You may run the risks, but I do the cutting.

I don't know and I know care what the accurate etymology is for these f***ing bullroaches we have in Baton Rouge. They are enormous and they are fearless and I am scared shitless of them. I don't have a long list of things that terrify me, although the list grows the older I get and expanded quickly when I became the sole legal guardian of Jake and Landen Allbritton.

A couple nights ago I was peacefully unaware of Murphy while I was watching my shows, which meant he was asleep somewhere or occupied wreaking havoc in some other room of the house for which I would later be sorry for not paying closer attention to him. When I excused us into the bedroom to get ready for bed, I caught Murphy chase One of Them under the closed bathroom door. My heart froze. My husband is terrified of spiders, but a roach ain't nothin' but a thang, and he'll creep on one, smack it and flush it before I've had time to squeal in terror and flail my arms about, which is my standard response to one of their visits.

Obviously I was going to have to man up and get that roach, else it could get into my bed or Murphy's bed during the night.

"Stay here," I said to Murphy. He sat.

I retrieved a sandal from the closet and a bundle of paper towels from the kitchen and took a deep breath before slowly opening the bathroom door. Cue the theme from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

I scanned the floor and the walls, shook out the bathmats and the shower curtains, rattled the basket where I keep all my hair supplies, inspected the area around the toilet and the sink. Nothing. I exited the room, but left the light on and the door open, thinking that if It tried to escape the bathroom, Murphy would resume his pursuit of the terrorist.

Not twenty minutes later, I found myself needing to use the facilities. "Shit" was the appropriate sentiment for it's multiple applications to this particular pickle I found myself in. I could've gone upstairs, but I refused to be exiled in fear from my own facilities. Not 4% into the mission, I saw It, antennae first, crawling out of the basket in which I keep my hairdryer, various appliances and hair products. I had entered the bathroom without my weaponry, and was now in a most vulnerable battle position: pantsless.

Nevertheless, I lept into action. I grabbed enough toilet paper to comfortably coat both hands and pounced on the bastard, feeling the crunch of it in my toilet paper as I screamed, without breathing, from sitting to standing to flushing. My heart was still pounding as I sat again.

I should mention here how completely useless Murphy the Hunter was during this whole calamity. Aside from chasing it into the bathroom in the first GD place, he remained unengaged as the altercation unfolded. He was standing in the bathroom door when It reappeared. I'm fairly certain It caught our attention at the same time, but whereas I needed to, by the very definition of Head of Household, kill the f***er, Murphy identified his only contribution as pointing at it, and checking to make sure that I was aware of my responsibilities in this situation. Once I crunched it in my toilet paper, then and only then did he see fit to bark at It.

This story is not really funny, except things like this don't happen to other people I know

Last summer, Jake asked for a turtle 561 times. He wanted a little baby turtle and he wanted to name it Louis. What we could not make him understand was that those little tiny baby turtles they sell at the beach grow into big smelly turtles who shit where they eat and make noise in their tanks all night long. Interesting fact for you, selling those little tiny swimming turtles is illegal. It's a federal crime. When you go to one of 6,000 Alvin's Island Department Stores in Florida and your children fall in love with those tiny little swimming turtles and convince you to buy them one, what you are actually buying is the cage the turtle rides home with you in. The actual turtle is a gift with purchase for buying the little tank. This blog is intended to make you smarter.

We briefly took his turtle passion seriously. He wanted it bad enough to swear to its safety, to protect Louis from being eaten by the cat or carried around in the dog's mouth. Corey considered stopping to get him one on a return trip from his mom's in Jacksonville, Florida. We went to the pet stores in town trying to find a turtle to buy him that would not grow to be 30 pounds, but they all want $100 for a frazzling tortoise. We had to finally issue a "no" verdict on the turtle. Not until we're in a house, and then we'll revisit whether we have suitable accommodations for a turtle, but we're hoping by then he'll no longer be interested in the pursuit of Louis.

This weekend, Murphy spent time with his grandparents in the country. He helped Dad mow the lawn and rode around in Mom's lap with the window down, and, he found a turtle. The unfortunate and unwise reptile wandered up on my parents patio and Murphy had quite the time with the turtle. I know grown people who recoil with terror from Murphy's friendly and enthusiastic pursuits for attention and affection. I cannot imagine the panic he inflicted on a slow turtle.

This morning, Jake and Landen and I were on our way back from Awards Day at Landen's school (Honor Roll and Scholastic Excellence in Five Subjects!) and I saw this HUGE turtle slide across both lanes of Airline Highway and stop on the white line, half in the road and half on the shoulder. I was so afraid that someone would run over the turtle that I turned the car around to go back and show the boys the monster (it was the size of my head), and demonstrate something about kindness to animals by rescuing the turtle from its certain roadkilled fate.

We pulled up behind the turtle, on the shoulder. His ass and back legs were facing us. I waited for all the cars to clear the highway and I got out of the car and ran over to the turtle, intending to grab it by the shell and slide it onto the shoulder, and safety. When I reach my new friend, I discovered that he had no head, and blood was splattered all around him. I SCREAMED, right there on the side of the highway, and ran back to the car. Of course, little boys hear the words "blood" and "headless" and they want to see it, but I am not so clueless a new parent that I think it wise to have my children hop out of the car and go inspect a mutilated reptile. They could not see the headlessness from the car window, but I did point out the small amount of blood visible to them as we merged back onto the highway. "COOOOOOOOOL. It looks like ketchup."

They wanted to know why I was so upset about the death of a turtle I had never met and had never been to our home or made friends with our animals. "Because, I wanted to help save the turtle from being run over by a car. A turtle that big is probably really old. And when I went to pull it to safety, it was already DEAD and BLEEDING all over the street!" "COOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL!"

