Reviews VII

 Review of Corona Hard Seltzer Spicy Pineapple: Well, the name is half right. Tastes like carbonated pineapple juice. Very much has notes of being so close but not achieving.  As disappointing as you are to your uber religious grandparents. But overall a solid alcoholic summer alcoholic beverage. 

Review of Corona Hard Seltzer Citrus Lime:  Well, this one’s name is not a lie at least.  A light citrus beverage reminiscent of childhood beverages with citrus flavoring of some sort. Pairs well with BBQ foods and s’mores. 

Review of Corona Hard Seltzer Watermelon Lime: Also tastes as advertised. Notes of trailer parks, Daisy Dukes, and cheap menthol slims. Strong end notes of watermelon and lower middle class grit. Pairs well with Achy Breaky Heart and anything by Travis Tritt. 

Review of Corona Hard Seltzer Mandarin Starfruit: This drink is good but tries to pretend it’s high class, similarly to Tara Reid at the Four Seasons.  Makes you acknowledge that you actually kinda like Nickleback and the McRib. Pairs well with Nickleback and the McRib.

Reviews VI

Review of Smirnoff Hard Seltzer Peach Lemonade: OK first off, WTF is up with all these peach-flavored seltzers?  I’m feeling some type of way about the peach directly related to my days of drinking at Bowling Green with my sister as a young impressionable teenager.  This may or may not have involved the better part of a bottle of peach schnapps.

This is a mediocre peach-flavored beverage. In fact, it is so mediocre that its mediocrity is mediocre. I drank it and immediately started to judge myself in a way similar to how I used to judge people who came into Friendly’s when I worked there (for five agonizing years) and ordered a well-done steak and then tipped 10%.  This pairs well with literally nothing and has a strong finish of John at the bar, who gives you your drinks for free and is sure he could be a movie star if he could get out of this place. 10/10 would recommend for someone that you don’t exactly hate but aren’t particularly fond of either.

Review of Smirnoff Hard Seltzer Pineapple Lemonade: It tastes like pineapple, with end notes of coconut, which automatically makes this terrible because coconut is the devil food.  Why does pineapple-flavored stuff have to have that?  Pineapple is delicious.  Stop fucking with it.  I will add that to my list of things that contributed to the downfall of society, along with the different flavors of Oreos and switching the M&M's shoes.  I am also not getting any kind of hint of lemonade, which is disappointing.  See?  COCONUT RUINS EVERYTHING!  My next imaginary political campaign will have the platform of keeping pineapple pure.  Hell, if the teabaggers  tea partiers/MAGA crowd can try to keep their bloodlines pure of influences such as black people and the gays and critical thinking, I can demand pure pineapple-flavored lemonade.

Review of Smirnoff Hard Seltzer Pink Lemonade: Well, finally.  We hit lemonade.  Continuing with the theme of mediocrity, this is not any particularly special form of alcoholic canned lemonade.  Would I drink it again if it was free?  Yes.  Would I purchase it again? No. For some reason, this beverage reminds me of my mid to late 20's.  As that was a very stressful time in my life, I prefer to consume beverages that do not remind me of said stressful times.  Again, if it were free, sure.  But even then I might just opt for a bottle of water, some ibuprofen because something is surely aching nowadays, and a phone call to my therapist.

Review of Smirnoff Hard Seltzer Blue Raspberry Lemonade: This is a copy of a copy of blue raspberry.  It's a disconcerting combination of unnatural phenomena: blue raspberry, carbonated lemonade, and alcohol that is a low enough percentage for a college sophomore to ask, why bother?  It's not awful in the same way that Tootsie Rolls aren't awful, but one would certainly not assert that it is a raspberry lemonade any more than one would assert that a Tootsie Roll is a delicious chocolate candy bar.  Pairs well with anything that you know is going to be disappointing, but you eat anyways.  Hot pockets, Cheese Whiz, and pizza rolls come to mind here.  End notes of regretting having adult money wherein you can purchase alcoholic beverages to review and end up stuck with 3/4 of a case of drinks you don't like.  If I were in my 20's, I would say party at my house, but a.) I'm old as fuck and hate most people, so that won't fly, and b.) if I were in my 20's, I'd likely be too poor to even consider experimenting with a new alcoholic beverage so it would be a moot point I suppose.

Reviews V

Review of Truly Hard Seltzer Punch Mix Pack:

 Tropical punch: A delightful tropical drink that, most importantly, does not have any trace of the tropical Devil food coconut. Lovely notes of pineapple and trailer trash class with an aftertaste of generic punch.

 Berry Punch: A textured blend of berries and, again, generic punch but also Kool-Aid. Tastes vaguely like adolescence and getting to third base for the first time. Pairs well with slightly burnt cookout food and s’mores.

