Friday, August 30, 2013

What Humble Did: Got Eye Boned At The Gas Station

What Humble Did

The part of the show where I tell you about something strange/exciting/nonimportant/noteworthy/and/or/sexual

Remember that one time I told you that I went to my kids school with period pants? No not last week... that other time.

Well something really similar happened today with the similar part being I was a tore back shade of Humble that has been sweating through the million degree (okay a little exaggeration) and 90 percent humidity (totally not an exag...I fact checked this with the pit sweat on my towels that I wear fresh out of the shower) wearing pants and 2 days worth of grime because showers seem to be rather pointless when you're sweating out the last of your breastmilk while YOU ARE DRYING OFF. Oh and why have I been wearing pants? Because bear legs. I have just been lazy and have not shaved in awhile. Usually this bothers me in no way, but because of this sweaty crotch weather, the hairs on my legs make me feel even sweatier and hotter than normal. Wearing pants seems reasonable to at least mask the friction between fur and legs but it's obviously not a very well thought out plan. There is a reason no one has ever said I have street smarts, ya know.

So there I was at the gas station today, bear legs under wraps and sweating to the point that I might actually be burning cellulite from baby #3 circa 2005, hair is a wreck, doing that half ass pony tail that I kind of brushed but not really, because lifting my arms is exercise and there is no exercise in Africa. I am not a fucking gazelle being chased. I am a human who is stank ass hot. My peeps are white and from the North. We eat butter and feast on potatoes which go directly to our thighs cuz our DNA might be scared of another Great Depression. Which could also explain my body hair problem. You never know when shit is gonna hit the fan and Pa could lose his job at the factory, in the middle of the snow, uphill both ways, leaving us to have to sell our blankets.

Also, I am going to mention how totally sexy I was feeling through all of this. Sweat, grime, hairy as nature/nurture intended, and in period denial. Kind of gotta period....but wishing it away....paper toweling it up over here. Buying pads is acceptance and IT AIN'T YOUR fuck off V get Brawny as punishment, because fuck you. Nothing makes sense in this Tom Cruise forsaken heat. The reason I was even at the gas station was to buy those .99 cent tall cans of sugar water because I am pretty sure I have sweated out the last of my carbohydrates and whathaveyou as I was buckling Jedi into his car seat. I had to dig around for a bit to find change to pay for the drink because I was totally unprepared for a desert throat situation and as I was digging around I happened to look up and I saw him.........

You know hiiiiiiiiiim. The guy who is always a little too happy to be watching you pump gas, gazing at you, caressing your hair with his lips from 17 feet away, watching you as if you were a prize to behold. He is the creeper guy "Guy" who has been offering his services either by laying on a cool line like "what's that taste like?" (and you aren't even eating anything) and "mmmmmmmmMMMMMMMMM girl" since you looked like you might possibly be 17 and a half. Dream Weaver is what I like to call him.

So I notice Dream Weaver starting to pump his gas in the car ahead of me while I am searching for change. I am trying to make this as quick as possible because I must drink something NOW, and I can't help noticing him, noticing me. It always takes me a little while to figure out what intentions someone has for looking at me for longer than 1.5 seconds. Nice? Friendly? Weird? On ecstasy and looking for a dance partner?  But at this point, I have glanced at least 5 times to double triple check and this motherfucker is NOT looking anywhere but at me, which is awesomely confusing because I am sporting kitten pits which is mostly frowned upon in modern society. After I notice him noticing me and wipe the froth that has formed at my forehead I  go inside and quickly come back to the car with my already cracked open and half guzzled drink. I get my purse and drink situated and I look up and he is holding the gas nozzle like a dick. Pushing his junk into it and everything.  I am immediately amused as I am already starting my car and will avoid any and all verbal contact with this person knowing that I am safely on my way out of there, making this all the more hilarious. I back up and pull out to the side of his car to make my way for the exit. As I do, he is yelling what I made out to be "bbbhdbscjdc sweetheart djsddkjdl number?" and as he's yelling he is walking towards my van. Except he forgot he was holding the gas nozzle and it rips out of his hand and gas just goes EVERYWHERE. All over his shoes, all over the back of his car, it was a wreck.