As I write this, we are watching Indiana Jones and eating Jelly Bellies. I took a pause from typing to cover my mouth and scream at Alfred Molina, whose back was covered with tarantulas. Jake and Landen, viewing this same scene with me, find my reaction extreme. Boys. Indiana Jones hates snakes, but his movies are FULL of his encounters, and those of his campadres, with countless creepy crawlies and exotic scaly, poisonous creatures. Landen is terrified of speed boats and Jake reacts violently to lotions, but they are curious without fear about bugs and things with wings, scales, gills and antennae.

There is nothing cool about your stepmom fleeing the scene of runover-turtle, panicked and bewildered on the side of the road. Their dad will come home with stories about snakes and scorpions that he saw and killed in Iraq, and they will listen raptly and let their imaginations take them completely away to their tough-as-nails father slaughtering poisonous threats in the barren desert. That is why he is their hero, and I just keep their mouths clean and feed them dinner.

I am too proud of their father to let them in on one of the secrets of our marriage: I kill his spiders for him.

I'm a little teapot. Again and again.

This post is dedicated to Emily Williams. She will be laughing maniacally by the end of it.

Last week, I fell down. Or up. I fell up a flight of stairs. Outside. In a dress.

I have taken some pretty spectacular falls. Most of them involve stairs, but I am scarred by the memories of all of them. Like in high school when I stepped off the sidewalk and my leg buckled underneath me and I went down in a pile and pretended to tie my shoe but Lanny Webb walked by me and said “I saw that.” That shit stings in high school. Or the other day when I tripped coming out of the movie theatre and did those several thunderous steps forward where you try to regain your balance before you fall on your face in public. Don’t even get me started on the spills you take in northern states when the water on the ground freezes.

On Friday I was summoned across the street to solve a problem. I was clothed in a shirt, brown gauzy skirt and some sandals. This trip across the street required me to exit my building and climb a flight of stairs. In my haste, I missed the very first step, and spilled up them. I stood, climbed three more and spilled up them again. I moved too quickly after the first fall to remember how I landed. For the second fall, I recall clearly because I remained that way for several seconds. I was on my stomach. My left leg had straightened out, the toenail polish scraped away, along with part of the skin on my knee. My right leg was bent like a frog underneath me, and this was the leg that was holding my weight. I was on my left elbow, which was skinned and my right hand was patting the sidewalk above me. I rolled over to a sitting position before I stood up, dusted myself off and completed my climb.

My knee, three days post-tumble. I'm the only 30-year-old you know who maintains skinned knees.

The doors behind and below me were glass, and thankfully there was no one at the door or in the hall to see my bitsies when I fell up the stairs in a skirt. On my second fall, I was able to see up the top of the stairs onto the sidewalk above. I can only thank the mother of the prisoner from Dixon Correctional who was sitting on a park bench at the top of the stairs enjoying an afternoon smoke for giving him the manners not to guffaw at a girl who has just tumbled up a flight of concrete stairs and involuntarily deposited herself practically at your feet. He did not stop what he was doing to help me, but they are not permitted to touch us (or be alone in a room or elevator with us.) Our mutual understanding not to make eye contact was concrete, so to speak, and I brushed right by him scurrying through the crosswalk and he offered no condolence or commentary.

My knee is getting better. My elbow is barely worth mentioning. The damage to my ego remained throughout the weekend and it is only this morning that I am able to share my humiliation, but only because I think falls are funny. If you fall down in front of me and do not land with an alarming burst of painful noise, I will commence uncontrollable laughter. I will help you up, remove the dirt from your skin and inquire into your wellbeing, but you will not understand me, because I will be laughing too hard to be coherent. I do have friends who are offended by this, but I assure you it is not malicious or intended to be insensitive. I maintain that my reaction is involuntary. I cannot help it. I have a seizure of laughter.

Fair is fair, though, so I do expect to be laughed at when I fall down. In the spirit of fairness, I am not upset that it has taken Emily Williams and Kiyana Patton fifteen minutes to read through the three previous paragraphs to arrive at this one, because their eyes filled with tears in the third sentence and every time they try to read forward, they go blind with laughter. Your friends are supposed to keep you humble, and mine do.

And if my husband is over there in Iraq reading this aloud to his friends, which he's prone to do, he's in big trouble.

Politeness of the mind is to have delicate thoughts.

Oh, what a week it has been. If only I could work from home. Or not work at all. Or afford a cook and a laundress. Thursday night I got all excited about having chocolate milk and playing Uno with the boys before bed, only to recall when we all arrived at the refrigerator that we were out of GD milk. Cydney’s amore, Justin Devore, hauled over here like some knight on a white horse and sat on my couch while I went to CVS to get milk, wine and paper towels after the boys went to bed. AND THEN, he removed four bags of garbage to the dumpsters.

At least when Landen arrived to school late this morning and I joked to the secretary in the school office that I obviously had this single mother thing down pat, she told me it was fine, they were fine, I was doing fine. They smile, learn, are clean and know people love them. She did warn me that eight late days will cost me $10, but I’m not quite there yet. Thank God we’re at the end of the year.

(Oh, speaking of school. They sent home the supply lists for next year. There’s also a website where you can go and select your kid’s school, grade and boy/girl and they ship the entire supply list to you in one box. Everything still has to be labeled. There are still a couple items we have to buy from the home/school association…BUT…that’s one thing I can cross off my list because I ALREADY DID IT!)

Corey first introduced me to Landen in 2007 as a future criminal mastermind. The two boys together could wreak serious havoc on the planet in adulthood if they aspire to it. There’s a preview for this movie Despicable Me that shows The World's #1 Supervillain sitting on a couch drinking a juice box and ruining the day of his nemesis with just the push of a button. Jake could conceptualize and build. Landen will pull the trigger.

