Totally Random Friday

Captain’s Log, star date 28 June 2013.

Currently 110 degrees at 11:57 am. Forecasted high for today and tomorrow 115 degrees.

6-inch had speech therapy this morning. Is making progress in some areas and none in others. Recommended to consult with a developmental pediatrician.

Footlong is obsessed with J’s new tablet. If he is not on the Wii or playing with 6-inch he is on the tablet.

We venture to the YMCA everyday so that I can exercise and the kids can play.

I have been seeing a new psychiatrist for a month now. She has tweaked some of my meds and added three new meds for anxiety and sleep.

I have also been diagnosed with PTSD in addition to depression and anxiety.

The diagnosis made plenty of sense when I answered the myriad of questions she asked me. It had never occurred to me that I may have PTSD, but now I realize that, to some degree, I do.

Father Snort arrives Tuesday for a visit.

I read the sequel to “The Devil Wears Prada” which is entitled “Revenge Wears Prada.” It sucked ass.

The thought of having to cook dinner tonight makes me ill. It’s too hot to cook. I may just throw something on the grill outside so I won’t be heating up the house with the stove.

Current weight loss is 84 pounds.

Current shirt size is 18.

Current pant size is 16 or 18 depending on the brand.

I dyed my hair dark purple last night. No joke. It is a little darker than a purple skittle.

Maybe if I post a photo then MckMama will paint a wall dark purple in my honor.

From now on when I do laundry I’m going to check all the pockets to make sure there is no BM in there.

I hate playing video games but have succumbed to playing Candy Crush Saga on my phone once or twice a day. This is very un-Snort like.

I found out last night that my cousin and his new wife are expecting their first child together.

I need to go make Footlong some lunch. Today’s menu:  Corndog, organic yogurt, blueberries, milk. For me:  Protein Shake and maybe some cheese. Not very hungry.

6-inch is napping and snoring.

In the time it has taken me to write this blog entry the temperature has increased to 111 degrees.

Have a nice day.

Thank you for wasting part of your day at The Snort Files.

You’re good enough….you’re smart enough….and gosh darn it, people like you!   —-Stuart Smalley, Saturday Night Live


Owning and Wearing Your Skin

This is dedicated to a Coffee-Sipping Catholic   ♥

So I’m in one fucker of a mood right now because of PMS. Having my drug abuse re-hashed and mocking of my choice for gastric bypass rather than traditional dieting and willpower haven’t helped any. As you guys have noticed, I’m blunt, honest, have no filter between my brain and mouth, and will call it like I see it (tactfully if with a friend or someone I care for, all else be damned if I can’t stand you).

Someone yesterday left me a comment after reading the link I provided to the blog entry I wrote last June about coming clean regarding my drug addiction. Now, I’ve always admitted that I abused pain medication. When public documents from the board of nursing were made public on another blog (it doesn’t matter if you love me or hate me…you’re thinking about me!) I decided right then and there to make my form of a public statement. What this person wanted to know was how I manage to be comfortable in my own skin—comfortable enough to tell the truth, tell you to fuck off, and just be ok with who I am. She also mentioned her skin was tight and itchy—-moisturize, moisturize, moisturize!!! Just kidding.

I did not become comfortable in my own skin until I hit 30 or so. I grew up in the Bible Belt and knowing since I was a child that I was an atheist. I had to hide that so I wouldn’t draw unwanted attention to myself. I was 20-40 pounds heavier than my friends growing up, so I tried to dress like they did so I didn’t want to stick out any more than I did. I always went along with the majority because I didn’t want people challenging me or chiding me if my opinion differed from theirs. Growing up, even during nursing school, I did my best to fit in because I didn’t want to be sent to Social Siberia and have no friends other than an inflatable boyfriend.

