Kitchenaid

 Did you know that you are supposed to grease your Kitchenaid stand mixer's insides occasionally?

I did not, until I got The Tok.  There I discovered a man called Mr. Mixer, who basically just works on Kitchenaid's and he sells all the shit to do this, and has videos on it that you can follow along.  So, in my completely oblivious, overly optimistic way, I decided this afternoon to jump right in and do this because I was bored and had nothing else I wanted to do and I wasn't about to fold laundry because that goes against our attachment laundering practices (meaning my lazy ass pretends that the laundry WANTS to hang out in the baskets unfolded.  I'm trying to reduce the trauma on the laundry caused by separating them and storing them in dark drawers and closets.  Because if you did that to a child, CPS would be knocking on your door and talking to you about parenting, right?)  I thought about live-tweeting it, but since Twitter is a mess either due to Elon's gross incompetence/arrogance, or his carefully orchestrated elimination of ways to get news to the masses (which theory I ascribe to in a day depends on how much tinfoil I have to fashion a hat), I decided against that.  Then I remembered I have this blog, and that it is my duty to share my crazy with the world because it will make you feel better about your own.  So here we go!

1:00 PM I get all my supplies ready.  Some paper towels, a rag, the little kit that I purchased, a Phillips and flathead screw driver, a hammer.  I am all pumped up and ready to GO!  I take a sip of my water and turn on the video.

1:03 PM OK, I'm taking this bitch apart and I am stuck on this one pin.  It. Will. Not. Pop. Out.  I try hitting it.  I put the mixer up against the steps to brace it as I beat on the punches with the rubber mallet that was included in the kit.  It's not coming out, despite the ease with which Mr. Mixer popped his out.

1:45 PM I decide to go ahead and watch the video to see if he talks about ways to get this fucking pin out because it is still not moving.  Very next part of the video, he talks about flipping it on it's side and using a hammer instead of the mallet.  I try it and this works.  Success!

2:00 PM I had been able to get the drip ring off successfully using the mallet and a flathead screw driver.  It is disgustingly caked with baking debris on the inside. I decide to clean it.  As I am wiping it with a paper towel, I manage to slice my pointer finger a bit because of course I am going to injure myself doing this.  I grab a bandage from the bathroom and carry on.

2:30 PM I now am being told that I need a Robertson S1 square bit.  What. The. Fuck. Mr. Mixer? This was NOT in the initial instructions.  I go into Charles's toolbox and find one, still a little salty about this situation.  I get the planetary off as well as the top off of the mixer.  The grease is disgusting.  It's supposed to be white.  It is gray and a sickly yellow.  I start to scrape this off using the little plastic putty knife included in the kit.  I rapidly realize that the 4 paper towels I grabbed is not enough.  In fact, I would end up using the equivalent of a half a roll of paper towels.  So much grease.  Just...so much.

This was *after* I scraped a lot of it off.  It was like rubber.

So. Much. Grease.

2:45 PM Now Mr. Mixer wants me to remove the pin from the planetary shaft.  He says, just pop it right out!  I say, that motherfucker is NOT coming out easily.  Having learned my lesson from the first pin's refusal to budge, I watched ahead a moment to see if it would come out easier with a trick he has.  There was no trick.  I spend the next 15 minutes fucking around with that thing.

3:00 PM Now I'm using my 10th paper towel to get the grease off of the pieces I have already removed.  My bandage is completely falling off from the grease, so I have to break to wash my hands and get a new one.  Upon returning, I am informed by the video that there is a third fucking pin to remove from the worm gear shaft.  So not only do I have to figure out how to remove this fucking thing, I have to figure out how to keep this worm gear from turning (you know, the very thing it was designed to do...) so I can get the fucking pin out.  Then he talks about another punch.  A smaller one.  THAT WAS NOT INCLUDED IN THE KIT.  WTF?  Now, to be fair, in the beginning he did show two of those punches...but one of them was included with the kit and one was not.  Da fuck?  I go rummaging through the tools again in the hopes of coming up with something to get this fucking thing out as it was not budging.  I came up with this random tool that I should probably know what it is called but I don't so my brothers are all gonna have their heads explode over this I am sure, and some old nails.