 Citrus Punch: Definite nose of grapefruit with a smooth blend of other citrus fruit. Best consumed with super carb-y breakfast foods after a night on the town with your Besties.

 Fruit Punch: Remember that red punch sold in gallon jugs that you would have at elementary school holiday parties? Yeah, they’ve taken that, slightly carbonated it, and given it 5% alcohol by volume. Pairs well with the ice cream cups with the wooden spoon and sugar cookies with the colored sugar corresponding to the color scheme for the holiday.

 

Review IV

Review of Barefoot Hard Seltzers, Black Cherry and Cranberry:

Generic fruit taste that is carbonated. Notes of mediocrity and “I coulda been famous if I didn’t get knocked up at prom”. You drink them because you bought them and you feel you should bear the consequences of poor life choices. #neveragain

 

Review of Corona Hard Seltzer, Blueberry Açaí:

Take a gas station blueberry muffin. Carbonate it, then make it get slightly flat but somehow also still carbonated. Drink it and feel the confusion grow. Pairs well with off-brand potato chips eaten directly from the bag and the crusts cut off a three year old’s PB&J whilst laughing your ass off at the innuendo in Barbie: Life in the Dreamhouse.

  

Review of Mike’s Hard Pink Freeze: Take Sprite. Add a dash of lemonade and pink. Put it in a tall skinny seltzer can, call it Pink Freeze, and put dire warnings all over the box to NOT freeze it. The taste is as unoriginal as the name and strangely symbolic of the giving up most Xennials have done. Pairs well with emotional eating and watching My Girl whilst sobbing because goddammit she TOLD you not to mess with the bees, Thomas J.

  

Review of Pabst Blue Ribbon Hard Coffee: I am so confused. Horribly confused. Tastes like chocolate milk somehow. How can the beer of your youth taste like an even earlier time in your youth? Pairs well with frosted animal crackers and Dunkaroos. Must be consumed whilst watching Full House re-runs and primal screaming into the abyss because you’ve realized this is what your life is now.

 

Reviews III

Review of Bud Light Seltzer: Retro Summer Cherry Limeade

Tastes like the cheap cherry limeade popsicles. Notes of childhood playing in the dirt, drinking from the hose, and catching lightning bugs. Pairs well with cheese balls, Kid Cuisine, and Dunkaroos.

 

Review of Bud Light Retro Summer: Blazin Blue Raspberry

Tastes of a blue raspberry sucker: it wants to be raspberry, but also wants to be unnaturally blue. Together, it’s a tasty chemical bomb of a flavor that will yank you back to childhood, but with the added benefit of alcohol to make you forget the suck of post-pandemic life and lack of student loans forgiveness. Pairs well with despair and nostalgia and a cheap charcuterie board.

Costco

So I have been told, by my brother's girlfriend and my sisters, that Costco is a magical place full of wonder and delight and cheap rotisserie chickens and bulk packages of Poise pads.  I have never experienced this beacon of wonderment and delight, so they decided to take me here.  On a Saturday.  Before Mother's Day.  With Charlie, my child who freely acknowledges that she should not have access to adult money because it would not end well.  I imagine you can imagine how this went.

First off, the line to get into the fucking place was of Cedar Point length.  For those of you who don't know, Cedar Point is a local-ish (45 minutes away; pre-marriage I would have been like WTF that is a total day trip away and now it's like, oh I drive that far to go to the grocery store that's not Walmart) amusement park that is a big fucking deal when it comes to amusement parks.  Meaning, the lines are redonkulous.  I manage to somehow get a relatively close parking spot, which, I guess, like, yay me but why can't that luck extend to winning the jackpot in the lottery?  We get out and go inside to an entryway that is guarded more closely than Fort Knox.  Like, God forbid someone comes in without someone having that magical Costco card.  Which, Charlie was all like, "This place is a scam, you have to pay to get in and then pay for the stuff you buy?"  And I'm all like, welcome to adulthood in America.  Get some student loan debt and you are solidly middle-class, child.

Anyways, I'm waiting for Elizabeth to come in as she did not have the luck to get a super close spot.  I spot Faith, my brother's girlfriend, waiting for us inside the store where she has already completed most of her shopping.  I surreptitiously take a picture of her and then text it to her with the caption of "I can see you" because I am an asshole like that and should probably not be allowed technology unsupervised.  Anyways, we meet up and she is all relieved that it was just me and not some creepy ass ex texting her (sorry for unknowingly triggering past traumas there!) and we start shopping.

