Nick

 I've been postponing this one.

My family recently went through a nightmare.  Specifically, my sister Alicia and her husband Nick were on a cruise when he had a heart attack and died.  Fun fact, dying internationally is a pain in the ass and super expensive.  Not only did we have to deal with the hole that Nick's passing put in our lives, we had to wait several weeks to get his body back and so were in this limbo hell of not being able to go through one of the central parts of grieving, the funeral.  

We were able to get him back before Christmas.  Now, I have to live without one of my coparents.

Wait, isn't Charles your coparent?  Well, yes.  He is a very involved father.  But Nick and Alicia...they were the surrogates.  They were present in my children's and grandchildren's lives.  They were THERE.  Nick was there before Charles was.  He was present for Elizabeth's infancy.  And now Nick is not here.  It still feels unreal, months later.  I can't imagine how my sister feels.  All of the future things with my kids, he will miss. He never saw Charlie play volleyball. He will not see Delilah dance, or Willow grow up.  He won't be there to go to haunted houses with Elizabeth or buy jewelry from her, or watch Jewel progress in her teaching career, or see Alexis graduate from college. There are no more playdates in the backyard, with extreme bocce ball (don't ask...) and beef jerky from a local farm.  I won't have to make him any cakes or cookies for his Knights of Columbus stuff, or curtains for his new office.

There's a hole.

Nick was instrumental in keeping Charles functional after Josh died.  He called him daily for quite some time, as he knew what it was like to lose someone very important. His mother has now had to bury two of her children.  I can't even begin to imagine that. My sister does not have her husband of over 20 years.  I also can't imagine that.  It has always been Nick and Alicia.  Hey, were Nick and Alicia coming out?  We are going to Nick and Alicia's house to watch Michigan get spanked by Ohio State. (He 100% facilitated that victory this year, I can tell you that much...).

I will never understand the why of this.  Nick did SO MUCH GOOD.  He had his faults, of course. Mostly related to his choice in college football teams.  But he also had a big heart.  He did things like driving past a house that I had seen burning down in our town, killing two people,  just to see how bad it was for me, as I had not been able to look myself.  He was a surrogate parent for many children besides my own. He did all kinds of charity work for his church. Roman had imprinted on him and decided Nick was his person. When I told him Nick died, he sat down and just looked at me.  He knew.

This post feels very discombobulated. That tracks.  Just...do me a favor and love your people.  Love them so hard. And live your life.  Nick LIVED. And loved.

Miss you and love you, brother.

Recital II

 We have all seen the posts about how parents "don't pay for dance" (or insert whatever sport or activity your child is involved in).  Most parents recognize that their child is not going to go pro at whatever childhood "thing" they do.  We put the kids in these activities for a variety of reasons...sometimes it is to relive your childhood through the kid (in which case, I will see them in my office shortly due to their neuroses...).  Sometimes, it is because the kid really enjoys the activity.  Sometimes it is because, goddamnit, you will not be on your phone all day long and get the fuck up and DO SOMETHING.  But whatever the reason, these posts go on and on about how they are learning all kinds of lessons about teamwork and hard work and heartbreak and successes.

But what about the parents?

I have been a dance mom since 2009.  Fifteen years in a row.  If you count my time with Elizabeth when she was in dance, that total goes up to 18 years.  I've been around, so to speak.  I own a bedazzled and have purchased butt glue and nipple petals and hair mascara and enough bobby pins that I could have probably started a retirement fund from all the recycled metal. I can put eyelashes and a full face of makeup on a sleeping child. I have sat through countless competitions, put thousands of miles on various vehicles, and have an extremely large tote of costumes in the attic as well as an entire room full of trophies.  I have videos of dances from 3/4 of my children.  I have purchased dozens of bouquets, have years of dance programs, and know the local high school's backstage area like the palm of my hand.

There is so much more to it, though.  There were lessons that I learned as a parent.

