years old, I've handled that age bracket before. Unless his descent into puberty turns him into a hormonally unbalanced and always hungry and unhappy beast. In which case it's off to military school. Hope his parents are okay with that.

My brother began the Godmother conversation by looking at his wife, turning to me and then said, "Sit down. My wife and I have something we want to talk to you about."

Fuck. I didn't do it. I don't know nuthin' about no robbery.

"We want to know if you'll be Junior's Godmother."

Wheeeew.

"Sure. I can do that."

And then of course, Whore Mouth (aka my mom) has to chime in.

"Maybe you should ask her if she believes in God."

*crickets*

My brother looks to his wife. Blink. Looks to me. Blink, blink. Looks to his wife.

"You don't believe in God?"

This is serious business. My brother prides himself on a few things, two of them are being Irish and being Catholic.

"Ummm, well, it's not like I'm a heretic or anything. I more of a spiritual person. It's true, I don't go to church because if there is a God, I'm sure it won't matter to him where I am on Sundays and I like to cook on Sundays. And then there's the whole religion versus science argument, you know?"

I shoot a look to Whore Mouth indicating that she'll be sent to sleep under the stairs tonight. I consider purchasing a large kennel. Maybe visit the local sex shop for a human muzzle.

My brother seems okay with this answer and then tells me that there might be classes I have to take.

What the hell? Since when do Godparents have to take classes? Is there a test? A background check to verify my Catholicism? Are they going to submerge me in water ... if I sink I'm okay and if I float I'm a witch? Will I have to "out" other heathens like that Whore Mouth mother of mine? Because she's the first name I'm giving up.

Jesus Christ, what if they stumble upon my little blog here where I've written about Virgin Mary dildos and other topics sure to cast a doubt as to whether or not I'm fit for the title, Godmother. But shouldn't that be considered nothing more than enthusiasm? Ughh, then there's the picture I posted of a nun in latex wearing a gas mask. That counts as religious art, right? God, what about that hot summer day when that woman (dressed in wool in the middle of a heat wave) confronted me and The Boy and told me that Jesus Christ wouldn't approve of me showing my skin to all of the world like a harlot and that I should save myself for my husband. I politely told the woman that Jesus also probably didn't want me to die from heat stroke and that she could kindly fuck off.

I blame all of this on my mother.

Later in the day, I put my devotion to the Catholic faith on display by showing my brother the large iron cross hanging in my hallway. It's parked right next to some of my personal artwork depicting dancing skeletons, astrological markings and Day of the Dead symbology.

He casts me a weary glance, shakes his Irish Catholic head and walks away, clearly concerned for my soul and maybe doubting this whole Godmother thing.

Whore Mouth is in the kitchen doing whatever it is that Whore Mouths do when I walk up behind her and whisper in her ear, "It's the thumbscrews for you tonight, wench."

Isn't that what any good Catholic would say?

The Blackout Journal

Him and I go way back. I'm guessing eight or nine years. It's just a guess because some of those years are a little undefined. Like red lipstick on the mouth of a woman who has smoked cigarettes all her life, the years feather and bleed.

And he's probably my best friend. The last time I saw him, he was standing on the beach while I waded thigh deep into the cold waters of the Pacific Ocean, scattering the remains of my husband. Because he lives about 250 miles away, our visits have to be planned. We make the plans all the time and inevitably cancel them. I have three kids. He has three jobs. It's just easier to think about taking a trip than actually taking the trip.

We hadn't spoken in a couple of weeks so I was happy to get his call last night. And then he told me about his latest project. He is writing a Blackout Journal.

Blackout Journal.

It's like a food journal if you were trying to lose weight, except it's a journal to catalogue his actions and thoughts before alcohol erases it from his memory.

7:30 PM - Half pint of Jim Beam gone.

He's had some trouble in the past when it comes to moderation. He's sort of an all or nothing kind of guy. Ain't no half-steppin'. His obsessions have consequences. Like the time he called me and told me there was a goose lose in his apartment.

