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Tuesday, November 14, 2017

Random XI

My husband is not my best friend.  Don't worry, he knows this and is cool with it.  I have a different relationship with him than I would if I had a best friend, and it is certainly different than the relationship he has with his BFF, Josh.  And I am totally OK with that.  I have no idea what those two do or talk about when they are alone together, and it's probably best that I don't.  I mean, I like the man well enough, and we are friends...but in my mind I want a totally different relationship with him than with a best friend.  Like, I don't want to sit around and talk about my period or go shopping with him, and I certainly wouldn't have sex with a best friend.  Though he says he wouldn't mind that...joke's on him, maybe I'm looking for a male best friend...

There have been things that I distinctly remember my ex boyfriend's mothers teaching me.  Like the importance of a fax cover sheet and putting it to someone's attention.  And that you should take the bag out of a box of wine because there's usually at least a whole 'nother glass in there that otherwise would go to waste.  You know, life skills.  I wonder what kinds of things I have taught Elizabeth's exes.  Probably what crazy looks like.  Which is actually a pretty good life skill to have, being able to identify crazy, so Imma call that a win.

I've never realized how judgmental I can be until I was watching this Australian baking show with my daughter and her boyfriend and a friend.  I'm all getting into the show, like "stop fucking crying and bake those cream puffs, Carol!"  Like I am some kind of world class pastry chef or something and I totally have the knowledge and skills to do better.  I mean, I can bake, but I need a fucking recipe so I can't just whip shit outta my head.  Actually, I've never tried, mostly because I am worried about wasting the ingredients and I don't need to experiment with baked goods and have the failures lying around for me to eat later.

It is kinda a joke between Elizabeth and me that I make sure to wish her happy birthday on ALL social media we are friends on.   At first, this was just Facebook, but then we added Twitter as well (once she unblocked me, that is.  But don't worry...I had my ways of finding out what she was posting on social media despite this.  She didn't used to say she hated my job for nothing...)  This year, I realized, Fuck.  I have an Instagram and I'm pretty sure she does too and we are friends.  So I had to go find that and do it there too.  I'm drawing the line though.  No Snapchat friending so there's no need for birthday wishes there!  Though I use Snapchat more than I do Instagram, so maybe we should switch this around here...

Deogie had to go get a lump on his leg removed recently.  The vet had initially told me that she was pretty sure it was cancerous, so we had debated putting him through the surgery, but when it became apparent it was causing him discomfort, we went ahead.  (Plot twist here: It was not cancerous!)  He had the cone of shame for a few days when the fucker figured out how to get around it to lick his he got an even longer cone of shame.  It's too bad the surgery was so close to Halloween because I really wanted to dress him up as a martini and take him trick or treating...but I wasn't about to make him walk that much, especially being stoned from pain meds.  Him being stoned, not me, that is.  Charlie was kinda sad because for some reason she wanted him to dress up as a lion for Halloween.  I can only assume that it was some sort of covert message she needed to send to her team of ninjas she is positioning in her quest for world dominance.  Or maybe a lion is her spirit animal.  It's hard to say with that one.

Alexis has recently decided that she is too big to say I love you to her mother in public.  Charlie has also recently discovered that the tooth fairy and Santa and the Easter bunny are all elaborate hoaxes perpetuated by her parents.  I'm all over here like, "don't you guys want to know where babies come from?" because goddamn.   At least with that I can still pretend they are little.

Thursday, October 12, 2017


It is absolutely crazy, at this point in my life, to even contemplate getting one of these.

Yet I have.  And do.  Quite frequently.

It has always been a personal goal for me.  I certainly don't *need* it to do my job.  I  have no desire to teach, because that would be disastrous most likely as, despite having a Master's degree in education, I am decidedly NOT an educator.  I bow down to educators, in fact, and would like to gift all of you a virtual bottle of wine.  Virtual, in that my husband has still refused to show me where he keeps all the money I married him for, and because I am trying to start a small business and this last month I *just* cleared enough to cover rent for the office and that's it.  Yay me!

Research would be fun, but again that might involve teaching college courses.  Though I suppose if all I had to do was lecture, that might not be too bad.  As opposed to being responsible for the development of the minds of the future generation.  At least by 18, they already know how to read and shit, and both on the toilet even.

Most of my clients call me Doctor, anyways, so it would be nice to be able to stop correcting them.  Plus, I would for sure grow in my clinical skills, and supervision would be a possibility as well (long and complicated topic, but basically helping to train the next generation of therapists).  But's not something I *need*, but more something I want.