I will start off by saying, Charles had mentioned getting some laundry baskets because our all appear to have started to crumble worse than infrastructure in a red state.  I will say, we did not get laundry baskets.  Mostly because I did not want to spend the time looking for them because holy fucking shit, this place was packed tighter than a Taylor Swift concert.  I did get this two-pack of little trash cans with a flip lid, one for the bathroom because the one we currently have harbors more nastiness than a high school boy's gym bag, one for Charlie's room because she very suddenly became concerned about the lack of a trash can in her room.  We won't talk about the CONDITION of her room, however...

Anyways, we move on to the food section.  It is crazy.  Like, people just everywhere.  Gallon containers of everything from Liquid IV to rotisserie chicken that has been removed from the carcass already.  My already short attention span is going haywire.  Plus, dear sweet mother of God, there is like some kind of old person convention going on wherein they leave their fucking carts in the middle of the goddamned aisles.  I have a sudden urge to ram my cart into people. (Side note: on the way there, Charlie was talking about her one classmate who apparently has asked if anyone ever considers jumping off of the barn loft and also broke all of the bones in the chicken he dissected and asked to bring them home.  Charlie expressed concern (rightfully so) about this kid, but also coined the phrase "What in the Jeffrey Dahmer is that?" so I will forgive her for future sins.)

We start to encounter samples.  I don't know if it was just the day or what, but they were meh.  I will say Charlie tried this smoked salmon that she liked so I promptly got it because if my children ever express a liking for something remotely healthy I'm all over that like Charlie Sheen on a bowl of coke.  I also purchased some ravioli she liked, some Lacroix (despite me trying to talk Charlie into buying the Kirkland brand...I did give her a lesson on the difference between total price and price per unit, but since it was not her money to spend, we got the Lacroix).  I also got Liquid IV, because summer is coming and my husband works in a sweat shop (well not literally but it gets pretty goddamn hot) and will need the rehydration.  Elizabeth bought some energy drinks whilst ignoring my statement about how bad they are for you.  Apparently, I cannot guilt her into better life choices anymore, so yay for growing up?  I guess it's better than her sharing the bowl of coke so I will take the W however I can.

Then we go to checkout.  Being a newbie, I assume that I cannot do so without my sister who has the magical Costco card, so I follow her to self-checkout.  I promptly get scolded by the checkout babysitter.  Apparently I am a "fire hazard".  Well, I have been told by Alexis before that just because humans are flammable does not mean we should light them on fire (solid advice there, I believe.  I'm counting it as a parenting win) so I accept this but I continue to get passive-aggressively scolded by said checkout babysitter until I find an open checkout.  Then I get scolded by the scanner because I did not put said trash cans in the checkout area.  When did technology get in the business of shaming people?

When all is said and done...I was meh.  It was not a place full of wonderment and delight.  It was a place where my imaginary prescription for Xanax would have come in handy.  Would I go back?  Not on a Saturday.  Maybe like a Tuesday early in the morning, but I'm a night owl and the nearest Costco is 45 minutes away so that won't happen. (That time frame only applies when it is a place I can tolerate unmedicated.)  Do I consider the trip a success?  Yeah, I got a semi-healthy food for Charlie and some new trash cans. I didn't kill anyone.  I got a new catchphrase. I got to hang with my family. I did not use the catchphrase "What in the Jeffrey Dahmer is that?"

Reviews II

Starting from the very beginning…

So I made the mistake today, much to my family’s delight, of going grocery shopping hungry. Among the things that I bought was the new Bud Light Seltzers. I figured since I have nothing else to do this evening, I would try each flavor and leave you a review. Idk if I will get to all four flavors today, but I promise that I will review all of them at some point. So here goes...

Black Cherry. Vaguely reminiscent of Zima plus cherry Jolly Rancher but with a wannabe hipster twist. Tastes like ironic usage of “bae” with undertones of crippling student loan debt and the scent of your parents’ basement.  Pairs well with avocado toast.

Mango: Tastes like mango that has been seltzered.  Brings up dreams of tropical vacations to escape the dreary drudge that is your day to day existence. Reality soon smacks you in the face as you realize that it only has 5% ABV and you will, in fact, not get drunk off this as your tolerance skyrocketed in your early 20’s due to said student loan debt and sundry poor life choices you are drinking to forget.  Focus on the mango. Grab ahold of it with both hands because Dear God, this is your life now.

Strawberry: Flavored similarly to Bonne Belle Lipsmackers. Makes you feel slightly uncomfortable to drink something that’s alcoholic yet tastes like childhood. End notes are a weird mix of college walk of shame and Teletubbies. At the same time.

Lemon lime: Strong notes of lemon Windex with a lot of hell the fuck no aftertaste. Could possibly be used to freshen up the garbage disposal or dispose of someone you despise. Tastes like affliction, lamentation, and self-reproach. Don’t drink unless you enjoy cleaning products. Seriously, Windex.

