Letters III

Bitchez,

Time for our yearly Christmas letter!  Well, not really yearly, but there's not a term for 3 times in 5 years.  Like, tri-half-decadely?  IDK.  I make shit up half the time, so let's just go with that for now and accept the fact that I can't be counted on to consistently write a Christmas letter.  It's tough work maintaining this crazy, I tell you what.  I can't be expected to maintain my crazy AND a yearly letter AND to publish it on this blog.  One has to prioritize, you know.

Speaking of priorities...Charles finally decided that he should maybe make his health a priority and went to go get his knees looked at.  Of course, they are pretty fucked up and he desperately needs a knee replacement, but quality of life means nothing to insurance companies so they keep shelling out for bandaids for the amputation here and keep doing more minor surgeries.  In this case, it was repairing a torn meniscus (he likes to do that to his knees for funsies, I think...he had the other one done a few years ago) and cleaning up what little cartilage remains in his knee.  The surgeon told me that the knee wasn't as bad as he expected, which considering that the knee he DIDN'T operate on is bone on bone probably isn't saying much.  But, we at least got to work out the disability insurance we are paying for again this year, though for not quite as long as last year's surgery.  He has been informed that this is not a trend that needs to continue into 2018, but no one ever fucking listens to me around here based upon the number of clothes that make it thisclose to being inside the laundry hamper vs on the floor.  Other than that, he is enjoying being employed by a place that prides itself on increasing the level of desperation and despair in its employees eyes exponentially year by year whilst simultaneously wrecking his physical health and forcing him to dream of someday being a kept man.

I am continuing at the private practice, and have started up my own here in town because God forbid I should ever have things like free time or relaxation or reduced stress.  I continue to try to run, not because I enjoy being lapped by the power walkers (which, let's be honest, probably would happen) but because if I don't, I tend to get incredibly cranky and turn to unhealthy coping mechanisms and a dark sense of humor in times of stress...wait, that happens anyways...so why do I run again...?  I also participated in the Minimalism Game again this month and was again shocked by the amount of crap I threw away or donated, this time mainly from the little girls' rooms where they were hoarding miscellaneous puzzle pieces and random plastic pieces of various playsets like their very lives depended on it.

Elizabeth continues to do well at school.  She has moved into an apartment with her boyfriend and cousin and two cats, who are now my grandkitties and I am enjoying being a grandma to because she better not fucking make me a human grandma before I am 40, goddammit.  Plus I haven't thought of a cute name for the kid to call me because I'll be damned if I'm going by Grandma.  My grandchild will be a bevy of originality and awesomeness, naturally, and my name should reflect this.  So I'm not ready to be a grandmother based solely on my lack of an original name.  Of course, there's the whole she needs to finish college first thing too...but I would hope that given that she pretty much went to college with me, that would be a no-brainer.  She also continues to work for the private practice I am at, doing their social media stuff, and everyone loves her to pieces because I somehow have not fucked her up so much she is unable to be a productive member of society.

Alexis continues to dance and I continue to shell out extraordinary amounts of money for this.  She is starting to run into the whole school activities vs dance thing, and I will tell you what, she certainly did not learn stress management from me!  She decided to NOT do Student Council this year because she felt that she could not give it the proper amount of attention between 4H, dance, and band, plus maintaining her good grades.  High five me, parenting WIN with her not picking up on my unnatural and unhealthy Superwoman complex!  She also is continuing to barrel full speed towards adolescence and I'm continuing to hoard my imaginary Xanax to get through it as my anxious to please baby is starting to get some serious sass here.  Imagine that, a child of mine being sassy?  Must get that from her father.

Charlie is dominating first grade academics like the boss that she is and has not only continued her acro classes, but is also doing cheer.  She wants to do swim as well, but I am having a hard time finding classes for her around here that aren't filled up by the members and I refuse to pay $300 for a rec membership to *maybe* get first dibs at swim classes that I will have to pay extra for anyways.  She's already doing better than me in that department as she can tolerate, you know, actually getting into the water, and isn't that what parenting is all about?  Your children having better than you?  Well, she can sure as shit save herself from drowning and that is more than I can say for me (well, at least when I am trying to get out of swimming in gym as a freshman in high school...).

The animals are maintaining.  We had to say good bye to Gunner as he had bitten someone despite all of the training we had put him through.  Charles and Elizabeth had contemplated getting me another puppy, but honestly, I don't have the time to put into one right now with both practices and I am going to be semi-responsible and put the kibosh on that.  We had briefly thought Deogie had cancer, but when we got the lump removed the biopsy, much to the vet's surprise (and Dr. Google, at least according to the pictures...) it was benign.  He at one point did figure out how to get around the cone of shame to lick at his stitches, so he had to get a bigger cone, and it was really hard to not laugh at him as he continually misjudged the size of the cone and ran into shit.  I'm probably going to hell for this, but the little shit did it to himself by being too smart for his britches and getting around the (smaller) first cone.

