Christmas 2010

“As the World Famous Marion Barry once said, “The Bitch Set Me Up.”

Dear Loved Ones Near and Far,

Well, it’s that time of year again.  The pressure to write this letter almost met it’s maker today.  Damn card doesn’t mention our name.  When life hands you lemons, I drink Lemonade…Sweet Tea Vodka that is.  Sweet Tea affords me a hydrated break from my day, and allows me to plan on how the heck I’m going to move forward towards where I want to be, kind of like yoga, but no sweat.  The letter got out late this year, because, let’s just say, I’m not the ONLY one with issues.   I’m certified drunk as of the printing and sticking, but it’s been one of those days.  A year shouldn’t be measured in the events of one day, but a series of bad days in a year should make a great novel.  You enjoy these annual letters?  Buy my book.  What doesn’t kill us, well, thank God for good wine, Firefly, & the last of my blessed Xanax pills from when my health insurance covered my ear doctor.   What?  I can’t hear you, please don’t yell, but speak clearly in not too deep a voice in my left ear, the right ear is deaf, but rings constantly (confirming my belief in Santa Claus), the pitch is out of tune.   The one bit of advice that I shall drill into the brains of my children is that the only way to survive the “good times & the bad” is to marry your best friend.  It helps if they have a sense of humor, and you find that space between their teeth very, very attractive. John can make me laugh even as tears are streaming down my face just from the sheer disappointment, sadness, and aggravation of it all.   I am so fortunate to have girlfriends that are there to support me (or listen) when I need it, & have the blessing of my family to know that they love you when things seem at their darkest.  But all is not lost, I know & believe in “The Secret” & so we keep moving forward, simply throwing out the garbage placed in our path & keep focusing on the destination.  But, If I call, Pick up & Thank You God for inventing Skinny Tea Vodka (due out for release March 1st, and my local booze shop promises to call me and sell me the first bottle, as we have that type of relationship).

I don’t know what I was thinking, but as the world famous Marion Barry once said, “The Bitch Set Me Up.”  She was so darn small & cute & had the most beautiful hair & she loved to cuddle & I was lulled into this delusional, ill-conceived fantasy that she would cure my latest anxiety.  Actually, about three days into our inviting her into our home after she had just enjoyed my Coach mink slippers for breakfast, I snapped out of my NyQuil induced slumber & wondered what in the H*E* double hockey sticks was I thinking?  If you haven’t noticed by our latest collage of our blissful family looking very tan & at our best, there is a new jet black Giant Schnoodle with no eyes in the mix, we named her “Lucy”, but it was IMMEDIATELY changed to “Lucifer”.  John doesn’t even call her by name, she’s “Sinclair’s Dog”.  In the three months we’ve had her, she has tripled in size (she’s now 50 pounds & shall double again), ruined our carpeting in her sheer apathy to please anyone, eaten our staircase, eaten carpets, wood furniture, upholstered furniture, barbies, legos, hair bows, important documents, catalogs, magazines, mail, school projects, destroyed new (& old) shoes, perfected the art of stealth counter surfing (consuming several pounds of Boar’s Head turkey & raw chicken), can chew through a leash in 3 minutes, and absolutely annoys Lille, although I have caught Lille instigating some roughhousing.   She’s so beautiful, but friends, she’s up to no good & it’s impossible to stare her down, because you can’t see her eyes.  And she’s fast.  You can’t catch her.  She’s like a cross between Tigger, Alf & Satan.  We have enrolled her in dog obedience training, but I’m not optimistic.  Lucy spends most of the class teaching the other dogs how to swipe treats off the table with her skill of paw swiping, much to the shock & awe of the trainer.  Dogs learn by hand gestures, & the bitch can’t see but her paws are as large as baseball gloves.  Five minutes into her first session, she had successfully eaten her leather leash & was harassing the “shorter” dogs.  Yep, she’s officially a Montgomery.   Lucifer’s so obnoxious, when it’s time to go outside, she waits for Lille to get in just the right position so she can hurdle her just as Lille is about to relieve herself.  Lille has taken up residence & constipation under the desk in John’s office where she sleeps & passes gas in her last days with peace & quiet, and folks, as of today, Lille’s days are numbered, literally.

Have no fear though, Jack 10, Ashton 8, & Mignonne 6, continue to live charmed lives.  We kicked off the New Year in New Orleans, and returned to enjoy Mardi Gras with family & friends, and took a trip to Asheville & Chattanooga for fall break.  We trekked back to the Big Easy for a few days over the Christmas Holiday (with the black beast & the old grey dog too), as I hadn’t done enough damage to my liver this year (I’ve been successfully dieting.  Listen up!  Less alcohol + less food = amazing weight loss).  Jack’s tennis team won the 10U city championship in the Spring, and was a finalist in the Fall.  Ashton & Mignonne are also enrolled in the tennis program, although I also admit, under protest.  John & I concur that tennis for our children is probably equivalent to piano lessons for a kid that wants to play the drums, but I don’t know of any scholarship programs for Wii & Lego enthusiasts.  Mignonne has decided that she wants to be an ice skater, but she’ll settle for just going skating with me for now (I’m not signing up for a five a.m. skating lesson!)  Ashton grew out his hair, and I am not sure if it’s the volume of his current lack of hair style, but he’s caught up in height with his brother.  I’d rather get a pap smear than go to the children’s haircut place, and so, well, my children look a bit weathered, but we fit right in on Daufuskie Island when we go.  Mignonne continues to be my sweetest girl in the world and lights up the room & my heart.  She’s the best snuggler in the family and still can’t say her “R’s” so we love to have her say, “Pweetiest Gurl in da Wurld”.  Ashton has turned out to be quite the creative type, and has been known to outsource his homework to his sister, as her handwriting is neater.  According to suburban public school  standards Mignonne is now “gifted” (as are all three of our heirs – go figure).  Jack is ready for a cell phone, but he’s not getting one.

