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Saturday, December 17, 2016


So I generally think that most of us can agree that 2016 has been a god-awful year in a number of ways.  Started with the shooting of one ape and ended with less than half of America voting for another, who will then become president.  And in between, all kinds of craziness.  Life has been pretty crazy around here too, starting with Charles's arm, then our pets dropping off at an alarming rate, the children continuing to insist on growing, and wrapping up with me starting the downhill decline to 40.  Like seriously, 36 you are supposed to be an adult.  I am the least adult adult that I know.  The fact that I am allowed to drive, consume liquor, watch and buy porn (though really, who pays for it nowadays?) AND save for retirement is simply astounding when on the inside, I am playing with my She-Ra dolls in my fort behind the chair in the front room of my childhood home.

However, there are some things that 2016 has tossed at us that makes me believe that the universe is totally out to get me.  Or at least drive me crazy.  Crazier than I already am, that is.  More paranoid, too.  So of course I am going to list them, in no particular order, and say why I feel that 2016 personally has it out for me.

1.) Big Joe broke

If you don't know what Big Joe is, then consider the fact that the woman who has not seen National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation nor watches any kind of TV knows what it is and you don't.  Fucking Cougar Town, bitchez.  Wine glass the size of your head.  Well, maybe more like the head of a really small infant.  But still, bigger than the average wine glass.

Once that bad boy broke, I was forced to do things such as refill my glass multiple times.  And do you know how much of a lush that makes me look like?  Pretty hard to swallow down the Xanax with a regular size glass when you have Sjogren' need some extra fluids to swallow pills.

Didn't have mine this time period, but I felt this was appropriate.  And illustrative.

2.)  Those fucking Christmas lights

You know, those ones that shine little polka dots all over your house?

What. The. Fuck.

So you mean to tell me that either making you house look like it has amoebas swimming all over it or it has come down with a bad case of elf acne puts you in the Christmas spirit?  Has America reached new depths of laziness that we can't even be arsed to untangle Christmas lights?  I don't know about you, but swearing at my lights as I try to untangle them and figure out which end goes where (why the FUCK don't both ends just have prongs for a plug?  WHY???) while precariously balancing on ladders in the freezing cold and cursing whoever invented outdoor Christmas lights signals the true start of the Christmas season for me.  Simply shining a light at your house for Christmas decorations is un-American, for the love of Peter, Paul, and Mary.

3.)  Our pets

We lost this year, in rapid succession, three of our pets:  Bean the hamster, Angel the psychocat, and Spartacus, our husky/border collie.  Never in my lifetime did I envision a year where I had to explain both death X3 AND why an orange misogynist won an election with the aid of Putin.  2016 really wanted to test my medications...but first, let's take away Big Joe!

4.)  The Mannequin Challenge

OK, 2016.  Rub it in my face that you managed to find a way to get people to stop what they are doing, be silent, and not move.  And by people, I am meaning my children.  Seriously, what a genius idea!  This is the quiet game taken to the next level, and I am intensely bitter that I did not think of it.  And to video it too, as proof that it actually have I parented this long without this?

And there you have it, folks.  My pretty weak evidence that this year had it out solely for me. Because that is totally how it works.  And by it, I mean paranoia.  I blame Reggie.

Sunday, November 27, 2016

Letters II

I had originally thought that I might be up to writing one of those letters people used to send out around Christmas every year on this blog, but let's be honest here bitchez...I usually can't be arsed to commit to anything that serious as I have a hard time choosing the appropriate shopping cart in the grocery store,  I can't even pretend that it is going to be an every other year thing as the last (and, well, the first really) was in 2013.  2016 has been a super special year, though, so I figured that it deserved a letter as well.  Enjoy, and happy holidays!

Dear Bitchez,

Well, 2016 has been quite a year.  And not just for this family, really, but for the nation as a whole...staring with Harambe and ending with Donald Trump and some super fun conversations with my daughters as to why slightly less than half of the nation thought it would be OK to vote for someone who lacks the appropriate knowledge of the female anatomy and thinks that you can grab women by their pussies in an attempt to get them in bed.  Seriously, Donald, if you are gonna be a misogynistic douchebag, at least make your pathetic attempts at exuding toxic masculinity somewhat believable.  No one grabs women by their pussies.  Hair, maybe.  Pussies, no.

This letter has gotten off to a great start, just like 2016 did for us!  Sadly for my husband, there was not as much talk of felines as there was of surgery and physical therapy and being off of work for 5 months.  The good news was that he was able to stay at home with the little girls this summer while he healed.  The bad news was that he had a slight look of despair in his eyes most of those days, but let's be honest, he is married to me so that *might* have had something to do with it.  Don't worry, he's back at work now.  He totally missed the mismanagement and politics of his job, and was super excited to return to the news of no Christmas party or raises this year!  Go team!

I left my former employer and went to private practice full time.  So far, the reduction in stress has been worth it and I have remembered that I am in fact an adult who is capable of things such as time management and good decision making skills.  Waiting for the insurance companies to pay up sucks monkey balls, but the trade off is totally worth it.  Charles also decided to go and buy me a new to me vehicle that was more reliable for the longer commute since the van only had like 191K miles on it and was in totally great shape.  If a heap of rusted metal with sometimes working parts constitutes "great" shape....

Elizabeth has graduated from high school and started college.  She so far seems to be loving it and has managed to get a paid job running social media.  She claims that the only reason she got it was because it is for the practice I am working at; however I only tried to extend nepotism to getting her an unpaid internship.  She did all the work involved in getting them to pay her.

Alexis continues to barrel full speed toward puberty, which I look forward to with as much anticipation as I do things such as my yearly pap and a colonoscopy.  She has continued to dance in competitions and to date has not descended into any kind of unsavory behaviors as a result, so I'm thinking that was a solid parenting decision there.  High five for me!

Charlie decided to stop competition, briefly did gymnastics, then returned to the dance studio for acro classes.  She started kindergarden this year, on the same day Elizabeth moved into college.  This worked super well except for the fact that I had managed to injure my groin in a misguided attempt to start running to better myself, and this turned into a massive ball of suck to try to move her into college and then come visit while limping/on crutches.  It also worked super well while trying to get a five year old ready for kindergarden.  Yeah, I try not to think about the kindergarden/college thing too much....

It has been a bad year to be an animal in our household, too. Unless you are Reggie, then the prepping and ninja skills will serve you well.  It started out with Bean getting mauled to death by Deogie, possibly from the frustration of not being allowed to hump Angel.  I am sure the aftermath of this did not add to any therapy needs Elizabeth has AT ALL.  Then, Angel passed away as well.  She went fairly quickly and unexpectedly...started to pee a lot, and then died before we could get her to the vet.  Then, Spartacus died unexpectedly shortly after this as well.  Nothing like losing three animals in rapid succession to generate some super fun talks with the little girls!

All in all, things have been just a wonderful ball of change around this house!  And stress.  And uncertainty.  So super fun and exciting and not at all anxiety-provoking!  Here's hoping that 2017 has a little less of the change that 2016 has.

Merry Christmas!

Laura, Charles, Elizabeth, Alexis, and Charlie

Sunday, November 20, 2016


There is this thing going around the internet lately: The Minimalism Game.

The basic idea is that you start on the first day of the month, and eliminate one thing from your household.  Second day, two things; third day, three things, etc., etc.  I need something to distract myself from November as it is generally a month full of suck for me, so I figured why the hell not.  I can only do the thirty days of thankfulness thing on Facebook so many times.  We get it.  I'm blessed to even be in a position to be able to whine about having so many things to be blessed about.  Insert hashtag firstworldproblems.  I was looking for something different this year.

(Aside here...Alexis showed me a pound sign tonight and I told her it was a pound sign.  She said, "You mean hashtag?"  I clung to my defense of it being a pound sign.  They don't say on the automated phone thingies to press the hashtag, now, do they?  I rest my case.)

