Ginger

I loves me a white boy.
Loves.......me......one.
I have been chasing white boys since Saved By The Bell. I may have been five, but I wanted to be locked in a room with ALL them New Kids on The Block. At a friend's birthday party, her mom instructed us to grab a hunk (of cake). I grabbed my friend's brother instead. Get it... because he's a hunk. Yeah it's lame but pretty clever for a 10 year old.
I went to an all white school so I had my pick of boys to stalk. I went through a phase where I not only loved white boys but white boys with J names. Jacob, Jason, Jon, John, Jay. I would write them weird poems, buy them gifts, flirt shamelessly, then wail in the second floor girls' bathroom when they laughed me off and ran off into the sunset with a Katie (there were so. many. Katies.)
Fast forward to my twenties and a ventured off into Mexicans, which is why my kids have a z at the end of their last names. But this particular Mexican happens to have some very serious white boy tendencies, so he surrounded himself with white boys.
And there was one. I call him Ginger. I am not great with nicknames.
He was there in the aforementioned dress burning incident and also during a separate occasion where I was in such despair that I hulked out of my shirt and sobbed all over my double D's (read that sentence aloud in a breathy voice). He scooped me up off the floor, hugged me, told me this idiot wasn't worth my tears, then took me out for a cigarette. I don't even smoke but I would for him.
I spent the next couple months fantasizing about Ginger. He was different than all the cookie cutter boys the idiot hung out with. Yes, they all live with their mamas. Yes, the all wear their weed socks literally as high as they can possibly go and pride themselves on the straightness of their hat brims, but this one seemed to be just languishing in douchebag culture. I saw potential in him.
So the next time I caught the idiot doing putting his dick where it doesn't belong (stay tuned for A Tale of Two Cindy's), I confided in him. And he confided in me. And that's all I have to say about that.
He told me I have a great personality. That I was a hard worker and a good mom and funny and smart--all things that Idiot has either denied me or maligned me for (as in "STFU, you always have to be so smart"). I melted and then immediately realized that I was in too deep.
Apparently so did he, because at 6am this morning, he informed me that he couldn't really talk to me like that anymore because he didn't want to jeopardize what he had with his boys.
Muthafucka, I made you a lasagna!
Idiot articulated in as such: Bros (points to himself) over Ho's (points to me). I guess it's okay if it's one of his ho's though.
I think my assumption was right: they're all just sitting around in what used to be my bedroom, measuring each other's dicks and telling stories about being fuckboys.
Moonwalk.

Introduction

A few months ago, I downed a handful of pills and a bottle of tequila. I had just found out that my husband of five years was still Snapchatting with the Pennsylvania stripper he got pregnant back in 2014. Yeah. That's a sentence that I never thought I'd say.

So I staggered to my closet, climbed up to the top shelf where I had shoved my gorgeous, Ivory colored, size 18 (no shame), a-lined wedding gown, complete with the box in the back. I got butt naked and slid it on. Then I dragged my drunk ass to my kitchen, turned on the burners and set that bitch on fire.

I probably should have taken it off first. Those leg hairs will never grow back. Cheaper than waxing though. 

I continued to bawl my eyes out and borderline throw up for the next 6 hours or so.

How did I get there? I cook. I clean. I make gorgeous kids. I go to church and pray for my enemies. Sure, I sometimes pray that they'll get hit by a bus, but I pray. 

I have no clever ending to this, so I'm just gonna moonwalk out of this post.