I learned that I could genuinely care for a group of other people's children like my own.  That I could get super excited for wins and commiserate with their not-so-great performances.  I learned that their successes, not only on the dance floor but in other areas of their lives, could make me burst with pride just like it was my own kid.  That their sadness and grief when life was not so good to them would be mine too.

I learned that there are terribly rude people out there.  People who will try to sneak all kinds of shit over...sitting in seats not their own at a recital.  People who will walk in front of other people when there is a dance on stage.  People who will deliberately stack a dance number to put an advanced group in a younger age group or even a lower level to increase the odds of winning.  People who will go so far as to steal parts of other studio's costumes.  People who will leave a recital early because their kid has already performed.

But I also learned that there are some really great people out there.  People who raise their children to cheer for other studios when they win.  Strangers who will stop to help when you have a child who is injured.  Strangers who will help you when you have two garment bags, a rolling duffle bag, a purse, a portable refrigerator, a huge ass mug of coffee, and a full flight of steps to carry them up.

I learned that it is ok for other women to mold my daughters.  To call them out on their bullshit when needed.  To push them.  To take them to the next level, when even I, their mother, who thinks they are perfect and capable of anything, would not have insisted on it.  That some of these role models would influence every aspect of my children's lives.  That I would cry with these role models when it was all over because it is so bittersweet and that part of our job is over.

I learned that I can arrange multiple bouquets of flowers into various vases, too.

I learned that my husband is the ultimate "girl dad", as much as that makes my teeth hurt to say.  He was a steady fixture at the dance studio until Alexis learned to drive.  I'm pretty sure most of the teachers and staff liked him better than me.  Some of the girls really looked up to him as a father figure and would talk his ear off.  He even once got conned into doing a pushup contest at a comp because he can't tell these girls no (mind you, only a few months post-surgery from a bicep tear, to boot...).

I learned that I paid for dance as much for me as for them.  Because it does take a village.  And bitchez, that village has helped me to raise some phenomenal daughters (and a granddaughter, too, because Delilah is up on that stage as well).

So to my dance family: Thank you for all the memories.  Thank you for helping me to raise my girls.

Thanks.

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

Winning

 So because 2020 had to fuck us up the left nostril one last time on its way out, Charles's knee replacement got rescheduled to January because of the fucking pandemic.  Because of course we couldn't have it done in a year in which we had already met our deductible.  Of course.

The surgery went well for him, thankfully.  It is pretty sad that he is now walking better, even with a walker and after having a surgeon drill into his leg and shave bone down and give him a new knee and only being a few days post-op.  The doctor was all like "he should have had this done years ago, it was pretty fucked up in there with significant bone damage from them grinding" and I was all like, "yeah, I know, but insurance sucks and didn't want to do it on a 40 year old man so here we are" and then the doctor was like "well because he's a 42 year old man he is gonna swell a shit ton and probably try to over-do it because he's gonna think he's all rough and tough with his afro puff so just keep an eye on him.  Oh, but if he doesn't move the knee he's gonna fuck it up so there's that.  No pressure, though."

I *might* have paraphrased that.  I do wish doctors talked like that though.  They'd be a lot more relatable.  I'm sure you are shocked to know that I talk to my clients like that.

So because this was a major surgery, he was supposed to stay the night to get pain meds under control, watch for blood clots, etc. (hence why it was cancelled due to COVID...they needed the beds).  The little girls, who are the product of two incredibly anxious parents, were incredibly anxious about this surgery (shocking).  They do NOT like it when either of us are gone from the house overnight, so they weren't too keen on him staying there (plus, the whole no children visiting thing...).  Luckily, we live in modern society and FaceTime exists, so he was able to talk to the girls before they had to go to bed.

Now, we always have had a bedtime routine for the children and were pretty strict about it from the get-go.  This has served our family well through the years, despite some people not agreeing or understanding why no, I am not going to force my kid to stay up until sunset in the summer when she is used to going to bed at 7:30. I'm also pretty good at evading their attempts to prolong the inevitable slumber awaiting them. This has endured for all three of them until they decided that they were too old for us to tuck into bed.  We are 2/3 of the way done with bedtime routine, Charlie still liking us to tuck her in and go through all the little rituals that have evolved over the years.