Yesterday Landen came downstairs and told me that I say too many bad words (and that I’m mean to him, but that’s because I punished him for hitting his brother by taking away his video game privileges for the evening.) In my defense, I am not nearly as explicit as their father, but how conveniently quickly they forget. Second, I do not use bad words when I’m angry. Do I say “crap” when I drop something, “dammit” when I lose at Uno and “asshole” when Murphy displeases me? Yes. Did I tell Landen the other night that he was not sitting his bare ass on my couch when he came down to play Xbox bukked nekkid after we’d been at the pool? I did.

I did not deny that I use too many bad words. I asked him if he would help me and he said sure and retreated to his room to gather tape, paper, markers and scissors so that he could make me a “cuss cup.” It seems that Landen has a friend in his class whose father is also prone to the zealous use of expletives, and this son has him cover his mouth with a cup to keep him from saying a bad word. So, now I have a homemade “cuss cup” that he even reminds me to bring in the car with me.

He had a vision when he created this. I do not question it. It is my cup to bear.

If I fail to use the “cuss cup” and say the word anyway, he gets to put a dot on my face with a marker. This was what we compromised on when I refused to floss between his toes with my teeth. Yesterday I had many dots on my face that Justin did not feel compelled to tell me about and the only reason I didn’t storm into CVS with marker-dots on my face was because I remembered the existence of said dots when I was telling him the story and showing him the cup on the way out the door.

Jake had a birthday party tonight for a kid in his class. It was a pizza/swim/slumber party, but he was not permitted to complete the slumber part. In this age of advanced technology, when your stepmother reports to your dad daily, the 7,000 mile distance between you does nothing to impair your dad’s ability to make decisions that disappoint you. Such as deciding that you are too young for a slumber party and are meandering through too much emotional fragility to be safe sleeping away from your family. We didn’t tell him that. We only told him Dad thought he was too young to sleep over, and maybe next year. The handle on the hammer is loooooooong and boy must it be disappointing to realize that everybody has to do what Dad says, even if he’s not here.

Jake's birthday party is Sunday afternoon, and I have the presents (unwrapped), the paper products, goody bags, eating utensils, candles...I pick up the cake on Saturday. I order balloons tomorrow and pick them up on Sunday. I have to get the little ice creams. The sa-weet thing about doing the party at Jump 'n Jive is they do try to earn a portion of the $300 they rape you for on a two-hour party by setting up the party room with your shit while you watch your children jump in the bouncy houses. Then when they move you from the houses to your party room for cake/presents, voila! It's already been set up with whatever you drop off. And they provide the punch. Thank Jesus, because if I had one more thing to remember to haul out there, I would forget one of the kids.

The boys wanted to sleep on the sofa bed tonight, which I agree to because I like them downstairs with me, and they have to do it anyway tomorrow when Great Clare comes to visit, because they let her sleep in their room. They wanted to watch Star Wars and asked me to sleep with them like their dad does, which I don't do. (I don't like to sleep with pants on in the summer and sleeping in separate beds is a boundary we keep.) Murphy and I (in pajama pants) did crawl into bed with them to start their movie. When the credits came on, all three of us started humming the song, and when we realized we were all doing it, we starting singing it with wild abandon. It felt great, and I thought "Cuss cup, this feels fantastic.

.....

Lie down until the feeling goes away

I'm feeling a lot this week. I go to therapy almost every week. I sit in the same spot on the couch, with my feet curled under me 'cause I kicked off my shoes when I walk through the door. She opens with "so, what's going on?" and I rant and rave for about 35 minutes before she asks "how are you feeling?" This question always renders me speechless. I look at the wall and scroll through my vocabulary of feeling words, which is not as impressive as my vocabulary of slang for the female anatomy or my comfort with ways to use the word "shit." I don't have feeling words up front. I have to think about what they are and find the one that fits me. Sometimes I struggle so with this that she has to list words until I repeat the correct one.

I haven't been sleeping well at all, and I'm hoping that if I get these stupid feelings out of my brain and body, I can get some f***ing rest. Bear witness to me, won't you?

Full. I married the love of the life, the person I know now was truly selected to be my partner. He is stubborn and defensive and sometimes his lack of sentiment shocks me, but oh, does he love me and Jake and Landen. We are all there is, and for every time he fusses or resists, he shows his affection ten-fold. God has blessed me with two young boys to raise, who love me, and whom I love completely and unconditionally. And their mother, one of the people of purest heart I've ever met, not only trusted me with them, but was my friend. I have the most devoted parents, sister and pets and a great big family that supports us and makes me laugh. I have a network of the truest of true friends. I have at least six months of employment security. We're saving to buy our house and have our baby. I'm healthy, and I have great doctors and a therapist to keep me emotionally, mentally and physically capable.

Empty. How can a person feel full and empty at the same time? Maybe this is what is keeping me awake. That same oft-shithead who is completely in love with our family and us with him has taken part of me with him to Iraq, the bastard, and I'm finding that I don't have the joy in my heart that I do when he's with me. I told Jake and Landen that their dad was my best friend, and he's gone, and I asked them if they would be my best friends, and they said yes and hugged me. The fullness that I feel in getting to mother these children comes at the high price of losing their own mother, for whom they were the sun that her world orbited around. I love them, and I'm elated to have them, but I wish it wasn't like this. I wish my gain wasn't such a beautiful person's loss, because I will never be the mother she would've been to them. I have nothing but the best of intentions, and I think we will all be happy and we will keep her with us always, but we lost, and no one more than them.

Angry. I am angry that the Army took him from us. That he didn't continue his college education and thus chose Army success at his career. That he's so good at it. That we didn't see when he was a teenager that he had ADHD and help him focus. That I can't f***ing sleep anymore during the week. That I am trying to move these children forward during the worst time of their entire life. That they know people die, parents die, and that they could think for a second that their dad won't come home. That the person they really need has no power to be here. That Erin died, because she deserved Jake and Landen much, much more than I do. That Erin died, because she was my friend. That my office disbanded and fled to New Orleans. That I have to get up early in the morning. That I keep spending money. That Corey's not here.

