Ask Humble Anything: Questions about Humble 1.0

It is that time again! Kids are back in school which means I have time to devote to Ask Humble Anything... AHA is a weekly feature that I had originally  started on my Facebook page, where people could ask me any sort of question (relationship/shit advice, general life questions, parenting advice, more info about myself, and basically giving my opinion on anything) and I would answer it in an honest fashion, to the best of my abilities, and invite others to comment and so forth. Since my page is bigger now, and Facebook is Facebook and won't let my posts be as visible as I would like, I am changing it up and answering questions here on my blog. You are still invited to comment with your opinions (which I moderate because I am wary of asshole trolls) and as always, everything is confidential.
Also please recognize that these are my opinions and I am not an expert on anything, but if I googilize and find answers elsewhere I will let you know where I got the info from. Other than that, I cannot be held responsible for damaging your self esteem, relationships, children or crotches. Be smart and think for yourself, and take every opinion you see with a grain of salt because frankly, "Bitch, I don't know yo life!"

Questions about Humble

The first few questions I received were about me. People always want to know more, which I understand because people may not be all up on Facebook every single day and may miss minor details so how fucking happy am I to have these questions answered once and for all on my blog?
Yea right.
Someone will ask me these things again which I am now a-ok with because I have this here post to direct them to.

Dear Humble,
You have 5 kids and you are 27... is there twins somewhere in the family?
Are you Mormon or Catholic? Why do you not use birth control? Are you planning on having more?

Sincerely, Nosy Ass but Very Nice Humblers

Dear Nosy Ass Humblers,
My kids are mentioned on my page and my blog frequently, I do not use their real names because I don't even use my real name. I am not a character writer by any means, but I wanted to keep some things private.
Anywho... Eldest (girl) is 11 almost 12, Sprite (girl) is 9 almost 10, Han (boy) is 7, Moo (girl) is 5, and Jedi (boy) is 1. So in saying that, nope, no twins. I really did have them all one at a time. I am not Mormon, Catholic, Christian, or anything. I do use birth control. And I am also pro choice. Which means I had my kids not just because I happened to get pregnant. But because I wanted them in my life, I am of sound mind, am generally healthy, and also enjoy the challenge of being a parent to many. I gave birth to them with the intention of being the best parent I could possibly be for them, and am super fucking happy the choice to have them, was mine.
I also am not planning on having more. All my pregnancies were very easy, the baby having part went as planned every single time, and I generally enjoyed being pregnant. Except for the last one, Jedi was born at 25 weeks with a multitude of problems leading up to having him and we both almost died. This is not a gamble I would ever take again, and even though I wish I was able to have and care for more kids, my uterus is a bitch and there is nothing I can do about it.

Love, Humble

Dear Humble,
How the fuck you have time to post so much shit?
Sincerely, Da Fuq? Humbler

Dear Da Fuq,
I have no idea actually. I just get on my phone whenever I know what I am going to say and text it out and hit "post" and get on with my day. It usually takes me 3 or 4 minutes to post something. Also when I do write a blog, like this, I have to tell everyone to just not bother me for 20 minutes. I often have to go back to my work and finish it later. One thing I really can't stay on top of, is everyones cool shit that they are doing. So many blog friends and not enough time to read them! Moderating comments on my page is a bit of a headache at times, but lately I have been trusting that everyone is cool and if anything assholish pops up, someone will alert me.
But in a nutshell, I post from my phone as quickly as possible because I got shit to do.
Love, Humble

Dear Humble,
I recently found out I am pregnant and I am so happy. I have children from a previous relationship and this will be mine and my husbands second child together. All of my kids are cared for, they are all wonderful, and I love being a mom. But the remarks I get already about our large family, really bring me down. I am having panic attacks from having to tell people soon, that I am having another baby. Do you get rude remarks too? I have a pretty thick skin, but sometimes it really gets to me. How do you deal with it?
Sincerely,
Loving Mama of Many Humbler

Dear Loving Mama,
First of all, CONGRATULATIONS. A baby, whether it be your first, or your 10th, is a whole new exciting venture in your life, and it is hands down THE most romantic shit EVER. Why? Because 2 people loving each other and that love turning into a human being is fucking magical. That's why. I am really glad you asked this. Yes, I do get rude comments. Also, I get the comments where people are thinking of themselves and figure since they can't handle their one child, that you must be the same way and are deluding yourself into thinking there is more than one way to live. I have had people tell me "you need another kid like you need a bullet in your head" to which I just ignore, because I have shit to do and people to please and they aren't one of them. When I got pregnant with Jedi, I knew I could possibly hear the worst responses ever. After you have 4 kids, you pretty much open the gates of fury from the most previously "nice" people ever. And so I just expected it. People gonna run their mouths regardless, BUT I don't want to hear it or see it. I mean, talk shit about my slutty ways and my disregard for your opinions on my life, behind my back like a normal asshole. Don't get all up in my face with it, or I will tell YOU something you don't want to hear, like how apparently the  reverse cowgirl is THE position to try if you want to grow a baby with a penis. (I just made that up...but you get the point) Anywho. My advice is when you tell people, be fucking excited about it. Decent people won't shoot down your excitement with facts about how your family is killing polar bears on account of your larger than average toilet paper use. All these little thoughts about your big ass family and how great it is and how happy your kids are? Don't keep them to yourself. Mean people feed on weakness and lack of confidence. I will be the first person to tell someone how much I love having all my kids sitting in a row on the couch, taking turns reading to each other. How when I set up for breakfast, there are no empty chairs. And how much I love that every night. EVERY SINGLE NIGHT. I kiss 5 faces. FIVE. And tell them each how much I love them, and that I want to be the first to kiss them in the morning, and they tell me how much they love me, and how they will think of me when they are sleeping and all this other cute shit. Sometimes I honestly can't believe how fucking cool my life is. How lucky am I?! How lucky are you!? SO FUCKING LUCKY.
And frankly, if people can't accept your happiness, they aren't nice people, and you have too many kids to be dealing with that bullshit.