Seriously, the cone is literally the size of his torso...

Maximus and Toby continue to do well, as do the various fish we have upstairs.  I'm still not convinced that the sucker fish is not going to murder us in his sleep one day as he is still unnamed and probably has an angry blog somewhere blasting the inherent unfairness of being a sucker fish, but I guess if it happens it will be well documented and I can say from the grave "I told you so."

Anyways, looking forward to a future where maybe my husband won't be going under the knife again and I will be only working one job, and not being a grandmother until I have an appropriately creative yet meaningful moniker.  I'm hoping for 1, maybe 2/3 in 2018.  Goals, amirite bitchez?

Merry Christmas!

Laura, Charles, Elizabeth, Alexis, and Charlie

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 stitches...so 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.

Ph.D.

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 again...it'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.

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.

The time of year that all parents dread: Fundraising time.  

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.

Bohemian

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
Russia
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
Ivanka
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
Me
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....

*gong*

Running

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.

Bubbles

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.  

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.

Water

My hatred of water has been well documented.  Here, here, here , here, and here, to be exact.  I'm not a fan.  May have something to do with some sort of early trauma in my life, wherein I almost drowned with a lifeguard watching me and my sister pulled me to safety, or maybe I'm bitter about all the times we went swimming in Lake Erie and came out with sediment and God knows what else all up in my crack (like, literally.  Ohio is the state where a river caught on fire; of course our lake is full of rusted pieces of metal and communicable diseases.).  Or perhaps it has to do with 9th grade when a guy picked me up and threw me into the pool during free swim and I was able to get to the edge of the pool in the deep end, thereby nullifying my excuse of "I can't swim" to the gym teacher and my free pass to have grossly modified expectations for swim class. Fucker.

Anywho, I'm not a fan of water as I said before.  I generally don't go in past my waist, and it usually involves much wailing and gnashing of the teeth for me to get into the water with the children, along with some pretty serious negotiations that simultaneously makes me teary eyed with pride and frustrated as hell at their tenacity. Bathing suits aren't exactly my friend, too. I have body image issues anyways, and plus I am a 36 year old woman who's been pregnant more times than most and who nursed three children.  Shit only stays where it is supposed to because of a lot of Spanx and a solid underwire bra, plus a lot of strategic placement of body parts.

(And yes, I know I am supposed to be a feminist and all that shit, and that worrying about how my body looks in a bathing suit is a function of societal pressures to look perfect, and that my children don't care how I look.  I know all of this.  But I still feel it and by God, I'm honest if nothing more than super crazy.)

So what the fuck made me think that it would be a good idea to get the kids a fucking swimming pool for Christmas last year?  Not like the little 24 inch pools that we used to splash in with our dad when we were little.  No, a fucking 14 ft wide, 42 inches high pool with a real filter and ladder and everything.  And what made me think that my children would be ok with me NOT getting into it with them?  Seriously, if I didn't know that eggs are the devil food and I never eat them, I would question if I got into a whole gallon of egg nog the day I decided to get this thing.

(Though not gonna lie, we got one hell of a deal on it.)

I have been swimming more this summer than I have the last two, possibly three, combined.  Not even hyperbole there.  And the pool has only been up since Saturday.  My children know that I am a sucker for them, and they tend to exploit this to get me to do things that I wouldn't normally.  Like willingly put a bathing suit on and get into water.  Luckily for me, their willingness to exploit me has not extended to things like buying them meth or hacking the school's computers to change their grades.

I suppose that it is part of being a parent though...this willingness to do shit for your kids that takes you out of your comfort zone.  Whether it is learning to use a booger sucker to becoming a dance mom to educating your children about the importance of locking doors to avoid murder,  my kids are constantly making me grow as a person and to expand my thinking in new ways.  Even if it means getting over my hatred of water.  And my fear of stabby murderers coming into our house while waiting up for the teenager to get home from "working a late shift".

Mama may have been born in the morning, but it wasn't yesterday.  I may be willing to allow my children to talk me into believing that water is fun, but I sure as hell ain't gonna get talked into believing that my kid always headed straight home from work after her shift.  Remember, this is the lady who had her gym teacher believing for almost an entire semester that she could not swim.