And therein lies the crux.  I feel as though, despite having a higher degree than anyone in my immediate family currently does, that I am still not good enough.  That I still have not proven myself, that I am a failure because I got knocked up at 16, then graduated high school a year early with only a 4.2 GPA because I could not get straight A's while raising an infant and going to high school and I lost an entire year to bring it up, then graduated college with only a 3.5 GPA because college doesn't give 5 point A's and I had to work 40 hours a week to support my kid because my dumb ass refused to get cash assistance, then took 3 years off from higher education after my bachelor's because I got married and moved me and my daughter 45 minutes away from family, then got my Master's while being pregnant multiple times, giving birth once to a live child, and losing my son and multiple other pregnancies.  I don't have those three letters after my name, so all of that is meaningless.

What.  The.  Fuck.

Why do I feel this constant drive to prove myself?  I've been doing it for years.  Most people would look at all of that and be like, "wow".  I look at that for other people and I go "wow."  I look at that for me, and go "what the fuck is wrong with you that you haven't gotten your Ph. D. yet?"

I frequently confront clients with their thinking errors.  I often ask them what the would say to a friend who is going through what they are, then ask "what makes you so special that this does not apply to you?  That what you would say to literally every other person on the planet, you would not say to yourself?"  This usually elicits a smile (though, full disclosure, one time this backfired on me spectacularly...) and gets them thinking.

So, self...what makes you so special that this does not apply to you?  That what you would say to literally every other person on the planet, you would not say to yourself?

Physician, heal thyself.

And wait for the fucking Ph. D. until you are at least only working one job.

Tuesday, September 19, 2017

Fundraising II

This came home today:

Fifty-two glossy, shiny pages of crap strategically arranged to look way better than it is.  Kinda like a lot of bills that come through Congress.  Or a porn star.

Of course, Charlie came home all excited about possibly winning this watch thing that looks like a Fitbit.  She only needs to sell 50 items to do this, probably bringing in for the company about $5,000 and earning the school about 28 cents.  She only wants this thing because she asked for a Fitbit for Christmas because that was what Alexis wants and I was all like "The fuck you will get a Fitbit, you get frustrated when you can't get your hair in a ponytail and you throw the ponytail holder across the room.  I sure as shit ain't giving you a hundred dollar electronic for you to get pissed at and to chuck across the room.  That shit will break something maybe."  It was totally in a loving, maternal way with no cussing, of course, but that was totally the gist.

Seriously, bitchez.  We need to band together and STOP this madness.  I once raised the question of why this fundraiser was still going on and was told that it was a big money maker for the school.  Let's fucking strike here until there is a fundraiser that involves alcohol and an evening away from my children.  I'd totally drink with some of my kids' teachers.  They seem cool as fuck.  I'm only down for a strike, though, if it involves some song and dance numbers, a la Newsies.  I always thought knickers and a newsboy hat looked fun.  But only with suspenders.  Naturally.

I digress.  Let's get a fundraiser that I can get behind, that doesn't involve extortion of money from my family and friends in exchange for lead-based crap from China and miniature rolls/sheets of wrapping paper.  

Or-and this is a super novel idea here, so bear with me-

We could just fucking fund schools appropriately in the first place.

I so don't want the people caring for my demented ass in my elderly years to have to have attended schools that get "extra" stuff that is actually so essential funded based upon who could sell the most 3 oz tins of chocolate covered pretzels for $25.  I don't want the future of this country to depend on who busts their ass the most to get that extra $500 for some new library books or playground equipment.  And I don't want teachers to have to dip into their own pockets to give my children a rich educational experience because God knows they are underpaid and if they quit I have to then try to educate my children myself and we may as well just nuke the country because that is as horrible an idea as forcing said children to sell a bunch of shit to their family and friends, who will then demand the same from these children when they are adults, thus perpetuating an endless cycle of being indebted to the next generation to buy this shit instead of having the elderly generation just paying for their education in the first place in agreement that the youngin's will not push their wheelchairs out on the ice when they are unable to care for themselves.  

If this country is truly the land of opportunity, ALL children would be able to have the same experiences and benefit from the talent and dedication of the educators charged with shaping the future.  Things are not this way; however, so we fundraise.  Can't we at least have a fundraiser that adults actually enjoy?  Or, better yet:

Let me write a fucking check, without the exchange of plastic shit and junk food vacuum sealed in plastic.  Consider it a down payment towards the people I am going to depend on, later in life, to make sure that my martini is shaken, not stirred.

Sunday, September 3, 2017


Sing to tune of Bohemian Rhapsody

Is this real life?
Is this just fantasy?
Lost by a landslide
Electoral college got the job for me.
Open your eyes look up to the skies and see
I'm not a poorboy
Returns you don't need to see
Wives are easy come easy go
Little Hands reality show
Hit me where Steve Bannon blows
Nothing really matters to me
Except for me

Senator Paul
Tried to kill a man
Wants to pull his SuperMed
Trump'll cut the funding now he's dead
Steve Bannon
My term has just begun
But now you've gone and blown it all away
Putin's gonna make me cry
Shoulda closed this case by this time tomorrow
Bury on bury on
Election integrity doesn't matter

It's too late
Mooch's time has gone
Language too extreme for Trump
Cock-blocking priebus all the time
So good bye everybody
Me and Spicey gots to go
Gonna leave it all behind  and spare the truth
Transgenders no longer can serve
I sometimes wish he'd never ever Tweet at all....