Congratulations!!
Love, Humble

Now this is a story all about how my life got flipped...

So I was being a boss, listening to Kid Cudi uncensored because I was rollin like a G in my van with no baby ears in the back seat.

And I heard a lyric that struck me it goes: "I tried to think of myself as a sacrifice, to just to show the kids they ain't the only ones up at night" (in the next lyric he talks about his pee pee being sucked so be warned if you google that, don't want to be held responsible for wrecking your baby ears, and by pee pee I mean cock)

And then a ninja BOMB exploded in my brain and I thought OMG I MUST WRITE ABOUT THIS. (No not the pee pee sucking part, you sicko)

Here is how it starts: I was told a few times that I am an inspiration. I know, I know. My life of servitude to 5 children and still finding the time to read a book, write on this here blog, and paint my nails gives me like, a Jane Goodall runner up sash or some shit.

But seriously.

I am just like you.

And if you think I am not, or just think I am full of myself, let me tell you a story of how I became Humble.

Two years ago. My life was SHIIIIIIIIIIIT.

I won't go into exact details, to protect my kids and my sanity should someone be blabbing about it the next time I see them in real life, but lets just say the situation I was in was fucked UP.

And even worse, I couldn't seem to get out of it. It was like the same day every day, going through the same motions, but with more bad situations piling up until I couldn't breathe any more. Literally, I couldn't breathe. I had been suffering from what I thought was "I am dying, my throat is closing and I am dying" but really turned out to be major anxiety attacks. The kind that you know, can't fucking breathe through when they are happening.

Picture that for a second.

Now imagine that I had 4 kids with me when these would happen out of no where.

It was the ultimate rock bottom place that I was in, the kind of rock bottom that comes from the inside of your heart and soul and makes its way to your flesh and bones. It affected my every move. My every conversation. My brain. The way my eyes perceived things.

And I wanted it to stop.

I ended up in a hospital in a daze. I still can't recall the exact events before the hospital. I remember crying on a gurney, explaining that I was not suicidal and that I still couldn't breathe. Later, I was taken to rehab. Apparently, you can go even if you are not addicted to anything, you can go if you are just freaking the fuck out. Good to know.

When I came home after living with my parents for a bit in order to help me get back on track with meds and therapies, I came across something that years of watching Oprah never taught me. Or maybe she did except I wasn't paying attention because I was busy folding clothes.

I loved it so much I wrote it on my wall:

And just like that. My life changed.

NOT!

It took me time to realize that I couldn't change everything over night, but I could accept that. What I could no longer accept was that I wasn't taking steps to make it at least gravitate towards the direction of change.

Where did I want to go in life?

Who did I want to be?

What were like, my goals?

Now what the fuck do I have to do to get there?

Okay, can't do all of that in a week, what can I do today?

Nothing?

How bout a smile?

Okay, I can do that.

And that's how it began. I realized I didn't have a lot to work with. But I did have myself, and frankly, that's enough to start with.

It all started with a smile. MY SMILE. Not a smile someone else gave me, not a smile I fake, a real one. Try it, you'll like it.

Take THAT duck face!

And in my method of full disclosure of fantastical honesty, one of the things I most wanted to achieve was to help someone ANYONE find their smile. You know, find their little sumtin sumtin, to feel happy about. JUST ONE PERSON. That was my goal.

And then, I met you. YOU.

xoxox Humble

Humble: Level Expert

There is a baby shower game/activity that I freakin hate. I mean, its sentimental and cute, much unlike the "guess how huge mom is by lengths of toilet paper sheets" but it is annoying none the less. It is pretty simple, everyone gets a little card and they write their best piece of baby advice and then it all goes in a little book for the mom and dad to read when they are up at 2 a.m. wondering what Grandma Gertrude's recipe was for teething (straight Gin by the way. The good shit. Right on the gums. Don't get carried away or you'll have an Uncle Bobby on your hands.) and also to see what words of loving guidance your mother in law wrote. (pffft)

Usually when it is my turn I write the same shit that I always tell people when they ask for my general advice with baby/kid harvesting/farming

You already know it all. You just have to trust that you do.

This is not pleasing to most people, they want more details, they want my "secrets" to raising awesome children, for getting through a sleepless night, for my method of discipline, I mean I have 5 kids so I must be an expert on this subject, right? (wrong, although in some countries I am considered a midwife) I mean I do have lots of great advice its just, sigh, it just doesn't matter what my advice is. Unless you want my opinion on crying it out (don't) how long to breastfeed (however long you want. period.) and how I feel about time outs (pffft) I'll tell ya. But I am not an expert. Alas, I am just sick of being asked questions that are better answered with your own experiences. Child raising isn't a test, so there are, simply put, no right answers, only your answers. I am also rather tired of people giving me their advice, or asking questions on my personal situation of having 5 humans materializing out of my vagina-gate.