Bedtime

My two younger children have decided that they are going to do a reprisal of the toddler years with regards to avoidance of going to bed, and have recently begun doing all that they can to postpone the actual event of going to bed itself, let alone actually falling asleep.  They like to whip out all of the classics, such as I need a drink of water or to go to the bathroom, as well as some creative new ones such as I just realized at the exact moment I am supposed to get into bed that I may have potentially possibly broken my pinkie toe earlier this week and it now needs immediate medical attention (Alexis) or I just realized that I don't have every single stuffed animal in my room on my bed and we must bust out a search party for said missing stuffed animal and tear apart my whole room RIGHT NOW (Charlie.)  They have also taken to begging me to lie down with them for a while, and since I'm pretty much a sucker for them I will do this as long as it does not involve TOO long of a conversation on their part to avoid going to sleep.

I might be a fucking sucker for those girls, but I'm not a dumb sucker.  I KNOW their sudden desire for Mama cuddles has nothing to do with the actual cuddling itself and more to do with getting an extra 3-5 minutes of awake time so they can see...what?  What their father and I do in the mysterious hours between 8:30-9 PM and 7-8 AM?

It's a whole lotta not-exciting, that's what.  It usually involves some sort of lunch packing, cleaning, and prepping for the next day.  The excitement comes when we are able to eat or drink whatever crap we want without having to inhale it so the children don't see us making poor food choices and therefore irreversibly scarring them for life with food issues.  I also will get on the laptop at that time uninterrupted to binge on the news online, Facebook, and to pin things that I will likely never make/do, and Charles will go watch shit on the iPad because I am a bad wife and can't/won't watch TV or movies with him.  We are ANIMALS, I tell you.  Don't be jealous.

Today's conversation with Charlie, though, takes the cake.  She started off by asking if they could get a mini fridge for the upstairs.  She tried to sell me on the idea by saying "We won't keep pop in it.  Maybe cheese sticks.  Or stuff you keep in the fridge downstairs.  Like healthy stuff."  Uh, OK, playa.

She then also asked for a "small kitchen area" for their bedrooms as well.  Apparently the new thing for kindergardeners is to have your own apartment.  Nothing like starting independent living fresh outta preschool, amirite?

So I'm lying next to her in bed, grateful for the dark to hide my silent laughing, when she then makes her last request.

She wants a fucking underground bunker.

I shit you not.

She wants it to be equipped with a kitchen, bathroom, bed, and a lot of pajamas.  Plus there needs to be an underground tunnel going from her current bedroom (which is upstairs, so not quite sure how that will work, but I guess all the details have not been hammered out yet...) to the bunker.  For what, I'm not sure.  Is this going to be like a situation room for when her attempts at world domination fail?  Is she privy to some intelligence regarding nuclear warfare that I am not?  Or perhaps she is just terrified of the idea of a Trump Presidency during her grade school years and is just planning accordingly?

I'm trying to avoid thinking that perhaps it is to hide bodies.  I mean, I am pretty sure there's NOT a body count yet so this is what we are working to maintain here.  But perhaps she is just trying to be proactive here.  A preemptive plan for hiding bodies and fugitives, if you will.  Contingencies.

I am not sure if I should be slightly terrified of that idea, or proud as hell of her foresight and planning and organizational skills.  With the added bonus, of course, of putting off falling asleep for another six and a half minutes.

Changes

As I was driving the little girls to school today, a bird came out of nowhere and suicide bombed my car.  It was all like "Cash me ousside" and I was all like "Go home, Robin Redbreast.  We ARE outside.  You're drunk."  I managed to not hit the stupid thing, but it made me think of other encounters I have had with birds.

Once, when I was a lowly undergrad intern at a chemical dependency treatment center for women, I had to get out to a 5K fundraiser to work at like 5 AM, somewhere on the east side of Cleveland.  Now, I am not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination, and I have the navigational capabilities of a deaf drunk bat.  T his was also circa 1999, way before GPS's, smart phones, hell, even cell phones weren't so much a thing then.

Naturally I got lost.  I am a very definite West Side girl here (and people from Cleveland will probably be the only ones who appreciate this...) so I was firmly convinced that I was going to die because that is what happens on the East Side.  In fact, when I stopped at the gas station to get directions, the clerk looked at this young little white girl and gave me very clear directions as to how to get the hell outta dodge and instructions to not stop again.  Later found out after the fact that I was in one of the worst sections of Cleveland.  Alone.  At 5 AM.  Yeah.

