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May 6th, 2012
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It seems as though our schedules these days only allow for free time on Sundays. Work, home, responsibility, sheesh…buzz kill. But Sunday, glorious Sunday. If the planets align, and someone remembers to send out a text message, we all get to ride. (And by “all” I mean our merry band of bikers, totaling 5-7 people.)

Today I realized that these Sunday rides have become like church for me. Since I don’t have a bike and simply ride on back of The Man’s, it allows me a freedom to reflect, absorb, and think. My ipod holds my songs of hope and love and serenades me down the road.

The trees and sky have become my sanctuary.




“Took a look down a westbound road, right away I made my choice. Headed out to my big two-wheeler, I was tired of my own voice” ~Bob Seger







I can contemplate my place in the world.





“All this time I can’t believe I couldn’t see, Kept in the dark but you were there in front of me” ~Evanescense













I travel through this day with those I love, while their minds also turn to greater thoughts.





“Fly the ocean in a silver plane, see the jungle when it’s wet with rain, just remember till your home again, you belong to me” ~Jason Wade











At the day’s end, I feel renewed and refreshed. My spirit has been healed of its bruises and bumps and I can face a new week with a strong heart again. This may not be for every one. It may not be the stereo-typical service on bended knee. There may not be prayers recited by rote, but there are prayers.

Late night conversation with a jerk

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May 3rd, 2012
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Last night I had the following conversation with mydog.  (What?  You don’t talk to your pets?  You’re weird.)

Me: Dude, you’re kind of a jerk.

Dash: Nope, I’m fabulous. Like Barbra Streisand or Charlie Sheen.

Me: In the past few weeks you have eaten an entire box of Godiva chocolates, sucked the green medicine out of four Nyquil gel-caps, chewed up three replacement cartridges for an electronic cigarette and wrapped yourself up in an entire roll of scotch tape. Normal dogs don’t act like this.

Dash: Listen here Judgey McJudgerson, I don’t bring up all the weird things you do. I’m tolerant. Like Ghandi or the Godfather.

Me: The Godfather wasn’t actually all that tolerant.

Dash: *sigh * Again with the judging….

Me: I’m afraid your actions will influence the other dogs and soon I will have total anarchy in the house. You do realize that I’m the master here, right?

Dash: I will not cave to your dictatorship. POWER TO THE PEOPLE!

Me: ummmm, you’re not…people, exactly.

Dash: I was speaking metaphorically, asshole.

I'm bad to the bone!

Uno de Mayo

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May 2nd, 2012
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Back when dinosaurs roamed the earth and I was in high school, foreign language classes were something most of us had to suffer through. We could take either Spanish or French, and somehow my slacker brain decided that Spanish would be way easier.

It wasn’t easier, but I was fortunate to get a teacher that was way cool to us all and just on the eccentric side of silly. She would read us children’s books and show us goofy animated movies about some poor girl named Maryann that had no shoes. She would teach us “almost” dirty words and how to ask directions to the library. (Never once have I been in a Spanish-speaking country and had a library emergency. Thanks for nothing, High School)

Now the offspring are navigating the high school, I find myself in the throes of Spanish class hell again. But suddenly the rules have changed. Oh, they are still conjugating verbs and probably learning how to ask where library is, but there’s a new twist. Food. Spanish food. And we’re expected to cook it and send it to school. TO BE GRADED.

Now I can throw some tacos together like nobody’s business, but microwaved nachos and generic shredded cheese is nowhere on the list of choices. All of this ranting is because I stayed up way too late last night baking something called Bizcocho de Chocolate.

(This is basically a chocolate layer cake with a custard filling and a diabetes-inducing amount of chocolate icing. It is also something tht I will never make again, because any recipe that makes me use a sifter AND a double boiler three mother-effing times is sent directly from Satan and should be avoided at all costs.

For the next three hours I sifted and stirred my way through many pages of vague instructions that included helpful hints such as about 30 minutes or so and the non-helpful until it’s sort of thick.

And where, pray tell, was the child that was supposed to be baking this delightful dessert to further her education? Sleeping of course. After school (which included a swimming test) and practice after school until 8:00pm, the little angel was tired and smelled vaguely of chlorine and the band practice room.

As I manned my mixer and sang softly to myself (Pobre, pobre Marianella no tenga zapatos)I mentally totaled the cost of ingredients and then kicked myself squarely in the ass for spending $28.00 on a cake so that my kid could get 10 bonus points for a class in which she was already getting an A. Even I am amazed at my stupidity sometimes.

In an effort to distract myself, I tried picturing the happy faces of the kids in her classs, gleefully chowing down on a fabulous cake…..(wait a freakin’ minute) at 9:30 in the morning! Twenty-five kids hopped up on sugar, fine chocolate, and sweetened condensed milk. Teenagers bouncing off the walls of their next Algebra or Chemistry class. Crap on a cracker.

And then my thoughts turned to the teacher. This woman, who teaches foreign language all day has convince a large population of parents to feed her for the next several weeks. I’ve sent 3 or four entrees or desserts for the eldest child over the last few years. Now a cake is sent with the youngest and I foresee a few more in my future. Take this times about, oh say, 150 kids a year, and we’re basically feeding this woman for most of the school year. Each kid is assigned a specific day to bring their offering assignment, based on what I can only assume are her dietary needs. (So I finished the cake and went to bed mad. The End.) ((Not really))

Has anybody else ever had to feed their kids’ teachers? Because I feel like I *may have* just bribed my kids teacher with delectable treats. Please send my Mother-of-the-Freakin’-Year check to Casa de Marianella. Because Mama needs new zapatos.

Yep, this smells about right.

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Apr 30th, 2012
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I’m pretty sure that I’m not doing this mothering thing correctly. The eldest child (Bette) is graduating in mere days and I’m sots happy about it

Am I not supposed to be weeping and wailing, roaming around my nest and lamenting my losses? Shouldn’t I be calling The Scooter Store and speaking with some helpful representative about my advanced years and inability to control my bladder when I laugh?

I have long suspected that I’m just not wired correctly. I’m pretty sure that most mothers haven’t created a complex formula concerning the number of hours I get back for myself with one less child in the house. And closet space! The sheer amount of space I’m gaining with which to fill right up with MY STUFF has made me giddy.

Some small part of my brain remembers the excitement I felt as my own graduation approached. In the weeks before commencement I could literally smell the freedom and independence. I think the kid smells it too. Is this that smelly teen spirit the kids speak of? I’m catching a whiff of it myself again.

I’ve moved!

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Apr 26th, 2012
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So a couple of weeks ago I decided to stop pretending to have a blog and actually purchase my own domain.  Welcome to Hush Woman.  The previous format (Blogger) had become as cranky and contrary as that elderly neighbor that screamed because your trash cans were facing the wrong way.  Or maybe it’s because my old site was such a mess that it was lowering everyone else’s property values.  You say potato….I say whatever.

For anyone new here, I’m an old broad with nearly grown offspring, a penchant for bourbon and the same sense of humor typically found in twelve year old boys.  If you stick around long enough (and please stick around) you’re liable to be reading about biker shenanigans, life in a small town retail liquor business and my general insanity.

Give me a day or two to learn my way around my new fancy digs (thanks JD and Sher), and then I’l be back to share with you the latest way I have embarrassed myself.

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