Clothes Shopping Leads to Arsenal Shopping

Each and every day, there are 2 things my kids remind me of:

1. I'm too young for this stuff, seriously, and 
2. I'm going to need an arsenal here soon. 

Yesterday I took the kids clothes shopping. We are low on cash right now, and after going through their drawers and seeing that I had just about an entire garbage bag of clothes they no longer fit into, I opted to head to one of those places that gives you trade in value on your old clothes. So, as the woman is going through our bag of clothes (which I had freshly laundered and gone over with a fine tooth comb to make sure there were no stains, holes, etc), the kids go running through the store to find new additions to their wardrobe. At the moment, my children are between sizes, meaning, their waists are one size, but the length in that size isn't quite long enough (their daddy is 6'3"). So, we decided to buy larger clothes to cover the length problem, and just use belts religiously. 

Three pairs of pants, a hoodie, and three shirts each later, the woman calls me to the counter with her 'offer'. $13.50. Seriously??? That's it? Then I see that she only decided that about 1/4 of what I brought in was profitable to them. So, I start the talk with her- she took none of my son's shorts, which had only been worn maybe 4 times each, and it's freaking Arizona, so you can't tell me it's because it's winter outside- it's still 70 degrees during the day. She goes on to tell me that my kids' clothes were 'worn', and I argue that I not only went through them twice, checking everything, but that it's a second hand store; people don't go there for brand new clothes. Then I bring to her attention that the size of my son's clothing I was bringing in were 5s, and they seriously lacked size 5s on the rack. Nothing would convince her to take a second look, so I took my $13.50, thinned the new clothes my kids had picked out down to 2 pairs of pants each, the hoodies, and 2 shirts each, and ended up spending $30 out of pocket...

Women's Talk Wednesday: The Black Hole (Guest Post)

(Today's post is from Megan, over at 1 Funky Woman. From the first post of hers I read about shaving versing waxing, I was in blog-love! She is one of those moms that embarrasses her kids because that's her job, and talks about the imperfect facets of life that many other people won't even mention- see now why I fell in love with her blog??? She is an amazing woman with whom I clicked immediately, and I'm thankful to her for helping me out by writing a guest post for The Inklings of Life!! So go check her out, Inklingers- you'll fall in blog love, too...)


The Black Hole. If you look at the definition in the dictionary it gives you two possible definitions. They are:

1. object in space: an area in space with such a strong gravitational pull that no matter or energy can escape from it. Black holes are believed to form when stars collapse in on themselves.
2. place where things get lost: a place or thing into which objects disappear and are not expected to be seen again.

Moving Requires Lots of Lube

Okay, so I guess it's getting to be the time to let the cat out of the bag. No, not Zombie Kitty, though she did get herself into a bag inside a box this morning... anyway. I've mentioned bits and pieces here and there, but with the subject matter of today's post, it's time to go ahead and let it out.

The kids, Z, and I are moving. While I'd like to post where we are up and moving to, I'm not sure if my stalkers (and I don't mean my Inklingers- you all clicked the 'follow' button and opted to let me know that you are stalking me- that's perfectly acceptable and actually makes me happy) have found my blog so, we'll just have to keep that one under wraps for a bit longer. (Though, kudos to those who are regular Inklings followers, because you all have figured it out by now!) But what I will say is it's 2000 miles away from our current location (yes, that we just moved to not 6 effing months ago) and back in the South. Grits, sweet tea, pig pickins and humidity- here I come!!!

So, what's today's post about to where I had to let the cat out of the bag? Moving, or, rather, movers. Ah, lets just dive in.

This is the first move I've ever had to pay more than beer and pizza for. Every large move we've had to make in our life was paid for and taken care of by the military. We just scheduled a date, big burly men (or tiny little guys who reek of whisky but are sweeter than molasses) came and packed our entire house up, and about 2 weeks later our household goods were being delivered at our new location for us to unpack and start a new life. This will be my fourth move in three years, but two of the moves were a few miles apart, so yeah, pizza, beer and some good friends was all I needed. Well, not this time. A 2000 mile move requires some sort of help (I am not driving a moving truck cross country, sorry), so I began last week calling movers out to give me estimates.