Anyways, I finally get to the 5K and there is a dead bird inside the grill of my car.  Just casually hanging there from it's wing, like "Heeeeyyy, wazzup?", all waiting for the par-tay to get started.  Except for the whole being dead thing.  And being a bird.  I don't think birds party all that much, to be honest.  They seem kinda lame.

Fast forward about 8 years...very different life.  I'm married, two kids, and in grad school.  I make the god awful 90 minute drive to the University of Akron several times a week.  I do now have a cell phone, so I am talking to my husband on the phone when a bird literally drops out of the sky on my windshield.  Dead as a door nail.  For some reason, my first thought was to turn on the windshield wipers, but before I could even do that, it got blown off my car as I was going 60 MPH.  I was left there like, "Uhhhhh...."

Again,a bout another 5 years...I'm at work in a mental health agency.  There is a cardinal that keeps running into my window.  Over and over again.  I name it Insanity because it seemed fitting and I like to think I am a clever lass.  I tried everything to get that stupid thing to stop...partially out of concern that it would hurt itself, partially because I was afraid I would have a paranoid person in my office (well, besides myself, of course) and they would lose it.

Different times in my life.  Different circumstances.  The nebulous "they" say that the only constant is change, and I can certainly believe that.  I've had a lot change in the last 6 months or so, and I am about to have even more change.  I'm going to be stepping outside of my comfort zone in a big way, a way that will impact my family.  It is simultaneously terrifying and exciting and anxiety provoking in a way I have not had anxiety provoked in a long time.

Yes, change is coming whether I like it or not.  I certainly could do without the birds though.  They are kinda creepy and I am not convinced they do not have dubious intent of some sort.

Murdering II

So today we went into BFE (like more than we already live in...) to purchase a new to us table and chair from someone.  I refuse to buy any brand new furniture until my children are past the asshole "let's destroy all the nice things" stage so this was the next best thing as our current chairs had a habit of falling apart when one sat on them and the table is almost older than Charles and I combined.  On the way home, we were discussing with the children living out in BFE (especially after we went through a particularly creepy town where literally every business was already closed at 7 PM and it looked abandoned and meth lab-ish).   The following conversation ensued:

Me: I would not want to live out here.  All there is is farm land.  No neighbors anywhere in the distance.

Charles:  I would love it.

Me:  Nope.  No one would hear you when you get murdered.

Charles:  What are you talking about?  There's no one around here!

Me: Exactly.  The murderer can waltz right in your house and off you and no one will hear you scream.

Charles: Are you even serious right now?  Look at all the open ground...all kill shots are open.  No one will get to the house.  All vitals are exposed, even in an army crawl.

Me:  Duh.  They come to murder you at night!  While you are sleeping!


Later that evening, after my sister texted me about a police standoff around the block:

Charles:  Well, that is why you need to live in the country.

Me: NO ONE WILL HEAR YOU SCREAM!!!

Charles:  You go to bed late and I wake up early.  They would never have a chance to get to us!  You are in bed at like 2 AM and I wake up at like 4 AM...

Me:  That's a 2 hour window!  It does not take that long to murder someone!

Charles:  We have the dogs.  Maximus would just have to start sleeping in our room.  And anyways, you are so wrapped up with the three blankets and your blankie (yes, I am 36 years old and have a blankie.  Fucking judge away, Judgy McJudgerson.) no one will be able to get to you.

Me: Well, I don't really want to wake up and find you dead!  Out in the country you could be dead for three days and having cats eat your body before someone find you!

Charles:  Well, you would not have to buy any dog food for a while then...

Me: (after a long minute just staring at him): That would be the one time our bedroom door actually stayed closed and the dogs couldn't get in. (We've been having problems with the door popping open even after we shut them...the joys of living in a house built in 1928...)

Charles:  Well, we will just put a dog on a chain outside every 20 feet around the house.  Or have your brother set up a perimeter for us with bombs and landmines and we can give the girls a map.

Me:  That would be educational and shit, right?

Charles: Yep.  We'd have to get more dogs though.  Charlie would get behind that.

Me: No.  More. Dogs.

Charles:  Well, what about an attack goat?  Or a fighting chicken?

Me: I'd rather have the dogs in the house to defend us.

Charles: Well, we could have the goat or the chicken in the house...

Me: No goats in the house.  Or chickens.  Remember people complaining about how they stink?

Charles:  Well, this would be a special fighting cock.  An angry one, with special 3 inch metal spurs on his feet.

Me:  We already have one angry cock in this house, thankyouverymuch.  We don't need another one.


I like to think I won this argument.