I am so tired of it that I am dedicating a whole blog post to it.

Its called "What not to say to Moms with a shit ton of kids at the store"

1. Are these all yours?

My answer: Yes.

My thoughts: I am not walking dogs, unless you count the child who is licking gum off the floor. Please don't ask me anything else, I am just here for a few things and I am about to forget the fancy lube if I am distracted one more time.

2. You're lucky you are young. You must have so much energy.

My answer: You betcha.

My thoughts: I need to stop doing jumping jacks, this Adderall is so awesome! I am not even hungry! Fuck I think I'm getting a head ache...what am I here for? Bananas, juice boxes, stamps, and what was the last thing? It was something sexy fuck I forgot, fancy lube that's it!

3. Are you done?

My answer: No I think I am forgetting something. I think I have a list in my purse.

My thoughts: I know what you meant and its none of your business what my uterus does. Fuck I forgot something. Bananas, juice boxes, stamps, is that all I am here for?

4.So you're getting your tubes tied right?

My answer: YUP

My thoughts: Fucking a. Now I just have to make this person go away, just say whatever they want to hear, and make them go away. Wheres my son? Shit. Shit. Shit. Oh wait there he is. Must stop doing jumping jacks and talking to this person. Dude, when I get home I am trying on those size 6's I seriously think they will fit today.

5. Are they all from the same dad?

My answer: They are all from the same mom.

My thoughts: Which is why they are all totally pissed that you are still existing in their environment, I am pretty sure Eldest is going to strangle this person. I should just let this happen. I am going to run in place and watch the magic.

6.I would never have the patience for that, I can barely handle my own.

My answer: I wouldn't be able to handle yours either.

My thoughts: BOOM MOTHERFUCKER. How dare you insinuate my kids are some sort of derelict crazy people who need to be tazed to put under control. SAY SOMETHING ELSE. I DARE YOU.

7.You know what causes this right?

My answer: YUP.

My thoughts: SEX. I hope this person doesn't do it. They seem like they would be into some weird shit anyways. Like playing 20 fucking questions for foreplay. I bet they'd never shut up. "Do you like it?" "How much?" bahahaha

8.Ever heard of a condom?

My answer:Yea, I sure hope you use them.

My thoughts: Condom, wait was I here for that? No...something related...fuck I'm never going to remember. Ewww I bet this person uses the ribbed kind...for her pleasure.....do we still have Wayne's World or did the kids scratch it?

9. You must be Catholic

My answer:Nope

My thoughts: I like how people assume I am Catholic and never Mormon, I mean why else would a white woman have a bunch of Mexican kids. OH MY GOD I REMEMBER NOW...Coffee creamer!! That's what I am forgetting!!

10. I don't know how you do it.

My answer: Me neither!

My thoughts: Thanks for reminding me you just reminded me I need fancy lube! Wait...I can't buy that...half of these kids can read labels....ughhhhhhhh crap.

11. You must be an expert

My answer and my thoughts: Yep, you should totally read my blog.

By the way, does anyone have the hookups for Adderall? I ran out.

Onwards and Upwards

The following is a true story.

Recently, someone called me out on the Internet. On my own page (not my personal page..) and basically told me I was a dumb ass. Yep that's it in a nutshell. Oh and that I am a slanderous father hating bitch who feeds off of negative energy and points out other peoples flaws to make myself feel better.

What. the. fuck.

This is the horror I wrote

Now normally, I don't really care if people don't like me or what I say, and I don't get my feelings hurt too much. In fact I usually make this face and move on...

Someone doesn't like me on the Internet? Single. Tear.

But this time, it kind of actually sucked. Because this person is in blood relation to me. Now I have been an adult for some time now (i.e I don't own any red plastic cups) but it is still surprising to me how someone who has been an adult much longer than I, can stoop so low as to call me out and be basically MEAN TO ME, when they can just message me personally with a problem they have with me. Blasting it on a public forum, especially mentioning personal details about me and acting like an asshole is not only embarrassing for me but is a dick move. I mean, come on. I am going to see you in real life at some point in time, so don't pretend you can just be mean to me online and not own up to that to my face.

But all that aside, I am glad it happened...for one, I saw how awesomeballs my fans and friends are. No one got batshit crazy, everyone was calm. Even though I am sure a lot of you felt like this..

Fuck I know I did. And I was also able to clarify exactly what my page is about:

"I find things that I find amusing in my life and post them here on my fan page that is for those that are interested, to read. The point is that a lot of people can either relate or find humor in it. Like I... do. I don't post names, not even the real names of my kids here on this page. Not even my own name. The people that are interested in my wit and amusements are here not because they are forced. I don't go around asking for ppl to share my page or to pleaseplease like it for a reason. I'm not here to be liked. I'm here to laugh."

I do not take myself too seriously on the regs, but when I get responses like this one...

"not that you are in need of compliments but i would like to point out that you probably help more women than you realize. you are awesomely honest, crazy witty, fun, and what makes a lot of us realize that we aren't alone in what we go through. you are a beautiful person to so many people who don't even know you. you are a stress relief to us all and that's one reason why we all continue to stay here. it's unfortunate that people can't see and appreciate a beautiful person when they see one."