Seriously, WTF is this plaque-scraper looking thing called?

3:30 PM I get the pin out between the tool and the nails.  I'm on my third bandage at this point, and eventually abandon them as they just keep getting saturated with grease.  Now Mr. Mixer says to go in with more paper towels and clean up.  This takes longer than your bank does to refund money owed to you.  He also says to use some rubbing alcohol to help with cleaning up the grease.  I forget that I have an open wound on my pointer finger, and attempt to take a towel soaked in rubbing alcohol and get into those grooves to get them cleaned. My soul immediately shrivels up and dies from the burning in my one finger.

3:35 PM I abandon cleaning the parts for a minute and return to the bottom of the machine.  "Remove the hub gear", says Mr. Mixer.  "It slides right out."  Lies.  It does not slide right out.  I have to beat it out.  Mr. Mixer must have hands like vice grips.

3:50 PM Back to cleaning the parts.  So many paper towels.  So many gear teeth to clean.  So much burning from the rubbing alcohol.  At this point, I'm just rolling with it like it's some sort of weird Kitchenaid Kink thing.  He warns that there are sharp parts in the upper housing.  I fucking already KNOW, Mr. Mixer.  I've already cut myself.

4:15 I remember that I have a couple of parts that I need to add onto the mixer, a spring and what he is calling an Everdime.  I quickly find the video telling how to install, and do so.  This part goes smoothly so I get cocky.

4:30 I am now re-greasing everything with this bright white grease that looks like frosting.  So.  Much.  Grease.  So. Many. Towels.  I get everything reassembled.  I call Charles to help with the Everdime, as you essentially have to screw a screw into a rubber gasket, and we've already established that I do not have vice grip hands.

5:00 I am starting to put everything back together.  It goes fairly smoothly, and I get it all set back up on my counter and turn it on.  It works!  I am woman, hear me roar!  

5:01 I put all of my attachments and paddles into my glass bowl for the mixer, and start to push it back on my counter out of the way.  The bowl is not locked, which causes the attachments to hit against the side of the glass bowl.  It cracks evenly, and a large chunk starts to fall.  Before my brain registers it, I am grabbing for the chunk.  It slices my fingers. Three additional cuts.  One, is bad enough for stitches.

This looks way more dramatic than it actually is.  But notice the original injury, on the tip of the index finger, is not even bandaged  In fact, I may have burned off my fingerprints with rubbing alcohol.

So moral of the story?  This is just proof that laundry is the devil.  If I was not trying to avoid it, I would not have injured myself and required medical attention.  Also, 36 minutes of videos somehow turned into 4 hours and a small forest of trees in paper towels, so don't believe everything on the Internet and/or The Tok.

But I am woman.  RAAAAWWWRRR!

Tofu

So Charlie somehow convinced Charles and I to get a hamster a while back.  She was going to name him Topher and call him Toph for short, but I was joking around and was like, "You mean Tofu?" and then she couldn't stop calling him Tofu, so the name stuck.   He was a cute little fucker, but alas, as hamsters do, he up and died.  He was on his hamster wheel when we found him, so I can only assume that he died doing what he loved because that little guy ran on that thing like his little life depended on it.  Thank GOD I sprung for the nice and quiet version because otherwise it would have kept my children awake and dear sweet mother of god they are demons if they don't get enough sleep.  We apparently broke tradition with this one as it was obviously not Charlie's 18th birthday, so I'm guessing that is why we were punished with such a short time with Tofu.  Well, that and...hamsters live for like, what, all of 10 minutes?  At least this one wasn't actively plotting my death.

Charlie then decided that she wanted to buy an Aussiedoodle (a vet tech friend of mine said she  had coined the name Digeridoodle for them so that is forever what I shall refer to them as).  She saved up her money and eventually found one, of course a few hours away, so we drove to see him and of course fell in love. (And of course we get our first ever dog that gets carsick, which was super fun on the ride home.)  He is a cute little fucker besides that, and Charles refers to him as "the mop" because he goes what we call "full mop mode" and if he hasn't been groomed for a while...well, you get the idea.