Perseverance

My sister-in-law, Kris, and I had decided that it would be a good idea to run a 2 mile race last weekend.  As we Ohioans like to do things like grill outside when the windchill is negative and set the house on fire (OK, maybe not all like to do the second part...) it seemed like a solid plan to run 2 miles outside in March.  In Ohio.  Where within the last month we have had thunderstorms, snow, sleet, and spring temperatures.  Usually within 48 hours of each other.

It was 19* that day.  Nineteen.  Fucking. Degrees.  It was cold as Kellyanne Conway's heart and we were running.  Voluntarily.  For long periods of time.

I'm trying to establish that we are crazy.  I mean, you already knew that about me but my sister-in-law is a little too.  For God's sake, she married a blood relative of mine.  The certifiably sane do not do things like that.

Now I had been running a bit in the summer before I decided to pop my pelvis out of place.  I was getting back into it but was still pretty slow.  As in I could likely get lapped by walkers, really.  Definitely nowhere near where my times were for cross country in high school, when I was young, in shape, and blissfully ignorant of the need for extra absorbent pads while running because you leak urine because childbirth ruins you in so many, many ways.

Through a series of events over which neither of us had control, we ended up having Charlie and my niece Halle with us.  They are, as Charlie says, best friend cousins and the two of them together is about the cutest fucking thing since that kid from Jerry McGuire.  They weren't registered for the race, but we brought them anyways because we are totally law breakers like that.  And really, what were they going to do, kick us out?  It was 19*, no one was fucking policing this race.  We had told them that we were going to walk most of the race, but I was hoping that we could talk them into running at least some of it.  When I told Charlie this, and reassured her that we would go slow, she asked, "Like more of a slow jog, Mama ?"  Yes, child, yes indeed.

We got to the race and promptly started to freeze our asses off.  The girls thought it was great fun, and even tried to convince us to let them take their hats off.  Uh, no.  Nineteen degrees.  I'm a pretty shitty parent generally, but even I draw the limits at frostbite. The race started, and we convinced the girls to run for at least the first quarter mile.  They made it for .39 miles before walking.  We then went through a series of walking and running, surprisingly more running than walking.  We finished with a respectable 13:37 mile time...not bad, considering we were running with two 6 year olds who have never run that far in their lives.

Both would have had you convinced they were dying, though.  At one point, when we told them they were going to have run in their first race, the response we got back was "I'm never doing this again!"  Another time, I was trying to convince Charlie to run for the last quarter mile and I told her she was my warrior princess and could do this, and she said "I don't want to be a warrior princess.  I want to stop!"

All that being said, though, they both soldiered on through it.  They were so proud at the end of it, and of course we totally talked that shit up to them.

Our girls, marching on. Or, as Charlie says, slow jogging on.

I was so goddamned proud of the two of them.  I really think that they provided inspiration (as well as humor when they were dramatically "dying") to all of the runners around us.  It was so gratifying to see them pushing through to accomplish something.  Society has not gotten to them yet and told them they are less than capable, that they should just give up, that since they weren't first their effort does not matter.  I truly hope that they remember that cold March day when they ran with their mom and aunt and completed the race, and how that effort and perseverance felt.  At least, I hope that is what the remember from that day and not the free banana, bottled water,a and granola bar they got, along with a pair of shamrocks on a headband some guy gave them at the beginning of the race.

Crafty II

I enjoy doing artsy-craftsy kinds of stuff.  It's a good creative outlet for me when I can't summon enough crazy to write on this blog, and it keeps me off the streets.  And also it's a good excuse to drink wine because when you drink wine while crafting it is called "enjoying me time" vs. "maybe it's time for an intervention".  I occasionally decide to go all Martha Stewart for the kids' holiday parties, and I decided to go full frontal for this Valentine's Day.

I found this cute idea for secret decoder cookies here and decided to put a little Valentine's Day spin on it.  And because I am generous and kind and V-day is about love, I also decided that I was going to give you the play by play of how exactly I made these fucking cookies.

First of all, I totally copped out on the cookies.  I did not make them from scratch, using only all organic, non-GMO ingredients.  I bought a fucking mix:

Why yes, there are two different types of mixes there.  I read the box of the Great Value ones, saw that it made 40 servings at 2 cookies a serving, and figured I was golden.  I forgot I used one of the packets for a trial run when I did that math.   In my defense, this was also the same night I discovered lemon blueberry rum...

I whipped up some of those bad boys and prepared to Martha Stewart-ize them.  Rolled them mothafuckers out, then cookie-cuttered their asses and prepared to fill them with the crushed cinnamon fire Jolly Ranchers I took a lot of my pent-up aggression about my daughters both suddenly deciding to go on a jag of forcing me to listen to only Katy Perry in the car on.  I recognize that cinnamon candies might not be the best thing to put in cookies going to children, but goddamn.  I'm not going for taste here.  I used fucking store-bought cookie dough.