I started speaking out and figuring out who I was as the decade of my 20’s progressed. I survived an emotionally, verbally, and physically abusive first marriage. That made me a bit stronger. I worked as a travel nurse for a couple of years, and I found that I could depend on myself and provide for myself even if I was in Alaska (I did work there for a Summer). I started reading JM’s blog when someone sent me the link about Stellan being ill. I read the blog faithfully, and I’ll be honest:  the bitch made me feel guilty. I had one son, and I didn’t take him places everyday, feed him organic food, dress him in brightly colored designer clothes and baby leggings, and have funny-looking wooden high chairs and seats. But the longer I read her blog the more I noticed little white lies. When confronted by others she would deflect, deny, or give her staple, “Sorry you must have misunderstood!” answer. One night, after talking to J about this twatwaffle, I told him that from here on out I’m just going to let the inner Carmen become the outer Carmen. Literally. What you see is what you get. What I think is what you will hear. You like me? Great! You don’t like me? Piss off. I came out openly as an atheist. I stopped feeling guilt and shame and realized that I was a great parent to Footlong. I was worthy of sharing my opinion and giving/receiving respect just as much as the next person. The cussing isn’t new though; that’s been around for quite awhile.

When Jennifer’s bankruptcy documents and audio recording of her 341 meeting were made public I was absofuckinglutely astounded that the bitch kept trying to lie her way out of it. The truth was literally printed on black and white court documents, but she couldn’t admit the truth. She had PayPal accounts? The MWOPers must have set them up and made deposits to frame her. Did she own a second RV? NO. Did she sell and RV on Craigslist? Yes, but she had never owned it. Several months later when the public documents regarding my drug use were published I knew I had three options:  1) Keep quiet and pretend I didn’t know about it.  2) Pull a Jennifer and deflect and deny until I was green in the face. Or 3). Tell the truth and embrace it for what it was. I can’t go back and change my past. No one can. But trying to lie about black and white documents bearing my own signature would have been a totally assholish MckMama type of move. You can’t change the past, but fucking hell you can certainly decide how to handle the present—that will eventually morph it’s way into your future. Am I embarrassed? Of course I am; I wouldn’t be human if I wasn’t. Am I mad someone posted it? Not really because I knew it was a public document. Did I want to go back to being the Carmen that internalized everything for fear of drawing attention to herself, or did I want to become Carmen, a grown woman in her 30s who has finally embraced her life, mistakes, self-image, opinions, beliefs, desires, and put it all out there for the world to see? I chose the latter. Sometimes reading hurtful things about myself of being insulted hurts. I’m human; I feel pain. But am I going to let it get the best of me or make me change who I am so please someone else who has issues? FUCK NO.

So, that is how I got to where I am and how I got comfortable in my own skin. Which, with the weight loss, is looking more and more loose and dimply, but that’s for another blog post altogether.  If any of you want to send me a photo with your age, height, weight, and size for our “One Month to Vegas” challenge please do so this week. And give yourself a fake name so you can stay anonymous. Send photos to

Love you guys!! I’m blessed to have people accept me for me, and it feels good.

Buy My Shit

Hi, I’m Snort. Carmen if you rather. I’m here today to tell you about a fabbbbbbbbbbbbbulous weight loss offer. I have lost 80 pounds. You read that right:  80 fucking pounds. Let me show you a before photo:

This is me here at my starting weight, right before I started taking these all-natural amazing health and wellness supplements. OMG, did they change me for the better! I took the pills. I shat the laxatives. I urinated the water intake. I mixxed raw eggs with my protein shake. I really didn’t change my diet. No exercise, that’s for damn sure. Here is my after photo showing me 50 pounds (and 7 sizes lighter):


Ermagawd. Can you see how SKINNY I am??? I was buoyed by your support and stayed on these miracles pills (hit me up at SnortIsAFuckingMiracleDOTgmailDOTcom). This is me less than two weeks later:


