When I started this blog I wanted it to be more like my Myspace blog. But there aren't any options to private anything and I have lots of things to private. I'm trying to tell myself to just say "Fuck it!" That those are the best reads. I want more followers to drink my purple kool-aid. You know what I'm sayin'?

Since I'm a reformed heroin addict/pill fiend turned awesome Mom, I want to include all aspects of my life. Both past and present. Both sad and happy. Both sordid and showing of my progression towards even more awesomeness. So I guess I'm going to forgo my original intentions, those of keeping my family members shaded from my past but still include the fact that I am now a mom. A mom who still says fuck and makes dick jokes complete with filthy hand gestures. Why? Because I am truthful. I don't care what anyone thinks and I'm not going to conform to anyones expectations. 

If I want to write a blog about that time I saw a bum shit his pants on Bourbon Street and then proceed to wallow in it, I will. And that will probably be followed by a paragraph or two about how I fed my kid milk for the first time and when he finally expelled it's contents from his ass it smelled like 2 million rat corpses.

I can do that. Why? 

Because this is MY blog and YOU have chosen to read it. 'Cause, you know, there is an 18 and older disclaimer before you have to click before you get here.

Laurel Q. Strange

If you're stupid and you know it don't have babies! If you're stupid and you know it and you really wanna show it buy a dog!

First, my son has finally started to walk. Yay and "Oh no!" would be my choice words and or phrases for that. He's not to the point where I can take him places without a stroller but he sure is making his way around the house. Let me rephrase that. He sure is making a mess around the house. But of course, I am a proud mother. As I am also proud of the past year he and I have been best buddies. Me and my C-sectioned bottlefed baby. I've had so much fun this past year it's incredible. Now, I'm not a pushy mom by NO means. Please don't have one if you don't want one. Also, if you're stupid...do not have one. 


Ok, there should be a "Second" since I started this thing with a "First", but I really don't know what to say. How about this? Does anyone ever read a FB post that makes you want to reach through the computer and slap the ever living shit out of the poster? I do. With that being said. Not all zealots are religious. DO NOT FORCE YOUR OPINIONS ON ME OR MAKE ME FEEL BAD FOR THE DECISIONS I'VE MADE IN MY LIFE OR ANYONE ELSE FOR THAT MATTER. Yes, I know there is an italics button but I'm really yelling this. When I was a heroin addict I didn't run around the French Quarter or post on FB about how awesome and effective heroin is for headaches, stomachaches, shitty neighbors and generally forgetting you yourself exist for some period of time.


And I don't expect you to do it to me. I might be being cryptic here but my child is in no way different than your pussy birthed breastfed child. Did it ever occur to some people that my baby milk depraved child could in any way be smarter than yours? He could very well be the next Einstein or the next assistant manager at McDonalds. But so could yours. Or maybe I had my reasons for doing the things I did. And it wasn't a bad thing. At all. In NO way. And in NO WAY should someone have their feelings hurt for choosing to raise their child the way they want to.

Also, I just finished reading Tina Fey's autobiography and it was pretty awesome. There were two parts I really liked. One, which at first started to piss me the fuck off but then when it ended it came out A+. Two, how Amy Poehler grossed out Jimmy Fallon with a vulgar and "unladylike" [quote tina fey] joke which included hand gestures. Jimmy freaked because it was a woman who was telling the joke. Here are Tina's exact words. "Amy made it clear that she wasn't there to be cute. She wasn't there to play the wives and girlfriends in the boys' scenes. She was there to do what she wanted and she did not fucking care if you liked it."This is where I come in. That is me. I am the girl at the bar [bookstore, grocery store, church, prayer groups, weddings, funerals ect] who is telling the loudest most vulgar hand gesture-y joke you can imagine. I am infamous for big black dick jokes. After reading what Tina Fey said I realized what I already knew. No one wants to see funny femmes making jokes like that. WHY!? I execute them perfectly but alas, they aren't funny unless a man tells them. And this is where I take off the thumb that is holding me down and stick it up your ass.  