Reviews I

I have been doing reviews of beverages on Facebook for a while, and Elizabeth’s boyfriend suggested I start posting them here as well so I will start moving them all over soon because why not?  May as well keep all the crazy in one place….

This beverage review brought to you courtesy of Dave and Faith, who purchased these for me to review to celebrate Cinco de Mayo:

Review of Mamitas Tequila and Soda Seltzer, Pineapple flavor: Well holy hell. This is a delicious, light beverage. No taste of tequila at all, which was a bit disappointing since, ya know, it’s in the fucking name and all. End notes of pineapple, which was not disappointing, since, ya know, it’s in the fucking name and all.  It’s gluten free which is good because people need something to blame for society’s sins and what better way to do this than to villainize sweet, sweet, delicious carbs instead of acknowledging that things started to go downhill when they started fucking with the flavor of Oreos and changed the freecreditreport.com band.  Pairs well with the false hope a 60° day in early May in Ohio gives you. 

Review of Mamacita Tequila and Soda, Paloma Flavor:

Ok, first off I had to Google WTF Paloma is because the closest thing to a cocktail I get is actual 7-Up in my whiskey with the good ice and an actual lime because I am not Fancy like Applebees and the only times I’ve ever consumed tequila is in a margarita or when I was in college in shot form. And I guess these Mamacita beverages now. And contrary to any rumors the fuckbois I dissed in college started because I was not DTF in a dorm room that stunk of ball sweat and Cheetos, I don’t put just anything in my mouth. Therefore, I cannot comment on if this thing tastes like an actual Paloma or not. Maybe?  I don’t know?  Anyways, this is also a delicious beverage. We will call it Paloma-esque. Palomish maybe?  Sure. Pairs well with a reminder to my ride and dies (you know who you are) to delete my Internet browsing history when I die, especially if it’s under mysterious circumstances. Because maybe I’ve now pissed off Paloma aficionados and I have a bounty on my head. Actually, no matter how I die, can we just say it was that?  And also, a flash mob and good snacks at my funeral would be great. Serve Palomas, too. 

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!

Letters IV

Dear Bitchez,

Time for my tri-decadely Christmas letter.  What, Christmas is over, you say?  Huh, funny that...people bitch at me for taking my decorations down the day after Christmas, but I try to extend the season by putting out a Christmas letter three days late and all of a sudden I've suggested the equivalent of torturing nuns and drowning puppies.  I'm trying something new, bitchez, as apparently I definitely can't be arsed to do anything on any kind of regular schedule.  Or even in a timely fashion anymore because late for me is now the new on time.  Which is incredibly anxiety-provoking for me and super awesome for my mental health.

I am still working two jobs, but my new practice is picking up more so now I am in the awesome position of not quite being able to reduce hours at the first practice but needing more for the second and therefore working all the fucking time.  Being a business owner is awesome...if you are a business person.  I am not so it pretty much sucks monkey balls.  Thank God for people who invent electronic health records that pretty much idiot-proof the whole process of insurance and billing.  I  never would have been able to figure out how to open my own practice before the Google was a thing.  I also decided that it would be super fun to occasionally teach a crafting class at a local wine bar, which then led me to being asked to teach a crafting class at the Senior Center.  Oh, and don't forget that I am trying to get EMDRIA certified for my practices which entails occasional (expensive) consultation and that I am trying to get Roman certified as a therapy dog which requires (expensive) training classes. I also recently slipped and fell and gave myself a concussion, which forced me to take off work so now I get to try to make all that time up somehow.  My therapist tells me that I am running away from my crazy because I keep myself so busy.  I then tell her that I don't like her very much sometimes, and we laugh and laugh because a.) we know that's not true, and b.) we know she's right.  It might be time to up  my meds, perhaps pursue that imaginary Xanax prescription...or, you know, learn to say no...

Charles only has three more days left in 2018, and has thus far avoided any kind of surgical procedure.  Go Charles!  He briefly had a stint with a very entertaining albeit incompetent HR lady at work, but alas his employer only enjoys rewarding incompetence in dangerous situations, like while using a crane to lift metal parts that weigh thousands of pounds or whilst handling a machine that melts wire at thousands of degrees.  She was soon let go, so no more entertaining stories of someone potentially more insane than myself.  Now he is back to having that look of desperation in his eyes, and as I've said many times before, this may or may not have a lot to do with to whom he is married.

