A little Tattoo never hurt a classy lady-


*Disclaimer-  You may find this cheesy, but a lot of thought went into this over a long period of time, and it is real. 

Many of you, my imaginary readers, know that I am in the middle of a super fun divorce.  Part of what I just said is a lie– I do have some real readers.  Oh, and my divorce is not fun.  Not at all.  It sucks spectacular __________… well it just sucks.  I hate, hate, HATE, to do cliche things, but since everything has been done, and done to death these days, cliche is impossible to avoid.

I did it.

I got a divorce tattoo.  

Not any tattoo, but a tattoo inspired by a song.  

Not any song, but the song that inspired me to release my bitchy bitterness.

I will stop typing in fragmented paragraphs now.

I have been planning this glitzy glamorous tattoo since I left my husband.  He was strongly opposed to his wife getting a tattoo whilst we were married.  He forbade me to. Argued with me.  Told me that they look trashy on girls.  Each time I would mention getting one, he would cringe and make a repulsed noise.  The hypocrisy of his reaction lied deep within the fact that he himself has a tattoo across his back.  The irony of his tattoo is that it says, “Family Values” over a cross.  Family values?  Seriously?  Either you were obsessed with the 90’s rock band Korn, or you really can’t see your own back, therefore you have completely forgotten that you put a phrase such as Family Values on yourself.  Maybe you should have gotten it on your chest.  Or your face.  Or your eyelids.  There is a possibility that someone who lies and cheats, threatens, and controls values their family.  Just kidding.  There is no possibility.  Your tattoo lies.

Anyway– I had this tattoo planned.  It was so pretty in my head, it had three birds flying away from a cage, and they were to represent myself, and my two children, and our new found freedom from a controlling, manipulating, troll of a husband.  It was going to be wonderful.

but bitter.

Bitterness would rest on my wrist for an eternity, because the image I had planned stemmed from the bitterness I felt.

Thank God I waited a year.  

That tattoo I decided upon was inspired by a Cinematic Orchestra song called, To Build a Home.  Here is a link to the lovely song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bt6WnJeHpCU.  

Art is about meaning, right?  It is open to how you see it, and how it effects you.  This song impacted me.  The lyrics speak of building a home, and a life together.  Planting seeds together, watching life grow and change.  After nine years of marriage, I can honestly say that I put my all into those things.  

And just as the song says, it all turned to dust.  It disappeared from me, and from him.  

Where I released my bitterness was in the beauty of the last verses of the songs.  The song speaks of climbing a tree in the garden that they planted the seeds in together, which absolutely represents the life we had worked so hard to cultivate.  The experiences we had, the adventures we took, the things we learned, and the people we became, those are the seeds we planted.  

And I climbed the tree to see the world. 

The gusts, which will come around through the divorce, the gusts that try to change who you are, discourage you, make you second guess yourself, but challenge you to hold on tightly, and become stronger.  The gust tried to blow me down many times throughout the first year.  It has been the most difficult year of my life, and it is still not over.  Although my husband did terrible things, and needs serious help, we had good years.  We were happy once.  Those are the times I want to remember.  I want to be strong, not bitter.  My lines are drawn with him, but now I am truly ready to move on.  My tattoo is representative of that.  

I will add a pretty picture when it heals.  


The lyrics:

There is a house built out of stone
Wooden floors, walls and window sills
Tables and chairs worn by all of the dust
This is a place where I don’t feel alone
This is a place where I feel at home.

And I built a home
for you
for me

Until it disappeared
from me
from you

And now, it’s time to leave and turn to dust……..

Out in the garden where we planted the seeds
There is a tree as old as me
Branches were sewn by the color of green
Ground had arose and passed its knees

By the cracks of the skin I climbed to the top
I climbed the tree to see the world
When the gusts came around to blow me down
Held on as tightly as you held onto me
Held on as tightly as you held onto me……

And I built a home
for you
for me

Until it disappeared
from me
from you

And now, it’s time to leave and turn to dust……..


A boring day in paradise


It’s snowing.

That pretty much takes the sucky-ness cake and serves it up.  Cold.  A la mode.

I am an avid skier, but I like to be warm.  I hate to be cold.

Plus I need some warmer work clothes.

That’s a whole lot of complaining nonsense I just laid out right there.  My apologies to my imaginary readers.