So far, I have faithfully thrown away, donated, or somehow eliminated items for 20 days straight.  It actually hasn't been as hard as I thought it would be, which raises concerns for me that I may not be just crazy, but hoarder crazy.  Like seriously, I know we have lived in this house for over 10 years now, but dear God, when did we collect so much shit?  On one day alone, I threw away 11 medicine dispensers.  Eleven.  Like, why didn't I just tell Walgreens after the first three that I didn't need any more medicine dispensers?  And one would think that they could have seen in their computer that this is like the 8th antibiotic I had gotten for Charlie because of ear infections in 6 months (wish I was joking here...she totally got tubes...) and that it is likely I did not need yet another dispenser.  And why did I keep just tossing them into the silverware drawer?

Now in my defense, I do feel that we have an especially deep silverware drawer and that they honestly did just get shoved to the back.  But that does not explain all of the other crap I have been able to eliminate.

Old shampoo and conditioners from hotel stays.  Expired OTC meds and sunscreen.  Old toys and dress up clothes that no longer fit the little girls.  Freezer burnt food from the bottom of the chest freezer.  Jars.  Holy fuck, when did I accumulate so many jars and why was I keeping them?  And the paper...OMG, the amount of old receipts, instruction manuals for items we no longer have, warranty cards for baby items...I am continually surprised at my ability to find things to get rid of with little to no effort.

When I started this, I fully anticipated the last few days being me taking a pair of shoes, removing the shoelaces, and counting that as four items.  It has been surprisingly refreshing to purge this household in a deeper way than I usually do when I purge stuff.  It's not just eliminating the papers brought home from school or clothes that don't fit.  It's getting rid of baggage from the past in a way.  Those medicine droppers, a time when Charlie was constantly sick with an ear infection.  The dress up clothes, a time when the girls were little and required help to get them on and off when now they are pretty self-sufficient.  The instruction manuals, a time when whatever item we had was shiny and new, but now is no longer needed/wanted.

It has been surprisingly refreshing to participate in this game.  Maybe there is something to be said for the whole "less is more" thing.  Maybe I can pretend that it was all of this stuff that was driving my crazy to be...well, crazy.  Maybe the challenge is simply a welcome distraction from my dad dying, my dead son's due date, the unpleasantness of the election, and the general suck that is November in Ohio.

Or maybe I became a hoarder without knowing it and this is my wake up call.  Who knows.  I'd ponder this more, but I have to figure out what 21 items I am going to eliminate tomorrow.

Monday, October 31, 2016

Denial II

There have been some things that I have been avoiding not only talking about, but writing about on here as well.

I mean, not that I am the queen of denial at all or anything...and I'm not talking about a river in Egypt here, folks.  Aside from humor, denial is probably my go-to defense mechanism to use.  I ignore my health until it whacks me upside my head and takes me out.  I avoid dealing with unpleasant things such as making phone calls and having to actually talk to people.  I frequently avoid looking at my bank account, but I maintain that is an act of self-preservation more so than actual denial.

I need to do better and to be better, though.  So here goes it, the re-cap of the three most important things that have happened that I have been avoiding talking about, in chronological order.

1.)  Alexis turned 10 years old.  Yes, ten.  As in double digits.  As in now she has less years to go until 18 than she has lived.  As in a full decade.

Why I am able to accept Elizabeth turning 18 but not Alexis turning 10, I have no clue.  Maybe it is because I can tell myself that I am still young with Elizabeth.   Maybe it's because Alexis has always had a kind of sweet innocence about her, stubborn as she may be, that lends itself to being incompatible with growing up and I don't want to see that go away.  Maybe it's because I see how the world is a cruel and unforgiving place sometimes and I don't want to see her crushed and I know that it is going to happen someday and I can't stop it.

Alexis is my child who once told me after I commented on how low the clouds were that she was excited about this because she always wanted to taste them.  Alexis, my baby who hated everyone from birth but me, and then only tolerated me because I had the food.  Alexis, the child who once had to be told at a competition to stop turning cartwheels because she had done so many we were afraid that she was going to wear herself out.  Alexis, the child who is so energetic that another therapist who worked with ADHD kids turned to me and asked, "Is she always this hyper?"  Alexis, the child who went from crying every dance class to dancing solos in competitions.  My child who is a mixture of steel and softness and innocence and light.  I once had a teacher say about Alexis that "even when she is trying to be sassy she is still sweet."

I never want those qualities to go away from her.  The only surefire way I see to prevent this is to never have her grow up.  So yes, I am in denial that she is 10.

2.)  I quit my full time job at the agency and went to private practice full time.

This should be a great thing, right?  I did not want to hospitalize people any more.  While that job was a noble job, a necessary one, and I know that I did in fact save many people's lives...I did not want to be on that end of things anymore.  I wanted to be more involved in the actual work that went into claiming back your mental health.

However...I did my internship at this agency.  I started out as a terrified intern who did not know what the hell I was doing and worked my way to my independent license.  I worked there the longest out of my professional career.  I built a great reputation in the community with other stakeholders, I believe.  Change is hard, especially for the already anxious person that I am.  Private practice is very different, and while I am sure that I have any kind of clinical advice I need available, I still miss the stability that working for an agency provides.  I miss my coworkers, who all helped shape me professionally.  I miss being confident in my paychecks and not worrying if people cancel or I don't have people scheduled.

Don't get me wrong, I am very happy in my current job.  I am just still in denial that this is my actual life's work now because it seems too good to be true.

3.)  Spartacus died.

Yes, my bubby; the first dog that was mine.  I trained him and housebroke him, all on my own.  He was there when I brought the little girls home from the hospital; he was there when we brought Deogie and Maximus home.  He helped train them.  He was always willing to allow me to wrap my arms around him and snuggle; albeit for only a minute because he was a veritable walking furnace with his thick fur.

His death, though he was 10 years old, was unexpected.  Friday night, he was running around, albeit slowing down a little bit which I chalked up to being 10 years old.  Saturday, he was not eating.  Sunday, he started to vomit and was still not eating, so Monday Charles took him to the vet.  They did labs and sent him home with medicines.  His liver enzymes were way off as were his white blood cell counts.  Charles took him home and only a few hours later, Spartacus had a seizure, vomited up some blood, and died.

It does not surprise me that he went when I was not around.  I would not have been able to handle watching that.  I would not have been able to handle seeing his body lifeless.  I have the memory of petting him before I left for work, and him leaning into my leg as I did so, versus what happened to him in the last hours of his life.

Dealing with that is hard.  Maximus still looks for him, and when he can't find him he gets tears in his eyes.  The day that he died, when I got home from work, he literally climbed up into my lap and gave me a hug with his front paws.  Charles said that when he was carrying Spartacus's body to the truck (he took him to his parents' to bury) Maximus was losing his shit.

My bubby, the Friday before he passed.

So yes, life has been interesting these last few weeks.  I'm trying to get away from the Freudian defense mechanisms; hence the honesty in this post.  I'll get back to my regularly scheduled inanity soon, I promise.

Wednesday, October 12, 2016


Charles recently introduced the little girls to the old school cartoons.  You know, the old Disney ones full of racism, addiction, sexism, and sexual innuendo that you don't get until adulthood.  Right, the wolf reading "How to pluck a chick" has NO Freudian meaning AT ALL.  Disney is such a bastion of wholesome values and freedom from stereotypes.  Great life lessons for the children.

I mean, seriously, this is the shit that we grew up on.  And by we, I mean the people who have to scroll down internet forms to find their birth year.  Not any of you youngin's still on the first page.  And it's not just Disney.  It was all over children's programming. Some of those story lines are pretty fucking disturbing.  I mean, have you ever actually listened to Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer?  He was made fun of and ostracized from society until he was suddenly of use to the fat burglar with questionable interest in not only young children and midgets, but attire.  The, Fuck.

Or what about Charlie Brown?  Lucy is running her unlicensed psychotherapy practice, Pig Pen is a walking Children's Services case, and the grown ups are heavily slurring their words in such a way that leads me to believe that they are likely on some form of barbiturate, chased down with a gin and tonic.  Plus, there is this uber aggressive female who is suspiciously reeking of the stereotype of the masculine lesbian who remains closeted.  Again, the fuck?