8:04 PM - Kicking ass in the Texas Hold'em Championship. Fuck yes! Plus two beers!!

It's compromised his choice in women as well. Like the girlfriend who sat in his bed all day, nesting. Just sitting. On his bed. All day. We called her Gurpy Bird. Or the girlfriend who sprayed bear stopper in my house while I was pregnant causing a total evacuation of the premises.

8:33 PM - Called G. Jim almost gone.

8:46 PM - G tells funny story about her vibrratur. Viberatur. Vibra. Buzzing thing.

8:51 PM - Beer. G not happy.

He can be poetic and artistic. He's a great cook. Political. Hard working. Likes punk and Gang Starr. Previously obsessed with palindromes ("Rats live on no evil star"). He's the kind of guy you want on your side in a fist fight and in a debate. His IQ is 143.

9:03 PM - Jim Beam numero dos. Remind G that my IQ is two points higher.

9:15 PM - Call 2morrow. Fading.

9:16 PM - Love

Vomitous Maximus

The Boy has puked once a day, every day, for the last four days.

But yesterday he showed signs of improvement. No nausea. No fever. In fact, his energy level was high enough to force me into a corner where I curled up into the fetal position and went to my happy place (note to reader: my happy place usually involves bed & breakfast accommodations and wine).

I went to bed thinking the worst was over, except for whatever my mother (who, by the way, I'm thinking of referring to as Whore Mouth from here on out) was going through downstairs. Apparently, she has caught the disease from The Boy and she doesn't handle vomiting very well. In fact, I think she was crying at one point and asking God to make it stop.

My dream of being in a car race on a dirt road in Half Moon Bay was interrupted by The Boy's 12:30 AM wails.

"Mmmmmmom! Mmmmmom! I have to throw up ... I'm not going to make it!"

Fuck me. I've had enough of kids puking in floor vents. Not tonight. Not on my watch.

With lightening speed, I launch myself out of bed, run smack into a wall, rebound, fly into his room and simultaneously switch on the light switch while tripping over an abandoned Candyland game.

It was my brilliant idea to buy bunk beds. Now my pale faced son is about to lose his shit and can't make it down the ladder in time.

I reach up, balance The Boy's stomach on my head and ease him down.

"Please don't throw up down my back. Please don't throw up down my back. Please don't throw up down my back."

Running to the bathroom with my son perched on my head, we make it just in time.

But my son is a rookie puker and lunges at the toilet at the wrong angle. He's now throwing up almost completely upside down.

With tears in his eyes and his little knees knocking he cries, "It burns! My nose burns!"

The next twenty minutes are devoted to blowing his nose in vain.

The Boy crawls into bed with me. With a designated puke bucket at the ready and a cold wash cloth on his forehead, I turn off the lights.

"Goodnight, Baby Boy."

"Goodnight, Baby Girl."

All is quiet except for the constant sniffing of The Boy who can't breathe out of his nose thanks to a trail of vomit left in his nasal passages.

Sniff. Sniff. Chunk. Sniff. Chunk.

By now, I'm about to puke. I don't know whether I'm actually sick, or just sick of cleaning vomit and loose bowels.

Sniff. Chunk. Sniff. Swallow. Swallow. Chunk. Sniff.

An hour and a half later, he falls asleep. The next morning he will ask for waffles and not eat them. I'll push enough caffeine in me to give a silverback gorilla the shakes and still be tired. I'll walk Boss Lady to school because she is unscathed from the disease (she tells me it's because she eats healthy) but not before she reads the paper (she says she likes to know what's going on in the world. She's five.) The bruise on my arm from running full speed into a wall will blossom. Whore Mouth will fret over what she should or should not eat. I'll write another post about vomit and remember the days when I used to write about vaginas and my imaginary boyfriends.