Meet Chief the Digeridoodle in full mop mode, otherwise known as Chiefie McChieferson or The Mop.

Needless to say, with a face like that, Tofu was quickly relegated to a fond memory.

Or so I thought.  And let's be honest, what is my parenting besides traumatic to my children?  OF COURSE the subject of Tofu came up, in an incredibly fucked up way.  In my defense, it was completely inadvertent.  But it's what happens when you name your pet after food.  

(Charlie telling me about a woman she had seen online with really long nails on her toes.  She said that her husband had tried to grab them and the woman was all like, they aren't extensions of my toes!  Then the following conversation ensued.)

Me: Yeah, it's not like hair extensions where it's like part of your hair.  Or finger extensions.  Wait, is that even a thing?  Like you go and find nice fingers and chop them off and then slide them on?

Charlie: You can't just slide them on, Mom.  There's bones in them.

Me: Maybe it's like an egg, where you poke the hole on the top and blow all the insides out?  Or in this case, the bone out?

C: Then you see your dog chewing a "chicken bone".

Me:  That's disturbing. (In retrospect, I chose *this* moment to get disturbed?)

C: Tastes like chicken!

Me:  I was gonna say tastes like beef.

C: Everything tastes like chicken.

Me: Wait...tastes like tofu!

C: (horrified silence)

Me: (asking in oblivious) What?

Charlie:  Tofu?  Too soon, Mom.  Too soon.

Thank God that kid has my sense of humor. And as always, Venmo in my bio for future therapy needs.

Storytime

 So Charlie has persisted  in her desire to have me tell her stories.  I have some concerns about this, which I will address later, but here is the latest renditions that I came up with for her.  It started out with her asking me to tell her a story, then when I said I had no ideas, she said tell me about one with a chicken with round eyes and a few feathers (think Hei Hei from Moana).  It sorta evolved from there, and always I've included my Venmo for my children's future therapy needs. Envision this as me telling the story, but with Charlie interrupting it like they do in the movies.  Enjoy!

Once upon a time, there was a chicken with round eyes and just a few feathers.  Children were making fun of the chicken because it did not have a lot of feathers because children are dicks, so the chicken bought a coat.  The kids still made fun of it because children are dicks, so the chicken made friends with a one eyed horse, a pig with two snouts, and a rat named Harry who was anything but.

(Charlie: I don't want a therapist story.  Tell me a good story.

Me: Too many stories and you will die.

C: You don't die from being told too many stories.

Me: Yes you will. Too much of anything is bad for you.  Even too much fudge with walnuts.

C: What does fudge have to do with this?

Me:  Well, it was an example.  But too many stories will kill you.

C: MOM!

Me: Fine.  What do you want me to tell you a story about?

C: A monkey with a hat and cymbals.)

Once upon a time, there was a monkey with a little hat and cymbals and he killed children who wanted too many stories (Side note:  She did request a non-therapist story...)

(C: What happened to the bodies?) (Other side note: Should I be worried that THAT was what she chose to zoom in on?)

After the monkey killed the children, he disposed of the bodies.  The how, however, is something you don't want to know and not for children to hear.  He did not, however, dismember the bodies.

(Third side note: I also once had a dream that I was a serial killer, killing pregnant women because I wanted to see their souls when they died.  I recruited the fam to help with burying the bodies, and I got annoyed at Charles because he was dismembering the children in front of them and that is apparently super inappropriate.  AAAANNNDD I just figured out why Charlie chose to zoom in on what she did.)

The monkey did not want to dismember the bodies because he was afraid that he would end up with zombie children. and that is not good for anyone involved.  So what happens to the bodies, say you?  My guess is that they spontaneously combust. The end.

This story was then followed by debate on which syllable to put the emphasis on in "combust".  So, moral of the story here?  Stories about bullied chickens, no OK.  Homicidal circus monkeys who have bodies they need to stash?  Acceptable.  And also, the English language is fucked up sometimes.  Still not sure about the emphasis.