The girls are all doing well.  Elizabeth continues on at school and working for the same practice I do.  She has been faced with a lot of adult shit this year, like friends with seriously ill mothers, a best friend's pregnancy, (and my resultant becoming a grandma, named Gigi.  Delilah picked the name out as she smiled when I asked her if that was what I should be, and had no reaction to Lala or Mimi. No more GmaL #itspronouncedjamal), and lots of car repairs and the resultant crippling debt.  Oh wait, that's from her student loans...She has handled it all well and as far as I can tell has not resorted to utilizing substances to make her forget how much being an adult sucks.  At least not on a regular basis.  Alexis continues to dance and grow at an unacceptable rate.  She appears to have adjusted to middle school and we do occasionally get her to look up from her phone to interact with us, so all is well there I think.  Charlie's teacher wants her tested for the gifted program, which is OK as long as "gifted program" does not entail throwing more busy work at her like some schools do.  Charlie has also decided to expand her dance repertoire to include tap and hip hop, as well as the acro and ballet, and is now on the Company team for dance, which performs locally.  Charles got upset a few weeks back as the studio owner posted the fees for the competitions in a place he could see them...he said ignorance was bliss and now he can't unsee those numbers.  I say I am looking at this as an investment in our future...if nothing else, to guilt the girls into putting us into a really nice nursing home because of how much we spent on dance for them growing up.

The animals are all cool.  Asher the chinchilla has gotten a new cage and is doing well.  Maximus recently ate 2.5 dozen Christmas sugar cookies and was on my shit list for a while.  Lucky for him they were undecorated.  Fucker also managed to get the lid off the tupperware container without destroying it.  Roman continues on in puppy classes.  We've taught him to fist bump because we need a dog who is cooler than we are, natch.  Deogie could also benefit from a prescription for Xanax, but also does not have one.  The rabbits just kinda chill and do rabbit-y type stuff.  They are pretty unexciting. 

We ended up NOT selling the house and discovered that our realtor was the WORST EVER.  Like, not showing up to show us a house worst.  Like lying about showings coming over worst.  Like having paperwork done incorrectly worst.  Needless to say, we ended up not getting the house we put a bid on and did not renew our contract with her, nor will we be using her in the future.  Back to the plan of building.  That is, if we ever get out from under MY crippling student loan debt.  2018 did nothing but show me how much fun it is to be an adult while not being independently wealthy.  Yay for no surgery though?

Happy Holidays, bitchez!  Looking forward to a 2019 wherein I continue to not be rich and remain just as crazy as I am poor, effortlessly.

Love,
Me

Shopping III

It has been almost 6 years since I have gone grocery shopping on a Saturday at Walmart. 

There's a reason I don't.

I remembered it today.

Let's just say, I'm shook.

I had a valid reason for doing this.  Charlie is on the Company Dance team, and they had a Halloween party on Friday night.  Because I have a huge case of (probably justified) Mom guilt going on recently due to working so fucking much between my practice I own and the group practice, I decided to forgo the usual Friday night shopping to go with her to the party.  I don't regret that decision at all.  The party was fun.  There was a buttload of sugary treats.  There were mothers I introduced to the wonders of Celeste Barber.  I danced. I did Karaoke with the girls, who are the only people on Earth who would appreciate my singing because I suck worse than people who don't do the thank you wave when you let them turn into a parking lot from a busy street.  Seriously, those people are a whole new species of human that we should probably exile to some island somewhere.  Preferable somewhere cold. Not a warm island.  Those non-waving bastards don't deserve warmth since they don't have any in their cold, non-waving souls.

The decision I do regret was to not go after we got back from the party and waiting until Saturday morning.  I should have just dragged my tired ass out to the store, but I had had a half-formed plan to maybe drive out to Meijer but that did not materialize due to accidentally sleeping in this morning and I had to pick the girls up from dance so I could not drive that far and be back in time. (Meijer's produce is significantly better, as is their gluten-free offerings.  Because yes, I am now *that* person who is gluten free(ish) and does not have diagnosed Celiac's.  Next I plan to slather my children in coconut oil and start using charcoal tooth powder instead of toothpaste.  Wait, fuck, I already do both things.  Hell, go ahead and judge away at my hippie ass...)

I get to the store and even before I get out of the car I am filled with regret.  People are wandering around the parking lot, in the drizzly suck that is Ohio weather in late October, like they are taking a leisurely stroll through a lovely garden park and stopping to ohh and ahh at the cute little waterfall.  Fucking move, people.   There is nothing fascinating about the cart corral at Walmart.  Plus you are in the rain and my cat like water hating tendencies are cringing on the inside for you, even as I sit in the dryness of my car.