We spent the summer again on Daufuskie, however, I was prohibited from “cooking crab in the house” by our home owner, which caused me to have less frequent, but more productive crabbing with the crab boil operation taking place remotely.  If I was spotted at my favorite spot, a golf spy would notify our house owner in Canada, who would then “follow up” with the gentleman doing house repairs (the house is always under repair), who would stop by to “verify I wasn’t in business” catching me ‘blue crab handed” with a dozen or so of my little friends resting over ice in a bucket on the front porch.  He likes my Gumbo, so I was safe.  I shuttered my deviled crab business before relaunch, and spent my ten weeks of heaven playing tennis, & drinking Sweet Tea (Firefly).  Daufuskie is up in the air as of this letter, as I have accepted an opportunity with a national consulting firm and go undercover on an assignment disguised as a career working mom and start a project with another of my favorite drink manufacturers in January.  I’m hoping to negotiate an arrangement whereby I can “summer on my island”, I didn’t think it would be prudent to bring it up just yet, as it didn’t come up during the interview, and I left my crabbing business off of my resume. I figured they would need to see my amazingness in action away from a dock with a crab net, Miller Lite, sexy boots & 3 kids in tow.

Today turned out to be my greatest challenge of the year, and I am proud to be notorious for “speaking up”.  Lille escaped her funeral today.  I know it is coming, but didn’t think I’d have to edit this years missive at printing time (hence the stupor & the blessing of Firefly & my last Xanax).  I never would have thought that bringing her in for a checkup for a little UTI & dehydration would lead to a nightmare diagnosis of diabetes, pancreatitis, heart murmur, & a failing system the day before Christmas Eve.  Kids were crying, I was bawling, John even teared up.  But, as I explained to my mother when I brought her home (alive) from the vet (everyone was expecting a burial, even Lucy who had enlarged the hole we dug in the back yard for her this afternoon), I just couldn’t put her down when she was wagging her tail & giving me big halitosis sloppy kisses.  We did both have a great time in New Orleans, but we both promised to lay off the sauce again for 2011.  I popped her a Zantac, gave her a rawhide bone & me the last one of my faithful friends.  I pray she survives through the week & Christmas vacation.  Sleep peacefully this holiday season my friends knowing LIFE IS GOOD.  Have sweet dreams as you picture my offspring kicking each other & screaming in the back of the duct taped minivan, Lucy chewing through what is left of the upholstery, and John riding shotgun on his laptop. Lille is alive.

Secret = Your Destination & I know exactly where I’m going.   Everyone can come with me, you just can’t ask any questions.   All is right with my world.

Sincerely yours,  Sinclair & the Rest of the Montgomery’s (John, Jack, Ashton, Mignonne, Lucifer, & Lille.

Target Christmas Shipping Nightmare Continued: Still Can’t Get It Right

Twitter Today:

SuburbanMartyr @SuburbanMartyr has continued to make my Christmas “Not So Merry”.  Now the lost item, which hasn’t been assigned to a carrier, is delayed again.

Ugh.  Got another email this morning from my fan club at


Subject: Your order (#XXXXX)

Date: December 7, 2010 6:25:57 AM EST

To: Sinclair Montgomery <>


Thank you for shopping at

We wanted to let you know that there is a delay with one or more items

in the order you placed on November 30 2010 (Order# XXXX).

Please accept our apologies for this delay.

Order status can change quickly, and it is possible that your order may

even be delivered between the time we send this message and the time that you

read it.  When items in your order are shipped, you will receive an

e-mail confirming the date, contents, and method of your shipment.

Keep in mind that if your order arrives too late, you can refuse delivery or

return it to us for a refund. For instructions on returning an item, please visit

our Returns Center (

For more information, please visit the following Order Update page in

My Account:

If clicking the above link doesn’t work, you can copy and paste the

link into your browser’s address window, or retype it there.

If you used an account to place your order, you can also access this

Order Update page by clicking the My Account button in the upper-right

corner of any page at  Once there, you can make changes

to unshipped orders, cancel unshipped items, track shipped packages,

modify your account settings, and do much more.

We apologize for any inconvenience caused by this delay.

Thanks for shopping at We hope you’ll visit us again soon.


Online Guest Services

*** This e-mail was sent from a notification-only address that cannot accept incoming e-mail. Please don’t reply to this message. If you have further questions, please visit our online Help section. ***

So, I pick up the phone and call my friends in Mumbai at

Dowan, my new friend, simply tells me that “no problem. Once it delivered to the place where it is going, you just take it to Target and they will credit your account, you refuse delivery.” Again, I say, “It’s an island, and no one is HOME. Once you deliver the package to the island, there is no way that it will get to me by Christmas.” I explain, there is no Target on Daufuskie, and the General Store’s operating hours are questionable.  I ask if he has ever seen the show, “Fantasy Island”.  Crickets….

I asked politely if there was a phone number I could call to the distribution center, or the IT department to put a back office “kill” to the order, and he said, “No, der er no phones der.” Useless.  Waste of Time.

So, I am going to spend my day looking around town for the freaking Galactic Lego Cruiser, ensure that I have it, and then just continue to post negative feedback on their business ratings subscription websites until some ding dong figures this out.

This shall be my second to last order EVER with, and I should have just ordered it from Amazon when it was available, but I had this online only gift card from March that I was trying to use. God help them try to figure out how to reinstate that “credit”….

Then I receive this from my friend, Dowan at

We always strive to provide a high level of service, and we would appreciate your feedback.  Please let us know if we resolved your inquiry.

If yes, click here:

If not, click here:



Online Guest Services

No offense Dowan, but I click “Not”.


Please read your message below. Need to make changes? Click the “Edit” button. If you’re happy with your message, click “Submit.”