Charles showed the girls the Three Little Pigs.  I mean, seriously, their portrait of their father on the wall is actually sausage links with the word "Father" under them.  The wolf has some serious rage issues and probably didn't get hugged enough as a child.  And Little Red Riding Hood is taking Grandma cake and wine.  Because, you know, Grandma's old so may as well feed her diabetes and alcoholism when she's not feeling well.  Doubly fucked there.

Moving along to the latter years of my childhood...Legend of Zelda.  "Saved you again, Princess.  Kiss me."   So, Link, you're telling Zelda because you are a helpless woman who required saving, you owe me bodily favors.  Dude, get over yourself because likely Zelda was gonna get herself out of this pickle and you just inserted yourself into it out of some misplaced desire to be a bad ass.  Not to be repetitive, but the fuck?

For God's sake, at least the Simpsons were pretty up front about their sarcasm and wit and reinforcement of stereotypes.  "Eat my shorts" was shocking, to be sure, but at least it wasn't hidden as a vaguely disturbing, slightly phallic representation of someone's father.  Though one could argue that Homer's love of donuts was some sort of Electra complex thing...

I really think that the grown up in our lives needed to get laid more often, because goddamn, their story lines were just RIDDLED with pent up sexuality, on top of the rank sexism, racism, ageism, able-ism, etc.  Or perhaps I am just a twisted, disturbed individual.  I'll leave it up to you to decide.

Sunday, September 18, 2016


I recently decided that I was going to start running again.  There's this 5K I have done for the past three years now and last year I walked it because my sister fucked her knee up and someone has to keep her in check.  I wasn't going to do it again this year, then at the last minute decided I was because I really like to test my meds at least quarterly.  So I started running, got the old runner's high again, and remembered why I used to like it to begin with.

Then I pulled a groin muscle.

It wasn't bad at first.  I was all "oh, I'll rest it for a day or two."

Day or two turned into a month.  Wasn't bad at first turned into holy hell my leg is on fire and it hurts and I'm dying.  This then turned into people I work with freaking out thinking I had a blood clot (I didn't, but glad someone is going to care for my physical health because I sure suck at it sometimes).  I got doctor's involved, then physical therapy.  And had a breakthrough.

Or so I thought.

The PT stretched my leg out some and used ultrasound therapy.  For the first time in two weeks, I could walk without looking like some kind of zombie dragging my leg behind me.  It was great.

Until it wasn't.

That weekend, I woke up on Saturday and could not put any weight on the leg.  At all.  I caved and started to use crutches.  Went back to physical therapy for the second session.  I got asked, "What did you do to yourself?"  The tone of voice used here indicated to me that this woman wanted to add some F-bombs in there but she was being all professional and shit so she did not.

I'll spare you the details, but basically I managed to twist my pelvis and hips into positions that they are not meant to be twisted, which then was pinching nerves.  I went to the chiropractor in desperation for the first time in my life.  I got asked, "What did you do to yourself?"  Again, pretty sure the tone was F-bombs.  Maybe if there was an F-bomb font (like we need a sarcasm font) I wouldn't need to actually say fuck as much as I do...

He told me that I chose the biggest joint of the spinal cord to get out of place.  Of course I did.  It is very fitting for my life that I would do this.  He popped that sucker back into position, while cracking dad jokes continually which was actually rather amusing, and then told me to go home and lie down for the rest of the day.

My tone was F-bombs.  "Uh, I'm going to work."  He shook his head at me and told me to slow down.  "You have to let yourself heal.  Who knows how long your pelvis was that way."

I, of course, went to work.  And then the next day drove to college to see Elizabeth for family weekend after going grocery shopping and running the little girls to dance and gymnastics.  We walked all around campus, taking stairs at times, even.  I brought the crutches as the damn thing kept slipping in and out.

Let myself heal?  When?  While Charles is still off work because of his arm, his idea of a clean house is way more relaxed than mine is.  I have not been up the stairs to kiss the little girls good night in almost a month, which kills me.  My garden desperately needs my attention.  I have not gone for a run, which was a great source of stress relief, since this has happened. Rolling over in bed at times can hurt, yet the idea of having to sit and relax is almost enough to send me into a panic attack.  What am I running from?

Perhaps it is my own thoughts that I am running away from.  My head can be a pretty messed up place sometimes.  Perhaps it is from judgment from others, because God knows as a woman who works and has children I will forever be judged as inadequate at both.  Perhaps it is the anxiety, that while controlled for the most part is always there, lurking, telling me that I am in grave danger somehow; that my loved ones are too.

Having to slow down has made me realize how hard and fast I go sometimes.  Hell, for the last two years I have been working 7 days/week, most weeks.  I have been figuratively limping along for a while now...Is it no wonder my body decided to give out when I pushed it running and started literally limping?  Maybe it was my subconscious's way of getting my attention, and when that did not work it had to up the ante and get my pelvis, hip, and back involved in the game so I would finally slow down some. Some.  Not as much as I probably should.  I still have tendencies toward oppositional behaviors because I am an asshole like that and don't like to be told I can't do something.  Because you know, the rules for caring for sports injuries somehow don't apply to me.

Guess "slow" can also be applied to me as a learner of life lessons, as well.

Saturday, August 20, 2016


There are a bunch of towels in this house.  Some I have purchased, some my mother has given us that were her old ones because she knows that my husband is a welder and will likely destroy any towel that comes near  his body simply by virtue of the grinding dust and God knows what else he brings home from work.  (She hasn't come up with any solutions for getting that shit out of my bathtub, but I guess one outta two ain't bad...)

I try to be all environmentally conscious and shit and have all of us reuse the towels multiple times (not the same one.  We each  have our own.  I'm not THAT environmentally conscious.  See: Welding dust.  Plus school age children and their cooties.  And my hatred of laundry.)  Despite this, we seem to run out of towels on a regular basis.

The culprit?

The teenager.

As much as I love my daughter to death, that child hoards towels like there's going to be a shortage at some point.  I will do a load of towels, fold them all nicely, and put them away (well, let's be honest, when I do fold them...they seem to be happy basement dwellers, living contentedly in their laundry baskets thankyouverymuch.)  They then disappear at an alarming rate and end up in Elizabeth's room.

How the hell this happens, I have no clue.  She is not home much anymore.  She's been working a lot before going off to college, and staying at her friend's in Sandusky (or so she says...she's an adult.  Trying not to helicopter here.  Much.)  She's never freaking home it seems.  Yet all the towels, they end up in her room.

This is going to end soon.  Soon, she will be gone.  The time she is at home will be less.  Holidays.  Summer vacation.  Then, in four short years...gone for good.  To make her own life.

I've been actively avoiding thinking about her leaving.  Hell, the same day that she moves in to college is the same day Charlie starts Kindergarden.  I always try not to think about that a freshman in college, one in Kindergarden.   I'm used to her being gone some of the time.  I've always had to share her with her father's family, and as hard as that was on me I always firmly believed that she had the right to know that side of the family and never withheld her from them.

It is hard to admit that the time has come to share her with the world.  But I've always been good at denial.

I still want to protect her.  To jump in and fix everything for her.  Well, as much as she would let me.  I raised her to think, to be independent.  To be fierce.  We essentially grew up together.  There is a mere 16 years between us...I was just a baby when she was born, really.  She already did the college thing with me...twice, in fact.  But now the roles are reversed.  And I won't be there to kiss her boo-boos.  To advocate on her behalf. To carefully allow her to fail, all the while being right there watching the whole time, as painful as it is to see.  Hell, even to scream at her and fight with her.  (We've had some doozies of fights, let me tell you...)  To laugh at her antics...cause lord knows, that child has a wicked sense of humor.  To beam with pride as I am told, over and over again, what a great kid she is, by all of the adults who come into contact with her.

I'm going to miss hunting for towels.