Sadly, and as usual, I really do not have anything to say today.  It was a crazy busy day, and now I am brain dead.

Unmom thoughts a plenty- Tastefully Simple Nonsense


Today is a day on the job.  I have nothing of value to share, nor do I ever.  

Today the female child dressed like a crazy person.  It is mismatched day at school, and oh boy was she mismatched.  I found myself snickering at her behind her back– only to remember that she did this on purpose.  I can laugh at her to her face. This change of function is overwhelming, and confusing.

 I would never actually laugh at my children behind their backs.  

Actually I would, and I do.  Then I make them fix whatever I am laughing at.  The lesson for them is that one should not take life too seriously.  Or it is that their mommy is awkward, cynical, sarcastic, and rude?  I’ve never been great at teaching lessons.  Or at illustrating points.    I greatly hope that they are so used to me that they do not even notice.  They are also slightly odd.  Mamma’s little weirdos.  

Then I get to work.

To my amazement, meathead #3 brought in rather church-picnic-like spread of tastefully simple delicacies.  He also brought in the catalog– should we want to order of course.  This might sound wonderful, however there are a few problems with this situation.

1.  Why is meathead #3 involved with Tastefully Simple

2.  These things are likely poisoned.  They hate me.  It could be for the things that I hope my weirdos do not notice about me, or it could be because I call them meatheads.  It’s neither here nor there. 

3.  I am on a diet.  You stupid meatheads.  Don’t bring your luxurious home party hoopla in my presence.  Malarchy! 

4.  If these things are not poisoned, they likely have steroids in them.  I swear I saw meathead #1 injecting meathead #2 in the posterior.  It looks like Spicy Peppercorn dip, but it is actually anabolic steroids.  The last thing I need is ‘roid rage.  I think I already have it actually.

5.  The warehouse smells like used kitty litter.  That has nothing to do with the tastefully simple.  Or does it?


These are the reasons why this nonsense will not stand.  

Unmom thought: My Kids Suck– Family Photos- What the freak was I thinking!


It’s that time of year again for me to think like a total absurd idiot.  

“Hey!  Family photos- Wouldn’t that be grand”, said the moron.

The day started out as any other day– me yelling at my kids to get ready, and look perfect.  Just kidding, no day starts like that, except that one special day a year where I want them to pretend to be incredibly good looking super models.  My expectations are not too high– I only want everything to be absolutely perfect.  Is it too much to ask my children to be liars one time per year?  Let’s convey the image that we are a beautiful, yet hip, loving, yet strong, photogenic-hot-monsters.  That is a real thing.  

I suppose I should be proud that I raised my children to be who they are.   They suck.  I love them, but can’t a mom get a nice photo?  

The girl, she was fine.  Striking poses, hugging, requesting pictures, smiling away.

The boy, he was, well he was himself.  Having super mom foresight, or maybe it is just average person common sense, I knew he would be a tad bit difficult.  I made him promise that he would be good.  I made him practice his smiles.  I even did what all moms do, but never admit to: I bargained with him.  A new car for good photos?  Seems like a fair trade.  

And he outsmarted me.  Well kind of.  I always win. He didn’t get the car. 

It was a beautiful fall day, and I had already given the super-trendy-in-demand photographer my check for these pictures that were sure to turn out ultra cool and chic.  I peeped out their website, and thought to myself, “wow all of these people are so good looking, he must be magical”.  

Let the magic begin.

My little boy posed for photo 1 with poise, and with grace.  Just kidding.  He was wiggling around, grimacing, and flinging a stick that he found.  Glad I insisted on doing outside photos.  I changed my mind about fall colors that morning.  F#&* fall colors.  

Immediately following the first few clicks of the camera, my loving son proclaimed, “there, got my picture taken, I’m all done, let’s get my new car”.  WHAT THE WHAT?!?!?! No you are not! That’s crazy talk.

From there on out, the child would not sit, stand, hold still, act normal, or smile.  Furthermore, every single picture arrangement involved me squeezing him into place, holding him down, and trying desperately to effectively threaten his existence while smiling.  That should look interesting.  I had no time to pose, suck it in, fix my hair, or smile correctly.  I am positive that when these pictures come out, it will be me that looks absolutely absurd.  

Not to mention that my face is crazy as shizz, all of the time.  I have what is known as Overly Animated Facial Expressions syndrome, or OAFES.  I made it up, and it is real.  Seriously, this face is freaking nuts.  It betrays every thought I have.  When the photos become available, there are guaranteed to be some gems on there.  I will share.