E-mail address:


Feedback to

Order ID:



Again, I receive an email saying that my order, which apparently has not been assigned “a carrier” is being delayed, now not expected to be delivered to “THE WRONG ADDRESS” until December 13-20th. I call to hopefully once again have you CANCEL the ORDER so that I can get the item mailed CORRECTLY to my billing address. Your system won’t allow you to fix this once the item has been placed in whatever que it’s in, and apparently, no one can go and find my particular item and fix the address that it is being shipped to (even though the mailing label hasn’t been printed yet, since it hasn’t been assigned a carrier.) This is ABSOLUTELY frustrating. The item is being sent to an address that I don’t reside at, and no one is there to return the item once it is delivered. I dare say that this is my last order from as this is totally unacceptable.

So I am now about to take off my pajamas, and head out to Christmas Shopping Hell, to find a freaking Galactic Space Lego Cruiser for my 10 year old son, absolutely disgusted at the thought that I might not find it and pissed off at that fact that I have to spend $100 on a freaking Lego set, instead of the $50 that I had to fork out of pocket from Target (since I was using my useless “online only $50 gift card).

In other updates in the Suburban Martyr’s life, yesterday I spent 10 hours doing at least 14 loads of laundry, sheets, and towels, since both boys wet the bed and it was our weekly wash day.  I was so over it.  Then I made a delicious Emeril’s recipe of Beef Stroganoff that they all bitched about, except John, his eyes rolled back in his head.  I am about to rock their little world.  Momma has a job interview on Thursday with a National Consulting Firm….yep, I might be going back to work.

I have very mixed feelings about it, but I think my children take a lot of things for granted, and I personally am pretty exhausted from “giving up what I need” to give what we do have to them.  I’m anxious and excited all at the same time.  I really don’t know how it will all work out, because I don’t even have time to do the things I’m supposed to do for John’s business since I’m spending so much time making sure they are all happy and well adjusted children.

It does give me pride, when a girlfriend compliments that fact that my children are so good, and I think to myself, that it’s because I gave up ME for THEM, which when I look at other people’s kids that are terrors, and then look at the parents, I know why.  But, then another girlfriend commented to me that kids take us for granted because they don’t respect us, because they think that all we do all day is watch TV, talk on the phone, and shop, and that who they do respect is their mom that works.  I think, I WORK!  I work for John, for Free.  Not anymore.  If Target can outsource their customer service to Mumbai, then I can outsource motherhood, or at least make a go of it.

Stay tuned….

Target Christmas Shipping Nightmare: Why Target Has Failed me

Twitter Today: has failed me again!  Cant seem to change a shipping address when a package hasn’t left the warehouse.  Fail Target!  Fail!

Poor Jack.  He wrote a beautifully crafted letter to Santa Claus after unsuccessfully winning the Space Police design your own model contest (see picture above) that he knows that his mommy refuses to buy him any more Legos, but he really wanted the Lego Space Police Galatic Enforcer for Christmas.  So, I order it online, from after discovering that there was “Free Shipping” and a temporary price cut, and I had a 50$ online only gift card to use that Ashton had received for a birthday present, but I refused to pay for shipping so I gave him $50, and traded him the gift card last March.

I had a $50 credit to spend at Target, and being that I had this credit, I rationalized the crazy Lego price of $100.99 that it was “50.99” and ordered it, on November 30th.

So, today I open my email (December 3rd) and had sent me a “change notification” to my order, and the only “change” I could tell was that the freaking order was not going to my billing address in the suburbs, but was now going to our Summer Address at Daufuskie Island.  Um, we’re not expected there for 172 more days, but CHRISTMAS IS 22 DAYS AWAY!!!!  I immediately call the Target Online Orders Customer Service Number of 1.800.591.3869 and am put on hold where I wait 25 minutes before….I’m DISCONNECTED.  Then I dial the number again.  Target Online Orders Customer Service Number of 1.800.591.3869.  This time I am on hold for 18 minutes before becoming distracted and hanging up.  I call again.  This time, on hold for 11 minutes.

Patiently inform the customer service dude that my package was being sent to the wrong address, and that I need to let them know that they needed to cancel the order and return it to Target.  He politely, in a very scripted tone, lets me know that I just need to return the package to once I receive it.

Me:  “How can I return the package, if I’m not there to receive it?”

Him:  “When it is delivered, you just need to refuse to accept it”

Me:  “I’m not going to BE there.”

Him:  “Well, then you will need to notify the carrier that he needs to return the package”

Me:  “Who is the carrier”

Him:  “Well, it’s not in the system yet, because it hasn’t been SHIPPED”

Me:  “I am about to start to cry”

Him:  “………I HEAR CRICKETS……..”

Me:  “What am I supposed to do?”

Him:  “You can order another one, and we’ll credit your account if the other item is returned”

DO YOU SEE WHERE I AM GOING WITH THIS EPIC FAIL ON BEHALF OF TARGET.COM?  Certainly, if their system is so highly in sync with the shipping process, that if a customer calls them to notify them NOT to ship the item, then they should NOT ship the item, or if it hasn’t left the warehouse, certainly, they can put a stop on the item and REDIRECT the item to the appropriate address?  You’d think?  Wouldn’t this SAVE TARGET millions of dollars a year in lost inventory, unhappy customers, and future lost business?  COME ON TARGET!  This makes absolutely no sense at all!

So now, I must wait for the item to be returned to Target, and for them to cancel my order and credit my account before I order the item…..which will most likely no longer be on sale, no longer have free shipping, and, oh….be on backorder.


Quick! Come Here! I need help!

Twitter Today:  What the hell was I thinking…

An old friend posted, why do parents always lend their opinion and tell you what to do, when you didn’t ask for their advice?  I replied, “They can’t help themselves from thinking you still need help wiping your own ass.  That would be an interesting response, just pull down your pants, bend over and ask for their help.”

My parents are visiting us as well this week, and I am in the throws of some major decisions that we need to address.  Again, the economy is sucking, but John and I are muddling through it.  However, we did appear to have a huge tax liability that we weren’t expecting, and so we paid it with our credit cards, and so now, for the first time in many years, I am looking at a credit card balance that is more than a new car…bye bye thought of a new car, I just bought one for the secret service…on my credit card.