Friends = Family

I've been doing a lot of thinking about family lately, and what exactly makes up a family. Traditionally speaking, there's a mom, a dad, children, brothers and/or sisters, grandmothers, grandfathers, aunts, uncles.... you get the picture, but it boils down to blood relation. Nowadays there are step-parents, half siblings, adopted children and so on, so the blood relation aspect is getting watered down a bit, but these people are still family. Then, in my opinion, there are the people that aren't related to you in any way, shape or form, that through the trials and tribulations of life become your family. You know, that girl that you decide to feed one day, and she never goes away (yes, like a stray dog), or the person you meet in a store and the two of you just hit it off, or the ones you meet online through the blogging community or Facebook that you will probably never actually meet face to face- I'm talking about Friends. (One of my favorite TV shows, by the way.)

Today, I'm putting my Friends on blast here on my own blog. Yeah, that's right, it's my blog, so I can do whatever I want. Neener neener. I will not divulge names to protect the identities of those I'm talking smack about, and yes, I will be forwarding this blog post to each of them. Hehehe, this is going to be FUN!!! So sit back, and enjoy the glimpse into the people who must be psychotic enough to are proud to claim my crazy ass as a friend (scary, right?).

Birthdays, Tatted Mom Style

30 years ago today, Ronald Reagan was sworn into office as President, and Iran released 52 American hostages...

And, I was born. =)

Today I was given an amazing Birthday present! Cynthia over at Mom Blog Network let me know that I had been chosen as the Mom Blogger of the Week! Super stoked about it, so go check out their amazing site! I joined when I first started blogging, and have loved being a member! Thanks to the Mom Blog Network for choosing me, and The Inklings of Life!!

So, what does Tatted Mom do on her 30th birthday? Buy three different types of cakes (French chocolate bistro cake, New York Cheesecake and a regular birthday cake with buttercream icing), a large bottle of Moscato wine, and anti-wrinkle cream. Yeah, you read that right. I bit the bullet and bought some stuff to help me out a little. Hey, don't judge; I'm starting my life over at 30; anti-wrinkle cream is a staple in that process.

And I search for things to make me laugh so the reality of starting another decade doesn't hit me quite so hard. Yes, normally I love my birthdays, but this year.... well.... it's taking some effort to get into the birthday mood.

But this totally helped some. I found this on Youtube.com and just had to share. Yes, this is my kind of humor. This video made me almost pee my pants several times, and it doesn't matter how many times I watch it!!

So enjoy!

If The Sun's Not Up, Why Should I Be?

I'm just going to go ahead and state something now: I am not a morning person. Anyone who knows me, or has lived with me, can attest to that. Hell, you know it's bad when one morning I turned my phone on (I keep it off at night so my Facebook SMS messaging doesn't wake me up when my east coast friends start updating their statuses at 4am my time), and had a text message from one of my best friends 2000 miles away that says, 'I need to run something by you, get your opinion on it, but have your coffee first and then get back to me, lol.' So, I can be a bit cranky in the morning before my coffee... possibly the understatement of the century.

Because of this aversion to the morning, I have realized one thing that I am immensely thankful for- the age of my kids. My daughter will be nine here soon, my son is six, and thank goodness they know how to make a bowl of cereal and dress themselves. I've even taught my daughter how to use the toaster, so their morning breakfasts can have a little variety- cereal one day, a bagel the next. My daughter is the exact opposite of me; she sets her alarm in her room, gets up the first time it goes off, gets dressed, does her hair, fixes herself breakfast, and by this time, maybe Mommy has at least gotten out of the bed and is laying on the couch 'supervising' the morning routine. I can honestly say I have no idea where she gets this morning perkiness from. If I hadn't carried her for 9 months of my life, spent 29 1/2 hours in labor, and pushed her out myself, I would swear she was adopted.

Peace, Love and Two Tattoos (Guest Post)

(Today's post was written by Brooke over at Daily Dose of Dahl. She's an amazing woman with a blog I've been addicted to since I first stumbled upon it. I want to thank her so much for helping me out during some *fun* rollercoaster times in life.)