In non-puke related news, my underachiever achieved an average score and passed her GED!! And it looks like she might have landed a full-time job slingin' deli sandwiches. Yaaay Legal!!!

Vibrators and Snow Storms: A Day In the Life of Miss Spoken

It's about eleven o'clock on Saturday night. My brother will start the process of being released from the California State Penitentiary in roughly five hours. He's been locked up for nearly thirteen years but these last five hours are like the last two minutes of a basketball game. It's taking forever.

But I'm tired and I'm going to bed and I should fall asleep pretty quickly except that Legal is crashing with me tonight and she's a heavy breather. It's like being spooned by an asthmatic bear that wants to talk and giggle all night. I'm expecting to fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow. What I'm not expecting is for the entire bed and walls to start vibrating as soon as my ass hit the mattress.

"What the hell is that?! Is somebody mowing their goddamned lawn this late when it's fucking snowing outside?"

Legal props herself up on one elbow, cocks her head to one side and accesses the situation in a matter of seconds. She's like a bloodhound, her tenacious tracking skills are on point.

"Mom, it's your vibrator."

Oh.Good.God.

Now I have to reach between the mattress and the box spring to retrieve my little Lelo Mia which has now escalated from buzzing lawnmower to pulsating lawnmower. I finally depress the minus button long enough to turn it off and drop it under the bed so I don't roll over in the middle of the night and start this nightmare all over again.

"Mom, do you want to be alone? Is your bed clean?" She's loving every minute of this and hoping that I'm soul-crushingly embarrassed. Clearly I wasn't since I'm now sharing the story with the you and the masses, which happens to include my father-in law.

"Good night, Moon."

"Good night, Mom."

That should have been a sign of things to come because Old Man Winter proceeded to knock out my power and dropped two feet of snow around my house. Perfect conditions for traveling across a two lane mountain. The very same mountain that the Donner Party dined on their fallen and frozen companions. I've already got a contingency plan though -- granola bars. And if that fails, I know who I'm going to eat first (sorry Mom).

As we pass abandoned cars on the roads and watch other cars do 180 degree spins on the freeway, I wonder what else can go wrong. How many signs does the universe need to send me before I take the hint, turn around and take my family home? But I haven't seen my brother in over ten years so we trudge along with Johnny Boy at the wheel (again). We're only about an hour or so behind schedule when all traffic stops.

Due to multiple spin outs and weather conditions, the Highway is closed.

Closed.

And there we sit, forgetting that the headlights are on. Not paying attention to the doors opening and closing. Not minding the CD that's still playing because it's better than listening to my mother squirm (apparently her bladder is the size of a quarter) and it's better than participating in the idle chatter that has me close to exploding.

An hour and a half later and traffic starts to move. Everybody except us because our battery is dead. Of course it is.

By the time we are jumped by a CHP Officer, make our way over the mountain and take a detour thanks to Google directions, we arrive. The second leg of this trip was supposed to be picking up Miss Led and her daughter but unfortunately it was way too late.

The good news is that we all made it there and back safely. My brother looks great, as does his wife and kids. Except for not having my sister and niece there, it was perfect.

There were lots of lessons learned over the course of this adventure. One is, never put a pressure sensitive vibrator under your mattress if your daughter will be sleeping with you. Another is, Johnny Boy deserves some kind of gift for always being our steady hand (maybe wenches and beer?).

Oh.... and another lesson ...... if your highway ever closes and you're near a gas station, go pick up some coffee and Red Bulls for the truck drivers. They'll pay top dollar for some caffeine and even more for your oldest daughter.

I Totally Forged This Letter

Dear Innernetz,

Please excuse Miss Spoken from participating in her own blog for the past week. The reasons for her absence are o'plenty.

