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1) Christian Slater never ages. Luckily, through the use of Photoshop, neither do I!*

reasons I want to be christian slater

2) Starring in non-corny 80’s cult classics ensures that people like me cut their proverbial teeth on phrases like, “Talk Hard,” and “Chaos was what killed the dinosaurs, darling.”

3) If I were Christian Slater, it wouldn’t be creepy to have a crush on myself.

4) I could try and board a commercial airline with a gun in my bag and not have it be “potential terrorist,” but “quirky.”

5) I could be a vampire who DOES NOT SPARKLE. VAMPIRES DO NOT SPARKLE.

6) I could’ve been BFF with River Phoenix, my first television boyfriend from ages 6-13.

7) I could claim to have a “baboon heart,” and then die in the arms of my longtime love. Mostly, I just want to claim that I have a baboon heart, although I might call it “bonobo,” because it sounds cooler.

8) I’d much prefer to have “distinctive eyebrows,” than a “distinctively (dimply) ass.”

9) My sneering voice would allow you to impersonate Jack Nicholson over the phone, which increases not just my ability to get on radio shows, but also my credit line, as he’s got platinum EVERYTHING.

10) I could get Nerd Cred with a cameo role in Star Trek VI – which would mean that all nerds would listen to me. Forever (and we all know how much I heart nerds).

*A lie – I don’t own Photoshop. BUT I COULD. MAYBE.

I’d been blogging a couple of years before I’d decided to branch out on my own and start Mommy Wants Vodka. I’d spent years carefully (read: badly) coding in the text, well before WordPress rolled out TinyMCE as a feature. My former co-blogger was an actual editor, the kind who got paid to read absurd submissions, so she had lots of time to fix up my terrible typos, misspellings and grammatical inconsistencies into something that resembled a story.

(Damn, I miss her.)

The audience on my previous blog knew me – perhaps not well – but well enough to have hung with me a few times over the years, which meant I was expected to produce material about a) my vagina b) my vagina or c) dick jokes. That’s what happens when you write yourself into a niche.

After Alex was born, things changed. I wanted to write about the way he’d not allow me to put him down – even for a moment – without launching into a full-blown meltdown. About how tired I was. How lonely things had gotten with a husband who worked 80 hours on a good week, while my friends, waiting to have kids, climbed their career ladders. I had cracked nipples and they had 401K’s.

So I wrote it out. I wrote hard.

I wrote whatever was on my mind at the moment I opened up the blank WordPress screen, never expecting that other people would read it.

I tried to imagine someone – one person – out their reading my now-completely jumbled words, riddled with the sort of grammatical errors that make an English want to use red pen on their computer screen. Someone besides lovely “people” trying to sell me Viagra or increase the size of my member. Right kind of them, thinking of my member that way. I never could quite imagine that. An audience? Me. Nah. I’m a crappy writer. A scientist. Not a writer. Never a writer.

I didn’t expect an audience. And quite frankly? I didn’t so much care. I wrote because I wanted to, not because I expected to become rich, famous, or fancy – being “Internet Famous” is like being the coolest kid at the nerd table.

(I heart nerds)

Blog posts are a snapshot of a moment captured in words – good or bad, depending upon the reader and the writer – and if I’d captured every moment, I’d never have had the time to raise my kids. Or pee, for that instance… Although a poem about peeing with a cranky infant strapped to my nipple could’ve been awesome.

In fact, if I’d written everything down that first year, it’d have been: “OMG WHAT AM I DOING, I CAN’T SEE STRAIGHT, WALKING INTO WALLS, BLAHHHH, SO SLEEPY, SLEEPY SLEEPY SLEEPY SLEEEEEPY. Where’s my coffee?

Instead I took those moments, twisted them into something better, and went with it. Sometimes, I was happy with what I’d written, other times, I knew it was a glistening pile of dogshit, but I didn’t care. There were no “metrics,” no “monetization,” no “Facebook likes,” to judge the words I’d put in order on the screen as “worthy” or “unworthy.”

I miss those days.

Since I began this silly blog, I’ve hurt people. I’ve ruined friendships and I’ve ruined relationships. You might say they’d been ruined (or on the verge of) already – which would be true – but through no honest ill-will on my end, it’s forced those relationships into the outbox.

I’m sorry for that. Genuinely. I’d never wanted to hurt anyone.

Once I opened up about my divorce to you guys – a situation that had been building for so long, something I’d kept quiet for well over a year, things got real for me. My life turned upside down, shit rained down like that pink goo in Ghostbusters II (except in Chicago). It wasn’t pretty. And? I didn’t even get to see Slimer OR the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, those wily bastards.

I’d say that I was sorry for sharing my struggles with you, for being vulnerable, for asking for help when I needed it, except that I’m not.

Because for all the gossip and idle chatter; for all of the people who decided to pick sides and point their fingers, looking for someone to blame (divorce, like marriage, takes two to tango), I found a few people found comfort in my words. They understood what I meant, were in the middle of similar situations, or offered the one thing I’d needed: love.

And that’s all I need to remind me to keep going. To write hard. To ignore the naysayers inside my head and out. Because it all matters. And I can’t quit in a whiny pile of goo just because shit got real – I won’t.

If you’re out there, reading these words I’ve hastily strung together to form lackluster sentences, know that you’ve touched my life. It’s because of you that I’m still standing, walking around upright, and not huddled in a corner, weeping. MOST OF THE TIME.

No amount of comments,; no amount of subscribers, Twitter followers, Facebook likes can hold a candle to that.

Or this.

write hard

It all – all of it – matters.

Welcome to Shit I Found Saturdays, Pranksters!

Every week, I try to find some awesome shit around the ‘net to show you because, well, I feel sorta guilty for the whole “whinging about my divorce” crap.

Everyone needs a good laugh now and again.

This week, I’m dedicating my Saturday to the wonderful people of Band Back Together who have supported me, picked me up, dusted me off, and made me whole again; reminding me that truly, none of us are alone.

Even me.

Shit That’s Awesome:

I won an award. No, scratch that. I didn’t win this alone. My wonderful team of volunteers, our brave groups of writers and supporters, we won this award. To any of you who’ve read, lurked, commented, volunteered, written, or supported Band Back Together, we won this.

I sincerely hope that each of you reading these words know that you’re always welcome to write your stories of darkness and light, to drag your skeletons from the closet, and remind ourselves of one simple fact:

We are none of us alone: we are all connected.

Everyone has a story. Please tell us yours.

Shit I Read:

Kids Are Fucking Petri Dishes

Just A Fever (bring tissues)

Shit I Wrote:

Shit about saving cash and shit.

Amelia Has A Temper. SURPRISE TO NO ONE.

Shit I Did:

Posed In A Calendar

Ordered one of these (free!)

Here’s hoping it’s not fug.

Shit That’s Hilarious:

shit I Found SaturdaysWhoops!

shit I found saturdaysvia Perez Hilton

shit I found saturdays

Shit I Listened To:


 How was YOUR week, Pranksters?

Because, I’ll be honest, until this afternoon, mine has been awful. Just a hard week.

Next week, though, will be better.

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