Anxious. What if we don't save enough money to buy our house and our king size bed and live in damn apartments forever? What if we're not fertile? What if Jake and Landen won't be happy? What am I doing with my career? How long will I be with the Lt. Governor's office? What do I want to do next? Where are we going to live? Why do I crave gummi bears all the damn time? Why can't I get all the clothes in my house clean? Can we afford private school tuition for the next eleven years? Where will we all sleep when everybody is at my parents' house? What if I paint Aunt Soupie's buffet and I ruin it? How do I get Murphy to stop tearing up the carpet? What if Jake and Landen get kidnapped on a cruise?

Helpless. Being out of control is the most unnatural state for me. I cannot give Jake and Landen the one thing they need most right now - their dad. I cannot control what happens to me at work - I can only show up and do a good job. Most of the questions I am anxious about cannot be answered or solved by my actions alone. Even worse, I have to wait for things to happen or others to make decisions before I can move my family and me forward. Not knowing what will happen, or when, so that I can be ready with my response leaves me very vulnerable.

I think that covers me for now. What's interesting is that I started this little exercise last night, when I couldn't fall asleep, and saved it to finish today. Last night I slept through the night. Seven hours of peaceful, deep, uninterrupted slumber. It's been weeks. Maybe there is something to this feelings shit. They're not just words that don't mean anything (like maternal or addiction. That's a joke for Baby Sister.)

Note from the blogger: You should know that I do a lot of my blogging while watching Oprah. She sets my tone sometimes when she gives away free shit or talks about her unfortunate upbringing or her supremely public struggle with her weight. Harpo should have me on her show. NOBODY has written a story like this. Bonus= you get your hair and makeup done, a free trip to Chicago and I would try to keep the clothes. Ooh, I bet Oprah could tell President Obama that I need a Harpo Hookup and they would send Corey home permanently. She would surprise us on the show, like when those families thought they were coming so Suze Orman could tell them how to save enough money in 3 days to catch up on their mortgage payments before they were foreclosed upon, but it was really Will.i.am who came out and paid off their houses. What will Oprah try to trick me with? Who wouldn't watch that?!

It's hard to hide the kid inside when eating O-R-E-O. And playing Uno.

When I think about what to blog next, if it's something heartfelt or emotional, I try to apply the Oreo effect in my delivery. The theory is that if you have something "constructive" or "unpleasant" to communicate, you begin and end with something positive. I can't recall from where I learned of the Oreo effect, but I try to keep it in mind during verbal and written communication, if nothing else, the "end on a good note" part. Who wants to read a blog that makes you want to open a vein at the end of the post? Besides, I always take the top off my Oreos and mash two together to make double stuffed. The bottom retains the icing, so that's the one I keep. That's why we don't keep Oreos in our house.

I told Corey today on the phone that if he was here, I would slap him in the face and then kiss him passionately. I hate him, but I love him. I never want to see him again, and I need him desperately. Some husbands would be offended, but, I'm a lucky girl, and mine was not. Like if Venus and Serena were supposed to play doubles against some other really good team that I don't know because I don't do tennis and I only know the Williams Sisters because they're obnoxious....and then Venus broke her leg but Serena still had to play that other team (I'm going to say they're world champions, because this analogy needs to be more complicated) all. by. herself. Poor Serena. She would probably be more determined to win, because she was the sole player for their team. And she would feel so badly for her sister in broken-leg pain but would be mad at her for breaking her damn leg and abandoning her. It wouldn't matter that Venus did not break her leg on purpose. It would only matter that she was gone and poor Serena had to fend for herself against double the foe.

At night I lay in bed and count forward eight hours to think of where he is and what he's doing. Our skies are lit differently, so we can't even look up and see the same celestial beings. He lays down on a single bed with PotteryBarn Kids Superman sheets I sent him, each piece sealed in a freezer bag so it would arrive in Iraq 10 days later still smelling of our home. I crawl into our bed of crisp, white sheets and quilts and duvets with ample pillows and watch Golden Girls until my eyes get heavy, then I roll over onto his pillow and try to fall asleep. He went to sleep at 2:30 AM, after he Skyped the boys. The three of us were eating pizza rolls while he was falling asleep. Now, they are upstairs asleep and I am soon to follow, and the sun is coming up in Iraq. I have never felt so distant and so close to someone. Supported and alone. Proud and resentful. Single and taken.

But hey, we do what we gotta do. I know how loved and lucky I am. How loved and lucky my family is. This misery, discomfort and loneliness is temporary, which makes it a lot less miserable, uncomfortable and lonely. My dad swears my Grandmother used to say "This too shall pass." There are times in every day where my clouds part and rays of sunshine peek through. Tonight it was playing UNO with the boys.

They are on such emotional rollercoasters, but overall, their progress is very normal, which to me, makes it positive. An exaggerated response to grief, or no response at all would put me in "oh holy shit" mode. Jake has visible waves of aggression. Landen seems to have his periods of clinginess. Tonight, after they were clean from head to toe, instead of climbing in bed, we sat on the floor and played two rounds of UNO. Jake won the first game. He plays UNO on my iPhone, so he's got some strategy. Landen had never played, and he has sportsmanship issues, BUT he won the second game. His reaction was like watching a movie when the struggling quarterback watches the unlikely hero cross the goal line and score the touchdown. His fists are thrown up in the air. He jumps up. He yells "YEAH!"

For twenty minutes of UNO, there was no absence or aggression or loss or vulnerability or loneliness. There was just cards. And laughing. And the three of us encouraging each other. Growing up in my house, we played cards. I played go fish with my mom, and then as I grew older, I would crawl into bed with her and kick her ass at gin. I can remember my parents and I sitting around our formal dining table playing spades when I was 11 or 12. Or sitting on the linoleum floor with my dad playing Solitaire. It was one way we connected with each other, and a side effect of card playing is that you talk to each other. Converse.