I am for once speechless. I am just silly me, trying to be cool and smile and laugh and go with it and other phrases that mean the same thing. And people actually enjoy it and tell me so. And if someone doesn't like it, for the record, it is okay. My mama told me when I was a little girl that some people in my life, were just not going to like me, no matter what I did or said. And that is their problem, not mine. And I like to sum it up even more with a favorite quote that I have said time and time again,

"Don't let other peoples shit become your shit"

I am not going to stop being optimistic, sarcastic, and laughing. I am still going to find the humor in a fucked up situation and share it with anyone who cares. I am going to let people know that I am weirdo, I don't know everything, sometimes I get my feelings hurt, and that mostly through it all, I move the fuck on. Onwards and upwards, sideways and in 4D real time with special effects and sparkles.

Besides where else can I show off my lightsaber skills?

People in my really real life are fed up with this bad assery.
Fyi.

  

                             Oh and by the way. This is my jam today.

                                                            
                                                   And every day.... xoxox Humble
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Tell me all about it. No seriously, tell me.

I have these awesome quirks about me that when people find out about them they are like "Omg, you are so cute and interesting!"**

Like, how I can't stand to not know the specific plot of a movie and a detailed re telling of its ending before I decide to see it. Cute and interesting right?**

I mean what person wouldn't want to sit next to me and answer my every question, like..

Whose that guy? Is that Liam Neeson? He looks old here..maybe he is playing an older dude....

Wait...what did they say? I couldn't hear...I was chewing ice...what do you mean you don't know because I was talking...I meant what did they say right before I asked...you didn't hear either?

What accent is this? I thought they were in Paris..this sounds Irish...that guy looks Irish but I thought it said Paris in the beginning part of the scene...

You should really try to think back to that part you weren't paying attention to and tell me what they said...because I think it was important..

Denzel Washington is in this!? Why didn't you just say so!? Now I know its a good movie for sure.. but I am still going to Google how it ends...

As you can see I am the cutest most interesting girl that you would love to take to the movies.

Unless it is a scary movie, in which case I will leave every so often to go to the bathroom...to check my hair, pee, wash my hands, check out the snack bar or just beg to leave because I think I might have started my period. Unless I know what the scary movie is exactly about and how it ends, chances are I think I might be getting my period...maybe. We should go home and check just in case because they ran out of pads in the pad dispenser in the restroom.

Now if I am at home and I am about to watch a scary movie I can't possibly pull a "I think I am about to shed uterine lining" excuse, so I have to get even more creative in trying to avoid the intense scenes and daunting music that is a prelude to some poltergeist demon popping out of a mirror while innocent Kevin Bacon is looking less Footloose and more Hollow Man as he brushes his teeth. Most of the time I actually WANT to watch the movie so I will ask a million questions before hand, and if the Biff has seen it before (or anyone for that matter, I will fucking text people mid movie so it doesn't look like I'm wimping out and Googling) I will drag every major plot point or scare that he can recall.

If this fails I cover my eyes. Or squint so I can't exactly see everything.

I once took out my contacts in the bathroom during Predators because not only was I nerve wracked enough by sitting next to a hot guy who paid for the tickets but I had to act like I am totally okay with some insane alien creatures who are invisible most of the time EXCEPT AT THE MOST RANDOM MOMENTS popping up out of the jungle to turn humans into hamburgers in mere seconds.

Funny thing is, I enjoy movies, even scary ones, I really do (honestly, Biff, I just clawed your leg during Predators because I really like your leg..not because of anything else that might jump out at me the next time I am taking a shower and blast my brains out) I am just not a visual learner. Like, most people see things and can tell by a color in the movie (I am catching on though, Red=you're fucked or you're going to cry about this later ala Schindlers List) or by the way a shadow looks waaaaaaaaaaay in the back ground that some guy is waiting around the corner with a machete looking for boobs to hack off.

Nope, I didn't see the way those packages were oddly strewn in the back of that car with a sheet placed over it and I just peed myself a little when the old town psycho shows up in the rear view mirror ready to gouge out the drivers eye balls.

No my friends, I learn by listening, and by reading. Turn down that creepy fucking music (that's too much for my senses...I am ready jump on someones head like a Ferrel cat by the final dun in dun dun...duuuuuuuuun)

and turn on the subtitles so I can figure out this plot and whats really going on. This of course, is not limited to my movie watching, I realized rather recently, that this is how I deal with real life situations. Thanks adult hood for finally giving me some fucking slice of understanding with how to operate myself. You've been holding out on me for the past I dunno...decade.

If I can't read it or hear about it. I don't know shit about it.

Case in point: I have no idea who does and doesn't like me, by the look on their face. If they are giving me a "eat shit you fucking poser" look, I won't see it. I will keep yammering on about how I love Ragu over Prego and that The Sounds is highly underrated and I have been dabbling in thinking of going blonde like Maja, but then I remember I am kind of a chunk so that would make my face bigger, somehow...I think I read it in Glamour.

But if that same girl is like "Hey I don't fucking like you" or worse tells her friend that she doesn't like me, I will sit there confused because I thought she really did, I just thought that mean face was just her face, and she was ugly or something.