I see a little Silhouetto of a man
Scaramucci he's the Mooch
And his boss colored like a mango.
Trump's tweeting quick as lightning
Very very frightening
All I say-o
All I say-o
All I say-o
All I say-o
All I say-o Fake news-o
He gots to go....
I'm not a poor boy why don't Trump love me?
He's not a poor boy he's full of vulgarity
I'll swear and I'll rant about this monstrosity
Easy come easy go will Trump let him go?
Beshmula no!  He will not let him go! Let him go! Beshmula no! He will not let him go! Let him go let him no no no no no!
Oh Huckabee-a Huckabee-a Huckabee-a will he go?
Oh Putin says he's got a very special job for me....for me...for me.....

So you think you can stop me by impeaching this guy?
So you think cons will stop lovin' me and leave me to die?
Ohhhhh, maybe
If the votes stop well then maybe
Just gotta get out
Just gotta get Trump outta here.

Laws don't really matter
See police brutality
Laws don't really matter.
Laws don't ever apply to me.

Hit me where the KKK blows....


Tuesday, August 15, 2017


It is well established that I am crazy.  If you don't know that by now, I strongly encourage you to go back to this post and just read from the beginning.  Seriously, take the time.  I'd lay money on the fact that by the time you get to January 2011 you won't have to keep on keepin' on.  You'd be a believer.  A converted crazy cognizant, for those alliterative types out there.

Runners are also crazy people.  I mean seriously, who wants to engage in a sport where you could possibly literally shit yourself?  Seriously, google "runner trots".  Avoid the images.

I have been running more lately.  Now, don't think that I am about to go to any kind of race and win.  Or even finish in the bottom 10%.  More like dead last. (Though I suppose technically that is in the bottom 10%, so...) But it  has been good for me to have that outlet for myself.  That alone time, of just listening to music and focusing on not dying.  Because you feel that way sometimes while running.  Then you get the runner's high and can't wait to go back at it.  Hell, I probably would struggle to finish a 5K in under 35 minutes, to be perfectly honest.  Way above my times in high school...hell, way above my time in high school 7 months pregnant running cross country (true story).  I'm not doing it for any kind of award. Or even to get into shape, really.

I'm doing it for my sanity.  Which, if you followed my instructions above, is clearly questionable at best.

That is why it was so disheartening the other day when I had a really shitty run.  Like, almost literally shitty.  It was the kind of run where my limbs felt leaden, like they all had an extra 20 lb weight strapped to all of them.  Where I could not get into a rhythm of any sort.  Where my knees vaguely ached as did my muscles, but no amount of warming up or stretching would alleviate the pain.  Where I seriously thought I might actually poop while running.  And it was only 4 miles I ran.

"Only four miles".  Who the fuck even talks like that?  Crazy people, that's who.  Crazy people who run.  Which them makes them even crazier.  And thus starts the endless loop of craziness.

From now on, that is totally where I am blaming my crazy on.  Forget that I will never run a marathon.  Forget that there are people twice my age lapping me.  Forget that I have been crazy for way more years than I have run.  I am crazy, therefore I run.  I run, therefore I am crazy.  There's a nice symmetry to it.  A limitless loop of lunacy, with no clear beginning or end.  Again, with the alliteration.

On second thought, don't bother going back and re-reading.  If this post alone hasn't convinced you, just stop reading.  Forever.  I don't need that kind of negativity in my life.  And by negativity, I mean complete and total denial.

Sunday, July 16, 2017


Because I like to be all Tiger mom and shit, I decided that I was going to do something fun with the kids this weekend.  Alexis had a friend spend the night, so I looked up some tutorials and decided we were going to make some ginormous bubbles.  As I was putting this shit together for the kids, I realized that I could certainly make my own tutorial for this craft as I was not following one exactly.  So that is exactly what I am setting out to do here, for the reading enjoyment of my 9 followers.  I mean, it's not like I am using this blog to generate income or anything (mostly because I am too lazy to figure out  how the ads work, plus the whole 32 cents I could potentially generate from my 9 followers seems to not be worth the effort involved).  I am going to walk you through how I made ginormous bubbles for the kids.  But minus any actual pictures of how I did it, because you all aren't fucking idiots and I imagine that you could figure out how to screw eye hooks into a dowel rod and tie some string to it, as well as how to mix shit together for bubbles.  Anyways...Welcome to my mind.  May the odds be ever in your favor. It's not too late to turn back, you know....

Still here?  Great.  Let's begin.