Remember, Elizabeth, very very hard:

Oh, why you look so sad?
The tears are in your eyes
Come on and come to me now

Don't be ashamed to cry
Let me see you through
Cause I've seen the dark side too

When the night falls on you
And you don't know what to do
Nothing you confess
Could make me love you less

I'll stand by you

I'll stand by you
Won't let nobody hurt you
I'll stand by you

So, if you're mad, get mad!
Don't hold it all inside
Come on and talk to me now

Hey, what you got to hide?
I get angry too
But I'm alive like you

When you're standing at the crossroads 

And don't know which path to choose
Let me come along
Cause even if you're wrong

I'll stand by you
I'll stand by you
Won't let nobody hurt you

I'll stand by you 

Take me in into your darkest hour
And I'll never desert you
I'll stand by you

And when, when the night falls on you baby
You're feeling all alone
You won't be on your own

I'll stand by you
I'll stand by you
Won't let nobody hurt you
I'll stand by you

Take me in into your darkest hour
And I'll never desert you
I'll stand by you
Oh, I'll stand by you
I'll stand by you.

Monday, July 25, 2016

Lucky II

I have the craziest luck sometimes.

Especially when it comes to vehicles.

Last year, we decided to go on vacation to Connecticut to visit my niece and nephew.  And I suppose their parents as well, but mainly the two babies.  Of course, the day before we left, my air conditioning in my van went out...and it was supposed to be like 90* with a thousand percent humidity.

Against my better judgment, we took it to this little shop here in town.  They were pretty much the only ones open on a Sunday anyways.  $500 later and they fixed it, right?


We weren't even out of Ohio when the fucking A/C stopped working.  Less than an hour into a 9 hour trip.  With 7 people.  In a minivan.  In 90* heat with a thousand percent humidity.

The drive there and back sucked monkey balls to the point that I didn't even blog about it after.  And I blog about poop and the voices in my head, so that should tell you something.  Let's just say that when I got home, I made a grown man cry I was so pissed.  (Let's not mention the fact that it took them an ADDITIONAL FIVE DAYS AFTER WE GOT HOME to fucking fix it right...)

Fast forward to this summer.  Guess what goes out?

If you guess the A/C in my van, you'd only be partially right.

Cause so did the A/C in the truck.

And the A/C in our house.

And it's 90* with a thousand percent humidity again.

And we took the van in to get re-charged, hoping against hope that was all it was...and of course it wasn't and they had to order the part and it won't get fixed until tomorrow.  Costing just under another $400 dollars.  Oh, and fixing the A/C in the house will cost another $900.  Cause of course we need a new compressor and that shit is expensive, yo.

And don't forget my husband has hurt his arm and is off work for four months.  We have disability insurance, but that's only 60% of his income.  So not much extra money right now.  And of course I want to go to see my niece and nephew again (and possibly their parents too, since I suppose they will be there as well...) but I am afraid of trying to leave the state and having another air conditioning unit breaking.

Lucky, right?

Yeah, fuck you.

I'd play the lottery but I'd probably get a paper cut from the ticket and end up with my thumb amputated after I get gangrene from the infection I'd get from the ticket being touched by the gas station attendant who handles money that has cocaine and malaria all over it.  But not before failing a random drug test at work because of the coke residue that entered my system from the cut.

Wait, I have to take an anti-malarial medication for my Sjogren's.  I'm covered there, at least!  Finally, a win!  Plus I'm pretty sure I just came up with a brand new excuse for failing a drug screen that my clients have NOT come up with, so there's that as well.

Wednesday, July 13, 2016


Charles:  So some "college girl" stopped by today selling books.  She asked if I had kids and I told her I had an 18 year old.  Then she mentioned the toys in the back yard, and asked if I had nieces and nephews.  I wanted to tell her they were mine, but I just went with it.  She left, though, after trying to talk about how she is from Wisconsin, but yet wanted to give back to the community.  Like, what the fuck?  You don't even LIVE in the community.

Me:  You should have told her they were yours.

Charles:  Yeah.  "They're mine.  I don't have to share.  I'm an adult."

Later on, talking about people coming in our yard to do things like meter reading or door to door sales:

Charles:  I kinda hope the next time someone tries to sell stuff to us its another college girl.  I'm gonna turn around and yell "Hey guys!  That place sent us a college girl this time!  It was worth the money!"  Then when she goes "But I really am a college girl" I'll say "And yeah, the last one was a French Maid.  And the one before that was a chef."

Me:  Oh my God.  Please do this.  And video it.

Charles:  Nah, I'll just go "You're late.  You were supposed to be here a half hour ago."

Me:  "So come in and get naked."  Wait, you'll probably get someone who's into that kind of stuff and is all like, "OK..."

Charles:  Yeah, then I will have to boot her ass out. (Mimes kicking someone out the door.)  We'll be put on a list of places to never go.  "Like, those people are freaky.  Don't go there."

Me:  Yeah, like a "Do Not Call" list, but for door to door salesperson.  We will be banned for perpetuity.  This is sounding more and more like a good idea.  Let's do it.

Monday, July 4, 2016


*Note:  I am well aware that I have not written a post on my son's birthday this year.  I assure you that this is not because I have forgotten.  In fact, I have not and the only reason I got out of bed that day was because Alexis had dance (Nationals, baby!  Though by the end of this week I was so done and wished that her team sucked so we didn't have to go to the invite-only Big Show at the end of the week...), and in case you missed it, I am apparently a dance mom.  In keeping with the spirit of last year, I have decided to again write a post with the usual inanity and bluntness and propensity to offend as I usually do.  Enjoy!

It's Independence Day Weekend, bitchez!  Let's celebrate 'Merica!  For those of you not from the U.S.A, this is the weekend that we celebrate the mistaken notion that the Declaration of Independence was signed on July 4, 1776 (it was actually just officially adopted on this day, thus showing that U.S'ians aren't bothered by things like historical accuracy or fact checking.)  There are a lot of traditions that go along with this, and most of them are as fucked up as all get out, so of course I am going to dissect them here.

First, let's start off with a tradition that is not necessarily limited to the Fourth (capital F, bitchez, cause it's a goddamned government sanctioned holiday and we don't get mail that day.  It's THAT important.).  Catching lightning bugs.  You may know these as fireflies.  Who thought up the good idea of releasing small children out into a yard to catch these poor mothafuckers who are just trying to get laid, to either be squeezed to death in a toddler's hand and smearing their yellow glow shit all over the fucking place, or they go into the jar of death and torture.  There are a lot of variations on this jar of death and torture, FYI.  When we were little, it was a margarine tub with fork holes stabbed in the top.  Some people perpetuate the whole American consumerism thing ('Merica!) and purchase a special receptacle to capture those things.  My kids get a mason jar with holes stabbed into the lid, which I then superglued to the ring.  Cause nothing says 'Merica like being inventive.  But seriously, once those little guys are in the jar, they are desperately trying to climb out to get their freak on, and the kids are pounding on the lid to get them to fall to the bottom...and let's not even talk about the ones who inadvertently get smooshed a'la that scene in Scream where the girl gets all tangled up in the garage door.

Then there are the sparklers.  Let's give children hot pieces of wire that shoot sparks and let them run free, in the dark.  Cause nothing says Independence Day like being branded by your five year old after sundown.  Plus all that smoke inhalation and fumes from the sparklers, year after year after year, surely can't be healthy for you.  But hey, this is America, land of the free!  Health care is not seen as a right, yo, so no need to treat the lung cancer from the smoke inhalation!

Fireworks.  OK, in Ohio, they are illegal to shoot off in your backyard.  People do it all the fucking time.  Which is great until the cops show up, or someone loses an eye.  Plus, does no one see the irony in firing off something that is going to remind the combat veterans of this country of combat in celebration of the freedom that we have, that was earned through combat?  Be respectful of the vets, bitchez.  They are the reason your dumb asses can shoot that shit off.  And the dogs, too.  I imagine that more Valium is consumed by the canine population this week than any other.  And there are the stupid "fireworks" too, like the snakes and those popper things that you throw at people's feet, while screaming "Dance, mothafucker!  Dance!"  (At least that's how I do it...)  We had some pretty interesting ones tonight, like a pooping dog and a chicken blowing up a balloon.  Cause, 'Merica!

Nothing says Independence from Oppression like sparks blowing out your ass.