Another instance is when I am watching an example of something...say my dad showing me what part of my mind fucking van is mind fucking me and he is pointing out things to me and he is talking so fast all I can hear is "well the Axl Rose piston shimmyjigger is broke so we have to get a water pump hose oil goes right here and you didn't check the water did you? Well the water fiscalpeeve studemaker Redenbacher is gasket bad, all bad. You really need to check the oil more often" All the while he is pointing at shit and taking shit out to show me and I am just nodding like a good daughter should because he is taking the time to explain something that is really crappin up my day and wait did he just say Redenbacher? Because popcorn sounds excellent right now.

A more serious side effect to this whole cute wittle quirky quirk***, is that in times of emergency, say...when Jedi was sitting in the grass the other day and my mom wanted to take a picture, he fell over backwards with a huge thud. I was standing right next to him. This is not unusual behavior for me, I see the baby falling...my mind can't process it fast enough "and this is happening" my mind blurbs to my body that is firmly in one spot.

I reach down, dust the grass off, pat, pat, there there, you're okay.

My moms yelling at me "You were right there! Why didn't you catch him?!"

Oh he's fine. And don't worry, I am googling "symptoms of a concussion" right now, and I think he might be totally fine. Here take him, I have to uhhh...go to the bathroom.

**It is super fucking annoying for all who tolerate to be near me

***everyone might need therapy when my job here is done



My Dark Side

People often ask me "How do you manage 5 kids?" or they say things like "I have 2 and I am going apeshit...I don't know how you do it." You know what I say in response? "Yea, this whole having kids thing just was so easy I decided to be a Duggar, but without the religion or disgusting casseroles." That's right. I fucking lie. This may come as a shock to you, since I am so honest on my blog and my facebook page. But what I say on line and what I say to your face in person are two different things. Why? Because I don't want to scare well meaning people who are just trying to make conversation, or are nosy as fuck and don't really care (I bet these nosy fucks are addicted to reality tv as well...I am not a reality show..stop asking me if all the kids have the same dad, when am I getting my tubes tied, and how much money I make, like this is some episode of MTV's true life: I hoard children.)

The truth is. I struggle. Hardcore. My house is a wreck right now for example. I have been telling myself for months that it was okay and everyone who enters the domain is going to forgive me because I just had a baby. It hit me yesterday though. I didn't just have a baby. The baby is nearly 9 months old. Soon, he will be crawling. This terrifies me. His little hands and knees and mouth are going to come in contact with the floors, the walls, the toys, the microscopic cracker crumbs in the corner, the dead flies on the window sill, etc. I told myself when I was pregnant with him, that I could organize and clean everything when that nesting instinct kicked in around 7 months, just like I did when I was knocked up the previous times.

Except I never made it to 7 months pregnant.

Fuck.

The other thing I realized is that my house is so bad right now, if Nate Berkus showed up, he would have to get the folks on Hoarders to come bring their dump trucks first. I honestly don't get it. I have no attachments to items. I throw shit away all the time. I am constantly doing laundry. Constantly cleaning up someone, or someones mess. And still. This place is a hovel.

Also the other interesting twist to my dilemma, is that I have OCD.

Now I know that everyone feels like they have OCD at times, and when I tell people this they usually come up with some OCD-like symptom to make an example of how they too have OCD. Your color coded book collection, your obsession with vacuuming in a specific pattern, your awesomely famous way of making your bed, are all something to behold. But you are probably fine.

Here are my examples of OCD (not to say I am proposing that I am the only one that suffers this bat shit crazy way of life, my OCD folks out there will want to high five me for telling it like it is, because half of this shit is not talked about because it is so absurd)

~I can tell you exactly how that stain got there, because I cringe ever since it happened. Every stain on the carpet. Except the one under Sprite's desk. I smelled it. I think it is milk. But she hates milk, so I can't be sure.

~I always ALWAYS buy the second item behind the first item displayed. The first one has been touched, and therefore, is disgusting and not as fresh.

~If I see a cluttery mess, I have no problem throwing it all away. Unless it is truly valuable and unreplaceable.

~I feel guilty about going to bed. I berate myself about dirty dishes as I drift off to sleep.

~I have a physical twitch if I touch something greasy. My eyes water. I wash my hands repeatedly every time I touch something oily. Also static makes my eyes water. If I see a balloon, my fucking eyes water. Just thinking about the crackle sound in the clothes that come out of the dryer, makes me tear up.

~If I can't do something that I really feel needs to be done. My whole world crashes. This happens every day.

~I can't decide anything. Therefore, I hate shopping. I have to have a pre set list, or I will stand in the shampoo aisle for 30 minutes. I will walk circles in the clothes department if I am just browsing and do not have an actual need. I have to know EXACTLY what I am there for so I can narrow it down.

~I can't park my van unless it feels right. I will circle a parking lot 20 times looking for the spot "that feels right" and I am a checker. I repeatedly lock and unlock my doors, repeatedly look in my purse to make sure I have my keys before I leave the car un locked. I keep it un locked in case I lose my keys. This makes zero sense. But "it feels right."

~If my handwriting changes half way through writing out my uber specific to do list. I start over.

~My house and my environment hold my self worth. I will tell myself that I am a fat lazy heffer as I walk by a cluttery mess. I have been in years of therapy so I just repeat to myself that my house can burn down in flames and we could get a new one. But if I went down in flames, people would be traumatized for life.

