Farts and Fairy Gardens

Hello.  My Name is Trixie and I'm An Alcoholic.  TIAA for short.  At least that is what my friends (tribe, fellowship, friends of Bill W) call me.  And luckily for you, if you are sitting and reading this, I consider you my friend too.  Depending on the day, you could be my only friend.  In addition to attending daily meetings in a run down church basement where old furniture and coffee makers go to die, confessing my addiction to an eclectic mix of whiny cat women and egotistical corvette drivers (joke. we can be a bit sensitive and I don't want to offend anyone) I am a single mother raising two incredible young men. If that wasn't enough, there is also another thing that I'm responsible for growing.  He resembles a human but could easily pass as a minion if need be. He is an out of wedlock passion child conceived from pure unadulterated sweaty monkey sex.  Yes, three boys. The ceiling fan in my bedroom quietly whistles the "My Three Sons" theme song to remind me that babies are sexually transmitted.   I have also adopted two geriatric male dogs, out of sheer pity. So our quaint (read tiny as shit) house (picture a fairy garden house...stop... that's my house.) is a testosterone pressure cooker waiting for the right fart to ignite an explosion sending shards of Lego's and Nerf gun darts into the faux brick exteriors of all the McMansions in our hood.

I am convinced I was conceived when God thought it would be funny to create another Giselle but this time on Opposite Day.  I recently celebrated my "over the hill" birthday.  Thank you.  Thank you very much.  I know.  I don't look a day older than my mom.  I had no fucking idea what hill I was infact climbing until I reached the top and saw my belly button.  No wonder it took forty years, it was constantly growing under my nose.  Fucking fat ass hill.  Needless to say, when I reached the top I contemplated continuing the journey.  I hadn't packed my Tevas and water wings for all of the rivers and streams that lay on the other side of the big hill like silver waterways cut deep into the otherwise dry crackly terrain. So continuing "over the hill" was a bit scary. 

I consider myself an average 40 year old single mother as my appearance is average, my socio-economic status is average (for the ghetto), and my social life is fairly average (minus the men and my insane ability to down 5-6 soda waters with lime in one hour). Have no fear though Dear Reader, "average" in 2015 is far from boring.  Here is an insight into my exploits, my struggles, my successes, my relationships, and my truths. 

To all of you women out there who claim to have life all figured out, I have two words…EAT ME. I'm gluten free.