Parades are also kinda fucked up if you think about it.  First of all, let's take the emergency response vehicles and have them drive at 5 MPH down the road with their sirens blaring.  Cause hearing is just an extra sense to have, doncha know?  And who cares if there is an actual emergency.  There's a parade, dammit, deal with it your own fucking self.  Then let's let the perpetuation of misogyny come with the princesses being paraded down in sports cars.  And of course it's the middle of July so it's usually like 90* with 99% humidity in Ohio, so their make up is slowly melting and I am sure that they are silently cursing whatever possessed them to run for Little Miss whatever.  Then there are the floats, wherein people throw candy into crowds for children to get.  This usually involves them having to run into the streets, because by god if the obesity won't get them, modeling running into the street surely will.  If, that is, they did not get an eye taken out, either during the parade from the errant Tootsie Roll or from the fireworks and/or sparklers from the night before.

Apple Pie...ok this is one thing that we got right (is it American?  IDK, to be honest, because like most Americans I am unconcerned with things like fact checking or historical accuracy.  At least about my baked goods, that is.).  Sweetened apples, baked into a flaky crust, served warm with ice cream on it.  Great huh?  No, we have to fuck things up royally here in 'Merica and even the innocence of apple pie was corrupted by an infamous movie scene where a young boy let himself loose on a poor unsuspecting pie.  That is just a bacterial infection waiting to happen there, folks.

And now I want pie.  The innocent kind, not the corrupted movie kind.

Wednesday, June 15, 2016

Random X

Conversation that may or may not have been had at my house while I was watching a video of a dog dancing the salsa with its owner:

Me:  Lookit, honey!  A salsa dancing dog!  Can I do this with Maximus?

Charles: Uh, I want to see you be able to pick him up and flip him like that guy did...

Me:  That's not a no...

Charles:  Well, he's not allowed to jump up on people.  And he has to do that for this.  So that might be a problem.

Me: (because I am a PROBLEM SOLVER, bitchez...) Well, just don't play salsa music then.  PROBLEM SOLVED.

Charles:  Nope.  It's all I listen to all day long at work.

As a documented dance mom, I feel that I have some leeway when it comes to watching my child dance and getting all emotional and shit.  Mostly because its so fucking nice to see that all that money I am paying for dance is not getting wasted.  I will say, though, that I also feel that I then have the leeway to go home and drink a margarita because Mama earned that, mothafuckers.

So my husband is totally gimped out right now from a torn bicep muscle.  He had to have surgery to repair it (technically it was a ligament, but torn bicep ligament for some reason does not sound as bad ass) and now he is off work for four months and has this brace on his arm that probably cost more than my van.  It's totally not a bad ass story, though.   There was a dead baby skunk in the back yard.  He scooped it up with a shovel to fling into the field behind our house.  That's it.  He's lucky, though, because my sister and I have a rule that you don't go to the ER if you are doing something stupid.  My personal belief, though, is that he did it to avoid having to set up for Elizabeth's graduation party.  Because you know, it would TOTALLY make sense to go to those lengths to avoid having to set up for a party.  TOTALLY realistic and very similar to the set up in the movie Anger Management (one of the few movies I have actually seen, for the record.  I'm lucky I can sit through a 50 minute therapy session...and even then I'm totally fidgeting the whole time.)

Because of the above, he had his arm in a cast for two weeks. This meant I literally had to tie his shoes.  I was teasing him about this one day and told him he was going to forget all of his big boy skills.  As soon as the words left my mouth, I wished I could take them back because I totally knew where he was going to take that.  And he did.  I'm not going into details, because honestly if you can't figure it out on your own why the fuck are you reading this blog, of all the blogs to read?

I get very annoyed by salads you buy from a restaurant.  They have them all prettily arranged in the bowl, all the veggies nicely separated and the meat all artfully splayed across the bed of crisp greens.  Look here, mothafuckers...I'm already cranky by having to buy a salad from you because all of your other food has gluten in it which my body has decided is the devil.  I sure as fuck don't want to have to mix that shit up myself.  I came to this restaurant for you to prepare my food for me.  I expect it to be ready to eat.  Having to mix my own salad is too much like work.  What's next, having me do my own dishes at this place?

Tuesday, May 10, 2016


It pains me to have to write this post.

Mostly because it makes me feel like the equivalent of the old timers in a barber shop lamenting the state of today's youth.  However, in this case, I am sitting in a theatre watching in disbelief as entire families, like literally dozens of people, got up to leave after their child's performance.  In some cases, before intermission.

What. The. Fuck.

Why do I have to write a "how not to be an asshole at a dance recital" post?

I am sorry, your child ain't that special.  It's not like they had a solo, because NO ONE had a solo.  The solos did not perform at this recital.  None of the competition families, who's children ARE that special (and also put hours of work in WEEKLY vs your one little 45 min class), got up and left.  They might have cheered very loudly, but they stayed seated unless it was to go do a costume change.  And even if they did have to go help backstage, they returned...leaving after your kid performs takes douche-baggery to a whole new level.

You go to a recital, you sit through the whole entire thing.  You may or may not make fun of all of the other children who aren't yours (*ahem* not that I've ever been privy to this happening...) but you sit there the whole time and you clap after each number and laugh at the kids who stand there and stare terrified out at the audience in a moment they are sure to re-live with their therapist as an adult.

You sure as fuck don't get up and leave and then stand out in the lobby and laugh and talk and ooh and aah over your preschooler while ignoring the fact that every other child in that recital worked just as fucking hard as your kid.  In the case of the competition kids, EVEN harder than your kid.  And that is not including all of the time and effort put forth by the teachers, and the support staff, and the staff of the theatre.

Your child is not the only one performing.  What a big "fuck you" to all of those other kids when you get up and leave.  The idea of being able to go get your kid after they performed was to bring them back into the audience...TO SUPPORT THEIR PEERS.  Not to be a douche bag like you clearly are.

It is a sad reflection on our society that people feel the need to make their little special snowflakes feel super duper special at the expense of other kids.  What does that sound like?  Bullying.  That is what that sounds like.  I no longer want to hear people wondering about where this comes from because they are the people who are leaving recitals early.  You learn this shit from home, bitchez.  And if you can't be arsed to sit through a fucking children's dance recital, you certainly can't be arsed to make sure you aren't modelling other bullying behaviors.

Take a good hard look at yourself here.  Children mimic what they see.  Would you be ok with another child treating your special snowflake like you are treating other kids?

If you are leaving that recital early...I doubt it.

Wednesday, May 4, 2016


One of the things that I like about the private practice work that I do is there is a bit of a drive home.  This can be a good thing as I decompress a bit after work and prepare myself for the onslaught of children, husband, and animals when I get home.  It can also be a bad thing as, well, anyone who has read my blog knows how my mind works.  And just think, this is the stuff that I feel is fit for public consumption...imagine what I keep to myself...

Anyways. (*side note...I  had someone say to me today that I use that as a segue a lot.  So of course, being the asshole that I am, I deliberately made it a point to use it as much as possible.) This particular day that I am thinking of, I was thinking about the whole idea of criminal thinking and the thought processes that must go behind the decision to commit a felony.  I mean, when does one cross the line and think, yep.  This is worth losing my right to vote and own a gun and I strongly feel I have a future working at McDonald's as a fry cook for the rest of my life (*another side note...I just Googled "does McDonald's hire felons" because I was honestly second guessing myself as to if they do.  They do, sometimes.  They are a franchise, so it depends on the store.  This may or may not be need to know info for you.  I don't judge.)

I suppose, however, that one is not considering the consequences here because one is supposing that one will not get caught.  Hence why there are probably a lot of really common felonies, like trafficking in black tar heroin and murder and rape.

I then made the decision, that if I was ever going to commit a felony, I didn't want it to be the ordinary, run of the mill felony.  No siree, I was going to commit one of the exotic ones.  Only problem was, I couldn't exactly remember what those were.  I vaguely remembered the mnemonic MRS & MRS LAMB for remembering felonies, but obviously I either did not pay attention or it's not a very good one because I did not remember what all of them were.  I mean, like the biggies, like murder, robbery, manslaughter, and rape, sure.  But what about the rest?  Again, Google to the rescue.




Again, might be need to know info for you, and again, no judgment here.