I am worth more than my house.

~I can't eat left overs. It is not new. It is not fresh. It feels touched.

This is just a small snap shot of the things that I often deal with. The rest of it, I have learned to manage. But right now, this whole OCD and house situation is driving me banana sandwich. It is holding me back from going places, literally and metaphorically, and frankly, I am sick of it.

So, instead of climbing in my bed and saying "fuck this shit in the neck," I am going to do what I have done countless times to set my shit straight. I am going to keep telling myself, that despite my un organized everything, I am a fantastic mother. Despite that cake batter that is on the ceiling, I am not worthless. And despite having desperately low self esteem, The Biff thinks I am fucking wonderful.

If I keep doing this mix of pumping myself up and actually taking steps to achieve balance, maybe when Nate shows up, I will actually let him come inside.

For the people who have actually been to my house. I apologize. Instead of getting ready for your visit, I was doing this:

Word to my Mother

Sometimes I have no fucking idea what is going to come out of my mouth (or type from my fingers), but when it comes to things I have been thinking about for far too long and way too critically (I am a Virgo, yo) and so, I'm warning you now, this is one of those times.

     It all started a few weeks ago when Eldest and I were very lost at Wal Mart (well we weren't really lost, its just my mom drove us there and we lost her). We were wandering the aisles yelling for her and getting side tracked by Teen Bop and Allure magazines. While we were looking at the sweet dealios on Febreeze, we saw the Valentines Day section was being set up and off we went over and took a closer look, because if there is one thing that can get my mom, my Eldest and myself reconnected again it is a giant display of Twilight dark chocolates with scratch and sniff Edward stickers (I'm joking about the last part, stop having a heart attack and looking for your car keys, you sicko). While we were perusing this years selection of Valentines candy goodness, there was a couple who walked by. The girl said "Look babe, Valentines candy!!" and the dude said "Valentines Day? I don't celebrate that shit." Eldest and I turned and looked at each other with a "whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?" look on our faces and before I said anything, Eldest goes "oh yea I don't celebrate Valentines day because candy and love is so over rated, here, let me pee on puppies because I hate everything good in the world." I agreed with her and also thought she should start doing stand up or something and buy me a yacht or eyelash extensions. When we left the store (found my mom, who was nonchalantly in the baby section in the back of the store...not worried at all that we might have been offered crack or gotten our arms crushed from the blood pressure machine) I started thinking about that guys douchy mcdoucher attitude pertaining to Valentines day and after seeing all of these "Fuck Valentines Day" posts, pictures and statuses, I’ve come to the realization (and this is after weeks of thinking about it) I must be the only person who enjoys the FUCK out of Valentines Day.

Seriously.

      My name is Humble and I love Valentines Day. There, I officially said it. Not many of you would suspect this since I am not one to post motivational quotes or find a bunch of roses attractive unless they were to be tattooed on my arm. I find it mildly embarrassing to admit and the lot of you must think that I have never had a shitty valentines day and so I must not know what the hell I am talking about. So lemme splain.

      My very first Valentine was my mom. (Mom, this is the part where you go pee because your nervous and also get a box of kleenex.....okay welcome back mom!) And as far back as I can remember she has made sure that every Valentines Day I had a cute outfit to wear, a special breakfast, some candy and a card. This didn't stop in my youth, people.

      I had my first shitty Valentines Day when I was 14 years old and a boy I really really liked said he basically didn't want to talk to me any more, despite the fact that I was in love with him and he called me every day and everything was fine the day before. Except for he did mention he got some other girls phone number and said he was going to call her. To a 14 year old girl this is saying the same thing as, "Yea so, your going to cry for 24 hours and listen to that one song by Third Eye Blind and every time you hear it, even 20 years from now, you're going to think of me and want to stab me in the eye for being so thoughtless as to break it off on Valentines Day." Of course I didn't know what had been thrown at me that would affect me every time I heard that familiar strum of a guitar on the radio that still to this day I cant listen to without feeling a little stabby, I only knew at the time that LOVE SUCKED. It sucked so bad I never wanted any part of it ever again. My poor mother heard my sobbing through the doors and did what only a good mother would do. She called that motherfucker up and asked him what he did to her daughter to make her act like a belligerent fool and also gave him her piece of mind. I actually don't know what was said in the conversation, I was crying too loud to hear the story of what she said, and this is just what I tell myself. So although my 14 year old Valentines Day sucked, my mom still gave me a card, and a hug and told me she would always be my Valentine. Believe it or not mom, that made me feel a lot better.

      The following year I had a real boyfriend (who would be the future father to 4 of my kids and my husband) and she asked him what he was getting me for Valentines Day. In fact I'm pretty sure she called him and asked every time Valentines Day season hit to see what he had planned, (usually it was nothing) and she had a present for me regardless. She has always made it pretty clear that despite me being an adult or married or having a bazillion children, I am still her baby. So this whole Valentines Day thing comes with the territory of being her child. Many a Valentines Day I cried, miserable that the person who I was choosing to spend my whole life with could see a predetermined day of showing some type of acknowledgement as rather meaningless. Is it too much to ask for or at least expect SOMETHING on Valentines Day? I mean really. If you are with someone, EVERY DAY or at least EVERY OTHER DAY, you should feel loved and downright fucking special.