And then I had an insane thought.
He might actually be my soul mate from another parallel universe. Gas nozzle humping, spray painting flammable fluids.....that's actually quite impressive if you think about it.

End Scene.

xoxo Humble

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

A Few Words Wednesday: August 28

I looked to see what he was looking at and I couldn't see anything interesting enough to hold his attention that long.
Chances are, even if he told me, I wouldn't understand.

xo Humble

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Monday, August 26, 2013

Thank You, Miley

My Rant Face.
Not to be confused with my Sex Face but it's pretty close.

Unless you have been living under a rock, you have probably seen Miley Cyrus performance at the MTV Video Music Awards that aired last night. If you haven't, you have most likely read countless discussions on all social media, with Twitter alone circulating over 360,000 Tweets per minute that were attributed to Miley's gyrating performance. I have to admit, due to mom life and being exhausted from the weekend, I missed the event in real time but caught up first thing in the morning. After reading several friends statuses and discussions about what an actual disgrace Miley is and how she needs to seek mental health help, I expected something a little bit more shocking than a grown woman dancing with teddy bears and bending over to half twerk half air hump a foam finger. I mean, I was a baby cakes when the whole Like a Virgin Madonna exploded on the scene but I remember like it was yesterday when Britney sexed up the dance floor during her VMA performance that was actually THIRTEEN years ago. But really was Miley's performance a surprise? Um, not if you saw her music video that was uploaded 2 months ago and before that, heard "We Can't Stop" single and all the controversy surrounding her now confirmed drug reference. This would also be not very surprising to say the least if you knew anything about what Miley has been up to for the past few years. Gone are the days where her parents can make a public apology for anything being misinterpreted as other than wholesome and perfect. Gone are the days that Miley is Hannah Montana, y'all.

And good fucking riddance.

You know why people are so angry over this whole Miley ass shaking tongue licking bonanza? Because she has a vagina. And she knows what she wants to do. And she just don't give a fuck about you or your applause. While Rihanna is supporting her abusive boyfriend and rap singing about money, booze, strippers, money, and sometimes singing about being a diamond in the sky which what the fuck does that even mean? Miley is laughing her ass off. This whole Video Music Awards? STUPID. MTV doesn't even PLAY music videos people. They glorify teen pregnancy, binge drinking on the shores of Jersey, and document  the parts of life that most people are lucky not to have air on television.  People hate people like Miley because they are almost famous for absolutely nothing. Kardashian's ring a bell? Except Miley is becoming famous for something, and that something is just not giving a fuck. And man alive, it is working. She has been out and about promoting this album like a stripper picking up the last damn dollar, and it's working.

With Robin Thicke's  kind of rapey lyrics , and rappers like Juicy J whose top hit is about strippers popping their pussy, it's always a good time when a woman comes along and serves what is already on the menu. It is just not okay for women to do the things men talk about in their songs and it's not okay to take center stage when there are perfectly good cages to dance in during a male performance. No it's not okay to take off your clothes if you weren't promised bandz or racks. And it's definitely not okay to act like you have nipples. It's not okay now, and it won't be next year either. It's not okay, but it is awesome. It's awesomely awesome that she is sticking it up the very machine that built her, and making enough dough to throw a bone to her pathetic parents who are still riding on the house that Hannah built. I for one, am in full support of any woman who plays the game and gives it her all. They might not be well received, but there is just something about a girl who takes it off physically and/or metaphorically, and doesn't give a shit. I am not scared for my daughter who grew up watching Miley, because my daughter recognizes the difference between a performance and real life. I am not going to be worried that young girls are going to idolize the new Cyrus and her half twerking half masturbating air guitar. I am only going to be worried about what message is being sent to our young girls when they realize that no matter what they want to do in life, whether it be gyrating on a stage singing a top 10 hit or maybe want to earn as much as men do someone is going to try and stop them. Not because they don't have ambition or because they aren't educated enough, but simply because they are girls.