Waiting to hear when I will start working again, as a consultant for a huge national firm, of course, disguised as a highly paid management consultant instead of  undercover as the Suburban Martyr.  My mother is distressed worrying about how this will all affect Christmas, and my children, but really?  I’ve given up 10 years of my life taking care of everyone, and now God has thrown me a lifeline, and I’m going to grab it, and then figure out how everything else will keep moving afterwards.  I’m fucking drowning and she’s worried about Christmas.

In the meantime while I tread water in this sea of motherhood bliss and cash flow management, I’ve used my internet skills to cause the phone to ring daily for John, and learned my lesson that I shall never take the summer off again from helping him with the business.  The secret is learning from your mistakes, and defining your life to be the one that you want it to be.  I played ostrich, and it backfired.

So my parents have taken Jack, Ashton, and Minnie to the museum today, John has gone to the office, and I’ve got the maids here cleaning, and I am barricaded in my office, losing myself in this blog and the revelation that I haven’t posted in over six months, and what a long six months it has been.  My father is suffering from Alzheimer’s and based of the stress that I’ve been shoveling out of my way, I completely understand where somethings can be blocked from your mind, and how hearing them can make you feel even more numb that how you felt after.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.  I refuse to think of all of the crap that has landed on our table in the past year (and I think I need to confess them, but right now, I am not ready), and truly just try to be thankful that I continue to be married to my best friend, and that my children are still not fucked up and still believe in Santa Claus.  Next year though, I know the end is near.  Next year, I am taking my family to New York, and we are going to see the Statue of Liberty and the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, and then we will have Thanksgiving Dinner at the Palm Restaurant, as keeping with the Montgomery tradition of boycotting Turkey on Thanksgiving Day…

So after I plow off this message, I shall go and utilize my handy dandy rug and carpet cleaner to execute my weekly scrubbing of the carpets that have been ravaged by the new Giant Schnoodle, Lucy, aka Lucifer.  What was I thinking?  I know what I was thinking, it was a Post Traumatic Stress Disorder Decision, ill timed, and I was fucking out of Xanax and had no doctor willing to prescribe it to me.  I’ve been popping 5-HTP vitamin and B-12 supplements, but the shit wasn’t working.  I’ve recently discovered that NyQuil works beautifully for sleep disorders, and have also caught John chugging some back before bed as well, so I know this shit is impacting him as well, although I think he’s just doing it to bond, because as he said, “we’ll take anything as long as it’s legal.”

Since August 2, I’m down 23 pounds.  Mostly attributed to stress, but also because I have made a conscience decision not to drown my sorrows in a bottle of Rex Goliath or hide the FireFly in my crystal lite.  The headache the next day really hampers my attempts to be positive, to move forward, and to get something done.  So the crazy schnoodle puppy pees all over the white carpet, and I think, “really?”  John has just disowned the damn dog, and called it, “Sinclair’s Dog”.  Fuck.

Mother Mary Pray for Me.  Also, if you are out there and feel like you want to show your love for me, “visit” some of my sponsors so that I can make some money and pay off my tax disaster…

Resolution and Move On

Twitter Thursday:  Gotta love doctors when they make money off of referrals.  Instead of sending me to the correct doctor to start with, I wait until Monday.


I was speechless over the weekend as the bump turned into a “wait until we can get you into a Surgeon specializing in breast malignancy’s.  I put my faith in God.  I really did.  I also read the heck out of any online website discussing lumps in breasts and the chances that I’m going to be one of those people requesting donations from my network on Facebook.  Really, is it just me, or does fund raising in our social network seem to be getting out of hand?  I’ve got 217 friends at last count, since I last unfriended Daddy Dumb and at any one time, 21 of them are shaving their heads, armpits, or walking their neighborhood for money….and giving me a link to contribute.

I digress.

Dr. Marvel couldn’t do anything about the lump in my boob at this office, because as an OB/GYN he really just concerns himself with the plumbing below, so he was not able to calm my nerves and tell me what the lump was…sent me to a surgeon who was out playing golf until Monday.  So, I just drank my liver toxic with Firefly, spent the day in bed Sunday recovering from my over-consumption, and Monday took a shower and felt confused about the latest Bill passing in Congress.  I wasn’t going to worry about me.  I was going to be just fine.  I knew it.  This isn’t how I’m going out, I’ve seen Terms of Endearment and it’s too sweet.

So, I arrive at the surgeon’s office with a splitting knot on the back of my head (I passed out during one of my afternoon heaves and found myself in my panties covered in vomit on the bathroom floor on Sunday – remember, I don’t do vomit, especially my own.) and sat there and read about the cocaine industry of the 1990s in one of his outdated magazines covered with germs.  As far as a surgeon’s office decor goes, it was pathetic.  The only thing I noted was that instead of leather visitor chairs, he had several benches lining the walls – ahh hah…for the lap band types that are too wide to fit in the chair.  I sat there, quietly, and listened to the old patients bicker amongst themselves about the Medicare impact of the bill and how their prescription drug coverage isn’t going to be great any longer.  I think to myself, you Medicare kids are freaking crazy.  I don’t have any prescription drug coverage, I’m paying social security for you, my health insurance is only going to increase after this freaking visit gives me a pre-existing condition that Obamacare is going to make it illegal not to cover, and this plan is going to bankrupt Medicare so there won’t be any benefits left for me.  Plus, I freaking need a Xanax and I can’t find a soul to prescribe it to me.  What about a bill to make Xanax available over the counter?

Maybe I should go to medical school.