Rabble rabble rabble rabble

I tried to post last night but couldn't squeeze anything out of my pathetic tired little brain. Yesterday was my son's first birthday party. Whooo... just as good as a workout at the gym. Best part ever... as my son was digging in his electric blue and green iced cake my second cousin's white-blonde headed daughter walked by and my kid, used to sneak feeding and petting the dog from his high chair, saw her walk by and figured she was the right height with some sort of fur on the top of her head and swiped his iced fingers through her hair. I said to my cousin, "You guys are going swimming after this, right?"

All and all it was fun. But now what to do with all these Christmas toys and birthday toys. I suppose I'll hide the X-mas toys until he gets bored with the new ones and bring out the old ones like they're new. Hopefully, he'll still be young enough to fall for it.

Other than that... well, nothing. Yes, I'm enjoying watching my son grow and learn the things I teach him. Coming from someone who used to think children were only spawned for sweat shops, it's a great feeling and I'm content being here with him. But... there is always a but in life. Nothing is perfect. I can't believe I'm about to type this.. I miss working. Ahh! Yep, I said it.

Having a kid is quite a 180 from where I was at before. I'm old though... at least too old to be staying at bars all night and coming home at noon with strange foliage in my hair. It was time to have a kid. For me anyway. All the puzzle pieces are fitting nicely. So amongst all this cabin fever shite I've decided to go back to massage therapy school. Yeah, I have to go to Haney and not Blue Cliff in New Orleans like I desperately want to but there are no other steps I can take for providing for my little family without becoming a food stamp whore for the rest of my life*. I need a skill that will make me more money than slicing and boxing pizzas for pennies. Next step, school. Learn skill. Graduate. Make the working world my bitch and be proud of myself. That and I'll have accomplished something. Not that I don't feel accomplished molding my son, but I need to do something with myself and Haney is the only place here for MT and it has a daycare so I can check on The Kid between every class. I wonder if they let you do that? Probably not, but at least I know he's close and if I did feel the burning urge to bust up in that bitch it'll be only steps away.

On a good note. I did a lot of writing last night. Just poems and a smattering of words that make sense to me. I need to do this more. Submit my stories. Get it out there. I also want a rejection letter from the New York Post or somewhere equally unobtainable for a female Bukowski. Yes, it'd be nicer for them to print it but hey... let's be realistic.

Side note... I don't post any of the good stuff like I used to. I don't know exactly how many people on Facebook read this and I have a lot of family on FB soooo... I'd rather not subject them to what they would consider a complete horror. These are church goin' folkses here we're talking about. I've already got blocked from my sister's husband, who is a local preacher at a rather large church, block me because I referred to the staples from my C-section as my Frankenpussy. Now I'm blocked from commenting though I've never commented anything rude or sarcastic. I respect all religions. Even the ones that are annoying.

* No, I'm not knocking anyone on food stamps. Hello? Meeee. I am knocking those who leach the system with cash assistance, food stamps and get to sit on their butts all day squatting out babies [the ones who I assume belong in sweat shops]. A little help from the government isn't a bad thing when you need it. Even if you need it for a long time. As long as you aren't bein' a ho.

I should write a real blog.

I'm only writing this to tell you that I will be trying my hardest to write more often. But alas, my son is about to have his first birthday and being the one year old spawn of myself well... if you know me you can guess how hyper he is. And just plain silly.

It's pretty fuckin' awesome, but whew... he sure wears me out. Especially since our day usually starts at 5:30 AM. Which is pretty funny [to me] that only a few years ago I could be found at a bar in New Orleans, still drinking [it's perfectly socially acceptable to be at a bar at that hour] at 5:30 in the morning. And usually wouldn't leave until noon [also socially acceptable].

Ahhh, now I'm reminiscing about the old days. The days were long... sometimes 4 days long. Until I finally ran out of money and crashed on the futon until I could drag myself to school. I shall also add that I, drunk at times, aced every single test I ever took at that place.

Ok, my child is telling me via squeals and angry stomping that it is time for sleep. Whether he gets there or not is up to him. Lawd know's it's not up to me these days. My po' po' teething bebe. And yes, when he teethes he can sometimes become the dreaded Bebe's Kid.

Before I go I must brag, he's an awesome kid. The sweetest of honeysuckle nectar and I love the little monkey.

Dear New Orleans and the word taint.