I think that Jake and Landen knew we'd stumbled upon something that felt very good to us, because all three of us sometimes struggle to feel good. They asked last night if we could play again tonight, and asked this morning if they could play every night they were with me. We can, and we will, because we give ourselves a little bit of freedom from feeling, just being together, and being present.

Eat this. Drink some. Clean that. Kiss me.

We have had a very interesting week at the Allbritton residence. If I don't talk about it now, I'll forget all the good shit and it will be chronological nonsense when I try to tell you about it later.

I do not do publicity for Lily White on this blog. Much. Except for putting her picture over there in "Meet the Mess." She's an ornery old fool, but she's purdy, purdy. She will try to be your friend and then try to bleed you. She got Em through a pant leg once and Girlfriend hates to be in the house with her and sleeps with the bedroom door closed so Lily cannot get in and ravage her face in the night. She yelled at Jake once to leave her alone behind a chair, but curiousity got the better of him and he came downstairs with a bleeding forehead. We can't be mad at her. Children and visitors know to leave her the hell alone or she will put a hurtin' on you something fierce. So you can imagine her delight when we introduced a dog into the family.

Murphy loves his sister. He tries to share his toys with her, tries to climb up the stairs after her, eats her food, cries when she hides from him under the bed. She scratches and hisses at him every chance she gets and she is slowly, slooooooowly, learning to ignore his constant advances. However, one day last week she walked up to him and touched her nose to his. Murphy was FROZEN in fear, and I was on the phone at the time and stopped talking. Murphy and I didn't know what would happen next. Murphy blinked first and lunged at her and she hauled ass, but still. The connection had been made. Where we go from here peeps, I just don't know.

On Friday, I treated myself to a housecleaning. I believe in being humble. There is a limit to my narcissim. I can cook, accessorize and bargain shop. I'm a good friend. I have a good eye for decorating. I'm a responsible pet owner. I am a good driver. I have enviable hair. I'm wicked smart and sometimes I'm funny. I am not, I repeat, NOT a desirable housecleaner. I clean the TV when the layers of dust cloud the picture. The spots on my bathroom mirrors are so thick it looks like the bottoms are frosted glass. I do vacuum, cause I don't like the bottoms of my feet to get yucky shit on them. I decided to admit defeat on house cleaning. You can't do everything right. And I hired Heaven Scent Cleaning Services upon the recommendation of a friend.

When I got home on Friday, I was amazed. All reflective surfaces - even picture frames - were free of dust and prints. The bathtub smelled like Comet. The floors were mopped. The front of my black dishwasher was clean. The windowsill in my kitchen was clean. It was so bright and sanitary and refreshing. I sat on my couch in awe and called to share this with my mother, who kept saying "well YEAH" in response to my list of things that should be clean of which I was completely unaware. Since then, the boys are tired of hearing "Don't do that! I just paid someone to clean our house!" It's amazing the things that fly freely from my mouth now that I reacted poorly to back when my mother deigned to direct similar statements at me.

I made brisket. I cooked it for 10 hours in the crockpot. It fell apart into tender strands at 6 PM. I have served this to my family before. Corey loves it. The boys have devoured it. However, on this particularly unspecial evening, they didn't like brisket anymore. All attempts to remind them that they once cleaned their plates of it were denied and dismissed. "I'm not so hungry." I threatened to call their Pawpaw if they didn't try the meat. Landen swallowed one and only bite. Jake spit his back out on his plate. I had promised them that if they cooperated with their Mawmaw and did their homework when they got home from school, I would take them swimming for 45 minutes.

Dad's rules are the rules no matter where they are. Their dad, perhaps overcompensating for his fear that I will let them eat whatever they want and make them special food and they will end up finicky eaters like the Sisters Wilson, (Baby Sister has expanded her palate. I am still very finicky. I have Landen convinced we're allergic to onions.) has rules about eating. You WILL try everything on your plate. If you don't like it, we won't give it to you again. If neither of you like it, we won't make it again. (Or, more accurately, I won't make it again.) If you don't feel like eating, or you suddenly decide you don't like something, you'll be hungry. And we won't fix you anything else. Everybody eats the same thing. 

Upon their refusal to eat my brisket, which is to die for and their father would knock them unconscious if it meant he could come home and eat some, I reduced pool time to 30 minutes. That we went to the pool at all was dependent on whether they ate their side - mashed potatoes or corn. Landen ate his mashed potatoes. He's a carb child. Jake ate his corn. He's a veggie child. I warned them that swimming makes you hungry and there would be no cookies or cereal or brownies or chocolate milk for them. This was IT. We went swimming. Actually, they swam in the shallow end and I sat on a lounge chair drinking white wine out of a china coffee cup (people would judge me if they knew I DRANK while my children swam.) Before anybody gets offended and calls OCS, Cydney's BF Justin was supervising with me, and he didn't have a coffee cup of wine. He was also happy to eat plenty of brisket for them. I do love a grateful stomach.

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When the day is done, my mama's still my biggest fan

I have a tremendous mama, and I have beautiful memories of her. Every Saturday, she would lovingly mix some ranch dip mix with some sour cream, make rolls of deli turkey and spread some Ruffles on a Coors Light tray and present Cydney and me with lunch. When we went to the water park at Disney, she hesitantly agreed to take me on a slide. I will never forget her coming down the bottom of that fast-ass slide, on her back with her legs making a Y in the air, and I still laugh uncontrollably when I think about it. She took us to see The Birdcage when Cydney was nine. She taught us how to pock eggs. She used to burp the alphabet. She would channel Christie Brinkley to dance to "Uptown Girl" with wild abandon around our living room.