Filled with crushed candies.  Crushed, similar to my hopes and dreams.

Now I had mentioned a trial run.  I was not about to make all of these without attempting it first.  If it was going to go down in flames (hopefully not the literal ones, but I swear that would be our luck...) I needed to come up with a backup plan.  Obviously it had worked or I wouldn't even be telling you about this (though that might make for an entertaining post, fo' shure...).  At any rate, I had already made up a little trial of the message these cookies would be used to decode.  The blog I linked to above talks about using a blue pen to write the message, then covering it with squiggles of orange, red, and pink.  Fuck that shit.  Twenty five children plus one teacher in each kids class equals 52 Valentine's and I am not going to lie...the idea of handwriting all that shit makes me wanna stab my eyes out.  I fully intended on printing that shit out on the computer, so that is what I did:

The hidden message.

The message decoded.  Much easier to see in person, but it did work.

Holy fucking shit on a cracker, it worked again, bitchez.  Some days I even impress myself.

This victory was short lived, however, as I soon came to the realization that the math that meant that I needed to go to the store for more mix is the same math that means I have to make 52 of these fuckers.  Cutting those things out soon became a exercise in maintaining my sanity, and we all know that I teeter on the edge there frequently.  Soon, however, I get the last few cut out and start to fill them up when I realize that I am going to be short crushed candy.  "Fuck it", I thought.  "I'll just toss in a whole one.  It's not like I need that one cookie to make sure I have enough."  (Note, however, that that same logic did  not lead my to just, oh, I don't know, NOT PUTTING ANY CANDY IN.  No, by God, ALL the cookies must have candy.  ALL OF THEM.)

Poor little cookie, there in the upper right.  Different from the others.  You embrace your uniqueness, little buddy.

I popped that last bunch in the oven and started cleaning up.  Timer goes off and I pull them out, and notice this:

Bottom right, this time, but look at how nice that fucking cookie looks.

That is right.  All that time I spent crushing the candy that the children are not likely to eat, then painstakingly pouring it into each little hole...I could have just unwrapped the candy and tossed it in and been done with it.  And this, bitchez, is why Pinterest is the devil.  Not only is it a time suck, it totally leads you down the path to crushing candy when there is no need.

Next time, the only candy I am crushing is on my phone when I am trying to ignore my children while pooping.  After that I was pretty Martha-Stewart'ed out, so I grabbed some lemon blueberry rum, resisted the temptation to just toss back a few shots, mixed it with a glass of lemonade, and remembered a time when my Saturday afternoons were not spent covered in flour to make cookies that children probably won't eat on a holiday I really don't even celebrate.

Fire

I seem to have this weird propensity to attract fire.  Like, literal fire, though there's been plenty of metaphorical fire in my day, not gonna lie.

I'm not a pyromaniac or anything.  I'm only the kind of crazy that makes me fun to get drunk and commit minor misdemeanors, not felonies.  It just seems that I get all kinds of crazy fire-related shit all up in here.

For example, when I was in college one of my roommates caught the burner of our stove on fire with some grease.  Luckily for her, I enjoy baking and had some baking soda available (none of my other roommates did) and knew enough to toss it on the flames.  I then proceeded to leave to go to church, where the sermon was about, you guessed it.  Fire.  Though thinking back on this, the fact that I was in a church and it did not catch fire is kinda miraculous in and of itself...I was really only there for the extra credit for a religion class I was taking to be completely honest here.

Fast forward a few years in college.  We had this big old dead tree in our front yard that it took the college forever to cut down because single mothers trying to get out of poverty and their children aren't a priority, so who cares if gale-force winds come in and send it crashing through the roof, amirite?  I look out the window and see that at the base of this tree, there is a little fire going.  I go out there with a cup of water and douse the flames.  Or so I thought.  I then go to a family party for something or another (possibly Christmas?  a winter birthday?  It was during winter break, so your guess is as good as mine).  I explained why I was late and we laughed at the whole "burning bush" thing and joked about looking out for locusts.  I come home and I am telling my roommates about this when I look out the window and the fucking tree is back on fire.  For some reason, I opt to call for security vs. 911.  They tell me to put it out myself.  So that is how, on a cold winter night, I am out in the front yard of the house I lived in with a fire extinguisher trying to get the fire out.  It just kept re-kindling.  Eventually a security guard came to check it out.  Like a half an hour later.  They realize that I have just about emptied the extinguisher, so they decide that perhaps this is NOT something a single person equipped with chemicals can handle so they call the fire department.  It then takes the firemen another half an hour and sticking the hose into the center of the tree for the damn thing to finally quit.