I don't know about you but that fact alone makes me cringe. Which is why I say Thank You, Miley. You did something only a few women are 5150 enough to do.
You foam fingered the man.

xoxo Humble

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Wednesday, August 14, 2013

A Few Words Wednesday: August 14

This is the first post in "A Few Words Wednesday" and simply put, it's my favorite recent snapshot, and a few words.

Sprite's Summer dog walking business.
Jedi approves.

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Tuesday, August 13, 2013

Thank You, Dear: A Word About Trolls, From A Whore


Yesterday before I posted THIS, I received a love letter. Not just a note of sweet adoration, mind you, a REAL kind of love letter. My heart skipped a beat when I read the subject: Hey, Fat Ass. Ohhhhhh could this be for me? Please say it is so! I hope this wasn't sent by mistake, I thought. I adore love letters like this so much that I thought I would share a few of the more affectionate little tid bits. The rest I will keep for myself, for when I am alone in my room with my thoughts......wink wink.

As I scanned the message in excitement, I immediately was drawn to a few choice words. I wanted to gauge the level of adoration that my secret admirer had for me, after all.


"worthless piece of flesh"
"white trash"
"fat, pale ass"
"down syndrome fucking reject"
"smelly vagina"
"your last one should have died"
"disgusting pig"

and my personal favorite....... "WHORE"
You Want To Take Off Your Shirt

Okay, now that I had all the keywords in mind, I could thoroughly enjoy the fullness, and richness of my sweet love letter. I am not a gal that likes to be surprised and my anticipation gets the best of me, ya know.

As I read the letter and re read the letter and analyzed every word to make sure my secret lover was not anticipating a meet and greet of some sort (dude, I haven't shaved my legs in days) I became immediately bored. Yes, yes, I know my sweetie was expecting a direct response of some sort, but to put it quite frankly, my well had run dry. IfyaknowwhatImean

I mean, aside from the fascination with my vagina and the endless questions that I have clearly addressed on several social media platforms, oh, and the whole "dead baby" thing, I was just not impressed.

I have heard this all before. At least 3 times a month I am sent a sweet comment from an admirer. Now, you may be upset, saying to yourself "HOW CAN THIS BE WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE" and my response is, "The Internet". See, the Internet is full of Keyboard Warriors. Some just want to razzle dazzle your day with a song and dance, but some, take the time out of their lives, to truly focus on matters of their heart, because they see you as important, and very worth their time. They crave the attention you have, and they want that same attention, coming directly from you. This is some real world shit I am talking about and can easily be related to other areas of your life, not just the Internet, so you might want to go back and start taking notes. LOOK ALIVE BITCHES I AM ONLY SAYING THIS ONCE.

Now, before I give any more attention to my disappointing lover of yesterday, I want to talk more about the prior experiences. I have been called a whore, an endless amount of times. It is always a foreplay of sorts, being called a whore. And the word "whore" itself is without a doubt the most endearing compliment. Most people hear it and assume it means that it implies sexual promiscuity. But that can't possibly be true, because the people that have called me whore, I have never had sex with, and if I haven't had sex with you, how would you know I am sexually promiscuous? I mean, we are all adults here, and assumptions are at the high school level, am I right? Okay, so it is true that I have 5 kids and that indicates that I have had sex at least 5 times. If that is the reason for assuming I am "sexually promiscuous" then I am going ascertain that you are 12. And you shouldn't be reading my blog, didn't you read the little consent box when you opened this?  Being called a whore most often leads to an anti climactic "you have too many kids" and leaves me with a case of blue balls and cotton mouth. I am a mouth breather, don't judge me. I GET IT I HAVE A LOT OF KIDS AND I HAVE HAD SEX. ALL THE LUCKY PEOPLE DO. Also I have been called an attention whore. Now, I don't understand quite yet, the reasons for ever calling someone an attention whore, when what you really mean is "getting more attention than you." In fact, it is kind of confusing to think about. Example: "Hey, I do not like this person getting attention so everyone listen to me and what I am saying because THEY are an attention whore, LOOK AT WHAT I AM TYPING WHEN I AM TALKING TO YOU"
I believe if I were a real writer I would know the word for this, so for right now, I will call it an oxymoronomaly.

