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 ....."

How I Could Just Kill A Man

When my family and I moved from San Francisco's Mission District, part of the reason (other than not being able to afford little things like food and rent) was to live in a neighborhood where the kids could play outside and the schools had actual text books -- to basically live a better life. Maybe Legal would finish high school and find a boyfriend that wasn't cloaked in red from head to toe and didn't have a record. Maybe we wouldn't have a crazy neighbor that would routinely call the police on us with claims that we were dragging dead bodies across the floor and throwing pots of piss at her door. Maybe Seltar would get a job where the work was consistent and the boss wasn't high on Oxycontin. Dream a little dream ......

So we made the move and from that very first night things were better. Much better.

We moved into a nice community of townhouses with a pool and a skatepark around the corner and an elementary school a short walk away. Seltar's job was a perfect fit. Neighbors actually introduced themselves and everybody was very friendly and even the UPS driver would bring lollipops for the kids every time he made a delivery. At first I thought this behavior was more Dateline Predator than genuine kindness, but then I relaxed a bit. Everybody moved a whole lot slower than they did in The City and it appeared that nobody here knew how to use a goddamn horn. All of these things took some getting used to. But life was good and the neighborhood was great. You didn't have to worry about wearing red on 16th Street or wearing blue on 24th.

Then Seltar passed and things got dark again. And there I sat for awhile but not too long. At some point, you start to shower regularly again and dinner becomes more than just semi-cooked rigatoni or a pizza delivered by a pimpled face boy that knows your whole family on a first name basis because he's ringing your doorbell four times a week.

But now my safe and quiet neighborhood is looking more like a scene from something John Singleton would direct. Okay, maybe not that hood. But something close, where close means not really close at all. But still, not what I signed up for. These are the suburbs, dammit!

First there was The Mother's Day Street Brawl of 2009. Then The Boy did a little shoplifting, Miss Perceived robbed a grave, undercover cops made a bust right outside my house (turns out the guy robbed the gas station around the corner) and our car was stolen, recovered and then broken into again.

The Fuck, right?

But wait ... there's more! Some random FuckNut tried to break into the vacant townhouse that is located right across from mine, by breaking out the entire two front windows. It wasn't even the hour when you would expect this type of shit. It was only 9 o'clock! I know that when I used to break into empty houses to steal microwaves and paint thinner, I wouldn't make my move until at least two in the morning. I'm Ninja like that.

Lastly, my daughter was at the local library trying to use the computer so she can get a motherfucking job and put to rest my constant bickering, when some sick fuck pedophile slithered into the teen area of the library and started jerking off.

But fear not readers because Miss Spoken has got herself a plan and it looks a little like this:

Masturbate in front of my kid again and I will chop, cripple and mutilate beyond recognition and no jury in Nevada will convict me.

Roll It Like a B-Side: The Interviews

What caught my attention initially was her blog name, Mommy Wants Vodka. The little voice inside my head whispered, yes .... mommy does want vodka. What kept me coming back was writer Aunt Becky's sarcasm, humor and frequent use of the term "crotch parasite."

Aunt Becky's words of wisdom can also be found at Toy With Me where she writes a weekly column on important topics such as the humiliation of having a stripper's balls in her face and how, once upon a time, she was afraid of her vagina.

Although Aunt Becky is busy with her plot to take over the world via freelance writing and becoming a super villain, she has taken the time to give Miss Spoken's reader an insight into the workings of the mind that is Mommy Wants Vodka:

1. What is your current state of mind? Fat and happy. Alternately, light and airy.
2. Chocolate or lemon? Why have OR when you can have AND?
3. You've just been promoted to Porn Star. What's your name? Fists of Fury.
4. What's the last movie that made you cry? Joe Dirt.
5. A word you love: Cacophony. It just rolls off the tongue so awesomely.
6. A word you hate: Deadlines. Because. Obviously.
7. I'm looking through your closet. What am I surprised to find? Boxing gloves.
8. Plane, train or automobile? Bangs pots and pans. "Ooook-la-homa! Oklahoma! Oklahoma! Oklahoma!"
9. What's your idea of perfect happiness? Sleep. Lots of sleep.
10. What talent would you most like to have? The ability to sleep. Alternately, the ability to mass-produce Vicodin from garbage.
11. What am I most likely to trip over in your house? A crotch parasite.
12. Richard Pryor, George Carlin or Steve Martin? See #8. Or: Steve Martin.
13. Kathy Griffin, Chelsea Handler or Lisa Lampanelli? Ms. Handler.
14. It's 100 degrees outside. Where are you? Hell, baby. And yes, there IS vodka here.
15. What do you consider the most overrated virtue? Motherfucking patience.
16. Lights on or off? Depends on who I'm humping.
17. What'cha reading? US Weekly.
18. The best thing on TV is: House, MD
19. Where am I most likely to bump into you? My boyfriend, Target.
20. It's Thursday night. What's for dinner? Uh. Whatever you're picking me up?
21. What did they call you in High School? "Doll Face"
22. What's a song you never get tired of listening to? Prince's "P Control."
23. Which words or phrases do you most overuse? Awesome.
24. What are you wearing? Less than I should be, given that it's subzero in Chicago. Fresh ink, man, FEEL THE BURN.
25. Give me some words to live by ... "There are no finer words in the English language than 'encased meats," my friends. Except maybe "hooray beer!"