So upon perusing the list, I eliminated the ones you commonly hear of, the murder, manslaughter, rape, robbery, and burglary.  Arson is one that's sorta common, but I really am not into fire starting unless it's to get drunk next to one and watch a neighbor burn her cheek on a s'more (true story.  In her defense, there were a lot of margaritas involved...)  I wasn't going to go with sodomy because, well, I just wasn't and if I have to explain it to you then you need to utilize Google yourself (says the woman who is actively considering which felony, hypothetically speaking, of course, she would be likely to commit.)  That leaves larceny and mayhem.  I wasn't completely comfortable with the whole larceny thing either, so that left mayhem.  Again, not entirely sure what that was, so a quick Google search again indicated that it was "the crime of maliciously injuring or maiming someone, originally so as to render the victim defenseless"  I really didn't want to go there, either, cause deep down inside I'm not mean.  So I was a bit bummed that my brainstorming was not working out, until I had an idea.


Sounds exotic, and I would make it so I only impacted the super rich somehow.  Like convinced them that their puppies needed this special water to keep them from getting sick, and then sold them water from their hoses or something, because saving dogs (and hobos) is what I do.  However, I wasn't completely sure if it was a felony.

I was tired of Googling at this point, so I texted my older brother who is a police officer.  Luckily, he's known me all of my life and I often text him really random questions, so me texting him "Is racketeering a felony?" was not something that made him bat an eye.  Not only did he answer the question, but he expanded on it as well and went into it usually being a collection of crimes and against RICO and whatnot.

So there you have it, bitchez.  If I were ever to make the evening news, it is totally going to be for running some kind of a racket.  Anyone need some water for their puppies?

Tuesday, April 26, 2016


I am horribly confused by the whole food truck thing.

Since when has it become socially acceptable to consume anything other than hot dogs or soft pretzels, perhaps cotton candy, from a vehicle?  Who the fuck thought it would be a good idea to pack an entire restaurant kitchen into a vehicle so you can serve food from it? Not only that...but who the fuck thought that this would be a good idea to do in Ohio?  You know, land of all four seasons in one day...where it is not uncommon to have to wear snow boots, a rain coat, and a cardigan you could take off if needed over a short sleeved shirt all in the same work day?

Does the fumes from the gasoline or diesel add some kind of exotic flavor to the food?  Is THAT why carnival food tastes so good?  (I'm still asserting that it is because they never ever clean those kitchens, and you can't get that kind of seasoning with having served funnel cakes and Italian sausage for 30 years straight  from a kitchen with a good scrub down on a regular basis, I tell you what...)

How the fuck do they get their deliveries?  Like, truck to truck?  And I'm a little skeptical that there is enough storage in those bad boys for a full week's worth of cooking...therefore necessitating a brick and mortar building, and also therefore negating the need for the fucking truck to begin with.  Why do Americans think that we need to consume food that is basically gypsy in nature.  I mean, I have nothing against gypsies per se...but I don't want to have to chase my food.  I leave my hunting to my husband and just go to the fucking grocery store.

And even if the truck never moves...WHAT IS THE POINT?  Why not just get a building?  Why do you have to confuse and vex me so, food trucks?  Why do you have to go and give me an existential crisis?  Why am I so horribly confused by this concept?


Saturday, April 23, 2016

Reggie II

This hamster is making me increasingly paranoid.

First off, she's hoarding food in her cage.  Like she has it stored strategically around under her bedding.  What the fuck for?  It figures that I would get the hamster that is some sort of a crazy prepper.  She's probably going to vote for Trump and is a fan of Ted Nugent, too.  If I find out that she's hoarding ammo too the next time I change her bedding, I'm moving out of the house.

Second, she's got some kind of intricate tunnel system set up underneath her bedding.  Three fourths of the time, she is not above ground; rather she is doing who the fuck knows what in her bunker under the bedding.  Seriously, they are tunnels like the Viet Cong or something.  She even has them leading up to her little house thing, so she does not have to come above ground to even go into her  home.

I fully expect to hear the banjos from Deliverance every time I check this fucker's food and water.  Look at those suspicious, beady eyes...

Third, she seems to be perfecting her Matrix-like ninja skills.  She is getting increasingly adept at avoiding anyone handling's like she has some fear of being contaminated or something if she is touched by us Human Infidels.  It appears that biological warfare is the only thing that she is not prepared for, so I guess that makes sense as it is her only vulnerability.

WHAT THE FUCK AM I EVEN TALKING ABOUT???  Her only vulnerability?  This fucking midget rodent has ME plotting HER downfall!  The psychological torture here is almost unbearable!  

I used to think that it would be the children that sent me to the insane asylum.  It appears that the hamster is a close contender to be the reason as well.  

Wednesday, April 20, 2016


I've been a bad blogger again, bitchez.

I've got all kinds of excuses.  Two jobs.  Three children who consistently demand things like nutrition, healthcare, and education. (Assholes.)  A house that, let's face it, is not going to be as clean as I would like it until we move out of it and into another bigger one we can trash. Just maybe a little more spread out will the trashing be. (And Yoda I am channeling.)  And of course, I'm constantly looking for new things to occupy my time stress myself out over, such as contemplating opening my Etsy store for business and expanding my gardens and training for a marathon.

Ha ha.  I can't even find time to read a goddamned book.  Or even a fucking short story or poem.  A marathon is totally out of the question.  I'm lucky to find time to exercise at all (as evidenced by all of the weight I have gained back...:/ )  Everything just keeps getting pushed off to the future.  When I have only one job.  When the kids are in school full time.  When we finally move out to the country.

Everything seems like it has been getting postponed lately.  I wanted to have a bigger house for Elizabeth's grad party.  She graduates this June, and we are still in the same house.  I wanted to start running again.  I still have not gone out to buy new running shoes.  I wanted to have Alexis take violin lessons.  Her violin has not been touched in forever.  I signed Charlie up for 1,000 books before kindergarden.  She's probably read that many already, but we don't get to the library to turn her papers in.  Hell, I've been wanting to go on a date with my husband.  It's been way too long.

I feel like I have been such a failure in so many ways.  I judge myself way more harshly than anyone else.  The perfectionism that I lecture my clients about runs rampant in myself, and I always seem to be slacking.

But yet...our house feels like home and Elizabeth is having fun planning her graduation party with me.  Alexis has found her true love in dance.  Charlie is as smart as a whip.  My husband puts up with my crazy.  It just never feels like I am doing enough.

Not pretty enough.  Not skinny enough.  Not smart enough.  Not enough money.  Not taking the kids to enough activities.  Not spending enough quality time with them.  Not spending enough time on my career.  Not spending enough time on housework.  On reading.  On hobbies.  On exercise, fitness, and/or health.  On beauty.  On pop culture.  On learning about social media.

When does it become enough?  When you are too old to remember?  When you die?  When you wake up one day and realize that all the voices that were on the outside, or so you thought, were really coming from within, but with help from external sources?  When you realize perfection is an unrealistic standard sold by marketing companies to promote products for the almighty dollar?

I know most of  that logically.  Yet I can understand why most people don't feel it in their hearts.  I tell people,  "Today is the tomorrow you worried about yesterday."  But you can't rationalize with anxiety (believe me, I've tried.)

I just have to hope that it is enough.  And keep contributing to the children's therapy funds in case it is not.

Monday, March 21, 2016


I have come to realize that I need to embrace the fact that I am a white, middle class mom.

I've been in denial for a while, I must admit.  I put off buying a mini van for forever.  I drink my coffee black and only splurge on Starbucks fru-fru drinks occasionally.  I only recently went completely gluten free (and only on the advice of my physician, not because I am convinced that gluten is a devil substance akin to heroin in its capabilities to destroy families and well being).  I just recently started to wear leggings with boots.

This past weekend, though, sealed the deal for me.  Alexis had a dance competition.  Yeah, bitchez, I am a mothafucking dance mom.  That alone should tell you how deep my denial ran.  I pay ridiculous amounts of money on a monthly basis, akin to a car payment, really, for my daughters to dance competitively.  They love it.  They make me cry to watch them.  However, the fact that Elizabeth plays softball, which is infinitely cheaper, will definitely be remembered if I ever get around to making a will.  She will totally get a smaller portion of my debt than the other two.  Even with buying softball gear for her and t-shirts and hoodies, she is way under the other two.