So the original tutorial I found gave some basic directions on how to make the wands for these huge ass bubbles.  It seemed fun, and if it was an epic fail it was summer and I could potentially hose the children down and/or burn the evidence of this craft, so I gathered up the shit I needed.  Some dowel rods.  Some eye hooks and washers.  Cotton string.  I measured the children up and cut the string.  Then I needed to insert the eye hooks into the ends of the dowel rods.

Now the lady at that link said something about just screwing them in without drilling first.  Fuck.  That.  Shit.  It was hurting my little fingies, and I need those to unscrew the top of the margarita mix and my Xanax bottle once  Alexis's friend headed home, amirite?  So I grabbed my husband's drill and a teeny drill bit, but the drill already had a screwdriver head on it so I had to find him to get it off and put the new bit on.  For some reason I can't fucking figure out how to do that on a drill.  I hand the drill and the bit to him, and he looks at me with the wariness of a man who is married to a crazy lady who likes to do crazy things.  Like this one time, when I was like 7 months pregnant, I started to dig up what I thought was a small rock in our yard, and it ended up being one that required two men to lift and a wheelbarrow to transport to what I was told had to be its forever home because he wasn't ever fucking moving that fucking huge ass thing again.  (In my husband's defense, he doesn't swear that much at all, so I may have added some extra emphasis there with the cussing.  His tone totally said all that though.)

Anyways, I get the wands all set up and then realize...these are fucking nunchucks.  With an extra added bonus of a washer to add some extra knockout power.  What made me think that giving Charlie these was a good idea?

Sure, give three children under the age of 10 these potential weapons.  What could possibly go wrong?

At this point, I start to question my (remaining, because let's be honest, there wasn't much there) sanity and really wish it would be ok to just start pounding the wine.  Since I am a semi-responsible adult, I refrain and move on to creating the bubble mixture.

Now, in that original tutorial, the video shows the bubbles not lasting very long.  Of course, I am all like fuck that shit, our bubbles are going to last longer.  Tiger mom, remember?  So I hit Google up, go to a second tutorial, and mix some magic bubble potion up.

That is baking power on the floor next to the bubbles.  I promise.  Semi-responsible, remember?

We were supposed to let the mixture sit for an hour at least, but of course I can't be arsed to follow the directions so we head out after 20 minutes.  I mentally prepare myself for the possibility of this being as big a failure as Sean Spicer's spins on his boss's rhetoric while attempting to hide in shrubbery, and gather up the children to head outside to try this out.

And you know what?  Holy fucking shitballs, it works.

No spin needed here, Spicey!  These are tremendous bubbles!

A twofer, even!

So there you have it folks, my first very lazy tutorial on how to make big ass bubbles.  On a ranking scale of being able to be sober to necessitating speed-balling to get through, this one is one I can handle without the aid of pharmaceuticals.  

Sunday, July 2, 2017

Rainbows III

By now, you should know the significance of rainbows and my son for me.  If not, you can find it here, here, and here.  Most people also don't know this, but a baby born after a loss is called a rainbow baby.  Technically, I have two of those, Alexis and Charlie, though not many people know that either.

If you would have told me after my son died that I would soon become obsessed with the white light of the sun being refracted through raindrops into something colorful in the sky, I would have looked at you askew.  Of course, if you would have told me that I would be willing to get twice daily injections of heparin into my pregnant stomach to keep my body from killing a baby after that, I would have looked at you the same way...point is, it has become a pretty significant thing for me to see a rainbow.

I always loved storms.  As a child, I would sit in our front room and look out the window as they came rolling in from the west.  I used to freak my sister out by jokingly running into the middle of our lawn and licking my finger and holding it up in the air for the lightning to come strike me.  (I am strangely confused as to why it did not, but perhaps it was because I was still an innocent child?  I don't tempt fate now, I tell you what...)  Of course, I always came in before the rain started, because ew.  Water.  But even the torrential downpours that accompanied a thunderstorm were fascinating to me, from the dry safety of our house, of course.

I honestly don't remember seeing that many rainbows as a child.  Most likely explanation is that I simply wasn't looking for them.  I didn't run outside when the sun started shining in the west and it was still dark in the east to look for them.  They were no where near as meaningful at that time as they are now for me.  I've said it before, I am fully aware that the times in my life with rainbows are probably just as much a coincidence as the times with fire (and I haven't even talked about all the fire alarm drama, either...).  I like to think that the rainbows aren't, that my son is still with me even as his ashes sit on my dead people's shelf in my living room.  (For the record, he is the only literal dead person on this shelf.  It's not like I am collecting corpses to pose on this shelf in a variety of positions.   It has other mementos from our passed on loved ones, as well as his urn.   I strangely feel the need to clarify this for you people.)

I'm really hoping that the fire shit isn't like a sign from hell, though.  That would not strike me in the feels nearly as much as the whole rainbow thing.