Nothing but a Baby Mama


What more could I possibly add to this?  Every word is true.  A woman, an adult, a mother is able to move on after a relationship ends and is able to put the children’s needs first.   Her focus is on the children’s well-being, health, emotions, and happiness.

An immature piece of trash, on the other hand, is too selfish to ever think of anything or anyone but herself.   Kids are nothing but puppets and pawns to be jerked around, yanked apart, manipulated, and used, all in the name of feeding the egg donor’s insatiable ego.  Her jealousy knows no bounds, and her life revolves around her ex-husband even more than it ever did while they were actually married.  He has no right to be happier without her, damnit, and she can’t stand it.

When the kids are scattered in mangled bits, tossed about like torn shreds of confetti, destroyed for her own gain, what then?  Will she think she has won?  If so, what exactly did she win?  Being the biggest piece of shit in the kids’ lives?  Is that truly the best she can aim for?

Maybe it is.  At least, it might be the best she intends, because she doesn’t care enough to be a better parent for their sake.  She knows that he loves them more than she does, or she wouldn’t be so eager to weaponize them against him.  By her own actions, she admits he is better than her…but the rest of us already knew that.

Posted in can't make the bitch be a good parent, child abuse, children deserve better, crazy ex-wife, kids deserve better, kids' rights, miserable bitch, parental alienation, sad | Leave a comment

The Southern Cult

Just for chuckles today:Starter Kit

Maybe you have to live around these parts to really understand the humor in this.  All I know is, I laughed so hard when I saw this that I nearly pulled a muscle, because this perfectly fits damn near every woman I know in Hickville, the inbred and uncultivated trash heap where the kids are forced to live with Crow.

We even affectionately nicknamed that god-awful haircut and skunk-stripe bleach job pictured in the top row after Hickville, because for a while, it seemed like a town ordinance for every woman to have that godforsaken mess perched on top of her vacuous head.  It’s still a popular choice there, even though it is flattering on a total of none, but most of the womenfolk have shifted to a utilitarian chop job with pronounced sideburns (yes, just as lovely as it sounds, I assure you).

I am surprised that women in Hickville don’t have monograms tattoo’d on their foreheads.  I swear, they monogram everything, from shirts (for every holiday, mind you) to shoes to bags to towels to wreaths and those absurd, icky yard flags.  It’s like a raging monogram virus swept the town and left its indelible, tacky mark.  And if it doesn’t have a monogram plastered on it, then it’s doused in chevron stripes, preferably in loud, clashing colors, to make sure everyone notices them and their new, just-like-every-other-washed-up-has-been’s aforementioned haircut.

The only thing not quite accurate is that the auto back glass decals pictured do not include “Salt Life”.  That’s quite trendy in Hickville, even for people whose cracked heels rarely find themselves submerged in proper bath water, let alone sea water.

Wrapping oneself in a billboard for God is pretty typical too.  It’s like they think if they mention God enough times on their shirts, then people won’t notice the rather un-Godlike things they do and say on a regular basis.  Along the same lines, it’s like they need to constantly be reminded that they are, indeed, in the south, because everything is Southern This and Southern That.  Did they forget where they were?  Did all that bleach from the Hickville haircut sink into their diminutive gray matter?

The Holy Grail in Hickville would be a chevron-striped shirt, with a monogram tacked on the front, a quote about God plastered on the back, as long as the shirt brand is Southern Something or Other, and for some reason always a size or two too damn small, paired with distressed, too-tight jeans doused with cheap rhinestones, and a cell phone in a chevron-striped case poking out of the back pocket…oh, who am I kidding?  They like to stuff their iPhones right into their sweaty bras, which probably have monograms on them too.

The entire thing is kind of like the uniform of a bizarre redneck cult, one to which I am quite glad I do not belong…okay, well, except for bling on jeans.  Guilty!  And proud of it! I love sparkly anything and everything, in moderation, though.  But I was like that before I ever moved down south, I swear. And…*pinky swear*…I don’t own a single shirt with a monogram, a chevron stripe, or the word “southern” on it!

Posted in funny, Hickville, humor, things I hate, trendy crap | Leave a comment

Game 4


The last 3 games have been this ugly.  And sad.  

Typically, this time of year, this blog would be dripping with hockey-related posts.  For those poor, sad folks who don’t follow hockey, allow me to explain: it’s play-off season!

However, it appears that someone failed to notify the Tampa Bay Lightning of this fact, because for the last three games, they have played like hockey season is long over.  I even hesitate to say they have been playing the game of hockey at all.  They showed up and skated around a bit on some ice at the same time that another team happened to be playing, but I didn’t see much attempt on their part at hockey at all.