Goldilocks

 I was working on some CEU's for my licenses today, and while I was waiting for my slow ass printer to print the certificates, I decided to channel my inner 8 year old and asked Siri to tell me a story.  Siri obliged, and the story he opted to tell me?  Goldilocks and the three bears. (And yes, my Siri is male, and with an Irish accent to boot. Fuck the patriarchy, amirite?)

So because I did not want to move immediately on to the next CEU, despite needing to get 10 more done by the 18th, I went down a bit of a rabbit hole after Siri let me choose the ending to that delightful children's tale of B&E.  Did you know that Goldilocks was originally some sort of foul mouthed vagrant with no regard for the standards of beauty for her day, and she had been shunned by her family in some sort of weird British Amish-type shunning because she was a disgrace?  And the three bears were originally three bachelor bears, two big ones and a little one?  The whole "someone is sleeping in my bed, and here she is!" thing was totes part of the original, though.  And in one version, Goldilocks gets impaled after she runs away.

I....have some concerns about what is going on here in this picture.  Apparently this is an illustration from a second edition printed in 1839.

Naturally, I had to write my own version of Goldilocks because of course I do.  Enjoy.

Goldilocks and the Three Bears, OR Wherein Goldie Catches a Case

Once upon a time, three anthropomorphized bears lived in the woods in a cute little cabin. How or why did they get a cabin?  IDK, but I'll bet they have a cute little porch on it too AND they don't have to pay property taxes or deal with shitty neighbors who blow their lawn clippings into your yard just because they're fucking BEARS and no one wants to be the one to tell them they gots to go.

These bears apparently like porridge.  But seriously, who the fuck eats porridge now a days?  Let's say they like overnight oats.  In mason jars, from a recipe that Papa Bear pinned on Pinterest because they are a modern bear family and Papa does the Pinteresting in this household.  So they have their pint jars, with the oats and the unsweetened almond milk and some blueberries and flax and chia seeds. And honey, because DUH, they're BEARS.  They set them out and some try to warm theirs up because seriously, cold oats is like eating a bowl of warm ice cream.  Well, the microwave was new and way more powerful than the others, so they over did it a bit.  And because bears have zero regard for both food safety AND home protection, they left for a walk while the oats cooled and left the door wide open.

Enter Goldie.  She was out wandering the woods after mistakenly consuming some magic mushrooms and thought she was tripping when she saw the house with the door wide open because, seriously, WHO DOES THAT???  So, enjoying her trip, she wandered into this cabin that mysteriously appeared in the forest, never dreaming that it belonged to bears because WTF?  Who would think that, tripping or no?  She sees the overnight oats in the mason jars, and realizes that this home belongs to people who pin and that is like the song of her people right there, as a middle class white woman who has live, laugh, love hanging on her wall on a pallet board sign she upcycled with a bow made from Dollar Tree ribbon.

Now being that she was high from the shrooms, she decided to eat.  Wait, do shrooms give you the munchies?  Quick Google search gives mixed results.  Let's just say that she found the shrooms alongside some weed, as someone was companion planting in raised beds a la the Tok.  She has the munchies, that would make lukewarm overnight oats in mason jars sound appealing.  She tries Papa Bears, and Papa, despite it being a modern household, does have some internalized toxic masculinity and therefore does not need his oats warmed because he's a MAN.  Naturally, they are too cold.  Then she tries Mama's, and Mama did not realize that the new microwave was a 1200 watt vs 600, so hers are way too hot.  Then she tries Baby Bear's, and of course they are just right in an attempt to move this story the fuck along.

Then she decides all that wandering the woods has made her feet a bit tired, so she needs to sit.  She goes into the living room and sees three chairs all around the fire in a sickeningly saccharine tableau.  She sits in Papa's, and as it's made of pallets and upcycled cushions, it's too hard for her bony ass butt.  Next. Goldie moves on to Mama's, who has thrifted a chair from Goodwill and as a result, the springs are broken and she has piled throw pillows to compensate.  So that chair is too soft.  Then she moves to Baby Bear's chair, and of course this one feels good, but also of course the ass that was too bony for Papa's chair is also too big for the bambino's, so she breaks that thing and falls to the ground and nearly gives herself a concussion.