I have also been called fat before. 100 percent of the time it is online. Not that you should give a shit, but I am 5'1 and a size 8. My child like size comes in real handy when I am installing a car seat because I don't risk injuring my back when I can crouch over the seat quite easily while standing in the car. I am also the token person who has to sit middle bitch in between the driver and passenger seats. I do have a round face and am not a "thin" person, so most lovers and admirers just don't know. Because they have never met me. Weird, right. Being called "fat" isn't insulting to me at all, just an incorrect assumption. If I actually was fat, I would be even less amused. It's like saying "you have brown eyes" or "you have pale ass skin" ... Uh, thanks Captain Obvious for taking note of my physical appearance. Want to mention that I have elbows that bend?

As for being called other colorful, delightful things, and having a fascination with the state of my vagina, it all gets quite mundane. Redundant. Whatever, you guys you know what I mean.

What I do know, is that when I am sent these letters and comments of affection (or threads, ENTIRE THREADS, written by people I don't know and read my blog that they think is terrible LOOKING FOR SHIT TO SAY.. :::bows on one knee::: sweet Tom Cruise in Top Gun don't let me go back to that place in my mind where I wanna be mean, EVER again. I forgave, I forgave, I forgave.)
Where was I? Oh, yes. What I do know is that I have an effect on people. A REAL LIFE EFFECT. Sometimes it is truly outrageous, like when I am given notes of love, but most of the time, it is what fuels me to keep going. I am not trying to be famous. I started this because I just felt like writing. I wanted to share it with people who wanted to read it.
I found the people. Not The End, but kind of. I don't earn money from this. I might some day, but for right now I do this mostly for myself. And I decided a long time ago, that I was going to choose to be happy every day and this is a way for me to be happy.

"Make your anger so expensive, that no one could afford it and make your happiness so cheap that people can almost get it for free" - Unknown

Thank you, for allowing me to share my happiness and parts of my life with you. And Thank you sweet lovers, for noticing me and allowing me to have a place in your life as well. You lil sexy beasts.

For My Lovers xoxo


Monday, August 12, 2013

On and On

My third child, my first son, was born August 1st 2005. Weighing 9 lbs even and delivered by C Section (he had a transverse lie during labor) he was completely healthy. It was a little scary having him through a surgery, but I healed quickly and was soon home nursing my new baby and resting through the chaos of two little girls who were VERY excited about their new brother, but also demanded an adequate amount of attention.

My then husband worked through the days and came home to eat dinner and play video games. I asked him to hold the baby so I could take a shower and came out to find him dozing off with the baby. Dinner needed to be made and it was 10 at night. I drove to the store with tears in my eyes. Everything was done with tears in my eyes so this was nothing new. But this time I pulled over to sob, and I couldn't. It was ridiculous but I tried. Gave it my all, trying to cry. Not even one tear. If someone had seen me they would have thought I was screaming my head off, but inside the car no sounds were escaping my mouth. I wanted there to be a release to this frustration, an exit hatch that I could open and poke my head through to breathe. Crying has always been my release and when I was young I would often kick open the bathroom door at school, sit with my feet on the toilet lid and sob silently with my dirty hands covering my face. If someone came in I would wipe my tears and walk out as if nothing had happened. It's all I needed to get through my days of being a child who was slow to learn to read, had a hard time with math and wanted nothing more than to be a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle and live in a sewer and SCREW YOU I AM NOT BEING APRIL AGAIN. I just wanted to do Ninja tricks and maybe not get the tether ball smacked in my face on purpose. So there I was, in my car, violently not sobbing. This was the start of the things that were a little strange and not like me.