I wrote this in February of '09 when I was still in Drug Court; my graduation date getting closer. Closer to me getting to visit the only city that will take me as I am. I don't have to conform for New Orleans and neither does anyone else. That is one of the reasons I love it so much there. You can be whoever you want to be and no one will say a damn thing about it. It's the true definition of free. Unfortunately, thieves think the same way about your belongings. But it's worth it to live there. Worth every damn bit of it. And now.... the blog.

I still cry about it, when the mood strikes me. I always cry about it, when I read something in the paper. New Orleans broke my heart and like an abusive lover I can’t seem to get enough of, I always go back. Spiritually, I never left.

And if you think I’m crazy to go back, you don’t know the city like I do. I know the Mississippi River on a boiling summer afternoon, what lies under piles of garbage that sit on the street corner in the French Quarter, I know how to spell Tchoupitoulas, and know what entails getting your po-boy dressed, and I surely know what it means to miss New Orleans. I know the dirty secrets of the Quarter and how to cop dope in the 9^th ward. I know that it’s in my blood like virus. A virus to some, but how I survive living in Florida for the next year.....

New Orleans gives me hope when I feel blue. New Orleans paints me red when I feel saucy. New Orleans feeds me BBQ shrimp when I hunger for her comfort. Sometimes, I scroll through apartment rentals on Craigslist.com and imagine my furniture sitting in the empty space. My furniture which remains in storage in a unit Uptown, a beacon of hope, sure to bring me home.....

I live life with reckless abandon and New Orleans is there along for the ride. Holding my hand and urging me to take one more shot of Jager. She’s gotten me shitfaced, but always held my hair back when I was puking in the street. She’s rode shotgun when I navigate aimlessly through her purple, gold, and green veins. Driving dreamlike through the Garden District, seeing time suspended through vintage eyes. ....

She’s inspired me to write pages and pages of her vibrant beauty like no other in the world. Pages and pages of her sordid and shadowy past, veiled by banana leaves and lace iron fences. Inside closet courtyards, under a moon ripe with passion. I want to take her in my arms and never let go.

~Strange "The Taint" Fruit 

One of the millions of reasons I love New Orleans

In June 2006 I moved back to New Orleans after a 10 month hiatus living in Portland, Oregon. I moved to a quaint albeit tiny...very tiny, studio on Lower Decatur. I could stand in the middle of the room and move and inch one side to the other and be able to touch the walls. I could spit from one end of the apt and the spit would land in the bathroom, on the other end of the apt. Does that give you any idea how small my studio was? Really fucking small.

One morning I stopped at Envie, one of my favorite coffee shops 2 doors down from my cage *ahem* studio apartment. As I walked out with my vanilla latte, I took a left turn on Governor Nicholls and strolled up to the dog park to let Clementine and Captain Murphy run around and do their thang.

Along the way I encountered a man the size of Lou Ferrigno wearing a black leather skirt, a black beret, a long red wig, black silk blouse,  fishnet stockings, 6 inch heels and wielding a riding crop.

As I passed him I looked over to my friend and said "AND THAT... is why I love New Orleans."

Advertisements~Help a single momma out! And please don't pity me. Seriously.

I'm thinking about putting up adverts on my blog. As you know, every time you click on a link I get money. Pretty neat huh? I seem to think so.

As many of you know, I love to write. Funny, absurd, shocking, true life hilarity. I've been trying to write a book for years and as you all know, my lazy ass can never seem to finish it. Or get very far [4 chapters in]. Blogging is instant and gets instant results. I'm an impatient person and feel this setup is perfect for me.

Ok, I don't think I have anything else to say. I guess I feel a little ashamed having to resort to this, but I don't like real jobs. Because real jobs mean leaving the house and dealing with the public. Neither of which I am cut out to do.

Well, I take that back. Sort of. If it wasn't for Hurricane Katrina I would have finished massage therapy school along with obtaining a business degree. If it weren't for The Animal getting Salmonella I could take him to daycare at Haney and attend MT school there. But alas, they don't take children still testing positive for Salmonella [it can stay there dormant for up to a year].

Got off topic, sorry. What I wanted to add is that the only way I like dealing with the public is when I'm not a waitress serving self righteous assholes who've let their hunger get so debilitating that they march inside with a chip on their shoulder. Hungry people = angry people. With MT I'm there to relax them. That and I love homeopathic medicines and alternatives to modern medicine. Which is not good for your soul.

And with that...I'm out.