She moves onto the bedrooms.  All three have their own, because they are a modern family and feel that they need to respect each other's privacy.  So she wanders into Papa's room, and he has a cheap memory foam mattress on top of some cinderblocks because he saw a pin on it, so naturally, too hard.  Mama's bed is an expensive sleep number bed that she has set to be as fluffy as possible, but it is simply too much for Goldie in her shroom/pot state and she really starts to freak out that she is flying on a cloud so off she jumps.  Then she moves to Baby's bed, and it's actually comfortable despite being a twin, so she soon nods off as the drugs really kick in.

The Bear family comes home, and at first they don't realize that someone has entered the house because the door remained WIDE OPEN, just like they left it.  They all soon see that the jars of oats have spoons stuck in them where they did not prior to their departure, and someone had consumed all of Baby Bear's, which upset him greatly as the family had gathered those blueberries just the other day from their organic, non-GMO blueberry bush.  Plus, almond milk ain't cheap and they used the last of it for these stupid mason jars of oats.

Moving into the living room, they soon see that Baby Bear's chair is broke AF.  Plus, Mama's pillows have been disturbed and the cheap cushions still have a bony little ass imprint in them on Papa's chair, so they all deduce that the intruder sat in the living room.

By now, Papa is on the phone with the police, talking about the breaking and entering that happened.  The family then moves onto the bedrooms, to see if any of their valuables have been taken.  All Mama and Papa see are their beds slightly tousled as though someone laid down and disturbed the military precision with which they both like their beds made.  Baby Bear, however, shrieked in terror at a HUMAN being in his bed, sound asleep.  Goldie, however, does not stir as that was some good weed she smoked.

So the cops come and throw Goldie into jail (let's just ignore the fact that the cops are human and the Bears were, well, bears, because really this is long enough). Goldie soon comes to and realizes she fucked up big time as she had grabbed a shit ton of those mushrooms AND the pot.  The mushrooms she intended on putting into her spaghetti sauce, and the pot, well, she wanted some dessert, let's just say.  However, she inadvertently got herself several felonious drug charges because she was too stupid to actually research how to tell what kinds of mushrooms you were getting and she had grabbed enough that they were accusing her of intent to deal.  Plus, seriously, who plants garden variety mushrooms next to marijuana?  Luckily for Goldie, she was able to avoid prison time by doing a treatment in lieu of conviction.  The Bears, being very displeased with the direction in which their corner of the woods was going (I mean, someone growing drugs nearby AND a B&E? Neighborhood's going to shit, I tell you what) soon packed up and moved to the Canary Islands, where it is 70 degrees year round and people don't just wander into other people's houses.  I will say, though, that the Bears now lock their doors and they have converted back to porridge because old fashioned stuff is becoming all the rage now on social media according to Papa, like cooking grandma's recipes,  growing your own food, names like Esther and Harold, and overt racism and white supremacy.

So moral of the story?  Don't do drugs.  Lock your doors. Learn better gardening skills. And don't fuck with bears, even if they have a better house in the woods than you do.

Encanto

 If you have children under the age of 12, you have probably seen Disney's Encanto.  It's a cute movie with catchy tunes written by Lin Manuel Miranda and since I am pretty much obsessed with Hamilton, it seemed a solid choice of movies to watch.  There's the very catchy tune "We Don't Talk About Bruno" and "Under Pressure" is basically my own personal anthem.  There's a play on swear words with the whole "Miercoles" thing and a house with not only a name, Casita, but magical abilities to help the family with daily tasks (side note: my life goal is now, besides having my own Wikipedia page, to own a house with a really pretentious name.  Like, Casita is not a little abode like the name implies.  It's fricking huge.  And has a tower.)