I finally park and get into the actual store, where I am pleased to find that all the carts are sopping wet.  Luckily, this helped to moisten the bleach wipe, the ones they provide in the front of the store to wipe down the carts, that had completely dried out, so I could pretend that it might have had some kind of effect.  Then came the awkward walking past the door greeter situation.  I am never 100% sure what is expected out of me in this situation.  I mean, their job is to literally say hi to people walking into the store; however I generally hate interacting with people socially but feel pulled because this is their job and I don't want to hurt their feelings.  I usually opt for a pained smile that probably makes them all think I am some sort of weird sociopath because they usually shift a few inches away from me.  Probably in self protection.  I don't blame them.  I'd shift away from me too.

Then I get to deal with the people in the store.  Like the ones who park their carts and then wander away like four aisles, then get offended when you move it 6 inches to grab a jar of salsa.  Or the people who stand in produce and hold their cucumber in their hand, looking a little lost, until they see someone else grabbing the bag that is literally right above their head.  And don't forget the awkward getting to the end of the aisle and almost crashing into someone coming the other way.  There seriously needs to be traffic rules for Walmart on a Saturday.  Though people don't know how to work a stop sign and don't wave thank you in real traffic, so there's that.  Bastards.

I get to checkout and of course the cashier is one of those who does not turn the belt on to move your groceries forward.  Seriously, people, I just want to unpack my shit, pay, and get the hell outta dodge at this point...and as quickly as possible.  Leave the fucking belt ON so we can streamline this shit.  By the time the person in front of me has paid and is leaving, my entire cart should be unpacked so I can concentrate on putting the bags back into the cart and not be forced to make small talk or to try to avoid eye contact while you are ringing my shit up.'

I am documenting this on here so that I can remember in the future...no matter how tired you are on Friday night, you go grocery shopping.  I don't care if it is a fucking blizzard and you are dying from malaria...you don't go on Saturday morning.  Ever.  I swear, if there was ever a time when I wished my imaginary prescription for Xanax was real, it was today.  I didn't even get any wine while shopping, either.  Kroger and Giant Eagle totally have the right idea with a bar in their store.  I wonder if there is an untapped market for Ubers for grocery shoppers at these stores.  Because I'd be all over that shit, I tell you what.

Changes II

Sad day today in the Lambkins household...our unnamed sucker fish died. (Insert frowny face.)  I've been trying to remember how long we had that fucker, and it's been a while.  Like, Elizabeth had that thing for a while, like maybe since third grade I think, then passed it on to the little girls.  I'm just relieved that he never actually acted on any plans he may or may not have had to cut me in my sleep.  I told Charles to make sure that he got a good service at his burial.  He just looked at me like I am crazy, which I mean, I am, so I'm not sure what he was trying to say with that look...

This is just one of many changes that have been occurring around here.  Between the house drama, starting a new business, starting to see a functional medicine doctor, the ball of suck that is always spring weather, and getting a new puppy, things have been changing quite a bit here in a myriad of ways.  In fact, at around this time last year, I wrote another post talking about the changes that were coming back then.  Life has, over the past year, been in a constant state of flux, more so than usual it seems.

Roman Pedro IV.  Cute little motherfucker, isn't he?

It is very easy to be swept along during all of this change and to forget about the present because I am so focused on the future.  To focus on keeping the house clean in case we have a showing, versus crafting with the girls now.  To perseverate on how much money the practice is bringing in and if cutting my days at the other practice was a good idea versus being happy that I was even in a position to consider that.

I've always sucked at living in the now.  I am either obsessing over the past or worrying about the future.  I like the illusion of control that I can get from these activities.  But it is just that...an illusion.  God knows that if you had told me in March of last year that there would be so much up in the air, I would have tried to grab ahold of as much control as I could, and probably missed out on a lot.  Learning to let go has been an exhausting proposition sometimes, but I think a necessary one.  Not gonna lie, it's been one that has required quite a bit of therapy...but it's been good.

Time

Our clock in the kitchen died today.

Forever frozen at 5:33 and 58 seconds.

We have had this clock for 13 years, as evidenced by the early 2000's wonder of wood with gold.  It has served its purpose in the kitchen, not only telling time but serving to totally fuck with our minds every time Daylight Saving Time rolls around or when the battery dies.  I noticed today that it was stuck and went to change the battery, but nope.  Our old faithful time keeper hath kicked the bucket.

It is remarkably symbolic, as we are in the process of trying to pawn off sell our current home and either buy or build a new one.  This house was our "starter house" that we bought 13 years ago, intending to stay for maybe 5 years, then move out into the country.  Then...the economy happened, and our finances (and the equity in the house) took a huge hit because of course we bought at the height of the market.  Then I decided to go back to school, and gas prices rose to $4/gallon for my lovely 1.5 hr (one way...) drive there...yeah.