Every year, I say I am going to switch to a good hockey team.  A consistent one.  A team that doesn’t frustrate and irritate me.  And every year, I put on my Lightning jersey and yell at the TV and roof for the damn Lightning anyway.

Game #4 is tonight, and if my Lightning lose, they are eliminated from the play-offs.  That is the most likely outcome.  Even if, by some unforeseen miracle, they win, they would have to win four games in a row to stay in the play-offs, and I don’t see that happening.  I suppose stranger things have happened, though, so I will still follow the score.  I will still root for the Lightning.  And if they are eliminated tonight, well…I will put my jersey away until next season, when we start this roller coaster ride once again.

Go, Lightning!

Posted in hockey, I love hockey, NHL play-offs, Stanley Cup playoffs, Tampa Bay Lightning | Leave a comment

Nothing Left

“Hate, baby, hate
When there’s nothing left for you.”
~ INXS, New Sensation

My adoration for 80s music aside, I love this lyric.  I’ve always liked that song, but those particular words take on new meaning now, knowing and seeing what I do now.

I’m no Pollyana, but I am not an especially negative person either.  I prefer to pay attention to the beauty, happiness, and humor in my life instead of the dark clouds.  I’d honestly much rather just be left alone than deal with most people in the first place.

Not everyone is like that.  Some people truly enjoy sucking the life out of others, spreading their negativity and venom like a cancer, no hint of happiness until they have made someone else miserable.

Crow is like this.  From what others have told me, she’s been that way for quite some time.  It shows.  She has permanent frown lines etched into her sour face, and she hates to see anyone else being happy.


That is exactly why she is so volatile about Gary and me.  We are happy together.  We are something she will never have.  She is incapable of giving love, genuine love, because she loves no one but herself.

I would never choose to live that way.  It’s obviously a miserable existence.  But, just like the song says, it’s all she has, so she clings to it and milks it and squeezes every drop of gloom out of it, flinging her failures and squalor into everyone’s faces, hoping to drag them down to her level.

Most people have the emotional maturity to learn from their mistakes and adapt their behavior to better outcomes.  People like Crow do not.  She will never change.  It’s sad.  No matter how unhappy she is, she will refuse to let go of her bitterness and manufactured hate, refuse to make any changes in her life to be a better person.

I can’t control that.  I don’t feel sorry her, since it’s in her power to live differently.  At best, she serves as an example of how not to be, and I take it to heart.  I want to look at my life and see Gary, the kids, laughter and jokes, hugs and quiet moments, my family, things and people and memories that make me smile.  I don’t want to devote my life to negativity and toxins and venom.

Unlike her, that is not all that I have left.  And I intend to keep it that way.


Posted in don't want to ever be like her, happy, life, miserable bitch, pathetic | Leave a comment

My One

Happy Birthday LoveWe’ve celebrated several birthdays over the years, and I hope we have a million more together.  Today is Gary’s birthday, and even though he always insists we don’t make a fuss about it, I want him to feel as loved as he truly is today.

There are about 7.5 billion people in the world, but there isn’t another one quite like Gary.  He is funny, protective, strong, smart, honest, and as real as someone could possibly get.  He doesn’t pretend to be something he’s not.  He doesn’t see the point.  Whatever he thinks, he says.  There is no wondering where you stand with him!

When I say he is my one, I mean it.  I can’t imagine sharing this life with anyone else.  I want to always wake up with him beside me.  I want to be there with him and for him.  I want to be as good for him as he is for me.

Happy birthday, Gary!   You have been my one, since day one.  I am glad we found each other.

Posted in birthday, family, love, my husband | Leave a comment

Stuffed Dog

One afternoon, when Bear was little, he asked me to play with him.  He was about 6 or 7 years old, baby-faced, tousled blonde hair that liked to stick up in jagged rooster tails, and he had a trouble-making streak a mile wide but a heart of pure gold.  We climbed under the dining room table, which was now his veterinarian’s office, dragging a large stuffed dog with us.

Dr. Bear immediately assessed the stuffed dog’s woeful condition and began the delicate surgery, leaning intently over the stuffed dog and delivering a step by step narrative to me of the critical work he was performing.  He was quite serious, completely in character, and I ended up hunching over the stuffed dog with him, drawn in by the urgency in his voice, carried away by our imaginations.

Suddenly, Dr. Bear sat back, nearly thumping his head on the bottom of the table, and with agonized tears shimmering in his eyes, he told me, “He didn’t make it.”

As crazy as it sounds, I felt hot tears well up in my own eyes, and just then, Gary walked by and asked, “What are you doing?”  Spotting the tears in our eyes, he crouched down, concerned, and asked, “What’s wrong?”