Anyways, as I am watching it, my therapist training took over as it often does to ruin entertainment for me, and I noticed two things: 1.) Generational trauma was all over this fucking movie.  Like, trauma begetting trauma begetting trauma.  That whole family could use some EMDR after Abuela got a hold of them.  And 2.) The family is also a perfect example of the family roles in addiction.

What, say you, are family roles in addiction?  Well, addiction is a family disease in that it does not just affect the addict (no shit, Sherlock, right?  Just wait...)  What most people DON'T know is that there are roles that people tend to fall into in these families.  There are six different roles, and many people can have multiple roles in the family.  But usually they are all present in some form.  So let's dig in.

First, of course, there is the addict.  In this case, that is definitely Abuela.  Her addiction?  The magic that the family has been gifted.  In alcoholic/addicted families, we very often see an attitude of "brush it under the rug.  Put on the happy face and pretend everything is OK.  What happens in this house, stays in this house."  Abuela is OBSESSED with preserving the Madrigal family magic, to the point of "punishing" her granddaughter Maribel for NOT have powers. (Ironic, because she does not seem to have any herself...)  I will also say here...I have NEVER met an addict or an alcoholic without a history of trauma.  Never.  And Abuela...well, I don't want to give too many spoilers, but they address her what her trauma is in the movie.  And it's a doozy.  I will also note, addicts are very often charming and "give you the shirt off their back" kind of people.  And we do see these traits in Abuela, unfortunately at the cost of her family.

Next, there are the enablers.  And I would say, as is often the case, the entire family are her enablers.  There is so much focus on their gifts and what they are able to do because of the magic (Abuela's "addiction".)  There is not much said about people who marry into the family because they do not fit into the narrative of the gifted people giving back, therefore they are not much "use" to Abuela other than to continue to produce the next generation of gifted citizens, therefore perpetuating Abuela's addiction.

Then there is the hero.  I actually kind of detest this label, as it implies someone who swoops in to save the day.  That is not the case.  This is someone who the family can point to and say, "Look.  We aren't that fucked up.  Look at what we produced."  They are the visible sign of the family's success.  There's a few heroes in this movie, the most prominent being Isabella (who hopes to continue this role by marrying Mariano even though she does not really want to.)  One could also make the argument that Luisa is a hero as well as she keeps on working and serving the community as Abuela demands, even as she questions if she is even worth anything if she cannot continue to produce.

Next is the scapegoat.  There are two apparent scapegoats here: Bruno and Maribel.  There's an entire fucking song about Bruno: "We Don't Talk About Bruno".  He is blamed for the family's problems, and then when he disappears, they act like he never existed.  Then Maribel, when the house is LITERALLY cracking, is blamed for that as well.  At one point, she even says point blank to Abuela "I will never be good enough for you".  Addicts often demand perfection from those around them, because they need to maintain things for their addiction to survive.  In this case, Abuela needs everyone to fall in line so the magic can continue.  The scapegoats job is to take the focus off of the addict, and both Maribel and Bruno do a great job of doing this.

Mascots come in next.  These are the funny guys, the clowns.  This would be Camilo as he literally changes himself to create humor in any situation that he sees.  He is the comic relief.

Finally, there is the lost child.  These are the forgotten ones, the ones brushed aside.  Luisa would at times fit this role as she is often left to fend for herself and to carry her anxiety all alone.  Dolores would be another example of a lost child.  She hears things not meant for her ears and is brushed aside as a partner for Mariano as she is not "perfect enough" like Isabella is.  These ones are often the ones who provide a sense of relief for the family as "we don't have to worry about them."  Unfortunately, they often end up as the ones with the most anxiety.

And like so many alcoholic/addicted families, things will fall apart eventually.  You can only do so much patching, Bruno, before the house crumbles.  And just like treatment for addiction, you need to develop a completely new foundation before another house can be built (hopefully a more healthy, functional house where things are aired out and not swept under the rug.)

Feet

 Alexis has reached the delightful age where I can be a little bit inappropriate with her and she will just laugh it off, albeit whilst stating that she was going to thoroughly discuss with her therapist in the future.