So we climbed out of that hole, but in the meantime we made a lot of memories here.  A lot of our children's firsts were in this house...Elizabeth's first dances, boyfriends, heartbreaks....our first screaming match...her graduation party.  We brought Alexis and Charlie and Gabe home to this house.  We've had many parties here, birthdays, Memorial Day, baptisms.  We've had numerous pets come and go.  The backyard has had many children running and playing in it.  We have had thousands of meals, and millions of laughs, in this house.

It is bittersweet.  I asked Elizabeth if she was upset that we were going to get a better house now that she is essentially out of it, and her response was that she could get a sweet wedding so no, not really (YES!  One less thing for her to discuss in therapy!).  Getting a different house will be a visible sign of our success...all of the people who thought I would never go anywhere or be anything because I happened to have a kid super young...all of the people who thought I was crazy for marrying a man who took me out to BFE...all of the people who doubted that I would ever be able to open a practice out here...yeah.  We did it.

I look forward to making new memories in a new house, whether we build or buy.  I guess I need to choose a new clock carefully, as it will keep the time not only in our old house, but the new.

No pressure though, right?  Again, I really like to test the limits of my meds...

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.

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.

Universe

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

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


1.) Big Joe broke

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

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

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

2.)  Those fucking Christmas lights

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

What. The. Fuck.

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

3.)  Our pets

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

4.)  The Mannequin Challenge

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


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

Lucky II

I have the craziest luck sometimes.

Especially when it comes to vehicles.

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

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

Wrong.

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

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

Fast forward to this summer.  Guess what goes out?

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

Cause so did the A/C in the truck.

And the A/C in our house.

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

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

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

Lucky, right?

Yeah, fuck you.

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

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

Random IX

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


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

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

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

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


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

Mindfulness

It was a Tuesday evening like any other.

Got off of work, went to dance.  Ran in to check Lexi's homework and managed to find her missing jazz shoes that another child had accidentally grabbed last week.  Picked up Charlie to bring back home from her dance class in the preschool room and loaded her up in the car.  Gave the hubby a quick kiss after he helped her get buckled in, then headed home with all I  had to do on my mind.

Find some dinner for myself.  Not really hungry though.

Pack lunches for tomorrow.

Figure out my outfit for tomorrow.

Unload the dishwasher.

Sweep the floors.

Put a load of laundry in.  I should probably fold the two baskets that are down there too.

Eh, let's be honest.  That ain't happening.  The folding at least.

Clean up kitchen.

Get Charlie in the bath.

As all of this was running through my head, Charlie was keeping up a steady chatter despite claiming not five minutes earlier that she was not talking to me because I would not let her play a game on my phone because I am an asshole parent like that.  She started to talk about what we were going to do when we got home, and I teasingly told her we were going to poop our pants.  She started to laugh and said, "Mama, I'm not a baby!"

"Aren't you my baby, Charlie?"

"Well, yes, but I'm still big, Mama."

She then got quiet for a few minutes after this, obviously thinking.  She then asked:

"Mama, are you done growing?"

"Yes, I am."

"Well, then, why are you getting older still?  You aren't growing but you keep getting older and older..."

"You get older even after you stop growing, Charlie."

"So, are you going to die?"

(Now we need some background here.  Dorothy passed away a few days ago.  Charlie was pretty devastated and of course we had the whole death conversation and how it is pretty much a permanent thing and the opposite of sleeping and being awake, if you could have a third option for opposites that is.  So death was fresh on her mind; its not like she is going through some kind of emo/goth stage here.  Though Elizabeth did go through a period at just slightly older than Charlie where all she would wear was this black witch's dress from an old Halloween costume, so who knows.  Anyways...)

"Not for a long time, I hope baby."

"Will you live to be a thousand, Mama?"

"I'm certainly not planning on dying any time soon, Charlie."

This seemed to satisfy her, but it got my mind going.  All of a sudden, all of those things that I was planning on doing seemed unimportant.  I had no desire to plan for the next day until Charlie went to bed.  I did not want to do the housework that would still be waiting for me until the day I'm finally crazy and/or senile enough to be locked away for my own good (and let's be honest, for society's good as well).

So...I did none of that.

We decided to have some ice cream and read through a dancewear catalog.  I let her have a scoop of both mint chocolate chip and mint Oreo ice cream.  We chose the best outfits on each page and debated the merits of a flowy skirt vs. a plain leotard.  We rolled out the yoga mat and practiced her cartwheel.  I told her I would learn to do one along with her and we practiced mine.  We gave each other pointers.  Then we put on music and danced our asses off until it was time for her to get in the shower.