When I was in the 6th grade, I wanted to make my own clothes. I don't know how many trapeze-dress-biking-short ensembles she helped me make. In fourth grade, we permed our hair together and cried for two hours together when we got home, and the idea to buy headbands in every color to disguise our poor judgment was hers. She impressed the importance of red nail polish on me at a young age. She was Santa Claus until I was 27. She refuses to follow a recipe, which means no one can make anything that tastes like hers. She never made me eat vegetables. She suffered through Cydney's teenage years. She snuck into our rooms to put Vaseline on our chapped lips while we slept. She puts layers of crap on her face at night and she has a beautiful complexion to show for it. She only kisses with the side of her mouth. She eats gumbo for breakfast. She stocks her pantry with the boys' favorite snacks before we come for a visit.

Join me for a tour of my mother's hairdos.

That's me.

And me, and some stylish pillowcases. What was it with the eighties and the mustard yellow or baby shit green?

Christmas morning.

Shockingly, this is not even the perm that caused the tears. This was my first communion, second grade.

That's Cydney.

This may be the only picture we have of little Cydney in a bathing suit. Any beach was a nude beach to that baby girl.

We struggled with Cydney's hair. My mom probably still has those earrings in her jewelry box. She doesn't throw shit away.

Bangs.

This was in Alex.

This is my Jena shower.

Thank you Mama for 30 years of funny, tradition and support. You're the best Mom.

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Warning: unhealthy deuces in the middle of the night may cause unnecessary alarm

This morning at 3:30 AM I was reminded of a very important lesson about expecting the worst. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. And whatnot. You’re about to read a post about my dog’s shadoobies, so if you have a soft stomach, stop reading.

Murphy woke me up shrieking crying in his kennel at that ungodly hour, which usually means he’s thrown up. We’ve endured a process of elimination as to what causes Murphy to hurl in the witching hour – bones, anxiety, depression, treats, food, water, the time he eats – and then I came to the brilliant conclusion that it was the tennis balls, which he had recently taken an interest in. Right about the time he starting being sick in his kennel. Every night for two weeks. The fuzz on the tennis balls makes him sick, which was sad to forbid them from him because boyfriend really enjoyed his balls. But we found rubber tennis balls and now he drives us batshit crazy wanting to play fetch every single second of every single day.

Upon investigation of his kennel I discovered that it was not throw up, it was a deuce, and a very unhealthy one at that. I’m one of those Oprah followers who believes that your outputs indicate your health, and that goes for children, babies and animals. So I check the outputs of my children when something seems suspicious, and of the dog. This wasn’t good. Plus, he’s never, in one year and one month of life, dropped one in his kennel. Clearly the situation was dire.

I let him out on the back patio and he ran in panicked circles to all the grassy areas to make deposits. He was having a moving meltdown, in distress. And then it stopped and he came back inside, retrieved one of the aforementioned rubber balls and tried to give it to the cat. Curious as to what the deposits that caused us all so much alarm looked like, I grabbed my Maglite flashlight (gift from my husband) and went outside to inspect all the places I saw him pause.

In those areas, the deposits had HEADS and ANTENNAS and they were moving. I called the pet emergency hospital and the woman on the phone was audibly irritated with my repetitive need to describe the creatures to her. She told me that intestinal worms are common because they step on other dogs’ poop and then lick their feet and they pass worms to each other. He spent the night at the pet hotel the night before, so it wasn’t a stretch. I could either pay $169 for the ER to look at him, plus additional costs of treatment, or I could wait until my vet opened this morning. She assured me he was not going to perish so I decided to wait.

He played for 45 minutes, while I sat up and searched photos of dog worms. I also went outside and poured bleach on every one of those fat suckers I could find with my Maglite. He was happy as he could be, up playing in the middle of the night. I was a wreck. I wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep thinking he could crap more worms on my floor or in his kennel. I called my sister, who didn’t answer. I called and left Corey’s Skype a voicemail. Finally I decided that it wasn’t a tapeworm or a roundworm, which are the only worms you can see, so we were going back to bed. All I could see when I closed my eyes were those worms, slithering with their little antennas.

Then it occurred to me. What if it was purely coincidence that these creatures happened to be in the vicinity of Murphy’s little piles of mess around the yard? Come to think of it, those antennas reminded me of the ones on snails….but they didn’t have shells….wait….isn’t there a species of creepy crawlies that are snails without shells? SLUGS?!

Google images confirmed for me that what I thought were crawling dog turds were actually big fat happy slugs invading my yard. I thought the dog was dying and we were going to the hospital. Why didn’t the girl who answered the phone at the ER know that I was not describing any parasite that comes out of the hind ends of canines? When did I become a person who first assumes life-threatening illness or injury? Why did I go first to parasitic infestation and not unhappy coincidence of perimeter of nasty garden creepy crawlies? What in the hell would I have done if the boys had been with me and Murphy needed emergency medicine at 4 AM?

(The mystery of Murphy’s illness has not yet been solved. He is fine this morning and he ate his breakfast like a champion, but we are going to take a sample to the vet to check for any unwanted guests in his colon area.)

I also feel the need to call to attention the fact that Corey has been away from our home for the last four months, save two weeks and three days. Murphy only has illnesses of the gastrointestinal variety when Corey is gone. Never has Corey awoke in the night to the sounds of retching or the crying of a puppy who wants out of his filth. Never has he had to put said puppy in the bathtub at 4:10 AM. I think this is an unfortunate coincidence, though there is some evidence that I make my animals neurotic and they engage in obsessive and unhealthy behaviors. I reject this theory and instead add this to the joys of deployment.

Happy Cinco de Mayo friends. I don't do tequila (anymore) but in the spirited interest of being festive, I may pop a lime slice in my white wine spritzer this evening.

I am uninspired for post titles this evening. This one has pictures of me in makeup and a cocktail dress.