Not only have I lost 16 sizes, but the pills have conferred with my hair follicles and found the best hair color to suit me. This shit is magic. I do a ton of stuff I never did before:  I sing karaoke, do a mean pelvic squat thrust, have taken a mimicry class and can make my mouth look just like a cat’s asshole, learned the before and after effects of house pharrs, and, this is a biggie, I have designed and mailed out a shit-ton of “Team Snort” t-shirt, thongs, socks, hoodies, ties, smoking jackets, pajamas, robes, prayer veils, and competition cheerleader uniforms. Don’t worry about buying Team Snort swag because the money stays within Team Snort and helps me maintain my 80 pound weight loss. Fuck you if you have no will power and cannot diet like regular folks. Some people are just better than others. xoxoxoxoxo my team of little Snortlets. And when we meet I will be climbing on your back, vodka bottle in hand, to make sure I am 1) on top of the pyramid, 2)You realize you are beneath me, and 3)So my Miss Me jeans don’t split. They only work standing up; if I sit they riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip right down the crotch. Talk soon.

And if you want go get beyond the snark and humour, here is a link to a blog post I published last June, the day someone publicly posted my documents about my drug addiction use, and my voluntary surrender of my nursing license. MY NAME IS CARMEN JACKSON, AND I AM A RECOVERING DRUG ADDICT. I USED TO STEAL LEFTOVER PAIN MEDICATIONS AFTER MY PATIENTS WERE MEDICATED IN THE ER. IN WAS CONFRONTED BY MANAGEMENT 3 YEARS AGO ON MAY 29, 2010, AND THAT MY FRIEND IS 3 YEARS SOBER. AS FAR AS I’M CONCERNED, THERE IS NO FUCKING SHAME IN BEING HONEST ABOUT WHO YOU ARE. THOSE THAT CONSTANTLY POINT FINGERS BUT WON’T GO PUBLIC OBVIOUSLY GOT SHIT TO HIDE.

The Summer Challenge

Hello, howdy, hola, bonjour, or however you say it in your neck of the woods  🙂

Firstly, a Happy Belated Father’s Day to you men who read my blog (which I think is limited to Father Snort, Hevel, and Brother Snort sometimes). Yesterday was a crappy day on my end, and I didn’t feel like blogging a tribute to my father or husband. Today I shall endeavor to do so.

I will start my tributes at the beginning with the first man I ever fell in love with :  my daddy. My daddy was 28 when I was born, and there is a really cute photo buried in an album back home of him, with a giant black afro, cuddling little old 6 1/2 lb. me in the hospital. As I have mentioned before, my dad is an immigrant, and he was naturalized as a US citizen before I was born. He held a great job with the railroad and provided a good living for me and Brother Snort, and his efforts also allowed Mother Snort to be a SAHM. Dad has always had a quick temper and will get loud quickly, but he never punished me or Brother Snort more than we deserved growing up. He worked odd hours, and sometimes we would go up to two weeks without seeing him. Whenever he did have time off he always spent time with us playing baseball, letting us put on boxing gloves and get all Mike Tyson on his ass, take us on long walks, and, if money permitted, to the movies or to play miniature golf. One of my favorite memories is of a day when I was in the fourth grade. Brother Snort and I hadn’t seen Dad in a couple of weeks, and both he and Mother Snort drove us to school that morning. Before we got to the lot where we had to get out of the car he turned around and asked, “Do you guys really want to go to school today?” “NO!!!” we both yelled. Dad turned the car around, Mother Snort was freaking out because unless we had a huge fever or were throwing up we went to school, and Brother Snort and I were wondering what in the hell had brought about this good fortune. We got home, and Dad told us to change into old clothes because we were going to spend the day fishing. Now fishing is something I’ve never been crazy about (like going to the gynecologist), but fishing instead of fractions? Fuck yeah! We took family vacations every summer (never extravagant, just a few days in the mountains or at the beach), and I remember many evenings after Daddy would mow the grass (how I miss that smell!), he would fire up the grill and barbeque some chicken or grill some steak, sometimes drinking a beer or Jim and Coke for good measure. While I was growing up Daddy, even with his quick temper, was the more lenient, level-headed parent (sorry Mom). It was his idea to put a telephone in my room when I was 9, and it made me feel like a grown up. When I was a cheerleader in middle school, the uniforms that our coach wanted to buy (but ultimately didn’t thank heavens) cost $300. We didn’t have $300, but Daddy was ready to pawn one of his hunting rifles to get the money. He supported my ventures on the Academic, math, and science teams (I think those made him the most proud). My best friend in high school, Darrel, was openly gay, so Dad had no problem letting us take day trips to Atlanta or Columbus or stay out late—I think mainly because he knew Darrel wouldn’t put the moves on me. Dad treated me and Brother Snort quite fairly:  we were allowed to date at a certain age, weekend curfews were generous provided we let them know where we were or if we were going to be late, school night curfews were reasonable, bedtimes were negotiable, and advice about any given topic (money, sex, dating, education, driving, etc) was offered freely. Dad patiently taught me to drive because Mother Snort is a walking ball of nerves (again, sorry Mom). I was always told that I was loved and that he was proud of me. And I wish that all of you could have heard his reaction when I told him I was pregnant with Footlong. The poor man was convinced that he was NEVER going to be a grandfather, with me having one failed marriage behind me and my brother being a perpetual bachelor. Even over the phone I could tell he was smiling and was about to burst with joy. He now has three grandchildren and is a terrific grandfather….even if 99% of the time it is on Skype. For each of his grandchildren’s first birthday he bought them a whole life insurance policy; that’s my dad…..always pragmatic and thinking ahead.