I then meet my husband.  He's quite the lovely man and proposes and we live happily ever after and shit.  But, he failed to mention during our courtship that he routinely sets himself on fire at work. (He's a welder.)  And he always is so nonchalant about it when he tells me, like "Oh hey,  Aaron got a new derby car, and they fired that idiot they hired last week; oh, and I caught myself on fire.  And do you think you can get me some more nasal spray for my tool box?"  Like it's no big fucking deal that a steaming hot piece of weld landed on your shirt and it went up in flames.  I'm pretty sure he doesn't tell me about most of the times he does this because, well, he's married to a crazy woman.

Another time fire and I crossed paths, it was not quite so direct-like.  We were going to Connecticut, I think for my nephew's birthday, and a storm hit back at home.  Now my brother in law was planning on coming with us but at the last minute changed his mind.  Good fucking thing he did, because a goddamned storm came roaring through and lightening hit their house and caught it on fire.  Luckily the damage was limited to mostly cosmetic outside shit...but cheese and tap dancing rice, WTF?

Which brings me to the event that precipitated this post.  A few days ago, my husband was going to cook some ham on the grill.  He went out to pre-heat it, and then came back into the house to get the meat.  (Snickering cause I'm secretly a 12 year old boy.)  As he is prepping it, I happen to look out the window and I see flames.  A lot of flames.  Like a little mini hell burning in our back yard.  It scorched the siding and broke the window on the mudroom because it was cold outside.  That's how we do winter in Ohio, bitchez.  We grill even when frostbite is imminent.  Hell, most winter nights my husband can be found outside with the dogs in front of a fire, hiding from me. I don't blame him.   I'd totally hide from me too.

Apparently I'm being retaliated against for the church not burning all those years ago...

I am almost wondering anymore if I have mystical fire starting powers I was previously unaware of or something.  Like a dragon, but of course I am way cooler.   And not as scaly.  I swear to God though, our backyard has flooded on more than one occasion and now the grill caught on fire.  There better not be any fucking locusts or Imma have to bring my new found dragon powers out on their asses.

Conservations XIV

Charles shows me a video of how to grow a man beard, involving pouring various alcoholic beverages on it as well as using sandpaper and a cheese grater to massage the growing beard:

Charles: Do you want me to do this to make my beard grow?

(Mind you, his beard is covering his neck...)

Me:  Hell no!

Charles: (laughs)  It's good enough?

Me:  I don't want you to fuck up my cheese grater.


Charlie, after we got Gunner:  Mama, when are we going to get more dogs?

Me:  More dogs?  Three is enough!

Charlie: Well, if three is good, five is better...


Texting with Elizabeth:

Elizabeth: I have a doctor's appointment on Monday.  Do I need any insurance things?

Me: Insurance has not changed but you can't use the flex spending card anymore.  Should be a $20 or $40 copay.  Get a receipt.

E: Okay LOL why do I need a receipt?

Me: I want one LOL  To keep track of our medical expenses this year.

E: Why do you need to keep track of that?

Me: If it gets above a certain amount we can get a tax deduction.

E: So should I try to get sick more often?

Me: LOL no

E: Fine just trying to save you guys some money.

Words

In case you missed it, there was recently an election and a man was voted into the office of President.

Now, I am sure that it comes as no surprise that I tend to lean liberal.  Waaaay liberal.  As in, there's no leaning and I've already fallen over the wall into the water headfirst.  (For the record, not the wall that Trump wants to build 😉)  I am not one to argue much with people, as I tend surprisingly to be conflict adverse and a bit of a people pleaser.  It compliments my paranoia, anxiety, and the wall I've built up quite well.  (Again...not THE wall.  Apparently built by Schrodinger's immigrant...)

That being said...I need to get out some of my thoughts on words.  Someone told my daughter, "Trump isn't that bad.  It's just words he said."

Just words.  

Tell that to the grown men who sit in my office sobbing and tell me about how their mother used to scream at them that she wishes she hates them and wishes they were never born.`

Tell that to the woman who is trying to make sense of her relationship, when one minute her partner is calling her the love of his life and the next is giving her a fat lip.

Tell that to the child who was just threatened by his molester that if he/she tells, their perpetrator will hurt their family, or they will be responsible for breaking up the family, or that no one will believe him/her.

Tell that to the people who impeached Bill Clinton, for lying under oath.