I love Mitch Landrieu. I love that he's now Mayor of New Orleans, where his heart and soul are. I love that the city will have a mayor who doesn't constantly put his foot in his mouth. Oh New Orleanians, you lucky bastards. I have nothing to report on my professional endeavors until the interim Lt. Governor is confirmed by the Louisiana legislature sometime this week. Hopefully tomorrow.

Yesterday, Baby Sister and I hauled down to New Orleans for some inauguration festivities. Momentous occasion, and I took three pictures, but they're good pictures and I'm posting them, so SSG Allbritton can see me all gussied up.

Baby Sister

Weezie

Keezy

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A post of adoration and humility

This is another post dedicated to the memorialization of Erin Allbritton, only this one may not make all of your cry.

Jake turns nine on May 8. Traditional birthday parties for the Allbritton boys is a party at home. Jake said he knew his mama wasn't going to feel like doing a big birthday party, he wanted to have his party at Jump 'n Jive, one of those bouncy house places. It was handy that he felt this way because well....because. While Erin's family was keeping vigil at the Carpenter House in those final days, I was trying to sensitively pick a date and time for his party. He had a choice between May 8 at 12:30 pm, which I explained may reduce his numbers since kids play baseball on Saturdays, and May 16 at 3 pm. He wanted more people, so he picked the latter date. He picked out his invitations and we ordered them and reserved a party room at Jump 'n Jive for May 16 at 3:30 pm. (Did you catch that?)

A word here about birthday parties, Erin Allbritton-style. They were extravaganzas. Invitations were scrapbooked masterpieces. One year Jake's invitation was a castle and the drawbridge folded down to reveal the party details. Tables - separate ones for food, cake, presents and eating - were vibrantly clothed. There were streamers and balloons and hats and goodie bags. A photograph of the birthday honoree was enclosed with all thank-you notes. Cakes were tiered-presentations, except the year of the castle, when the cake was this elaborately decorated shield. There has always been a bouncy-house, except one year I recall there was a sprinkler/water slide/wading pool funhouse. I believe Landen's birthday party in February had 40-something attendees. All this to say that birthday parties up until this point have been expertly crafted down to the most minute detail.

Jake's invitation, that I paid to have someone design and print because I am zero percent the creative mind and patient person of Erin, is adorable. He picked it out. He chose the picture. He jumped and clapped when he saw the finished product.

Please recall a previous paragraph that stated the time of the boy's birthday party. Mm-hmm. 3:30 pm. Son of a bitch. I have 45 invitations that say 3:00 pm on them. I take one to my friend Cami across the hall and ask her what in the shit am I going to do with 45 invitations with the wrong damn time on them that did not cost 50 cents apiece and we're t-minus 12 days until the party. And no, Jump 'n Jive can't just move my party to 3 pm. After she stopped laughing, she told me to write it in. Or put a little note.

I matched the font as closely as I could and printed out tiny little labels to change the time on the invitations. I even printed them in blue, so they would stand out. Not bad?

I sent up a little prayer to our angel Erin, and asked her to throw this girl a little help removing her head from her ass before she embarasses us all and brings shame to our name. I mean, shit! Keeping them clean and fed and loved and learned and healthy and happy and well-adjusted is no sweat. This is a birthday party. This is serious business.

I think we're off to a fabulous start. At least, if I may not be one of those mother-types who has their shit together enough to order invitations with the same date and time for which they have reserved and paid a deposit on a facility, I do have the ability to fix things. I am hoping that Mawmaw and NannyandCarly are going to jump in on the decorating and execution of a theme, or else we could all be attending a party like this:

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To carry on

The month of April was too emotional for me to do much blogging. It would’ve been emotional, nonsensical rambling, not the witty, amusing cataloguing of Life as an Allbritton to which we've all become accustomed.

Yeah, so…Friday Corey went back to Iraq. I’ll start there. It’s the most recent in a slew of Completely Shitty Things that have happened lately. (Boofrigginghoo, right?) I’ve asked God for a special treat for his commanders for letting him come home and be with his children through the death and the funeral of their mother. He was of the most help and comfort during that time for me as well, and they gave him to us for two whole weeks. I think having him here for the boys gave Erin some consolation as well.

Let me just say that the things that Corey and I strongly dislike about each other's habits but tolerate because we are committed to each other and our family are still very present, despite distance and absence and joyful reunions. I still, for example, hate the way he does laundry. He's probably very happy to be somewhere where he doesn't have to hear me say that for several months. We are a damn good team when we're on the same goal, which is most of the time, but MAN ALIVE are we UGLY when we turn on each other. We got in our Biggest Fight To Date the night before he left, which I think may be pretty typical for two people dealing with the fear and anxiety we're confronting. We don't go to bed angry though, and it was nothing a couple frozen ice cream treats from CVS and some Will and Grace laughter couldn't salvage.

Mitch Landrieu will be sworn in as the Mayor of New Orleans at 10 AM on Monday morning, thus ending his term as Lieutenant Governor and my boss. The interim Lt. Governor who has been named until October has a great reputation and has said he doesn't intend to make staffing changes, which bodes well for the three of us left in the Office of the Lt. Governor. It's so unnerving to work for someone who values you and regards you as highly competent and then remain for the "changing of the guard," as my coworker puts it. This means your new boss has NO opinion of you. He definitely doesn't know that you're competent and committed and a true asset to him, and it takes time for him to figure these things out, which he hopefully will. A substantial amount of my work was for Mitch or my Chief of Staff, so I have no idea whether or to what degree my new boss will use me. I am going to some of the inaugural festivities in New Orleans on Monday, so I will get to bid farewell to many of my comrades. I've had enough saying good-bye in the last few weeks to last several lifetimes!