J is the most wonderful father to our boys that I could ask for. When we decided to try and get pregnant in early 2005, we got the ok from my doctor, but the doctor recommended that I try and lose a little weight first since excess body fat can interfere with fertility. I weighed 250 at the time. He told me to get off birth control, and if I wasn’t pregnant in 2 years to come back for fertility testing. Wouldn’t you know it? We got pregnant with Footlong the very first time we had unprotected sex. I still remember the look on J’s face when I showed him the positive pregnancy test and said, “We’re pregnant!” He looked dumbfounded, like I had announced we had won the lottery. He then smiled and gave me a big hug. He told me during the pregnancy that he didn’t feel very attached to the baby because it was totally my experience:  I had the nausea, I ate for the baby, I could feel kicks and wiggles all the time, I peed every 45 minutes. I remember the sweetest thing he did for me during the pregnancy; I woke up one morning about 2:30 am with a mad craving for grits and cheese eggs from the Waffle House. I got dressed, and he woke up and asked what in the hell I was doing. I told him I was going to the Waffle House, about 15 minutes away, for breakfast. Even though he had an early class (he was in grad school) he said, “Well you’re not going alone.” He came with me and sat there, nodding off, while I scarfed down eggs, bacon, grits, and raisin toast like it was my last meal. When I was in labor and the time came to push, I had my best friend, Christy, and my doula in the delivery room in addition to J. I told J that if he wanted he could be behind the midwife so he could have a nice view of his son being born. He watched with amazement. This man had worried the entire pregnancy that he wouldn’t be a good daddy, and when he got to hold his son for the first time he was an instant father. It took him a day or two, but he learned how to change diapers, how to burp the baby, and when I started pumping milk exclusively he liked giving Footlong bottles. J also figured out I was pregnant with 6-inch before I did. I didn’t feel pregnant. He went and bought me a pregnancy test and told me to go ahead and pee on it; I’ll be damned if the thing wasn’t positive. We thought for sure that 6-inch was a girl, but when we heard we were having another little boy J was tickled. He spends nearly all of his spare time with the kids, and he is a fine husband. We argue and yell like every married couple, but he has NEVER raised a hand in anger. He is faithful. He works hard and provides well. I couldn’t imagine having kids with anyone else.