Case in point: We were driving home from dance tonight and discussing things such as driving and getting a job.  We have a deal with our kids that we will go halvsies on their first vehicles with them.  Elizabeth elected to buy the cheapest car she could, so for her we were out only about $600.

This was the beauty $600 could get you in 2014.  The toilet paper was free from, I assume, some of her peers.  In the age of coronavirus, that would probably double the car's worth.

We were discussing various places she could work, and I was sharing a little bit about a time in my life I try very hard to forget, AKA when I worked for Friendly's Ice Cream Corp.  (I even managed to work up to being a supervisor.  That's five years of my life I won't get back. I couldn't eat ice cream for years)  I was also talking about other jobs I had, and how I kinda thought a side hustle would be nice.

Then I said it.  I was like, "I wish my feet were better looking.  I would totally sell feet pics online.  My feet are disgusting though."

Alexis was horrified that I would even consider this.  I then was all like, "Do you even know WHY people have feet fetishes?  It's because the part of your brain that controls your feet is very close to the part that controls your genitals.  And some people, well, they overlap."

Then I got the brilliant idea that I should sell elbow pics.  I mean, there's gotta be a market for that, right?  If the whole remove a body part  or extra unnecessary and painful structures your body makes cakes thing doesn't work, that is totally a backup plan, right?

Alexis promptly texted her best male friend what I just said.  He was totally spot on with his response: It was along the lines of  "Mama Laura is beautiful all over."  He's my current favorite child.  The fact that I was not pregnant with him, did not birth him, and do not have to pay for him makes it all the better.

Anyways, I'm pretty sure I just solidified the whole "stay in school and get a good steady job" thing for her (and her best friend), so I call this a parenting win.  And as always, my Venmo is in my bio for her future therapy needs.

*Side note...I'm very curious as to how many times I have used the label Parenting with My Crazy?

*Second side note: From what I can count, it's 8.  Including this one.  But not all my posts have labels so I am sure there are more that could but I'm too lazy to go back and add them.

Letters VII

'Sup, bitchez?

Of course I would start a letter like that.  Did you really expect anything less classy from me?  If so...do you actually know me in real life?  Probably not is my guess.  If so, buckle up buttercup because this is gonna be a profanity laden ride that you will leave likely feeling slightly used but also somewhat embarrassed that you liked it.

So far 2022 has been meh.  Of course, we are five days into it and Day 6 of 2021 was an attempted insurrection so there's that.  We can say that to date, no one has attempted to overthrow our government so yay?  I mean, given the past two years of hell we all have been living in with an actual plague going around that half of the country is taking seriously and the other half is all like "Imma lick the door handles and stop washing my hands because I'm not a sheeple and you can't tell me what to do with my body", the bar is pretty low for how life is gonna go at this point I'm thinking.

Let's catch up with the family.  Charles had a knee replacement that was roughly 5 years overdue, but insurance won't pay for it in someone that young unless the knee is literally missing.  Quite frankly, going by his X-rays, we could have probably made the argument that it was, but we were also really really hoping that he would be able to wait until he was at least 50.  Alas, here we are, 7 years early, but also really 5 years late so doing some kind of crazy new-age math we are right on time?  IDK.  But the man can now walk like a 43 year old vs an 80 year old so that's good.  And so far, no surgeries this year so also yay?

Unfortunately, the rest of last year went to shit after that for him.  More on that later.

Elizabeth is off doing her grown-up shit still, as is Jewel and her (now husband!) Garrett.  Their wedding was lit, as the young people say, and I drank more whiskey that day than I care to admit and was pretty lit myself.  I remembered why I don't drink whisky generally...not because of the hangover, but the lack thereof I somehow manage, making all my alcoholic Irish and German ancestors proud.  Delilah is still perfect (obviously) and loves to fuck with her Papaw by refusing to give him a hug with a little shit eating grin on her face.  She will then randomly decide she is in fact going to give him one (because we are big on the teaching of my body my choice around here and don't force it) and we all watch that big teddy bear of a man melt and get wrapped even more firmly around her finger.  I cannot wait to see the two of them together when she is a teenager.  At any rate, the older children are putting forth a reasonable facsimile of adulting at the very least and are doing great at it at best.  I'm voting for the latter.

