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??

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.

The Great Move of 2010 .... Bologna and All

Good God, it has actually happened. My eighteen year old daughter has moved out. Of course it's just a five minute drive from here and she's living with her Uncle, but still. She's not living under my roof anymore which means she could very well be one step closer to living a life that doesn't make me hold my breath and cringe when the phone rings.

Her ascent into adulthood has not been easy and she has gone into it kicking and screaming the whole way. Drowning feral cats would be easier. Honestly, I've never seen anything quite like it. I mean, who would want to live with their parents for the rest of their lives? Yes, I'm sort of awesome but seriously, if I were approaching nineteen, I wouldn't want to live with me.

When I was her age (Jesus, I sound old and full of things a parent would say), I was living with my boyfriend at the time (her father), working and sharing a rental in Half Moon Bay with some quasi-hillbillies that chewed tobacco, drank Old Crow and went deer hunting. I'm from San Francisco so living in that environment was not dissimilar to moving to Pluto. In fact, I'm pretty sure I would have been happier on Pluto.

It was pretty clear to me that I had to get the fuck-all-hell out of that situation and that I would have to do it without much help.

By the time she was two, I had ditched the boyfriend. He was an artist and a musician and although he loved his daughter, he was more likely to be found at band practice than he was changing a diaper or looking for a job that actually paid in currency, not free bong hits and acrylic paint. I also upgraded my job from part-time jewelry maker and part-time housekeeper, to full-time bank teller. I was able to enroll my little girl into a Montessori school which sounded all kinds of fancy. And then best of all, I snatched up my own little one bedroom apartment. My place. A place where there would be just one television (not two stacked up on top of one another) and I could watch Shark Week as much as I wanted to. I didn't have roommates who wanted to show me how they could make a deer's paw move even though it had been severed from it's leg. A place that smelled like jasmine and sandalwood; a place that acknowledged red wine as it's own food group. My place.

When my daughter moved out, I gave her $100 accompanied by a look I'm sure she has seen far too many times: my right eyebrow arched and my lips painted with high gloss sarcasm.

"This is $100," I explained as if she had never seen actual cash before. "You have to pay half of your new garbage bill because it costs money to put trash in a can and for people to haul it off to trash-land. This isn't 18th Century London you know."

Snatching money out of my hand while rolling her big green eyes has always been her specialty and on that moving day, she did not disappoint. "Yes, I know that mom."

So along with the a crisp hundred dollar bill, I sent her on her way with boxes of canned foods (you never know when an earthquake might hit), frozen waffles (because they can sometimes replace bread), Ranch dressing (because she puts it on everything), granola bars (again, natural disasters can strike at any time) and several rolls of toilet paper. I tell her to take special care of the toilet paper. "You're living with boys now honey and boys are gross."

The next day she accompanies me while I go food shopping, a task that I personally loath. If I didn't have these wildebeasts children to feed, I would live on red beans, rice, coffee and Chardonnay and splurge on vodka and fruit in the summer. So it's checkout time and as I'm paying for my haul (pushing $200), I notice her slowly putting her items on the conveyor belt.

"What's the matter?" I ask her this even though I already know and because I'm an asshole sometimes.

"This is stupid. I hate spending money on food." She knits her brow into a frown and is genuinely unhappy that she has to do this.

I smile because her items consist of this: one loaf of the cheapest bread she could find, one pack of bologna, one 2-liter of generic soda, two Rockstars, a box of Apple Jacks and a gallon of milk. Her grand total is less than $15 and she hesitates as she gives the cashier her un-earned $20.

I can't help but laugh all the way out of the store. She can't help asking what I'm making for dinner that night.

"Not bologna sandwiches," I smile.

And she is less than pleased with me.

Legal Takes Flight ... Kinda

Some of you may know that my daughter (code name: Legal) thinks I am The Devil. Some of you may guess that I don't care. You would be correct.

I can't tell you how excited I was when she turned eighteen, and not just because her juvenile record would be sealed. I thought she might be inspired to, oh I don't know, do something with her life. Because what eighteen year old wants to live with their mother? Especially this mother.

But it's six months later and six months closer to her being nineteen and nothing has changed. She doesn't go to school and doesn't work. She puts the dinner dishes in the dishwasher, vacuums a couple of times a week and most Sunday nights she puts The Boy and Boss Lady in the bathtub and hoses them down. In return for these Cinderella-esque tasks, she demands a weekly flat rate of $20, plus cigarette money and an endless supply of Rockstar energy drinks. The warm room and running water ... well, that's just a given.

She has broken every curfew and crossed every line drawn in the sand. She has, on several occasions, stayed out all night without so much as a phone call. I've busted her smoking pot. This doesn't come as a surprise seeing as how she has a pot leaf the size of my palm tattooed on her fucking thigh.

My daughter is beautiful and smart. She's artistic and capable of so much more than social networking and straightening her hair.

I love my daughter. In fact, I love her enough to tell her that she has to leave. And that is exactly what I've done.

So this weekend, Legal will be moving in with her uncle (Puppet Boy ) and his partner (My Gay). In exchange, I get my mother. I haven't thought of a good nickname for her yet but I'm sure that once she moves in and annoys the fuck out of me, I'll be inspired.

This could be a great thing for my daughter. She might learn a few things about leaving the nest. Simple truths, like deodorant doesn't magically appear in the medicine cabinet; that life sucks when you're out of Tampax and have to use copious amounts of toilet paper as a makeshift pad; that Top Ramen can be eaten for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

So what's your take, Innernetz. Did you ever have to push your little birds out of the nest?