You may have noticed the title of this blog post and have been wondering what in the fuck a Summer challenge had to do with Father’s Day. Jen-Jen just returned from Xyng fete/fling/fest/fuck whatever in Utah and is blathering about getting in better shape for Xyng fete/fling/fest/fuck in Las Vegas next month, making it a point to show photos of Xyng juice and other shit she is imbibing in between visits to restaurants, buffets, and the bar. The photos from Utah were very telling:  Mama is large and in charge. Now, I get that I sound like a bitch right now, and  I don’t give a shit about her weight. I do, however, give many shits about her constant lying and how her photographs always look so different (i.e. photoshopped) than photos that other folks take of her. Like these gems:





And one of my personal favorites, the one where she at 80 pounds lighter resembles a corn-fed white boy playing defense in the NFL:





I feel I should mention that I am not responsible for the photo’s caption; this was taken from MWOP.


I have been saddled with horrific back pain for years due to a combination of obesity and an old nursing injury. I have been able to do nothing but take brisk walks, and my weight loss has slowed down. Just a few days ago I got the OK to start a formal exercise program and have an appointment this week with a personal trainer to set goals and get familiar with all of the equipment. How would you guys feel about us doing a Summer Challenge? I’m not asking you to guzzle bacon, butter, and whipping cream for a month. No laxatives. No eating/non-eating days. What I was thinking is that for those that are interested we could take a full-body shot of ourselves this week (holding up a newspaper of standing in front of CNN or something) and I could post them here online. The photos would be posted anonymously (no name, no nickname, no email address) and you can pick a fake name for yourself, like Dorothy or something. Then, a month later when Xyng fling/fete/fest/fuck begins in Las Vegas we repost updated photos here on the blog and compare  honest progress and efforts (i.e. us) to Jen-Jen’s binging, fat-fasts, 8-day challenges, etc. It would be seriously interesting to see if we could achieve a noticeable difference in appearance versus what her unedited photos from Vegas are going to look like. I realize that my suggestion may come across as bitchy, petty, and downright immature. Hey, I respect your opinions. I totally do. I do, however, think if we banded together we could make a point. If you are interested, send a photo this week to Tell me what fake name you want to use. I’d also like to know what size you are currently and how much you weigh. Measurements are unnecessary. And then in July I’ll announce when updated pictures are due, and we’ll compare. I also think that this is a great way for those of us wanting or trying to lose weight to cheer each other on and hold each other accountable. Interested? Great!! Are you kidding me, Snort? You’re fucking crazy!! OK, I respect that.

You Haven’t Missed Anything…

It has been a boring summer thus far at Casa Snort. Since 6-inch goes down for his nap anywhere between 10:30 and noon we do our errands, outdoor play, and activities after his nap. Today after his nap we are going grocery shopping. Fun, right?


So the other day on MWOP some of you probably read on the OT side my freak out about family coming to visit and my only getting 4 hours advance notice. Yeah, I fucking LOVE how my mother and grandmother forget to tell me things. My cousins, Carol and Trae, live in GA but drove out to Phoenix to get their 6 year old granddaughter, K, to bring her home for the summer so she could see her dad (Carol and Trae’s son). While I was absolutely beyond thrilled to see family since we haven’t been home in nearly two years the preparations about killed me. I had a full on panic attack because the house literally looked like a bomb went off. It was laundry day, so we had a giant pile of towels, a giant pile of sheets and blankets, a basket of 6-inch’s clothes, Footlong’s hamper, and some of our clothes that needed to be washed. Cheerios and other tidbits littered the carpet, and I hadn’t done the dishes. 6-inch was fighting going down for a nap when I got the phone call from my mom asking what time they would be arriving. As this was a complete shock I said “Fuck” several times in true Snort fashion then got my ass in gear. They were able to pick K up yesterday and left Phoenix this morning headed home. They passed back by (Carol called last night to give me a heads up!) so I could meet little K. Oh my word what a sweet and beautiful little girl she is! I had gotten her a big Hello Kitty bag and filled it up with all kinds of Hello Kitty items and some candy. She and Footlong played and jumped together in our bouncy house. 6-inch, oddly enough, clung to Trae for dear life. I don’t know if Trae spritzed himself with toddler pheromones or what, but 6-inch was stuck to him like white on rice.


