Jesus thinks my ass is spectacular.

I am the queen of my bed, but not in a "having all the sex" kind of way......more like a "I dare you to lay in bed longer than I can" way.

I'm not sure if it's a way to escape the life stressors that threaten to dip me in gravy and gobble me up, or if I can blame it on the ever increasing foot pain that demands more surgery.

But whichever excuse reason is to blame, I've become a slug.

And my children have become little slug babies.

Netflix is possibly the devils juice of technology...although I suppose better to be tempted with endless episodes of Dexter than crack and the allure of a life of prostitution.

See, my bedroom is on the main floor of my oldasfuck house...and right next to the living room. Our migration into my bed began innocently enough: there was a power surge one night that rendered my satellite box only displaying varying shades of purple...the blue ray player no longer accepted the damn Netflix code...the springs in our couch have completely given way so one might as well sit on the floor with the dog hair dust balls...Jesus came to me in a dream and announced that my bed was like the holy grail of Alberta so I should revere and spoil it with my lazy growing awesome ass as much as possible...this list goes on infinitely.

Thus began the whole "how many vegetative humans can you fit in a king size bed?" quest. The answer is ALL THE VEGGIES. Plus a basset hound. And a giant bag of Cadbury's Easter eggs.

One night, while child #2 and I were watching Prison Break...which, by the way, is awesome because there are TWO humpable samples of tastiness in ONE show...she was all "why does he always leave his shirt open?...he should button up" and I'm like "no...no he shouldn't". Then we both laughed because she obviously realized her initial thoughts were silly.

In summary, Netflix is also possibly a crucial ingredient for reinstilling family appreciation and values to our society. 

Quite the conundrum.

Regardless, it has helped me to conclude that imaginary potential television boyfriends hold way more promise for an emotionally satisfying future...at least you know you'll see them again next season.

One is the loneliest number......but maybe one likes being alone?

Be content with what you have; rejoice in the way things are. 

When you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you.

Lao Tzu 

Over the past few months I feel like I have turned a corner.

One in which I embrace my life for what it is...instead of searching for my other half. Maybe that "other half" is within me. Or maybe it's on a fishing boat off the coast of Muhu in the Baltic Sea. Either or...really it doesn't fucking matter. It's just not the time for a treasure hunt of possibly epic life changes.

Because I've pretty much had my fill of that shit.

Am I still battling moments of sadness, what ifs, anger, bitterness, and omfg loneliness? 

Absofuckinglutely.

This is the first time in my life since I was 18 years old that I have been without a partner, and it's weird as fuck.

That's twenty years of living my life considering a man before me.

Now, don't get me wrong...of course I still have others to consider. And by "others" I mean "my children".

At this point I have done enough damage to their developing psyche's. So I figure that unless I want a future birthday card from my kid to read "you were the worst mother ever and I'm going to be in therapy for the rest of my life or at the very least a raging alcoholic" I should stop being so fucking ridiculous.

I mean, obviously I am not a good judge of character. 

This should have been apparent to me when, after my final break up with the ex boyfriend last year, I found myself popping plan b whilst pissing in a cup for the nice phlebotomist lady......reassuring me/myself/i of the absence of icky yicky sex cooties because I allowed the first boy who called me pretty an all access pass to andy-land.

But I digress......and shudder at the memory.

I suck at knowing a good person from a nutfuck.

Therefore, I have resigned myself to remain alone until my primary focus of raising children has come to fruition. Then it doesn't matter that I can't tell a Clingy McClingerson from a Harry Iliketobraidmypubes. 

Perhaps by then I will be strong enough to weather this life alone, rather than weeping at Pinterest pictures of old people married for 40+ years holding hands and lounging on a park bench.

Stupid fucking old people.

I have located desperation and then I punched it in the face because I would rather eat a squirrel than embrace that level of desperate.

As promised, today I am going to touch on the totally fucked up convenient and titillating cacophony of possibilities when it comes to meeting your life partner via the internet.

The collective "we" of today are connected to technology like a virtual anal umbilical cord...so it comes to reason and logical conclusion that meeting a potential soul mate ...hahahahahahahaha... from an online connection is absolutely possible.

Right?

Calm your laughter, peeps.

And so let's begin...

Since I'm po', I am left with little options aside from free. And by "little options" I mean "none".

You pick a site, embelish upon insert your basics, set the parameters for potential matches, and off we go to the local whoring fishing pond.