To simply say “The stuffed dog died” sounded so ridiculous and absurd.  I tried to laugh, make a joke out of it, but the truth is, to both Bear and me, for just a moment, it truly was a heartbreaking tragedy, because we both let our imaginations completely take over and sweep us away.  We were no longer sitting under a dining room table.  We were, for an instant, in Bear’s vet office, and there really was an exhausting and draining battle for the beloved dog’s life, and it really was torturous to lose him after trying so hard.

I still remember that because it amazed me how Bear was able to do that, so effortlessly, to immerse himself in the story, in the character, and thoroughly draw me in along with him.  I don’t know if he remembers or not, but I will never forget it.

Yesterday, Bear celebrated his 17th birthday.  He is nearly as tall as his dad now (which is very tall, trust me), so there will be no crawling under dining room tables anymore.   I actually think the stuffed dog from that memorable day is still with us, though, tucked into the back of a closet, should we ever have the urge.

Sometimes, at just the right moment, if you glance at him and catch just the right angle, Bear still has a bit of a baby face, a fleeting flash of his younger self.  I still can’t believe that small boy who operated heroically on a stuffed dog all those years ago is gone.  In his place is a handsome young man, a football player, a smart-as-a-whip wisecracker, with hair that still likes to stick up, his father’s endless trouble-making tendencies, and still, always, a heart of gold.

Happy birthday, Bear.  Maybe someday I will give you a stuffed dog for your birthday, and just maybe, you will remember that long-ago day too.

Posted in Bear, birthday, Happy Birthday, love, memories, our kids, playing | Leave a comment

Tables Have Turned

High RoadOne saying that I always repeat to the kids is, “When someone shows you who they really are, believe them.”  They are surrounded by two-faced hypocrites and liars, and I don’t believe they protect themselves or each other very well from it.  Even when they get pounded over the head by someone’s lies and deceit and hatefulness, they don’t seem to want to fully open their eyes to the fact that someone they trust and love is little more than a vile pestilence.

When one of these liars turns out to be their own mother, it is especially difficult for them.  You would think, though, as many times as she has shown her ugly true colors, they would have grown quite used to it.

Several years ago, Crow proved how spiteful and pathetic she is (as if we didn’t already know) by refusing to include Wolverine in parenting time with Gary, even forcing Wolverine to call Gary and threaten him, something he never would have done without being goaded by his jealous and emotionally retarded egg donor.  Crow also pushed Wolverine to do childish things like unfriend us on Facebook, then block us when it didn’t get a reaction from us.  When Wolverine saw us at events, she would hover over him like a heavy-handed bouncer, glowering at him if he made even a hint of a move toward us.

It doesn’t even have to be that extreme.  The kids get dirty looks if they want to sit with us at football games.  They get the cold shoulder after talking to us at events.  And heaven help them if they say something nice about us to anyone at their other home; these self-proclaimed Christians will practically slice out the kids’ tongues for it.

Fast forward a few years.  Gary and Wolverine gradually started speaking to each other and spending time together again, and he moved in with us earlier this year.

Well, now that the tables have turned, it was our chance for sweet revenge, right?  Make Wolverine block his bitchy mother on Facebook, get pissed at him if he mentions her, refuse to let him talk to her or her nut-job daddy!

No.  Gary and I have done none of that.  Why?  Because we aren’t out-of-control crazy and selfish assholes, that’s why.  Because the kids matter to us, not fabricated grudges fueled by raging jealousy.  Because we focus on what is best for the kids, not our egos.  Because our lives do not revolve around silly drama and game-playing.  Because we don’t use the kids, don’t manipulate them, and we actually respect them as human beings.

Ultimately, because we are real parents.

Crow never will be.  She has demonstrated that, over and over, and has left no doubt that her parenting capabilities ended soon after the first contraction.  The kids were spit out of her filthy body as nothing but pawns for her narcissistic use, and that’s all they ever will be to her.

We have not stood in the way of Wolverine contacting his egg donor.  We have bitten our tongues until they damn near bleed, but these are decisions that Wolverine must make on his own.  He has never been permitted to use his own mind or think for himself before, so he is struggling with that.  We refuse to tell him what to think, though.  We can offer advice and guidance, but what he chooses to do has to be up to him.

I’m not sure it has even occurred to him how differently we have handled this than his egg donor ever did.  I doubt it.  All I know is, we have done our best to do what is best for him, and ultimately, that is what matters.  At least the kids have us to look out for them.  Too bad they can’t say that about everyone in their lives.

Posted in bad mother, better than her, can't make the bitch be a good parent, kids deserve better, our kids, parental alienation | Leave a comment