An hour after I arrive, Dr. Cutme arrives from his three martini lunch and I see him check me out as I am lead into an outdated exam room with a machine that looks like it will be the same image quality as those that show the astronauts on the Moon.  He’s shorter than me, so my hopes of McSteamy are quashed.  He begins to talk, but I start to black out again, my nerves are getting the best of me, and I remember that I forgot to eat, that I didn’t have anything in my stomach, and I was really parched.  As he speaks, I remember why I never married a doctor.  Yawn.  My head hurts still.  I must be dehydrated.

So, he starts drawing pictures of my boob that look too graphic for me, and then eventually says, “okay, let’s get a look.  I remember that I really did like Spencer, but he didn’t talk.  His roommate that was in medical school with him had a super crush on him and it got in the way, plus there was his best friend Fred that was aggressively pursuing me.  Then there was Roland, but he was a little stalkerish for me, especially since he was on to me about the fact that I was seeing someone else, which was John, but I was covering it up with my accomplice in all things fun, Drew.  Roland caught me with Drew, but I swear, it was totally innocent!  Drew was asleep on the red couch, but there was no way I was letting Roland in the door.  Pull my head out of my foggy memory, I’ve got three beautiful children and a husband that adores me.  I made the right decision not marrying a doctor, but at this point I have no freaking clue what Dr. Cutme just said.

The machine shows a bunch of black spots – turns out the black spots are just cysts, filled with fluid…I’ve got lots of them.  Next thing I know, he’s pulling out a needle, sticking it in my boob and then “POP”.  The black spot disappears.  It looked like he was performing in-vitro fertilization of my boob.  Since he was already in there, he said he’d go ahead an prick a few more so they wouldn’t become troublesome next year.  Now, these I can feel, but my head is throbbing, and I am looking away from him and concentrating on the alien space machine that now has a needle prodding its way through my left boob.

I’m going to live.  I’ve got fibrocystic disease.  Thank God.  I don’t think I’m a quality candidate for a breast job.  With regular needles in my boob, I’m not really sure that I want to pop anything that I’ve paid for.  I’m going to focus on the tummy tuck gut suck.

John had his appointment today as well for his Thyroid.  We’re going to go ahead and do the radioactive iodine to kill the Thyroid tissue, so he’ll be quarantined next Thursday/Friday in the basement.  The kids and I will have a pizza/movie night.  John will be out of quarantine in time for our Spring Break to start.  We have no idea what we are doing, where we are going, but I’m sure we’ll figure it out.  I’m happy to just sleep in at home and play with the kids, see movies, and go to a museum.

My mother in law comes this weekend, and then my favorite family member of all time comes on Monday to see ME.

This reminds me, I need to clean off the back porch.  Spring has sprung and it’s about time to relocate to my favorite spot and plot the destruction and disappearance of Mohammad’s weeds.  If I won the lottery, I’d just buy his house and move there…pool, tennis court.

Finding a golf ball in my boob

Twitter Yesterday:  The rain has just made my weekend even busier.  Can I get any busier?  I think not.  Just peed for the first time today.  I need Green Beer.

Dear Jesus.  It’s nothing right?  It’s just your way of giving me some more cushion in my bra?  I get it, but I really don’t have time for this right now.  I’ve got tennis matches to reschedule for Jack, I’ve got allergy shots to go to today for the last time twice a week for Jack, I’ve got bills to pay, taxes to finish, clients to collect from…Really, why are you testing me to see how much I can multi-task and accomplish in one week?  I’m great at it.  But, neither Jack nor John have hit their out of pocket for their medical issues, so this surprise is going to cost me.  What is the lesson here?  I already dye my hair myself, I haven’t gone shopping in quite some time, I really need to get to a psychiatrist because if this lump doesn’t drive my insanity level over the edge, I’m not sure what will.

Deem and Pass.  Does that mean when I try to get new health insurance they can’t reject me because I’m crazy?

Okay, so this is what is going on.  Last night it rained.  Jack had both his tennis clinic and tennis match later on cancelled, so I served up spaghetti early and was in my pajamas by 6:30, and the sisters were hanging free.  This isn’t typically the case, they are usually encased in my bra until I fall into bed at 10:14 each night.  So John leaves around 7:30 to go and play basketball at Church and I settle in on the chaise lounge to watch American Idol.  I somehow touched my boob because it itched, and it felt funny.  There was a knot right above my left breast.  What the F?  Um, when was the last time I did a self breast exam?  I don’t remember, but it wasn’t THAT long ago…I think I’m going to puke.

I lay on my back, completely flat, put my left arm over my head and felt some more.  The knot is about the size of a golf ball (I know this because this morning I used a Crayola marker to outline it).  It’s right above my nipple area and then goes into the aureola area.  It’s hard, it doesn’t move, and it’s ridgy/bumpy.  I know this because I had John feel me up this morning.  He did it with such determination and he wasn’t even getting sex out of it.

I called the doctor @8:31 this morning and have an appointment @11:20.  It’s nothing right?  Jesus, you are just seeing that I can accomplish just one more thing today, and your humor says that I can go through that mammogram machine since you have some wicked sense of humor.  I know you are man, because you have absolutely no idea what pain is like…well, yeah, you do know pain, and I admit, they way you chose to go has got to be worse…but come on!

Deep breath.  This is nothing right?

So off I go to the doctor.  Pits and legs shaved, makeup done, hair washed.

I SOOOOOOO don’t have time to be at the doctor today.  I have laundry to fold.

Are you doing this to me because I told John that I would rather have a day long pap smear than go to his executive retreat in April?

Regifting and the Art of Regifting

Twitter:  Listed to one of my friends complain about the change purse she went home with as a gift after Bunco.  Kept my mouth shut – the gift was from me!

This is EXACTLY why I don’t tell anyone about this blog, and the fact that I’m the wizard behind it. Now, remember when I mentioned going to bunco, and then leaving early to go home and sit on the couch with John and the kids? Well, I forgot to mention my “gift closet” and the fact that I was supposed to bring a gift to Bunco. When the girls called me 10 minutes before I was supposed to be there, I just splashed some water on my face, grabbed a gift from the closet, and took 3 dollars out of John’s wallet.