The next strange occurrence was I realized I hated nursing. No, scratch that, I hated sitting down, or being forced to sit down to do anything. I ate standing up in the kitchen and was constantly on the move, cleaning, picking up after someone, and doing way more than a woman who just had a c section a couple of weeks before, should be doing. Soon I hated being touched. My daughter would sit on my lap and I would pick her up and put her beside me. It seemed natural to me, but it wasn't. It wasn't until my new baby, my precious son was crying and I picked him up, that I felt something strange. I will never forget looking at his face and speaking without thinking. "I don't want to hold you, stop crying." I gasped. It came out so quickly that it's like I heard it coming from someone else. But it was me. I put him down, ashamed with myself and sick to my stomach. He stopped crying and I thought about what I said for days. This wasn't like me, I love him! I love him and I love him. Over and over I played this "I love him" game. I would never not want to hold him because I love him. I nurse him even when I don't want to, because I love him. I watch him sleep every night for hours and hours because I am making sure he's alive, because I love him. Yes, this was spinning into a creepy as fuck Hand That Rocks The Cradle, situation. I didn't see it. Instead it progressed. And then I started seeing things.

I was giving him a bath, and I saw him under the water. Except in reality, he was never under the water. But, I saw it. In my head. I still to this day remember exactly what he looked like. The vision flashed through my head, and was gone. I took him out of the bath and I dried him off avoiding his eyes searching for mine. I turned my head in fear that he somehow could know what I had thought. I didn't speak a word of this to anyone, for fear that they would think I WANTED him to drown. It was my biggest fear that someone would say I didn't love him and that I wanted him gone. I didn't give him a bath for weeks and instead showered with him, or wiped him down. The baby bath tub stayed outside and when I did glance at it, I would have a vision of my sweet son with his beautiful eyes under water. It wasn't until months later that I learned this is called an intrusive thought and it is not in any indication of what you desire. I would have other intrusive thoughts, like a fear of him being taken from me so much that I would leave the store with a cart full of things because I felt like someone was watching and was going to take him. Other fears were even smaller than that and started to relate to every day things.

I saw a psychiatrist soon after the thoughts began. I never told this person what I was seeing or hearing in my head. I didn't trust anyone with that information and was certain I would have my children taken away. I didn't want anyone to think I was Andrea freakin Yates if I was doing everything in my power to be the polar opposite of Andrea Yates.
Instead, I told him I was horribly sad, and tried to cry. He never looked up at me, so he didn't realize I had zero tears.

I spoke with a few friends about my feelings but never my thoughts. I told them I was having a hard adjustment and they all agreed that it would get better. Only one friend admitted that she never got better on her own and had to see someone for medication. As the months passed quickly, I never got better. I just got better at hiding it. Suicidal thoughts would come and leave as quickly as they arrived. I was terribly frightened that one day I would just suddenly die. Or I would kill myself on accident. I created lists of instructions at 3 a.m. for whomever was raising my children if/when I should die. I scrubbed the floor on my hands and knees at 5 in the morning, so my family would have a nice clean place to live in. They would remember me as the most hard working, loving mother ever. This was all I could think about. I was obsessed with showing everyone outside my home that I was capable of raising 3 children, and that I without a doubt, was the best mom for the job. On the inside, I hated myself and I wanted my mind to shut up.

The medication I had been put on did nothing for me and I soon started feeling like I had a ringing or a buzzing in my head. I stopped taking it and the noise stopped. I didn't tell anyone and assumed my new way of thinking was just something I would have to get used to. Everyone else thought since I was on meds and seemed to be coping just fine, going out for play dates, having a clean home, all kids dressed, clean and fed at all times, that things were just fine. I continued with my obsessions and fears, right through Christmas. It was around then that I would wake up on the couch and not remembering how I got there. I clearly recalled going to bed, yet I would be on the couch. With all the lights on, staring at nothing. Even scarier is finding myself in a chair at 6 a.m. and the baby on the floor in front of me. I couldn't recall how I got there, how the baby got there, why the fuck was I not in bed? In my exhaustion, I didn't even realize that I may have been sleep walking. I just figured it was weird and oh well, it happened.