Extreme examples?  OK, then.  Tell that to the women who are cat called walking down the street.  How do they know if those remarks were just "locker room talk" or if there is serious intent behind them?

Tell that to the three year old who innocently drops the F-bomb in front of your boss.  It's just words, right?  No need for correction here!

Tell that to the news reporter who gets in trouble for not using the word "alleged".

Tell that to the professors of the over-stressed college student who plagiarized a paper.

Just words, right?

The point is, words matter.  Trying to pretend otherwise is either foolhardy or an expression of privilege.  And when the words are coming from someone in a position of power, they matter a great deal.  Especially when those words tend to be backed up by actions.  Tweet much? 

Look.  I'm no politician.  I do not have the fortitude for it (despite my ongoing campaign on Facebook to be YOUR elected official, which I win by a landslide every election as 100% of zero votes is zero votes).  I do not have the knowledge of foreign affairs, the intricacies of government, or the ability to bite my tongue or moderate my words.  Though apparently that is no longer a requirement for the top office of this nation.  Ahem.  

It's not a matter of being a special snowflake.  (Admit it though, I totally am...)  It's not a matter of needing a "safe space" or being a crybaby.  It is a matter of the impact of words, and how they are used by people in power.  Both to uplift people and to break them down.  Gaslighting is powerful, sometimes more so than sincere positive affirmations.  And I am very afraid that the American public is being gaslighted.  

I do not condone the sometimes violent rhetoric and actions that are being used against our current president.  I have written before about the violence that is so prevalent in our society.  I also do not condone those who want protesters to stop being "crybabies because your candidate did not win", or whatever variation of that you want to toss in there.  It is a protected right to peaceably assemble, as is the right to vote and bear arms.  Why should it matter what those protesters say?

It's just words.

And therein lies the problem  Schrodinger's words.  Simultaneously meaningless and unimportant and an affront to a peaceful transition of power.

Gunner

Meet Gunner:

Why yes, he is a pit bull.  Feel free to judge away.  I would totally judge me too if I were you.

I really did not intend to get another dog so soon.  In fact, I kept telling Elizabeth that I was not emotionally ready to get another dog.  Though honestly, I'm not emotionally equipped for a lot of things, such as making sandwiches for lunches or figuring out how to accessorize an outfit, so trying my hand at raising another creature was enough to make me wish that my imaginary prescription for Xanax was real so I could in fact drink it down with some wine.

My friend, however, who has also lost her dog got a new one. (Side note: Spartacus was the first of four dogs within a block who died.  It was like some kind of bubonic dog plague hit our tiny village and killed off all of the senior dogs in the neighborhood.  More proof that 2016 was personally out to get me...)  I saw how well she did with her new baby, and since I can't pop out any more of the human variety and I was unsuccessful in convincing Charles that since I still have an ovary we should find a surrogate (that and the whole not being involved in people's toileting habits anymore thing is super exciting) getting a new puppy seemed to be rational.  I mean, I'm still involved in the toileting, but not quite as intimately.  Plus he was essentially housebroken when I got him, so there was that.

At first, Maximus was not too keen on the idea.  In fact, he was acting decidedly like a grumpy old man shouting at the neighborhood kids to get off of his lawn.  Deogie was mainly confused by Gunner trying to hump him occasionally.  Paybacks for you traumatizing the cat before she died, asshole.  Time you learned that no means no.  However, both have since gotten over themselves and have welcomed Gunner into the home with open arms.  It did require Maximus laying into Gunner at first and putting Gunner's entire head into  his mouth at one point...but they seemed to have worked it out and are on friendly terms now, I think.  At least, they keep sniffing each other's asses and I think that is how it works in the dog world.  Not 100% sure about that because I'm gonna go with if I were to try to sniff someone's ass to make friends with them, I would either end up with no friends or the kind of friends that run fetish sites on the Internet.

At least I am assuming that none of my friends run fetish sites on the Internet.  If you do, time to 'fess up, bitchez.  I won't judge.  It's hard to make a buck nowadays.  Hell, even the "can you hear me now" guy from Verizon turned to the dark side to pay his bills.

So we have a puppy now, and I get to train him and break him from all of his bad puppy habits and snuggle and cuddle.  I must admit, I am totally in love with the little fucker.  I've turned into one of those annoying people on Facebook who post a kajillion pictures of their animals or children (I already did the second, so now people are being inundated with Gunner pictures.)  Guess that makes me doubly annoying now but hey, if no one has taken Trump's Twitter away from him yet, I can post as many fucking pictures of my new puppy as I want AND write entire blog posts about him.  'Merica, bitchez!