Well, I did bring a gift to Bunco, it just happened to be a small change purse that I bought years ago for my nanny, “Erica”, but then she went MIA and I still had the freaking change purse. I don’t know why I grabbed that gift, instead of grabbing the “plug it in and electrocute yourself bathtub spa” that my parents gave me ten years ago as a Christmas present that never came out of the box, or the massager/vibrator that I think they also gave me the same year, but I was thinking that I didn’t want to make a splash with my gift, so I just grabbed the cute beaded purse with an “E” on it and threw it in the gift bag and headed out the door. I figured that I would just trade it with someone else and bring it back home.

So, I get to Bunco, realize that I’m not medicated enough to survive an evening with strange women drinking wine, and then escape home to the couch. The next Monday, I had signed up to attend a women’s club event with the same group of women, and caught a ride with one of my new, loud, tall friends. Things were going well, I thought….I still was having major anxiety issues, but they had Champagne, and so four glasses into the event, I felt that I would survive the event. Plus, I wasn’t driving, so I couldn’t leave.

On the ride home, the usual topics of conversation ensue. Boobs, plastic surgery, and pecking order of the women at the event…then Susan says, “Oh My God! I was SOOOO angry! I know that Moo Moo Lady (her name isn’t moo moo lady, but she always wears a moo moo, and since I never remember her name, she lives two doors down from me, I call her Moo Moo Lady) brought that horrific change purse to Bunco! I think that we need to really put some rules in place regarding gifts! I mean, I’m putting a lot of effort into my gifts!” I was partially listening, and then I had a memory that OMG, that change purse was the one that I brought! Holy Shit.

It was so hard not to say it was me. I bit my shirt and tried not to laugh, but she was pissed. I sat there quietly, hoping that they wouldn’t ask me what I brought, because it was the E purse. I looked straight ahead and thought, the vibrator would have probably gone over better….

Confessions of a Tennis-aholic

Jack plays tennis now eight days a week, and twice on Friday.  It’s probably too much.

I’m supposed to play tennis this morning, but I’m non-committal.  This would require me to get dressed, and John is out of the house today until after I get back from Allergy shots with Jack.  I have my day free, to myself, and I’m not sure I want to expose myself to the Clubettes.  I really need to exercise, and playing tennis is my escape.  However, Tuesday’s with the Clubettes means having the tennis pro feed balls, I get to hit two shots, and then go to the back of the line…for 90 minutes.  It’s so freaking boring!  I’d rather PLAY TENNIS!

So, in my great plan to have my children busy after school so they don’t petrify their brains playing video games, Jack has become a tennis player and I can’t wait until we get to PLAY TENNIS every day this summer.  He’s been slow to embrace the fact that I’ve spent THOUSANDS of dollars for him to develop a forehand, or return a serve with some pace, but my nine year old son actually has a chance to know how to become a force on the tennis court.  Again, he’s nine, and I can’t wait to play tennis with him!  Only 66 more days!

In order to have him embrace this skill, I decided that just taking lessons three days a week wasn’t going to get him there, since each time I told him it was time to go to tennis, he groaned as if I were abusing him by making him stop playing his Wii, his Nintendo DS, or stop building cruise ships with his Lego Star Wars pieces.  Jack does better in school, and pays attention when he’s over-scheduled after school.  My house is also cleaner.  Plus, I’m developing a life long tennis partner that I love.

Jack now goes to tennis four days a week for clinic, Pizza League on Friday nights, tennis team practice once a week, tennis team matches once a week, and now, because of the drama of being on a tennis team where we aren’t the “member” and so we don’t get preferential treatment, I’ve registered him for a match play league where he gets to play ANOTHER singles match once a week, two sets…so, don’t tell him, but he’s playing eight days a week.  He’s nine.

It’s probably too much.

I’ve also registered the other two kids for tennis, Minny is playing four days a week for lessons and two days a week for tennis team (she loves it), and Ashton is twice a week for lessons, and then has Quickstart Tennis team, so he’s also out there four days a week without realizing it.  All he says when I ask him how tennis is going is, long pause, “It’s HARD mommy!”

It’s costing a fortune.

I also signed myself up to be a member of the same club’s Ladies A Tennis Team….and get this, I’m such a second line member of the team because I’m not a member, they will go through the entire lineup of members to find a player should they need one before getting me.  I however, will get the email that says,

Dear Cinderella,

Should Judy not be done with her appointment in time, we need you to be ready at a moment’s                   notice to play tomorrow @9:30.  However, if she’s done in time and if she likes the way the wind is blowing, then screw you, but you are on call next week too.

The last time I played with them, there was some discussion regarding the forecasted weather and the rule that if it rained that you had to play on the next sunny day, and one of the ladies actually said to me, “if it doesn’t work for me, then we’ll just schedule it so that it does.”  Sure lady, you can tell God to adjust the weather.  What the F ever.

The other day as I was folding the laundry, I had a conversation with myself regarding the expense of having kids play “sports” in an attempt to have them get college scholarships.  If I just applied the dollars for these extra-curricular activities towards my children’s college fund, we’d pay for Harvard in ten years!  Plus, think of all the FREE TIME I’d have if I wasn’t sitting sideline to them.  But I have a bigger plan than that!  I am developing my tennis buddies so that I don’t have to play with anyone but them – ever again!

Jack’s tennis academy didn’t have a tennis league for kids, so I looked around and found a team for him to join at the country club close by.  He was a welcome addition, plus I brought over two other kids from the academy so that they could form a co-ed team.  I volunteered to be the tennis team mom so that my kid would have a better chance of getting selected in the line -up.  Right?  Wrong!