Choices are overwhelming...in a "this is the type of men that have been filtered through for my review?!!, Jeezus H. Fuckballs kill me now" kind of way.

Firstly, if his profile picture is more artsy than the photoshopped presentation I put forth? I'm going to assume that you are:

1. Gay...and not ready to admit that we both think penises are yummy.

or...

2. You have stolen a random male model pic from some deep and dark corner of the internet because you are trying to ensnare your cheating whore girlfriend.

Either way, you aren't going to attract many of us...aside from maybe bible thumping Becky, who has a personal interest in praying out the gay from a man ever since daddy left her mom for his tennis buddy with the fabulous ass.

Please to be enjoying some of the literary gems that caught my gag reflex eye:

1. "If you are a hooker or looking for money as you are down on your luck please do not contact me."
2. "You must be in excellent shape. NO BBW's."
3. "I'm moderately bizarre when it comes to dating as I am equally at home watching live theatre as I am at full contact martial arts."
4. "Into kids, if you have any."
5. "I'm looking for someone like me cause I'm kinda a big deal."

On the bright side, because there is always something shiny amiright, I now have considerably more free time to do whatever the fuck I want instead of personal grooming.

Memories are more annoying than heartburn.

You know those commercials for home improvement stores where couples are straining their relationship over what hue of yellow to use in their kitchen?

That used to be me.

I remember when life was that simple.

Like, "ridiculously boring and beyond my current scope of understanding in the way things used to be" simple.

When I was pregnant with my first child I sponged fluffy as fuck adorable clouds on the walls of his nursery.

Shut the fuck up. Really I did. I also didn't drink or smoke. I know, right?!

Nowadays? I try to figure out how I'm going to camouflage the frigging cat scratches in the walls of my oldasfuck house that's adorned with daffodil wallpaper and the olfactory pleasure of a lingering aroma that I like to call "crunchy crumbly old people smell".

Eight years ago I had a husband, three children, a beautiful house that I had designed right down to the color of the kitchen counter tops, and I went for walks with dogs and babies in a stroller.

I even had a day home.

Again, shut up with all the laughing.

Nowadays?

I'm alone.

I have no husband, and i rent a 70 year old house in the middle of fucking nowhere.

Not only do I have the ex husband, I now also have the ex boyfriend. Also there's the guy I was dating...I label him thus because I couldn't assign the title of another ex boyfriend without imagining that I'm a fucking loser who has a terrible ability to relate to and understand others the one I had for 7 years. It's kind of like getting a new dog after your old dog dies and calling it by the same name (I make no excuses for my way of thinking, peeps...it keeps shit interesting). My lack of a proper label for the guy I was dating probably stemmed from the whole "I have no trust of any penis wielding human" thingy. Well, aside from my father...or maybe my son, but even he is kind of sketchy at times.

Whatevs.

This thought process of mine would probably speak volumes to anyone who dares to analyze the innards of my way of thinking...but myself? I'm going to assume I am way beyond able to form a healthy relationship aside from that which I have with my children. This was immediately totally kind of depressing to me...but now I think that if I can do one thing right...and that one mother fucking thing is "being a good mother to impressionable young souls"?

Well, let's just say that I could certainly be worse off...

lucky 7 is only lucky if you're referring to multiple orgasms. orbottles of rum.

I never realized how many parts of my life a 7 year relationship breakdown would fuck up disturb.

As it turns out, the answer is "a lot".

I'm not, however, still sitting over here on my pillow of pity weeping about it and playing the sad shit playlist from my iphone on repeat......often.

Andrea thought that when she was ready to date once again after her shit storm calmed, there would hopefully be some witty banter...stomach butterflies...you know, "happy ever after" and all that bullshit jazz.

Because sometimes Andrea is a fucking idiot.

Instead I have fear, and a mother fucking bucket full of "lack of trust". Also, it has taken almost an entire year for me to not think in the absolute mindset of "all men are disgusting pieces of lying cheating indecisive hole fuckers who believe a single vagina couldn't possibly satiate their precious man stick forever and ever".

While I may have repeatedly blamed the ex boyfriend for this state of mind in the past...this is no longer true.  Over the past 335 days ~ holy fuck, seriously?! ~ I like to think that I have made great discoveries and accepted new realities, releasing my death grip on the blame and anger I strangled my heart with for way too long.