Despite having some seriously shitty V Days, even when I have had someone to spend it with, I was still pretty excited about the season every year. I have my kids, my parents, and well, that's all I could ever really ask for. I am fairly minimal when it comes to being romanced and at this point in my life I can’t tell if it’s from lowering my levels of expectation or if its just in my nature to always give more than I receive. Either way, I still love Valentines Day. Not because I have a boyfriend now who makes Valentines Day look like any other day of the year because he is buying me shit and telling me how fabulous and beautiful I am( I do have that kind of boyfriend now, for the win) And not because I am a hopeful romantic who sobs through the end of The Notebook or who gets some type of sentimental feeling from Blue Mountain cards at the book store. Because that wont ever be me. I like it because its just a sweet day to remind your loved ones, such as your family, friends, cat, guy that works at the check cashing place that you have a crush on, cute girl who you see every day and eyeballed you once when you were making coffee at the gas station, your actual spouse, etc., that you notice them and that you like them noticing you. Its very simple really.

     My mom’s standard of showering me with love and adoration is something I am passing on to my children until I am just too fucking old to get my nimble fingers to jot down a note of love for them at least once a year.  And if they should ever find themselves broken and sobbing that “Love sucks” I will do what my mother did for me (many..many..times) I will call that motherfucker up and ask him/her what the fuck their problem is.
I love you Mom.

From your lucky star.

Dear Legs of Thunder, your time has come. Love, Humble

In keeping with my New Year tradition of sabotaging all that is right and wonderful with my life, such as ding dongs and bear claw doughnuts, I am taking a stab at getting skinny.

Again. 

Why not just be fat and happy? Or chubby and cherubic? I do not necessarily have issue with fat people like some folks do. Its just another size in my opinion. And plus I have this theory that people who don't meet societies strict standard of beauty have awesome personalities, are witty and/or very smart. Its a dog eat dog world out there and in order to survive high school, job interviews, online dating etc., everyone has to have SOME kind of talent. Ive had my fair share of childhood awkward...more on that later...and Ive been chubby enough times to know that it does make for some awkward times...like when I was gifted an extra small a.k.a 5T shirt at Christmas and had to hold it up to my extra large body and say "this is perfect! I love it!" and inside I'm thinking "I can wear it on my ride back home with Doc Brown!" But here's the real deal why I wont stay chubby. It just doesn't suit me. I have a smallish frame and my fat distributes un evenly. My arms are always big and broad. No matter how big or thin I am. The only thing that gets bigger is my ass, and my neck. And do you know how hard it is to find pants that fit a shorty like me on the regs? Despite whatever size I may be, its freakin hard.  Getting smaller just makes shopping easier. And easy shopping boosts my naturally low self esteem. Don't judge me over this people, I'm just laying my cards where they lie. Or something. You get it.

But Humble you say, your sooo skinny (that's called from the neck up photos my friend and I have invested monopoly money dollars on Spanx and mascara...) and you look soooo good for having 5 kids. Stop right fucking there amiga/o. First of all did anyone see me pregnant? No not the pictures I posted because I can work the angles better then a drag queen on the beach, but like, in person? Of course you didn't and that was on purpose ya dip. So no, I don't look great for having 5 kids. I look like a freakin angel of life. How my 9 lb babies did not crack my 5'2 smallish frame in half is like a wonder to behold. They didn't do it without leaving a mark, or a handful, or two or three of skin around my middle. (Full disclosure, I can hand you my belly button if your standing next to me.) And my uteri is kick ass for taking the beatings of gestation and labor, 5 times, 2 of them being c sections, 1 being a VBAC. So Ive got plenty to be proud about in that department. If uteri was ever perceived as eye candy to the opposite as sexy, you can bet your left nut that mine would be featured in the December issue of Maxim magazine, greased up and looking like a rock star on the beach. But since we are never going to see a time where that ever happens and since I'm getting rather tired of rocking industrial strength Spanx and spending 20 minutes on lengthening my lashes to distract from my neck, I'm going to bite the bullet, and beat the 20 or so pounds that has found life on planet my ass.

I wasn't always like this. I was never a chubby and cherubic kid. In fact, I was always way shorter than everyone else, and dare I say...I think I dare...svelte. This is a nice way of saying I was athletic and boyish in frame. In fact I was so freakishly small compared to my peers I remember my P.E. teacher in 9th grade tsk tsking my weigh in at the start of my second semester because she presumed I had an eating disorder. I was pretty horrified at my double digit number despite the fact that I had prayed to God on the daily that He would deliver me from training bra hell and put at least of pound of fat on my bones so I wasn't so lerpy derpy. So it wasn't really until after I had my second child that I got chubby. After the third I got fat. I lost the weight by saying good bye to cookies and soda (cute, right?) and after the fourth holy hell broke loose. I look back at pictures of me cradling my 4 month old and I barely recognize myself. Huge arms. Double chin. Full on gut. And you know what? It didn't bother me. For a whole year it didn't bother me. Well it did a little but I had no time to wallow in my humpty dumptyness. I was depressed and that took up my whole calendar. It wasn't until I tried to hoist myself on a counter and nearly broke my wrist and then fell backwards, ungracefully landed on my left foot, popping whatever precious cartilage that was holding my cankles together that I realized, Damn, I'm getting to be a big girl. As I caught my breath, I realized I really had a problem because I had put the Twinkies on top of the fridge and that's what I was reaching for. And despite my popped ankle I still really wanted one.