Then there were the photographers.  I freakin loved these guys.  Seriously, they were super cool, but they kept saying things like, “don’t sweat it, we are used to little kids acting like this”.   Yeah sure.  I’m sure you aren’t sweating it.  You have hardly any photos to edit because in our hour session you got maybe 15 photos.  Did you guys send yourselves a check for our photo session?  I’m super glad you guys have dealt with the craziness of toddler psychodom.  I however paid for this shizz.  Dang it!  Captain crazy of the toddler nightmare wins again!  Is it possible for you guys to just give us another families photos?  Can you photoshop our charming little faces over theirs?  Can I be tall?  Isn’t there anything you can do to save this?  Help me magic photo man!

Can’t wait to see how they turn out.  

Unmom thought of the Day: Get out of the Freaking Left Lane… LOSERS!!!



Dear Internet, Let me define for you what the left lane is actually for. 

The left lane is for driving like a freaking maniac because you are late for work like usual.

Why are you late for work?

Well I stayed up all freaking night watching a monster of a football game, the Indianapolis Colts vs. The Broncos.  I am a HUGE Colts fan, so this is a necessity.  Oh, and there were those pesty kids.  It seems that I must be involved in readying them in the morn.  What the what!?!?!  When do they become self sufficient?  I was hoping it was by 3.  

So then there is the 490.  The 490 is a route into Rochester from the back country of western New York.  When I am on the road, and running late, get the freak out of the left lane.

Today turned out to be casual drive Monday.  Thank you left laners. 

There is a slight possibility that the real solution to my problems may involve getting my lazy butt up on time.  I don’t really want to acknowledge that nonsense though.  My snooze feature would be so lonely.  I like to get some real use out of my electronics– the alarm clock knows it is hated, yet needed.  It should thank me, but it is a bastard.  

Speaking of bastards, maybe tomorrow I will share about my family pictures.  That shizz was joyous.  

UnMom thought of the day: Meatheads have tiny brains (as well as other tiny man parts associated with their brains)


Is this the best way to start off my newest blog?  Too late now.  I already thought it.  I work with some freaking beasts of meatheads.  Seriously, they have the muscles, the swagger*, and the tiny little brain capacities.  I am fairly certain that I just wrote the definition of meat head.  If not, then someone please contact Websters!  I am sure I am correct.    Here is another really excellent definition of meathead: http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=meathead

More stories of the follies of meatheaddom will follow in this blog.  How could they not?  I am surrounded by the insignificant, yet cocky, tiny brained, and teeny tiny peniled freaks.  I wish I had x-ray vision.   I swear I would not abuse it, but merely test out my theory on how tiny these men really are.  Seriously, I bet all of their organs are smaller than normal.  Large muscles shrink internal (and external) organs.  It’s a scientific fact that I just made up.

On another note, I should not be given x-ray vision.  I would abuse it.  I think the more I think about it X-ray vision frightens me.  There are far too many things I would not want to see.  Actually- scratch that again- x-ray vision would be a great diet plan.  I wouldn’t ever be able to eat again.

Oh and welcome to my blog.  There is no point to this blog.  Well maybe if you think that reading my unmom like thoughts is meaningful.  If that is the case, I am glad that I can be such an important part of your life.  If that is not the case, it’s ok too.  I’m pretty sure that my happenings are making me dumber on a daily basis.  I blame other people.  People are mostly dumb, but amusing.  Amusing little dummies.  I suppose I should blame the government so as to fit in.  F you Cuomo.  Just kidding Andy.  I have no problem with you.  I’m too busy mocking muffin tops in my head, and then feeling guilty because I have a muffin top too.

On further note, I heard one of the meatheads say the word hashtag before he said something today.  It went like this, “we are supposed to count how many boards are over there, hashtag I don’t care”.    At this time, I mumbled under my breath, Hashtag tiny-man-parts, hashtag meatheads.

*swagger is defined by myself as the way a person walks.  Typically this walk involves a puffed up chest, flared out arms (so as to see the muscles), and a slow and meticulous sway.  There is nothing attractive about this walk.  It is more like a rooster, and roosters eat their own poop.  Therefore the new definition of swagger has more to do with men who walk funny and eat shizz.  This makes sense because I said so.