Alexis continues to take college courses and I am all for that life for her.  We do most of our communication via TikToks now a days.  Not making them, though I did briefly foray into the making of TikToks during quarantine because it CHANGES you, man.  We just send each other shit we find funny, plus recipes that we want to make.  The Tok (as I call it, and I am trying to start a movement to have everyone call it that because I am bored as fuck so please help me have it catch on) is an excellent way to slide life lessons into my daughter's psyche that normally she would ignore and have to learn the hard way.  So way to go, The Tok, for helping me with my already lazy parenting.  Best part is...I don't have to create the content.  Win for all involved because good God, the stuff I've already created...well, you're reading the blog so you probably have an idea.

Charlie continues to do well for herself at the new school and is one of the funniest kids I have met.  She has also started to argue with her father for sport, and I stay out of it because really it's for the best.  She is barreling right towards pre-teendom, and I'm just hoping we continue with the lack of dead bodies.  Or that she continues to be really good at hiding them.  I'm fine with either cause if you're gonna do something, you need to do it to the best of your abilities.

Now for the shitty parts.  2021 took from us Charles's best friend Josh.  This was devastating, and we are all still adjusting to life without him.  Then, a month later, we discovered that Maximus had a large mass in his chest and we ended up having to put him down.  Essentially, my husband lost his two best friends within a month of each other.  It has really put new perspective in my life at least, and we both are at the point where we are not doing anything that we don't want to do (well, except pay our bills.  That's probably important.)  Life is too motherfucking short to spend it with people and doing things that we don't want to just because we feel some sort of obligation to do so.  So there, and you can't make me (insert crossed arms and pouty face and stomped feet).

Roman continues to Roman.  He's still a cute motherfucker but let's emphasize the motherfucker part because he's also a bit of an asshole.  He cannot be outside without a leash of some sort because dude likes to run like the warden got drunk and let the inmates have the keys to the doors.  He also has gone after other dogs, so the therapy dog thing is a no go now unfortunately.  Freeloader. He's just gonna be the equivalent of your 30 year old cousin who lives in his mama's basement, smoking weed and not working.

So...remember how I have said before I had no desire to get another cat?  Grief makes you do weird shit.  Introducing Winnifred Joshua:

It was love at first sight.  I actually got her from the Mental Health Board meeting I was at the Monday after Josh died.  The director was talking about how this cat had been kicked out of her house by her former owners for having fleas, and even after she de-flea'ed her, they did not want her back, so she took her to get neutered and was looking for a home for her.  I was all oh let her come in and I'll snuggle her like I do to Elizabeth's cats, thinking I would love on her and then send her back like I do to my grandkitties.  Well that little shit came strutting in, with her crazy ass tail with the few long whispy hairs and her furzy little ears that Charles says look like devil horns...we locked eyes and I knew.  She was coming home with me.  She beelined straight for me too.

I. Did. Not. Want. A. Cat.  But I needed this one.

I have been known to call her Winnie the shit, because surprise surprise an animal I own has a mind of its own.  Charles calls her "stupid cat", which means she has been accepted into the tribe as one of us.  Roman has not killed her as we feared he might, given his ongoing feud with the neighborhood cats.  Winnie, however, put him into his place pretty fucking quickly when I brought her into the house for the first time.  They will occasionally reluctantly play together.  I think they secretly like each other but are both too stubborn to admit it.

So for 2022, the goals are to not catch COVID again (that was super fun but I survived because I'm fucking vaccinated) and to not learn any more of the Greek alphabet, so let's got COVID to a place where it's not devastating families and communities, m'kay?  I'd greatly appreciate it because I want to fucking go on another cruise and all y'all are cramping my style here because I am not about the getting stuck on a cruise ship for the next 3 months because we can't dock because of a fucking Mexican beer virus (side note:  Beer named after the virus, or virus after beer?  Discuss).

Love, 

Me