I wore yoga pants with my N*DC t-shirt.  I wore comfy shoes because I knew that I had to haul ass after one of her numbers to change her outfit for the next number.  I wore a hoodie because it sometimes gets cold, but also it can get hot when I am hauling ass as outlined above.  I was desperately searching for some coffee because that is what dance moms subsist on, along with the fumes from the hairspray and fake eyelash glue.

The real defining moment of acceptance, though, came when I was contemplating a Target run.  I needed to get a new chain for my necklace, as well as some butter and spinach and a new crochet hook (weird assortment, I know) but I was not sure if Target would carry all of that.  I then realized that my big hesitation with going to Target, besides if they would carry crochet hooks, was that Target is the equivalent of an opium den for suburban mothers.  You go there, intending to just look around, and leave feeling slightly dirty and used, with a bit of a leftover buzz/hangover, significantly lighter in the pocket, and potentially with some unwanted baggage (in the case of the opium den, some VD; Target would be shit from the dollar bins...).

Yeah.  Nothing like having reality smack you right out of the comfy ignorance of denial.  I'm just wondering what else I am ignoring.  Latent gangsta tendencies?  Repressed love for Katy Perry?  The acceptance of Barbie as an accurate representation of a female body?   The possibilities are endless here.  Just goes to show that you can evolve as a person.  Even if that evolution involves embracing your whiteness while attempting to be aware of your privilege.

I just totally slipped that in there.  You're welcome.

Wednesday, March 2, 2016

Random IX

Charles and I were pretending to be adults last night and were talking about our wishes after we died.  I told him that in no way was I to be cremated because if there is a zombie apocalypse, I fully intend to participate to the best of my abilities.  Charles then remarked that he limps around anyways due to his knees, so really it was not going to be too much of a stretch for him to be a zombie anyways, at least movement-wise.  I then also told him to be sure to part me out as well, though given my health it is unlikely that they would use any of my spare parts unless the doctor really hated the patient and wanted to kill them.  And if that is the case, I'm pretty sure you have bigger problems than just needing my organs.  Like probably you should find a new doctor.

Getting a new iPhone: Well, it was free since I traded my old one in and this was when Verizon still let you get one for fairly cheap.

Downloading the Amazon Music app:  Also free, though if you want to get technical I do pay for Amazon Prime, so maybe the app really cost like $99 but I'm deluding myself that it is free.

Downloading Air Supply's "I'm All Out of Love":  Well....also free, but possibly $99.  See above.

Rocking out to "I'm All Out of Love" at the top of your lungs and totally embarrassing your 9 year old even though you were alone in the house:  Priceless, bitchez.  Isn't that why we had kids?

I've been hiding at work lately.  Mostly because of our accrediting body doing their visit and everyone being all cranky.  And because we have to have all of the doors shut in the hallways, so now I am firmly convinced that someone is going to jump out and murder me.  And because I am in a back hallway pretty much by myself since my supervisor is on maternity leave, no one would hear me getting murdered.  I've got too much stuff to do at home, people, for me to get murdered at work.  So I will stay in my office, thankyouverymuch.

Saturday, February 27, 2016


One thing that no one mentions when you sign up for this thing called parenting is that the pain does not stop after the child has exited the vagina (or, as in the case of Charlie, the abdominal incision).  No one tells you about things like molars.  Orthodontia.  Caillou and Dora.  Prom.

That's right, bitchez.  Your child, will, at some point, be statistically likely to go to a formal dance.  And if your kid does not, PLEASE share your secrets with me so I can put them into play for the next two.  Unless it involves things such as bullying or severe social anxiety.  I'm pretty much not a fan of those kinds of things.

When your child goes to said formal dance, they will  need clothes for it as it is generally frowned upon to go in your birthday suit.  And not just any clothes...dear sweet mother of God, it has to be a dress.  And one usually finds dresses in a store, which is in a mall.  I fucking hate the mall with all the fiery passion I usually reserve for such things as Katy Perry's singing, food touching, and spring.  This is where having boys would come in handy, cause I could just totally punt that off to Charles as being in his domain.  I'm pretty sure, though, that as tolerant as that man is and despite the number of tea parties he has attended, wearing a crown no less, prom dress shopping is where he draws the line.

You know how I shopped for my prom dress?  I put Elizabeth in her stroller, walked into JC Penny's, and found a cream colored plain dress within 10 minutes.  It fit, was simple, and I did not have to venture any further into the mall for it.  Plus it was like $30.  The entire ordeal took me less than 45 minutes.

I'm not what you would call a girly girl.

It has never been that simple with Elizabeth.  Now mind you, she has attended prom every year of high school so far.  I try not to think about that fact too hard, but I figure her prom dresses are cheaper than the dance I pay for for her sisters, so it's really hard to complain.  (Word of advice...encourage your child to play the less expensive sports.)  That and I tend to be a sucker for my children...not that they are spoiled, as they most definitely are not, but I do try to make special occasions, well, special for them.  So I begrudgingly get in the car and take her dress shopping.

She has learned from past experiences, I think, and did not attempt to drag me to the mall.  For which I am eternally grateful because I don't think I could have handled that today as I had dress rehearsal for competition with the little girls and I was already high on the fumes from hairspray and whatever chemicals sequins and feathers emit.  I would have put this off, but a.) I work 7 days/week, and b.) I completely get the anxiety she would have had because prom is almost two months away and dear GOD, what if she did not find a dress?  I can appreciate that kind of anxiety cause I live it myself daily.  However, she did drag me to a store 2 hours away.  That had literally thousands of dresses.

Holy fucking shit, my ADHD kicked in big time.  I was like a 10 month old baby who was completely overstimulated and just did not know what to do and was running on fumes and completely unable to be soothed.  There were so many dresses.  They started looking alike after a while.  Thankfully, we brought her date, a friend, and my sister with us because had it just been the two of us, this might have been a disaster rivaling the decision to allow me to be on the Internet unsupervised.

We decided against the $700 dress.  Seven.  Hundred.   Fucking. Dollars.  For a prom dress.  My wedding dress cost half that.  That's almost my fucking mortgage.  Just...FUCK.  That being said, we did not spend anywhere near that amount.  But it was still painful.  Maybe not to the point of requiring an epidural, but damn.  Some Xanax would have been nice.  Or a shot at least.  A bullet to bite on perhaps?

Tuesday, February 16, 2016


One of the greatest joys I have in this journey of parenting, aside from passing down functional knowledge of how to appropriately use fuck as pretty much all parts of speech, is watching my children develop their talents and interests.

Elizabeth, for instance, is a pretty kickass softball player.  She definitely gets that from her dad's side of the family as I have never been able to get the hang of any sport that required a ball.  Or athletic talent, really.  If wine bottle opening was a sport, I'd be a fucking Olympian, however. I did run cross country in high school but I'm pretty sure that since most of us looked like we were dying out there I blended right in...that and back in the day before children and poor life choices destroyed them, I had a pretty nice rack so most of the teenage boys were likely fixated on that.  

I love getting out to her games, even when it is cold.  If you know me, you know that I hate Spring.  One year I swear to God every single game was below freezing.  Because Spring is an asshole.  But by God, every game I could get to I was there.  Unfortunately I usually forgot my coat, so I also have likely done some frostbite damage...but I was there.  Why?

Because that's what good parents do, and I like to pretend that is what I am.  And also, because those young women worked their asses off, most days of the week.  They came back, game after game, and played their best every time.  Despite losing most games.  Despite being down a ridiculous amount of runs.  It was a pleasure and a joy to watch them grow throughout the season.  It was a pleasure to watch a coach of a team that previously won against them pitch a fit like a two year old when, at the end of the season, they beat his team and he couldn't get it overruled.  Those players EARNED that victory.  Elizabeth was part of a team and was learning important life lessons and shit.  Totally worth frostbite and having to be out in Spring weather.