Car Thieves, Cattle Prods and Shotguns: Welcome to Nevada

I see the Officer open the rear passenger door and he says something to my mother. She then steps inside with her left leg, ducking her head as she guides herself into the cramped backseat. A few minutes later, the car makes a u-turn in the middle of my street and they're gone.

Stop.

Rewind.

It's 3:00 AM Sunday morning when the phone next to my bed rings. I've had a lifetime of late-night calls that are never good. Nobody calls me at that hour to say they love me. Nobody calls me that late to tell me that they're coming over in the morning with mimosas and a fucking muffin basket. The content of these calls is always misery and/or some shade of violence.

I answer on the first ring with a tone that suggests I'm completely awake and have been knitting eye patches for kittens all night. The voice on the other end is My Gay and he's out of breath and between his huffs and puffs I begin to understand the situation: he borrowed my mom's car to go to work and it was stolen from the employee parking lot.

Fuck.

Motherfuck.

Now it's 4:00 AM, and my mom and I are on our 43rd cup of coffee, waiting for the police. When the Officer arrives, he takes her statement and explains how her Jeep Laredo is the second most popular car among car thieves out here.

Awesome.

She signs her statement, he writes down the case number and then he's gone. I lock the door and tell my mom to kiss her car goodbye because there is no way she's going to get it back and if she does, it won't be in one piece.

P.S. ... she's not covered for theft. Translation: she's fucked.

So when the call came in the very next day saying that they thought they found her car, I was in total shock. In fact, the car was parked in an apartment complex and under surveillance and would she like an Officer to come pick her up and take her to retrieve her car? Hells yes.

An Officer picks up my mom and takes her to the actual spot where an undercover cop is watching her car. It's a huge apartment complex with a move-in special of $99 and no credit check. The kind of place where flea market blankets act as curtains and discarded diapers litter the walkways. Real uptown livin'.

The car is relatively unscathed and all they left behind was some makeshift drug paraphernalia and the distinct smell of junkie.

But the story doesn't end there because that very night, some motherfucker (same motherfuckers?) broke into her car again and this time, stole my garage door opener. The garage door that leads directly into a garage full of power tools. A garage door that leads directly into my home.

Now my undiagnosed but totally relevant anxiety disorder kicks in and I think it's safe to say that I freaked the fuck out. I immediately raced to Lowe's to purchase something (anything) that would bolt my garage door shut. This being Nevada, the helpful clerk told me to buy a shotgun. He was serious.

Fast forward to me back at home where I'm moving at breakneck speeds, locking windows and doors, installing a club on my mom's steering wheel and gluing shut her faulty front wing windows. Then with the help of Johnny Boy, I disengage the garage door and I start to feel a little better, but not much. This bullshit is triggering me in all kinds of ways. I remember being about three or four and our home was burglarized while we slept. A couple of years later I watched as my Grandpa was held at gunpoint by two teenagers who wanted cash but only found an old man with a paycheck and a frozen turkey. I wonder if my house is being watched because they know that my husband has passed and the only constant male presence here is a six year old boy. At this point, I'm breaking out in hives and putting together a checklist in my head of weapons to be passed out before bedtime.

My mother picks out a lovely baseball bat and I choose something that can easily be inserted between a would-be robber's ribs. I'm considering sleeping with the cattle prod ... spooning it like a long lost lover. My mind flips back to that cowboy/Lowe's employee who suggested a shotgun. Hmmmm .....

Now I will spend the rest of the day researching Nevada's laws on the use of deadly force and justifiable homicide.