First and foremost, she's convinced that her uterus is evil and the cause of her inability to form complete sentences. It's why she's been trying to remove it with a soup ladle. So far, no good. So instead of that potential crime scene, she's resorted to something called positive thinking where she visualizes her uterus as a blossoming lotus flower or maybe a Georgia O'Keefe painting. I'm sure you wish her all the best and she'd thank you herself except that the positive thinking isn't working so well and her uterus still makes her say things like fuck off and fuck off some more and why the fuck are you still here when I clearly told you to fuck off.

In addition to this scornful uterus problem, her kids are already preparing for Halloween and submitting their absurd requests for costumes. The Boy has decided that he will be the Easter Bunny and Boss Lady would like to be a Vegetarian. This has resulted in many sleepless nights and increased paranoia as she ponders whether or not her kids are just fucking with her.

She's also rather anxious to see her big brother on Sunday. You see, her brother is being released from prison after doing thirteen years behind bars. That's a long time. So she's sort of going overboard with the preparations for his homecoming. Making multiple shopping lists. Multiple to-do lists. Multiple outfits to coordinate. Multiple chickens to be shoved into the freezer where they await their deep fried deaths. Instead of writing on her blog about vaginas and nineteen pound babies, she's researching jokes where the punch line doesn't involve fisting or end with a deadpanned, "I used to fuck men like you in prison." This research has taken longer than she anticipated.

Thank you for your understanding.

Signed,

Mrs. Miss Spoken

Touching Myself With the Hand of God

My mom loves celebrity gossip. She can't tell you when Columbus sailed the ocean blue, but she can tell you when Jett Travolta died. She's magnetically drawn to fake words like Brangelina and cover stories that try to get to the bottom of why Tara Reid's stomach looks like skin origami. So while she's getting her nightly fix of E! News, I naturally think it's the perfect time to have a conversation with her about butt plugs (am I the only one who sees Ryan Seacrest and immediately thinks butt plugs?):

Me: "Did you know you can buy a butt plug that looks like Tom Cruise?" My tone is rather nonchalant, as if I just asked her if she knew that you can buy pre-packaged swiss cheese sliced extra thin.

She drops her crochet needles and looks at me. She's not sure if this is a joke because telling her believable lies is something I've done all my life. Like the time I told her peanut butter would make her breasts grow larger. She survived a whole week of that torture before I admitted I was kidding and she could stop eating it by the spoonful and slathering herself in peanut oil.

Mom: "You're kidding, right?"

Me: "No, I'm totally serious. You can shove anything up your ass these days .... Tom Cruise, Santa Claus, Buddha ... "

Mom: "That's ridiculous!"

I smile a little and nod my head as if I agree with her. But I'm not quite done with her yet. You see my mother is Catholic and claims to have never masturbated so whenever I can mix sex and religion, I do.

Me: "You can also buy a Virgin Mary dildo."

Mom: "That's horrible!"

Me: "What? You'd prefer the Crucifixion dildo?"

Mom: "You're lying ... that's a sin."

Me: "Jackhammer Jesus."

Mom: "Huh?"

Me: "It's called Jackhammer Jesus, mom."

Mom: "That's disgusting." She's shaking her head trying to rid herself of the image I've just planted into her mind but she just can't do it. It's a bad seed. Once you hear the words Jackhammer Jesus, your mind automatically pictures Jesus, the cross, the fucking thorns, the Exorcist .....

Me: "Mom, I thought you loved your God. Don't you want to love your God?"

She's still shaking her head and calling me a sinner and stuttering amidst the horror of it all.

Me: "Mom, let's just say somebody did shove Baby Jesus up their ass or touched themselves with the Hand of God ... how many Hail Mary's do you think would cover that?"

Mom: "No..." Now she can't stop blinking as she sees the image of her daughter stumbling drunk through the gates of Hell.

Me: "Ballpark figure?"

Mom: "You didn't...." It's a question, not a statement.

Me: Slight shrug of the shoulder, roll of the eyes, batting lashes .....

Mom: "You better pray tonight."

Me: "Oh I will, mom ... I will ....."