I went to TJ Maxx the other day and bought 4 pair of Guess heels and platforms ($400 retail) for about $90. J also let me order some tops from Old Navy since I am down to very few wearable shirts other than my exercising tanks. Here is a photo of me modeling one (with one of my new pair of leopard print Guess slingback heels):





In my own defense I probably would have looked better with some makeup. And the built-in shelf bra obviously can’t handle my ladies; I need a strapless bra.


As we cannot afford airfare to fly to GA and visit family we have decided to purchase season passes for a variety of Tucson activities. We have a family membership to the YMCA, and I haven’t been able to exercise really other than walking because of my back pain. I’ve finally gotten medical clearance from the doctor to begin a supervised exercise program, so hopefully I’ll be losing more weight in the coming weeks as I’ve seen at a plateau (82 lbs) for a couple of weeks. We bought season passes to the Tucson Children’s Museum, and it is a wonderful facility. We also broke down and took advantage of a Groupon to get discounted season passes to the one waterpark here in Tucson. If you go 2 or 3 times the passes pay for themselves. I’ll be honest:  the waterpark here fucking sucks. It is old, and with the severe heat here in Tucson during the day and cooler temps at night the slides have really taken a beating. There are 7 adult slides, and they are all warped and bumpy as hell. The waterflow will not even flow in a straight line down the middle of the slide during a straight segment—the water rushes all over the bumps and crannies and you have no control at all. I honestly thought at one point I was going to do a full 360 because at times I was riding so high on the wall of the slide. The boys enjoy the kids area, and 6-inch has fallen in love with one baby water slide. Both boys like the wave pool. We have to wear SPF 50 sunscreen and reapply it every hour to prevent sunburns, but hey, that’s what you get for living in the desert. At least the water park allows you to bring in containers of water and ice.


We offered to buy Mother and Father Snort plane tickets to come out and visit us, but Mother Snort has just started a new job and has no vacation time. After much convincing Father Snort agreed to come, and he arrives July 2nd and will stay for one week. We’re excited, and I know Dad is excited to get his hands on his grandkids.


I painted my toenails last night.


I cooked dinner last night (steak, spicy sautéed green beans with garlic, and corn on the cob), and thankfully there are enough leftovers for tonight because it is too fucking hot to cook.


Monsoon season starts officially on July 1st, and while I absofuckinglutely dread the humidity and miserable conditions inside the house (because we have a swamp cooler) I can’t wait to see and hear thunderstorms and smell rain. I miss the smell of rain. I also miss the smell of freshly cut grass.


I subscribe to the monthly Pop Sugar Must Have boxes ($35/month for a bunch of goodies guaranteed to have a retail value over $100), and the June box arrived. I literally let out a MckMama “Squeeeeeeeeeeeee!” when I found that one of the items in the box was the sequel to the novel “The Devil Wears Prada.” The sequel is entitled “Revenge Wears Prada.” It is set 10 years in the future and Andy and Emily (Miranda’s other assistant) have started their own magazine. So far it’s great, and I enjoyed reading “The Devil Wears Prada” as well.


After seeing maxi-pad and tampon commercials Footlong asked me was a period was. I explained menstruation, and while he understood everything he was totally grossed out. He then rationalized that if women didn’t have periods that there would be no people on Earth because babies couldn’t be born. Smart little whippersnapper he is.


I am enjoying, as always, seeing the unedited photos of MckMama that flow in during various Xyng trips. There was one of her posted yesterday of her hiking; it was taken from behind, and she is large and in charge from the waist up. Literally. She looked like a corn-fed white boy playing in the NFL.


That’s all folks. xoxo



Are You Fucking Kidding Me?