In typical Charlie fashion, of course, she managed to slip in the shower and bust her eye on the faucet and is now likely going to have a black eye.  As I was drying her off and comforting her, she asked me if people were going to make fun of her because she had the black eye.  We snuggled on the couch and held ice on it and she wondered if people would just think that she did a really bad job of putting some "eyelash" on (which is what she calls eye shadow).  She asked if I thought people would make fun of her (talk about another shot to the heart...)  She then wondered why she always is the one who gets hurt.

"First stitches in my head, Mama, then my chin.  Now I have a black eye!"

I wonder, had she not asked me about dying earlier, if I would have been as likely to let the comforting linger like I had.  Would I have taken the time to snuggle as much, or would I have felt antsy thinking about what I had to do?  When did I stop trying to be mindful and start being a stressed out, over exhausted, and burned out parent/wife/coworker?  Why did it take a question about my mortality to make me stop and start living?

I feel horrible about all of the potential moments I have missed out on because of lacking mindfulness.  Will my children remember it?  Is it too late?  Will my kids, when I do (hopefully decades in the future) die, remember me actually living, or will they only remember the stress, frustration, anxiety, depression, and illness?

What a wake up call.  What a re-birth.  Time to start living again.

Insidious

As I was driving home from work tonight, I was admiring the way that the snow was drifting and blowing ethereally across the roadways, kinda wispy and mystical.  Then I started to skid a bit and my immediate thought was "Imma find that bitch Elsa and cut her frozen ass."

The number of times that I find myself in very adult situations and come up with a reference to children's programming is truly alarming.  And get your mind out of the gutter, pervs...while I'm as nasty as the rest of y'all, I'm actually just referring to every day adult situations and not just the boudoir.  What's really sad is that I actually watch very little TV.  I am *that* parent that is always making my children do things like get off their asses and go play, preferably outside.  Or at least get Mama a refill on her wine to wash down this Xanax.

I can't tell you the number of times I have had to restrain myself from asking "Do you need to poop?"
when someone complains of stomach pain.  I distinctly remember one time in a graduate class, working on a team project with three other women (all in their early 20's, single, with no children).  Something did not go right and I let loose with a "Rut-Ro!" in my best Scooby-Doo voice.  Two of them looked at me like I grew a third nipple out of my eyeballs, but the third just laughed and said, "I can tell you have kids."

Those sneaky little bastards totally take over your life.  I don't know that I know how to have an adult conversation any more without some kind of reference to kid stuff.  I probably have bored my coworkers to death and back to life again with my stories of my children.  (Wait...does this mean I work with zombies?  Freaky, but explains A LOT...especially the irritability as I would imagine being the undead would make one pretty cranky...)  I'm willing to bet that there is probably an underground betting pool of when my kids will finally drive me to the psych ward or to get arrested.  Or maybe even to get arrested on the way to the psych ward.  Hell, go big or go home, right?  I mean, most parents are bumbling idiots according to children's shows, right?  So truly, I AM kinda expected to do both at some point in my life.  May as well kill two birds with one stone.

And let's just discuss how parents are portrayed here for a minute.  Now, I am not necessarily a goddamned ninja or anything, but I like to believe that if my beloved (new) spouse was trying to poison my ass or to drive a wedge between me and my children, I'd go all seriously pissed off Samurai on their ass and boot them to the curb.  But how many times are either the marriages seriously dysfunctional because one partner is totally unaware of the other trying to off them, or is there some other really evil adult lurking in the shadows waiting to take over the kingdom?  If that were to happen now, I'd be all like, "DUDE.  LOOK AT MY HOUSE.  YOU ARE INHERITING MY MOUNTAINS OF LAUNDRY AND THE MANY JUICE BOXES MY CHILDREN LIKE TO HIDE IN THE COUCH CUSHIONS TO FUCK WITH MY SANITY, ALONG WITH THE PILES OF DOG SHIT IN THE YARD.  IT'S ALL YOURS, MOTHAFUCKER."  Do children really view their parents as this inept?  I like to think that I recognize evil.  And that I am only inept enough to add, say, 6 months of therapy to my children's ever growing time.

Perhaps this is the way that the nebulous "they" are going to take over the world.  It starts with the insidious but seemingly innocuous Disney songs that get stuck in your head.  "Do you wanna build a snowman?"  I dare, DARE, any parent out there to read that last sentence and not sing it.  You can't fucking do it, can you?  It's THAT pervasive.  Next thing you know you will be a slave to the likes of Dora, Callilou, and Elmo, while secretly admiring the style of iCarly characters and thinking that Steve from Blue's Clues is kinda hot.

Perhaps there is more to the Doc McStuffins theme song than meets the eye..."This will only tickle a little"...perhaps they are referring to the insertion of their characters into the very fabric of our being...

Or maybe I just need to get out of the house more.