Ultimately? I truly believe that 2012 was karma boot fucking me for my starring role in the theatrical thriller of 2005...aptly titled "The Demise Of A Marriage"...and its sequel "Ripping Apart Your Kids' Family Unit".

That's that. Done. What you give is what you get...pay attention.

And so I move on...because, as I've discussed before, a new year is an OCD'ers brain-gasm.

You're welcome, brain...

Relatedly, you all should prepare yourselves for my upcoming list of "things one shouldn't put on an online dating profile". Mostly this involves the idiocy of other people and not me. Obviously.

CHEERS to giving up on your stupid, perfect dreams!!! dumb ass.

I am so tired of the effects of the ex boyfriends other peoples words upon my soul. Seriously, just as I'm about to exhale, a big mother fucking balloon of DRAMA gets popped in my ear.

My heart? It's no longer identifiable as a heart...the bloody mess of stomped upon flesh has just enough ability to stay functionable for my children. And of course, Captain Morgan.

So.

Anyone want me to deliver shitty news to someone...kick your irritating boss in the face...ground your kids and force feed them brussel sprouts?! I'm totally up for that.

Honestly, I probably should have developed thicker skin by now...considering the devastating pain and ache me and my pathetic heart have struggled through since earlier this year.

Not that I am without fault, because I am not an infallible woman. Obviously. But nobody ever wins when the blame game is played. Except liquor companies. And online dating websites.

I am, however, a good mother and a good person...and I don't deserve to be thought of as otherwise.

I also love loved someone more than I should have. Didn't think that was possible, hey?

Yeah, me neither...but apparently there is a limit as to how much you should love someone. At least, this is my theory...and new #1 rule to live by.

Forever.

I never thought that being alone with only Andrea as a companion would seem so appealing.

At some point I'm going to grow weary of the sex with me, myself, and I...

"hole poking" is always better when there are baked goods involved.

last month, after my eldest stepdaughter turned 18 and i died on the inside because holy shit i am crunchy old, she asked me to accompany her as she got the back of her neck inked.

and since i'm all about defacing my own body and encouraging others to follow suit? i was totally in on the "field trip of needles and skin" awesomeness.

when we arrived, however, her tattoo guy was not there yet...probably he was finishing up the previous nights bounty of hookers and crank...so we perused the studio, looking at drawings and jewelry and such.

then i was all "i've always thought about getting my belly button pierced..." and because she is awesome and reciprocates my own encouragement of self mutilation she goes "oh, you totally should! i'll hold your hand!!!".

at that point most sane parents would be like 'okay, i'm not drunk...so there goes that excuse...damn!'. and then that would be that; the moment of idiocy passes. i mean, usually the most excitement in my day is watching a new-ish rerun of flashpoint on the bravo channel.

but this is not me. obviously.

so, long story somewhat short, i got the piercing. i think my belly fat might be more solid than what the piercer was used to, though...because all was not smooth sailing and i think my kid got a little white watching the POKE ALL THE HOLES lady contort herself and my stomach squish into all sorts of fun shapes while trying to thread through the ring.

honestly, at that point i was pretty numb from the pain and anxiety and OMFG WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING so she could have had a gaggle of gremlins playing with my anus and i wouldn't have been any the wiser.

all was well in belly button land until a few days ago. i had a cute little cupcake with sparkles dangling above my girl bits, forcing me to look down at my stretch marks and wobbly pouch with a new admiration and appreciation for my womanly fabulousness.

and then, one night while getting ready for bed, my cupcake was gone.

i'm all "what the fuck?!"...because i talk out loud to myself to fill the loneliness on the inside...and then i immediately looked into my belly button.

it made sense in my head that my tummy would swallow up my cupcake. holy shit that totally made me sound high. sparkles and yum, AMIRIGHT?!

after a moment i became reasonable once again and realized that it was more than likely on the floor somewhere and probably the kitten would come across it before i did. so whatever. as long as the cat wasn't fucking with my tree of mother fucking christmas spirit (see previous post), all was good in my hood.

but then my youngest stepdaughter found my cupcake with sparkles last night when rolling around on the living room floor with molly the bitch. she was all I DON'T EVEN KNOW YOU "since when did you have a belly button piercing?!".

and then i explained that it was all her sisters fault. and i was drunk. and emotionally unstable. and a great role model.

i'm confident all will be fine once i let her pierce something.