Erin died one week and one day ago. It's so fresh to me, and compared to the scores of people joining me in my grieving, I barely knew her. Erin's closest circle of friends had been friends for years and years. She was extremely close to her parents and sister and her nieces. I feel my hurt that she's gone, and then I think about the emptiness so many other people are feeling, and I hurt for them. Nobody will ever love Jake and Landen like she did, and it's unbearable that they've lost that devotion. Not that their dad isn't 163% devoted to them, or that I don't love them like they're my own. But the depths of a mother's love are sacred and mysterious, and the only person who had that for those boys is in heaven now. Forever their angel. The boys are with their grandparents this week. I know they all need the time together, and I hope Jake and Landen can bring a little sunshine to Pam and Ronnie during a very dark time for them. I miss my boys though! The boys see their counselor tomorrow afternoon, and I'm positive she's going to report that the boys are doing fine, and the rest of us are the effing messes.

I'm digging through the wealth of wisdom handed down from ten years of therapists to find the resources I need to get us back on track. (One day I'm going to devote an entire post to my misadventures of therapy. I once became a patient of a woman because I just knew she would be like Barbra in Prince of Tides.) In the morning, before I get out of bed, I identify what I am presented with that day. Then I decide what I can do something about, and work on those. I almost have my laundry under control. There are clothes in the wash, clothes in the dryer, and a dirty set of sheets on deck, and then I'm done. The kitchen is clean. The sheets on my bed are clean, and I got new pillows! I'm going to do some Little Green Machine spot treatment this evening. I also got a lot of sleep this weekend, saw Date Night (mediocre) and bought myself some new sparkly earrings to wear to the inauguration gala and a stunning serpent bracelet, just because. I've also given myself permission to hire someone to clean my house. It's something I really feel like it will help me to outsource.

Life goes on, even when we don't want it to, or when we feel a little guilty about it. I've got a husband overseas who is depending on me to care for his children, his home and his family while he's gone. I made a promise to my friend that I would keep her children healthy and happy if she wasn't going to live to do it. I have to produce and respond for my new boss so I can continue to experience career growth. And we're throwing Jake a birthday celebration in two weeks. He's turning 9! Party on.

I took this picture last week while Corey was playing Xbox with the boys.

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For Erin

My truly sad days number three. Only three days, in as many decades of life, have been heartbreaking and life-altering. My mom’s sister, my godmother Soupie, lost her battle with lung cancer in August 2008. We, as a very large family, squeezed into her hospital room and prayed over her, said a rosary over her, and she, who could barely speak, told us she loved us. Hours later she was gone. At some point during the church service, the choir of which she was a member for 20 years sang “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” which I’ve never cared for. But when THEY sang it, for their beloved friend and our beloved aunt/sister/wife/mother/grandmother, I understood that she was GONE, in that box to my right, and something in me cracked. I cried from a deep, dark, sad place I had never felt before, and have not felt since. Three months later, when I got married and she wasn’t there, I felt the soreness from a part of me that broke months earlier.

In December 2006, my dear friend’s husband died in Iraq. He left behind my friend Maggie and her three small children. If I remember correctly, the priest doing the mass got too choked up to continue. He was buried at Arlington Cemetery – the 21-gun salute, the bagpipes playing “Amazing Grace,” the folded flag presented to the widow, the caisson drawn by horses carrying his casket through Arlington Cemetery. For all my life, I will remember Maggie and her three children parading behind that caisson with Marine escorts, in Jackie-Kennedy fashion. The funeral was my last day with my friends and coworkers at Downey McGrath before I moved back home to Louisiana. That day was the day I fully understood how cruel the world is and felt the reach of war.

I had thought, through Erin’s illness, that she and I would be able to sit down together once death was approaching, so that she could tell me everything she wanted for Jake and Landen after she was gone. We did not get to have the formal conversation, though I think I spent enough time with her to understand how to carry on for her. Two weeks before she died, early on a Sunday morning, I was summoned to the Johnson house because it looked like she was going. We didn’t know then, but she was having a three-hour seizure, and later that day she was moved to residential hospice, where they had more medical resources to give her comfort in her final days. The Thursday before, she had been at the ballpark in her wheelchaired glory, watching her babies play baseball. Landen played at 6. Jake played at 7:30. It got chilly and she got tired, but she cheered and took pictures until the last runner was called out. I look back on that Thursday now and understand that I was with someone who was unstoppable.

On that Sunday morning, I knelt down by her and promised her that the boys would always know who she was and what she was like, that she would always be alive in our home. She told me she loved me. I told her I loved her and kissed her forehead. Two days before she passed, I promised her the boys would be loved and happy. I think that we were together enough and talked enough up to the end that I knew her wishes and she knew my intentions. I like to think that to the extent a person can be at peace with such an early departure from their children, she had confidence the boys would be okay. I’d always heard that people have visions of relatives and friends who’ve died before them when they’re dying. Erin spent two weeks having visions of her babies as babies.

I know I was not a welcome addition to Erin’s life, but she never let me feel like I shouldn’t be here. She embraced me. I know now that I am but one of many people who delighted in Erin during her life. Father Bob kept saying at her mass “you don’t forget someone like Erin.” When there was nothing to smile about, she smiled. When her health was failing, she asked about yours. She summoned energy from unknown sources to be present for her boys’ moments, big and small. Her memory for events and conversations, sights, smells and sounds was unlimited. That singer/songwriter genius Carole King wrote “Beautiful” almost a decade before Erin was born, but she was an example of the first two lines of that song - you’ve got to get up every morning with a smile on your face and show the world all the love in your heart. She was good and true. She was love.

My third saddest say was the day Corey and I told her goodbye – Wednesday, April 21, 2010. Pam called us and said they only expected her to make it another few hours. She actually held on until Saturday, April 24. He and I went into her room and sat by her bed. I rubbed her arm while he assured her the boys would be okay and we would never let them forget her. I was crying too hard to talk. I felt this loss for both the mother losing her daughter, and for the child losing his mother. She was light to some very important people, and now there is dark.

So when tomorrow starts without me,
Don't think we're far apart
For every time you think of me,
I'm right here in your heart.