The worst is when some punk country club kid bumps him down on the lineup because he’s a member of the club, and my kid gets his feelings hurt because the coach is implying that the country club child is “better”.  If a country club kid is available, and his parent calls the coach and says that the kid wants to play “#1 Singles”, then the kid plays “#1 Singles”.  It’s so confusing to Jack.  He’ll say, “But Mommy, I can beat Andrew!”  It’s infuriating to me, especially when the dad emails me to say that his star athlete can’t play in the scheduled tennis match because it rained last Tuesday, and he now has a baseball game, and my kid is there, available, and missing his own baseball game!

Did I mention that Jack also plays baseball?  Yeah, he plays baseball, but only gets to play if he doesn’t have a tennis match or cub scouts that conflict with the baseball schedule.  We really need to quit cub scouts because neither John nor I have any intention of earning our Eagle Scout badge during this life time.

One would think that during Tennis Team practice, the coach would actually have the boys play one another, make a “ladder” and fairly, not objectively, determine the better player.  One would think!  But, dear reader of mine.  This isn’t fair, this is country club sports, all determined by who has the better car, house, plastic surgeon, and job…I mean, how does one objectively choose who is the better player when certain players are paying the bills?  I am no dummy, and I can bite my lip with the best of them.  Join the club, get first slots on the lineup.

We belonged to a country club in our prior Florida life, and it was the worst kind of snot infestation that one would willingly expose themselves too.  Lesson learned.  Why would one intentionally “apply” to be a member of a club that could exclude someone from joining just because they didn’t like what they did for a living?  Give a $45,000 membership fee that is NON-REFUNDABLE.  Really?  The thought that someone can only join a club if “another member invites them” disgusts me.  The reality that people I know actually think that joining something like that will make them more socially registered….barf.  No thank you.  What really cracks me up is when a friend of mine brings up to me that they are looking into joining a club, that they “got dressed up in country club attire”, “got their kids coats and ties so they could go to brunch at the club” etc.  All I think to myself is, “Girlfriend, your life doesn’t match that life.  If you don’t already have dress clothes for your kids to go to brunch, you probably won’t fit into the Sunday Brunch at the country club life, and you will be constantly trying to fit in, they will be looking down their nose at you, and if you were true to yourself, you’d admit it.  As soon as you stop going, they will never speak or call you again.  Go join a family recreation center.”

The kids tennis team made it to the playoffs for the winter season, and the country club parent gives the coach a call – much against my recommendation for the team lineup for the match, the country club kid is put at #1 singles, and the kid that is our best player sits out the match.  The country club kid loses 2-8.  We lose the match by 6 points and don’t get to go to the city finals.  Go freaking figure!  Was I surprised, no.  Was I infuriated?  Absolutely!  I know in my heart of hearts that my kid wouldn’t be playing in the lineup if I hadn’t volunteered to be the team mom.

I think I’m about done being the tennis team mom for Jack’s tennis team.  I did it originally to get the team started, so that Jack would have an opportunity to play competitively, and keep his interest up beyond drills and practicing serves.  However, I feel like the second class citizen in regards to the team, since we’re not members of the “CLUB”.  What the F ever!  I’ve been there, I’ve done that, and it’s all bull snot madness.

I have resolved myself to not voice my opinion to the Clubbettes – but I am watching out for my kid, and as soon as I can get him on another team that doesn’t apply this crap, he’s on it.

The fact that Mohammad has a freaking tennis court wasting away in my back yard BLOWS.  It’s driving me crazy that I just can’t put up a net and play there.  I don’t want to play with country club women!  I don’t.  They aren’t nice, they take themselves way too seriously, and frankly, I get my feelings hurt too much.  We should have never moved into a neighborhood that didn’t have a swim and tennis center.  Trying to play tennis as an outsider is a futile attempt at a social sporting life.  We need to join a tennis club, but I’m so anti-country-club, it makes my would have, could have, should have blood boil.

Last night I had a realization that part of my social anxiety stems from the drama of country clubbers and that I’m a mis-fit mom in this entire competitivedom of suburbia.  Looking at my life, one would assume that we’re right smack dab in the thick of Clubdom.  Nope.  Been There, Done That.  Lesson Learned:  None of it freaking matters.  I don’t want to be here, so I drown myself in my kids, and fill the space with watching them participate in activities rather than me having to socialize with their social climbing parents.

Hanging Up

Of course I get an email!  I’m so frustrated with Miss Polly, and what do you do?  I swore off email battles with my mother this summer and so my inbox has become a repository for her uninvited insults to my soul.  Honor thy father and thy mother.  Does that mean not dishing it back?  I say nothing, and just let her email go to the file drawer.  I know if I reply, I’d get some really great content, but I don’t.  I want to, it would be great, but I don’t.  God it’s hard.

I’m going on day six of someone in my household being sick or vomiting, and I’m hanging in there myself.  If momma’s sick, life isn’t good.  I’ve got this issue with my laundry that won’t disappear.  The socks don’t stay together and the laundry doesn’t fold itself.  I’m buried in sheets that have the stench of urine or vomit.  It’s a disaster.  John is in bed today.  I took his temperature and he doesn’t have one, so I think it’s just a really bad cold that earns him the right and privilege of a day in bed watching Dexter and ESPN.  Next week will be equally as nurturing as he goes into the hospital for all of the testing/biopsy and treatment for his thyroid issue.

Me, I have have been unable to successfully purchase an additional set of sheets for my children’s beds online.  Going to a store would require that I get dressed in something other than my sweatpants that I sleep in.  I over complicate matters by trying to get a discount on the Pottery Barn site, then find myself lost in the abyss of Ebay, and then spend two hours trying to save $100, and then decide that I can do without an additional set of sheets for the kids beds and just do the laundry more frequently.  What I really need to do is not think I can knock out the entire house in one shopping trip, but spread out the purchases.  One would think, but I’m not thinking, I’m buried in laundry and vomit.  I really need to clean my refrigerator, but that is a nightmare unto itself and is smells of decay and mold.