In February, I decided it might lift my mood to get Valentine's pictures of the baby. I had made an appointment and planned on going to the mall after I dropped off my oldest daughter at school. My younger daughter, Sprite, wasn't easily roused that morning. Despite calling for her several times, she slept right through breakfast. She had a rough night, and wound up in my bed the night before, so I assumed she was extra tired. When it was time to go, I figured she might be in her room playing. She was still asleep. I tried shaking her, pulling her up, near yelling at her, before I brought her to the couch. I called my mom and told her something strange about Sprite was happening. I figured she was just playing around and maybe if my mom came over she would be so excited she would rouse easily. My mom arrived quickly, took one look at Sprite, and ordered me to call 911. Wait what? I did as I was told and thought the whole thing was pretty ridiculous. I mean, she could just have a sudden sleep disorder, or maybe just not feel good, right? The 911 operator ordered me to have her legs put above her heart. My stomach dropped as I stayed on the line. My mind raced and I began to sweat. The paramedics arrived quickly, looked her over, and then my mind goes hazy. "Un responsive" "Extremely low glucose" "coma" "helicopter"

I went to the sink and threw up while people talked over my daughter.

When we arrived at the hospital, they stripped off her clothes. The doctors were shouting questions at me. An intern walked away with tears. I answered the best I could, and told myself to not pay attention to the needles searching for her veins. To refrain from walking over to her and grabbing her and scream her name in her face. She was so still. And so horribly beautiful. This is it, I thought. This might be the last time I see her alive.
Even now, writing this, many years later, I will never forget wiping my tears out of my eyes quickly, so her perfectly formed face would not be a blurred memory.
A huge needle entered her foot, and a syringe of glucose was pushed into her.
She opened her eyes immediately. "Mama?" she said. Then she threw up and went to sleep. Everyone relaxed. A sudden calm washed over the doctor's face. He touched my hand and said "That was close. We will give her another dose in an hour."
The day before these events took place, we had been at a friends house and sweet Sprite had spilled some popcorn on the floor. I told her to put it in the trash, but she impulsively shoved a handful in her mouth before she listened. My friend's husband was diabetic. The pills are small, almost tasteless. There must have been a pill on the floor, because Sprite's near death reaction to an accidental overdose, was textbook.
She was admitted to a near by hospital for observation and although she had a hard time with the affects of the glucose, she recovered quickly. We were back home in a few days.

Everything after is a haze. I can't tell you exactly what happened or how, but I know I went to another therapist. I am guessing there are 3 months that I absolutely do not remember after Sprite's accident. I do know I was diagnosed with PTS and started counseling and medication immediately. And I remember that because I remember the psychiatrist telling me this wasn't my fault. I had told her everything. My thoughts, my visions, my obsessions, my fears that I was actually a horrible piece of shit mother and everyone is going to find out and take my babies away. "Just take them if I am crazy" I told her. She responded with "this is not your fault." Then the tears, the real ones I had been sucking up and the tears that had been lost and were instead hiding in my head and in my throat, all came out.

The medication she prescribed took a few different tries, a change up in doses here and there, but soon I started feeling better. I went to counseling religiously and learned all about my mental illness. Not the text book stuff you can read anywhere, I learned about ME, and how MY mind works and how mental illness works in my life. For a long time, I was ashamed to tell people that I had something more than just post partum depression. Post partum depression and depression is becoming more "socially acceptable" to admit, actually it has become so acceptable that some people misuse the term "depressed" instead of "I had a shit afternoon and got a case of the sads." But no one ever talks about ya know....being actually psychotic. I was diagnosed properly with post partum psychosis, bi polar, and post partum OCD. Yes, it happened to me.
And it wasn't my fault.

After Note: I continued treatment during my 4th pregnancy and stopped shortly after having her. I felt like I was okay and had learned enough from counseling and could use tools that I had learned, to gauge my symptoms. I also built a huge support system of friends and family, that kept tabs on me. I was very well for 4 years. And then this happened.

To find help for you or a friend please check out the following sites. If there is something I missed or something that helped you, please comment your info and links! Also, feel free to share your stories. You have no idea the power of your own story, it may be just the thing someone needed to read today to feel a little less alone, and more like things can get better, and that things can be beautiful again.   local to you resources, support groups, provider contacts, facts on PPD and other mental illnesses more support groups, personal stories, HOTLINES , and facts on PPD and other mental illnesses a group forum for parents with PPD

Breastmilk & Meds a good resource for nursing moms, look up any med and see if it's safe for nursing babies.

xoxo Humble