So what did I do? I dieted. See, before when I had gotten myself in chubbier times I just started eating more salads, less soda, cut out all candy and started taking walks. After a few months I eventually got better looking or at least better feeling, got knocked up again from my new found "I'm back mothafuckas" accomplishment and then proceeded to start the process all over again. But this time was different. Cutting back on a few things no matter how soul crushing it was, was not going to cut it. That means not even on my period could I have a Kit Kat. Or eat an entire plate of alfredo-y goodness on a quaint Saturday watching Love, Actually. "Oh but Humble! What about moderation!" you say. No, that doesn't work in my world. Have you ever seen a recovering alcoholic say, "Well I'm on period, and my cat ran away, give me a beer!"  No! They don't! They call their sponsor and cry "oh my god I'm bleeding and my baby ran away! I want a cupcake beer and I don't know what to do!!" And their sponsor says "there, there, remember what we practiced...kumbayahh my loooord kumbayahhh" and if that doesn't work they go out and get a beer and we all know beer and delicious treats come in packages. So if I were to have one little piece of Kit Kat, I'm eating the whole fucking thing. And that alcoholic will prob drink all those cans.  I feel for recovering addicts. I really do. I had to unfriend my besties (Krispy Kreme, Burger King, Kit Kat, etc) and when you are faced with an unexpected crisis, like illness, people saying"Fuck you, you b-hole! Your a crazy bitch and I hate your face!"..periods and their bloody never ending endingness, or just a rough day of toddler hell, where the hell do you turn if you cut out all your besties?

Billy Blanks. That's fucking who. Hes scary. In fact I had to mute him the first few times I ran the DVD through, because I mean, how did he know I was tired, weak, or not sticking with it? It creeped me out. But Billy Blanks was like a scary devil life coach/sponsor that taunted me and said things like "Get cracking you pansy!" if I didn't check in. So I just kept checking in with that guy. Stupid tae bo bands and all. I got sweaty. I cried a little when he yelled at me to keep going, and I cursed the DVD case when I was so sore I couldn't even fold laundry. (yeah like I ever fold laundry, but those few weeks I had an excuse not to) Then me and Billy broke up. I was sick of him shouting at me and the girl 3rd row from the back made me gag with her frothy slimey thighs and mean face. And its also my theory that people's Im having sex face, and their work out face is the same. Go ahead. Ponder it. You know Im right. Which is why I get creeped out if my kids are watching me exercise..or my biff, or anyone. So anywho, this girl really gave me the willies. I moved onto Jillian horse face Michaels. Now shes a scary broad. I definitely muted her mundane shouts of "You're not going to see results if you don't give me a thousand percent!" If you have never done Jillian, let me give you the low down. Most horrible, embarrassing moves EVER. Than times it by 45 minutes and her devil face barking orders and making up things like "If you want to look like my friend Tanesha, your going to have to work hard like Tanesha" Um, Tanesha has obviously never had children and shes 6 ft tall. Jillian your moves are hard but your not a plastic surgeon. Fucking bitch. I digress. It took me a long while to lose weight. In my mind a long while is 100 percent of the day, every day, until the weight is lost. And when I did I met my boyfriend. I was like "oh yea guess whose back mothafuckas, oh hey nice to meet you IN MY SHORT SHORTS" and you guessed it. Our son is 6 months old.

So, here I am. On a get skinny mission that is going to suck balls. I have a meager plan, eat less, soul suck, exercise till I pass out, do that lots more times. My make-inner (not over, over is my new found smokey eye technique, thanks 15 year old on Youtube!) starts Jan 9th at exactly breakfast time. And in about a few months I will feel much more comfortable in my skin. Well not as comfortable as I would to give a handful or two or three back to my behemoth full grown babies since I have no use for it. Unless it suddenly becomes eye candy in which case I got shot gun on the May issue of Maxim as well.



Welcome to the jungle bitches.

I seriously hope I'm allowed to write the word bitches on here. Or else I'm totally screwed. This is me.

My hair is so kick ass right here its not even funny.

For friends that are reading this I have a pseudonym on here. I mean why the eff not? I grew up wanting my name to be things like Sprinkles, or Cupcake Thundercat. Now that I'm older I have a whole list of names in case I get famous and/or if I join a roller derby league.Ive decided to do a blog for a few reasons, for one I post wayyyy too much on facebook, and frankly I'm pretty sure some people have hid or deleted me because of my ramblings, cursing, weirdness (I call em quirks...makes me sound interesting like Zooey Deschanel) and incessant use of misspellings and poor grammar, (don't worry this thing has abc check...holla!!) So this blog is for the people who care to read more than a post or a shout out, and mostly for the people who have sent me wonderful letters about how they look forward to my posts and how my words made them laugh even though they were having a majorly shitty day. It really warms my heart and gives me a new avenue of purpose to find the moment where "this shit is so insane its funny" and share it with others to make them smile. Or make them say "fuck this girl is annoying. DELETE" Because if there is one thing mainstream hip hop taught me its "If you aint bein hated on you aint doin shit" and also the importance of NOT being in the club if Usher should walk through the doors......