It has been quite a while since one of my posts where I rant about shit that either irks, surprises, or confuses me. Here we go:


I receive daily emails from Groupon touting special deals for the local area. I live in Southern Arizona, so 80% of my offers are for Tucson and the surrounding area, and the remaining 20% are for Phoenix, which is 100 miles North. Today’s Groupon was a travel deal for several destinations:  “Scottsdale, AZ; Las Vegas; Rio Rico, AZ; Greater Phoenix; and China.” China? Are you fucking kidding me? Las Vegas is a stretch at 6.5 hours away, but the last time I checked China was on the other side of the fucking planet. I’m more of a discount mani/pedi kind of gal than a drop-me-off-in-a-foreign-country-with-no-guide kinda gal.


A couple of years ago is was made public that Michael Douglas (the actor) was treated for Stage IV throat cancer. He recovered and is doing well, but, however, he has opened his mouth and is telling every news outlet possible that he got throat cancer from….how can I say this delicately…..eating out at buffets infected with HPV (the virus that causes genital warts). Dude. Are you fucking kidding me? Now I may not have much of a filter between my brain and mouth, but there are some things you just fucking need to keep to yourself, ya know? Not all things are privvy to discussion. My own personal rule of thumb is this:  if I wouldn’t be comfortable saying something in front of my parents, then I should probably keep it to myself. All I’ve got to say (besides ewwwwwwwwwwwwww) is that if you’re going to eat out somewhere, check the Health Department rating beforehand and keep it to yourself.


HBO added the movie “Magic Mike” (the male stripper movie) to it’s movie rotation last week. It gave the movie, which was absofuckinglutely bashed by critics, 4 stars. 4 stars? Are you fucking kidding me? I’m sorry, but Channing Tatum et al. shaking their junk does not a 4 star movie make. To me a 4 star movie is pure cinematic brilliance; it is the perfect mesh of character, costumes, music, props, location, direction, cinametography, etc. You literally lose yourself in the story and the room could be on fire and you wouldn’t notice. If someone were to ask me to name a few 4 star movies I would say “The Last Emperor,” “Titanic,” “Casablanca,” “Schindler’s List,” “Gone With The Wind,” and “Pulp Fiction.” You know…movies of that caliber. Eye candy shaking their asses to a Pointer Sister’s song? Not so much.


A couple of weeks ago for shits and giggles I decided to become a red head. Red hair looks pretty decent on me. I use a semipermanent color (washes out in 28 shampoos) so I won’t wreck my hair. Red hair color is notorious for staining, and like a dipshit I forgot to spread a thin layer of Vaseline around my hairline and ears to prevent the haircolor from staining my skin. Are you fucking kidding me? I’ve been coloring my hair off and on since I was 16 and I fucking forgot to do this? I looked like a damn circus clown. I blew my hair dry, and I got the kids ready to run to the grocery store and a bead store. And how did I look? My hair was a beautiful dark cherry color and very shiny, my facial skin was clear since my period is over, and I had what looked like a giant ring of red lipstick going from my left ear, over the top of my forehead, and down to my right ear. I tried scrubbing it off, but, alas, I still look like a kindergartener colored on me.

Ode to Brother Snort

I’ve mentioned my family a few times here on the blog; I’ve talked mainly about Mother and Father Snort, but I think I may have mentioned Brother Snort just once or twice in passing. Today is Brother Snort’s 32nd birthday so, even though he doesn’t read my blog (or know I have one?), I wanted to dedicate today’s post to him.


Brother Snort does in fact have a real name; his name is Anthony, but he has always gone by Tony. Footlong is named after my brother. When I got pregnant I told John that since the baby would have his last name I thought it fair that I could choose a family name from my side as well. He agreed. I named my first-born after my brother; Footlong’s first name is Anthony, but he goes by his middle name of Garrett. Footlong knows that he is named after Uncle Tony. A year or so ago I asked him, “Honey, do you know that you’re named after Uncle Tony?” He got all huffy and said, “Yes, Mom, you’ve told me that a million times.” “Well,” I asked, “what’s your whole name?” He put his hands on his hips and said, “Garrett Uncle Tony Jackson!”