Charlie and Alexis are on the competition dance team, which thankfully is an indoor sport and does not require me to be outside in weather below 50* for long periods of time.  It does, however, require travel to dance competitions and fun shit like putting fake eyelashes on and learning the best way to bobby pin a hat to your child's head so it won't fall off (the answer, just in case you are wondering, does not involve a staple gun.  I am neither going to confirm nor deny if I ever contemplated that.)  Alexis had started out dance at the age of two and a half and cried.  Every.Fucking,Class.  She then soon got over her hatred of people and public and socializing and realized that she loves it.  She is now getting ready to do her solo.  Charlie...well, it's her first year on competition so we shall see if she decides to continue it or not.  I'm not sure how much of her being on the team is related to her wanting to be like her big sister; however at this point I am just grateful that it is keeping her from hiring herself out for murder or espionage or other devious deeds so I'll take it.

I recently watched the two of them dance at an informal performance.  I still get choked up watching them, just as I do when I see Elizabeth doing her thing on the softball field as well.  All of the work, the injuries, the practices, the tears...all culminating in a performance where they make it look so easy.  These girls go out there and dance despite injuries.  Despite life happening, like cancer or the death of a parent or being bullied at school.  The cost is well worth it, for a variety of reasons.  The life lessons that they learn.  The importance of  hard work.  Or camaraderie, especially with other females.  The sting of losing along side the joys of winning.  The importance of being a part of a team, but also of doing your part and improving yourself.

I simply don't know that as a parent, I can teach these lessons as well as others can.  I am too involved.  Too attached.  Too protective.  Too anxious.  Would I make them take risks?  Would I push them to their limits, even as they groan and protest?  Would I stand by and let them fail when they don't do that hard work?  As hard as it is to admit, the answer to all of those is probably no.  I can't be that for my kids, for a number of reasons (and the first is likely that I am bat shit crazy...)  I freely give them to other adults, professionals in their fields, to shape and to mold.  To make them what I cannot, to say the things to them that need to be said.  To shape them into the young women they will be (or are, in Elizabeth's case).

It does take a village.  So to all of those coaches out there...the dance teachers...the school teachers..., baby sitters... daycare providers...4H leaders...thank you.  Thank you for giving my child, and many others, a chance to grow and learn.  Thank you for believing in my child.  Thank you for seeing worth in my child participating, and for seeing potential.  Thank you for putting my child in their place when they need it, and lifting them up when they are down.  Thank you for taking your time, whether volunteer or paid, to invest in my kid, even knowing that she may not become a professional dancer, or softball player, or whatever.  Thank you for seeing value in children's activities.

Thank you.

Sunday, January 24, 2016


Not the kind that people are trying to legalize.  Sorry.

My sister Alicia was recently in the hospital for kidney stones.  She had a pretty sizable one gumming up the works so the doctor had to go in and shoot the little fucker up in a urology drive-by, then place a stent.  She has the strings for the stent taped to her legs, which resulted in the following text conversation:

Me:  Little girls and I might come out so they can leave more shit at ur house

Alicia: OK sounds good lol. I can't put on real pants because there are these strings and they pull so I will be stuck in the house tomorrow.  Shorts are the only things that do not pull them in.

Me:  Sweet.  Is that your pull string like Woody?  What do you say?

A: Ha ha ha you pull them and you will hear an adult version of Woody.  It would probably start with a little prayer like Jesus Christ and then Mother fucker would soon follow.

Me:  So a religious Woody?  Great.  My kids need a little Satan beaten out of them and what better way to do that than a demented Woody.  Religion AND turning them away from the Disney brainwashing machine?  WINNING.

A: Kind of, I would be like the toys you see on the news that people are all up in arms because it sounds like it's saying fuck but I would really be saying fuck.

As you can see, crazy runs in the family.  So what better way to celebrate kidney stones than with baked goods?  Of course I went there.  She baked me a fucking cake.  Why wouldn't I make cake ball kidney stones?

Enlarged to show details, and sparkly, of course.  Again, why is there not a business to make these?  There appears to be a pretty solid, wide-open market for this kind of thing...

So to make these cake balls, I was Googling pictures of kidney stones because I had no fucking clue what they looked like.  Charlie was looking over my shoulder and saw them, so I explained what little I knew about them and that Alicia had had surgery because she was having problems peeing (simplest explanation I could come up with).  Charlie got very serious then and leaned over and told me, "I have to whisper this so Daddy can't hear."
Me: Um, OK.  

C, leaning in to whisper: You know how when you get older and sometimes you bleed when you are going potty?  Maybe that is what was happening.  Maybe she doesn't need surgery and you just need to tell her about that.

Me: You mean her period?  This was definitely not her period, Charlie.  And I'm pretty sure Daddy knows about periods.  It's OK for him to hear about them.

Bless her little heart.  As much as that child makes me want to tear my hair out, she has a heart of gold.  She and her sister even "let" Aunt Alicia win at Connect Four, because she just had surgery and all.  Baked goods to celebrate surgical procedures aside, I must be doing something right here.

Friday, January 22, 2016

Random VIII

I'm a little worried about what happens when I start to get a lot of Random posts and it goes beyond my comprehension of Roman Numerals. Or maybe I will go ahead and just start using actual numerals, not of the Roman persuasion.  I can do that, bitchez...ya know why?  It's my fucking blog.  Better watch out, it's gonna get all crazy up in here.

I'm talking about the blog titles, not my head.  Ahem.

Alexis is starting to move into the fun preteen years, which means that my alcohol and/or Xanax consumption will increase proportionally as well.  So far the extent of her rebellion has been NOT having me check her math homework for errors and dawdling before bed, but I am totally bracing myself for a full out rebellion in a few years.  I anticipate her advocating for a Trump/Palin presidency here soon, because really that would be the best way to rebel against me.  That and starting to mix her food on her plate.  I don't care what people say, if that shit was meant to go together it would be cooked together or be a food thing, like mashed potatoes and gravy.  Mashed potatoes and corn is not a food thing, and nothing you say can convince me otherwise.  Might as well make a bread sandwich for all the carbs and starches you are getting there.  It's just gluttonous.  And glutinous.  Well, the bread sandwich that is.  Potatoes and corn are gluten free I believe.  But don't fucking quote me on that shit.  I'm not a doctor.  Possibly need one for my head, but not because I am delusional.  There's many other reasons.

I wonder if I could possibly time it so that I will never have two females getting their periods at the same time again?  Two females who live here full time, that is.  If the two little girls get it at the same time, my fictional prescription for benzodiazapines might become a reality.  I'm not getting mine anymore, as we all celebrated with cake last year.  If I can get Charlie to hold off until she's like 14, Alexis will be getting ready to graduate and go off to how could I make this happen?  I took my magic wand to work so I could use it there, but it might be worth me bringing back home so I can arrange this.

About that doctor...

Elizabeth cleaned the hamster's cages out a few days ago.  Bean was all nice and sweet when I held her while she was doing this, even if she did try to burrow into my boobs.  Must be talking to the Baby Daddy 2.0 cause he tends to try to do that too.  Reggie, however, was her psychotic self and further traumatized me by squealing loudly while staring me directly in the eye from her hamster ball.  I'm glad I am not fluent in hamster because I'm pretty sure she was detailing my future dismemberment.  I never thought I would be afraid of something that is less than three inches long, but her tiny little hamster squeaks are similar to the howls of demons from hell.  And her cold, beady eyes are dead inside.  I had nightmares that night.  No joke.

I'm going to relive a bit of my childhood after work with the little girls and dust off the most ridiculous of toys, the EZ Bake oven.  The name is really fucking misleading...who the fuck thought it would be easy to bake with a goddamned lightbulb?  Like, I wonder how many fuckheads out there tried to make like actual food in them, and not just the nasty bags of chemicals they give you that are supposed to pass for desserts (for the record, I bought a bag of sugar cookie mix from the store vs the ones strictly for the oven.  If we are going to eat crap, by God it is going to be somewhat good tasting crap.)  Do people try to make meatloaves in this?  How about Shepherd's Pie?  And also, I can't believe that Shepherd's Pie is a food thing.  I certainly won't eat that.  Good thing we won freedom from the British all those years back if this is what they come up with for their food things.