When Morgan asked me to guest post for her, after I finished beaming and immediately replying hell to the yeah I’ll do it, I started to try and figure out what I’m going to write about. Kids? My general goofiness? My slightly alarming but often hilarious dating history? My ex husband? Ooooooh, the possibilities.

I only have two tattoos. Both of them on are on my back, right around my shoulder area, and one on each side. I worked in banking for a long time, and I wanted ink that I could hide or show at will. At the time I got my first tattoo, I was married to my first husband. Zippy was a nice enough guy, big hearted and a lot of fun. He was a great boyfriend. Unfortunately he was a lousy husband. Everyone but the two of us knew the marriage was doomed, and honestly? I think we knew this too, even if neither of us would admit it. Sometimes you make really bad decisions for what you think are the right reasons. Or to prove that you are right and everyone else on the planet is wrong. That never works out so well for me. Universe: 459, Me: 2. Not even close. Sigh.

Jiggles and The Truffle Shuffle, All to Prove a Mom Point

My daughter came to me last night, after dinner, and said, 'Mom, I'm fat. Just look at my belly.' She proceeds to lift up her shirt slightly, where all I see is a belly button surrounded by skin and muscle. She's almost 9, and it has already begun.

I'm not going to sit here and blame society for my daughter's developing self-consciousness, though with the way she has been raised for the last almost 9 years, I do feel it's a huge part of what's going on in her head. My daughter is not fat. She's not even remotely fat. The child almost has a six-pack because she's a little tomboy that gets outside, plays catch, plays tennis, loves sports. But for some reason, her post-meal belly was a cause of concern for her.

So, I pulled on my Mom big girl panties, and decided to take one for the team. I stood up, pulled up my shirt, and showed my daughter what fat looks like. 'See, honey. Fat jiggles' and I proceeded to shake my belly and my love handles. She fell onto the floor in laughter. Sheesh, sweetheart, don't kick Mommy while she's down, please, especially not when she's sacrificing some dignity to prove a point to you.

Wait, When Did I Become Retro?

This week has been Spirit Week at my kids' school, and each day they've had something fun to look forward to participating in. Today is Retro Day, and I woke up this morning in a panic. My daughter had already decided she was going as a hippie. But my son, yeah, NO idea.

So, I jumped out of bed, hauled ass to his room, and began flinging clothes out of his drawers. Seriously, not much to work with at all. Until I saw it... a black dress shirt with a larger collar, and some semi-faded jeans. Retro day, right? Wait, the 80s aren't considered retro now, are they? Holy Garden Hose Batman, they are! Oh shit....

The Truth Gun

I know I have been MIA lately, and I do deeply apologize about that. Today is not going to be a mommy post, or a tips post, but a 'me' post. Yeah, I need another one (getting pretty selfish here, my only two posts in a week have been 'me' posts, but hey, I'm going through some stuff right now), because I found something out last night that should have made me so happy, but instead upset me.

I don't have flaws.

(Hey, HEY YOU- the one getting ready to click off the page because you think you've stumbled onto a selfish, egotistical personal blog- that's not what this is about, so keep reading; promise it gets better.)

Okay, so everyone has flaws, and I'm not immune to that or anything, but my flaws aren't deal breakers to normal people. Do I have you confused as hell yet? Yeah, it's what I do at first, but like always, I will explain with an amazing story.

Curveballs Just Mean The Game Is On....

I've always been a competitive person. It stems from as far back as I can remember. Hell, the race for valedictorian in my graduating class ended up being decided by .01 of a GPA point- yeah, you read that right, one one-hundredth of a point (and unfortunately, I came in .01 of a GPA point down). So, needless to say, I don't take competition lightly, and I play to win- always...

Or so I thought...

The last few years of my life have throw me some major curveballs, the biggest one having been hurled directly at my head in just the last few days. (the reason for the sporadic posting lately). Each time a curveball came careening toward me, I either knocked it out of the park, caught it and threw it right back, or ducked. But, I grew stronger with each pitch thrown, perfected my game play a little more, and handled everything that came toward me, always playing to win, to be the best. I guess I just wasn't playing for the right thing, and didn't even realize it...

I swear this all has a point, and ties in together, just keep reading....