Brother Snort made his entrance into this world when I was nearly 3. I have vague memories of him as a baby. I remember going to the hospital to see him. I remember holding him. I remember when he learned to talk he would call me “Sissy” or “Car-Car” because he couldn’t say Carmen. He would also shout “Juicy!” when he wanted more apple juice. He was (and still is) a handsome little guy with big brown eyes and a head full of blond curly hair. Seriously. He was the only white kid with an afro in our small town. It was adorable, but he got sick of old ladies coming up to him constantly and running their fingers through his hair. It was funny.


I have many fun memories of Brother Snort from our childhood:  we played Uno, watched lots of movies over and over again (The Karate Kid, Back to the Future, and Police Academy seem to have gotten the most wear and tear), and would play make believe games where we were cats. We roller skated and rode bikes together, and one Christmas we both got Pogo Balls so we hopped up and down the sidewalk together. There were lots of times, however, where we claimed to hate each other’s guts. We would hit and scream and sometimes go into one another’s room and throw shit on the floor.


As we got older we got to be better friends. He was a freshman in high school when I was a senior. During homecoming week there was a different theme of dress for each day of the week, like Spirit Day, 60s Day, Backwards Day, etc. One of the days that week was where you were supposed to dress as the opposite gender. I wore one of my dad’s shirts and some khaki pants (and maybe a tie), and Tony had worn one of my sparkly flag corps outfits and had me do his makeup. I even tied a bow in his hair. It was hysterical, and a photo of him was captured and published in the yearbook. Toward the end of my senior year Father Snort was given a great promotion, but it required relocating to the suburbs of Houston, TX. As I was headed off to college the move really didn’t affect me, but Tony had no choice. His 15th birthday was the day before they moved. Dad and Mom were busy packing and tying up loose ends and did nothing other than tell him Happy Birthday. After I got off of work, not knowing when I would see him again, I stopped off at the store and bought a small birthday cake, some candles, and ice cream. We were all spending the night with Aunt and Uncle Snort at their huge house because all of our furniture was packed up. I yelled at Tony to come into the kitchen and told him I needed his help. He came moping in, saw the cake, and got teary eyed as I sang Happy Birthday in my very off-key style of singing. We ate cake and ice cream and just hung out. They moved, he started all over at a huge school, and after a while he became quite popular. He had played baseball since he was 6 or 7, and he continued to play in high school, being the catcher on the varsity team. He played some ball in college too. Brother Snort loves baseball, plays a mean game of golf, and loves any and all LSU sports.


And where is Brother Snort now? He and his wife have settled outside of Baton Rouge, LA which is where she is from. They have a beautiful 5-year-old daughter that calls me “Aunt Sissy.” He has a good job that pays well but requires lots of travel. He sometimes calls me when he’s driving for long periods and we shoot the shit for a while. We only get to see each other once a year….sometimes longer. The last time I saw him I was 32 weeks pregnant with 6-inch so he hasn’t met his little nephew yet but has seen him on Skype several times.


I don’t have any of our childhood photos out here, but here are some family photos of Brother Snort:



Here we are at a rest stop as we head to the beach for vacation in 1983. That is us with Father Snort. We were really happy to be going on vacation; we just hated long car rides.




My brother and I at my wedding to J in Las Vegas. He was one of the groomsmen.




Our family at Tony’s wedding. I returned the favor and was a bridesmaid in his wedding. And of course you can see Mother and Father Snort.




Tony meeting his nephew (and namesake) Footlong for the first time when he was two months old.




Tony holding his precious daughter after she was born!




Me (32 weeks pregnant with 6-inch) and Tony taking a selfie during his visit to Tucson.




Tony hanging out with his nephew and namesake, Garrett Uncle Tony Jackson.


Happy Birthday, Butthead! I love you!