So the first email from Polly goes something like this

From: Miss Polly

Subject: Birthday boy

Date: February 22, 2010 11:00:41 AM EST

To: Sinclair Montgomery

Will be shopping for Ashton’s birthday present this week.  Suggestions?

Okay, so I don’t see this email right away, I am dealing with Mignonne’s illness (oh yeah, she came down with Ashton’s vomit virus on Monday night, so I was dealing with teaching her how to vomit like a lady after doing an all nighter with her.  I can’t sit in front of my computer when I’m holding the bowl for her.  When I do finally see my computer, I just don’t reply because I have no idea what Ashton would want for his birthday and furthermore, it’s three weeks away.  Polly isn’t coming for his birthday (another story all together), so whatever she gets him, she’ll just order from Amazon anyway.  The last time we spoke, Miss Polly hung up on me, so she’s moved down the priority list of who to call in my mothering advice.  Yep, I have rules, and not calling someone back after being hung up on well, that is one of my major rules.  Miss Polly owes me an apology.

So the next day, I get the following email:

From: Miss Polly

Subject: Ashton’s Birthday

Date: February 23, 2010 10:50:31 AM EST

To: Sinclair Montgomery

Will be shopping for Ashton’s birthday present this week.  Suggestions?

Are you going to let me know what to get Ashton for his birthday?  I realize it might take five seconds of your busy day, and since you have already informed me that calling me to give me five minutes of your valuable time isn’t on your schedule, I wouldn’t think of intruding on you with a phone call.  When tempted, I just put your last message on speaker phone and play it — the tone of your voice —-cuts me to the core.   If I don’t hear from you, I’ll just wing it and get him something I think he’d like — maybe a big drum set.


I hope you can hear the tone in her voice.  it’s not sweet and loving, and Mary Poppins like, that’s for sure.  Imagine more of a character from The Young And The Restless that has a tenuous relationship with their daughter.


From: Sinclair Montgomery

To: Miss Polly

Sent: Tue, Feb 23, 2010 12:11 pm

Subject: Re: Ashton’s birthday

Are  you trying to be mean?  A drum set would be a perfect thing!  I’ll set it up in the front hallway outside of John’s office while he’s on a conference call.    I don’t know what would be a more appropriate and useful gift for him though, maybe a Lego set, Wii game, a Nintendo DS game, or a siamese fighting fish.  You’d have to ask him what he’d like though.  I’ll have him call you.


From: Miss Polly

Subject: Ashton’s Birthday

Date: February 23, 2010 12:39:55 AM EST

To: Sinclair Montgomery

I’m not trying to be anything but the child’s grandmother.  Despite what you do, say, or how you act, I love the children and always will.  You have made yourself the problem in our relationship.  I have all I can deal with here, and only asked for you to be kind, supportive, and caring, obviously not in your nature.  Anyone who questions why you make me sad only has to listen to that voice mail message you left — they get it.


Now, I have no doubt that my mother loves my children.  She adores them and they think she walks on water.  What bothers me though, is that by seeing how much she loves my children, I realize how much she doesn’t like me.  She’s supposed to love me because I’m her child, but she doesn’t like me.  When I look at her looking at me, it’s so obvious.  She does this thing with her lower lip and then has this snarl with her upper lip and annunciates her words in such a way with me that just feels like at any moment she’s going to snap and hit me again.

So the voice mail message I left her three weeks ago immediately after she hung up on me for the second time that week had the intention of telling her that she had to stop saying she wasn’t going to ever be at my house if my husband’s family was here, and went like something to the fact that I loved her, but that she can’t continue to hang up on me and expect to maintain a relationship.  The voicemail message went something to the fact that I loved her, but I can’t have either John or my parents claim exclusivity of holidays and birthdays with our children, that the reason why we bought such a large house was so that people could come, and stay, and that I loved my husband and was going to remain married to him.  Being married to John included his family being a part of our life.  If her decision to not be here was because of my husband’s family also trying to be a part of my children’s life, than that was hurting me.  I ended my voicemail message to her with I love you.  It been three weeks now, maybe four, and no calls from my mother.

I’m really concerned about my father though.  I figure he’ll call me when it’s safe to talk.

Polly watches soap operas while she sews, so I think she thinks that the rest of the world acts like those people.  I’m not kidding.

God, it’s so freaking hard having a relationship with my mother.  I of course wrote emails back to her that I never sent.  I swore to myself this summer that wasn’t productive.  The issue with commenting back to my mother is that she’s like an elephant.  She never learns and moves on, she also never forgets and will bite me with any errors that I may have made in my life.  She harbors resentment and I can see it in her eyes.  I just don’t understand why she resents me?  We’ll be having a beautiful moment, and Polly will bring up something that I said to her in an argument where she needed to be shut down and then, boom, we’re back in a fight.  My issue is that it goes both ways.  However, I never bring up any of her past mothering mistakes, or the dozens of errors in her judgement that she inflicted on me as a child.  I never do that.  Should I?  I don’t think so.  Maybe I should.  That wouldn’t be productive.  She just acts like a victim.  I however have learned from her mistakes and aren’t raising my children in the same manner.

She’s still blaming me on John calling her a retard last Christmas.  What does she want me to do about it?  Really?  He said he was sorry as soon as he said it.  I didn’t call her a retard!  But I’m getting punished?

A kid that gets hit is abused.  A dog that gets hit and finally bites back is called an aggressive dog and gets put down.  What is the name for the person that gets shot when they deserved it?  I can’t come up with the name for that person.

And what about the killer whales?  I watched that story this morning and thought it was like cuddling with Hannibal Lector.  If a killer whale ate someone before, what makes Sea World think he’s going to behave in captivity and not eventually eat someone again?  It’s in their nature.  They can’t help themselves.

What I would like is for Miss Polly to acknowledge that she made mistakes and that we’re all pretty good people for moving past it, not looking back, and learning from her mistakes.  That’s all.   But, I’m not calling her.  If it means not getting hung up on, well then we just won’t talk.