One thing that she and Charles somehow started was this "I won!" thing as they race up the stairs.  Well, I am sure you can imagine how quickly Charles would go up the stairs, considering that he needed a new fucking knee...but who actually got up there first didn't matter so much as who said "I won!" first.  And of course, there's all the trash talking that Charlie can do during various competitions with her family members, and her father gives it right back because my family argues for sport. 

 "I won!"  

"Yeah, you did, second place." 

"Did you have a worst part of the day today?" (We ask for the best and worst parts of her day.)

"Yeah, that you didn't win."

And so on and so on.  Every.Single.Night.

So the girls wanted their good nights with their father, partly because of tradition, partly because of worry.  They both had a chance to chat with him for a bit, and we were getting ready to get off of FaceTime when Charlie came running in from the other room.

"Dad! One last thing!"

"What's that?"

"I won!"

Well played, Charlie.  Well played.

Thankful

So it's that time of year where Americans symbolically gorge themselves on high carb, high sugar, and high fat foods in a celebration of a white-washed version of history that glosses over things like spreading pestilence and mass murders and straight up theft.  Though come to think of it, anti-maskers this year are spreading both pestilence AND causing mass murder of innocent people, so maybe they were going for a more accurate version of Thanksgiving this year and we didn't even know it?  If so, I'd like to point out we can teach a more accurate version of history without introducing a pandemic and killing hundreds of thousands of Americans.

Anywho, one of the ideas of Thanksgiving is that we are to be thankful for the stuff we do have, right before we run out to the stores on Black Friday to engage in unrestrained consumerism in the most American way possible...knifing each other over cheap TV's imported from foreign countries to celebrate a holiday we appropriated from the pagans to make Christianity more palatable to the unwashed masses.  So, seeing as how I already have 99% of my Christmas shopping done due to Charles finally scheduling his knee replacement (does a new knee count as his Christmas gift?  Because thanks to American health care, it won't be cheap...I'm kidding.  Well, about the gift part.  Not the cost.  Unfortunately.) I figured I'd go with the thankful thing.

So what am I thankful for?  Well, glad you asked...

I am thankful that I can laugh with my children and husband still.  Even if there's a good chance that their therapists will be hearing about it in the future.

I am thankful that I can now lift my arm up from when I broke my shoulder.  I was having to use spray deodorant and that shit SUCKS.  Not that it wasn't effective because it was...but I'm pretty sure I've put a new hole in the ozone layer AND given myself some form of lung disease from using that shit. But hey, I didn't stink.  

I am thankful for the technology that allows me to continue my job without putting my health in danger.  While I 100% miss seeing my clients in person, I also value their health and my health enough to stick to strictly telehealth at this time.  Plus I have the advantage of wearing yoga pants AND slippers to work daily.

I am thankful for my asshole dogs.  Well, Maximus isn't an asshole as much anymore since he's old (I'm not still bitter about the time he ate all of my rolls I had rising on the table...which BTW, is totally dangerous for dogs but hey, he also ate rat poison once and survived so he's pretty bad ass.  Or has a stomach of steel.)  Roman, however...total asshole.  He will bolt out that door any chance he gets and go for a jog around the block, hopefully not attacking any animal or human who crosses his path.  But...they are my assholes and great snugglers.

I am thankful for modern medicine.  I have a bevvy of fabulous doctors at my disposal...from my eye doctor, to my rheumatologist and gynecologist, to the orthopedic surgeon who will be (and has in the past) operating on my husband...we have been able to take full advantage of the great American medical system.  Has it almost bankrupted us?  Yes. Are we still alive?  Also yes.  Well, at least on the inside.  Our souls, I am making no promises about...but that likely predated all the medical issues.

I am thankful for my friends and you, my dear readers.  All 10 of you (that's including readers and friends total, in case you were wondering...) Though quite frankly, I was writing in this blog way before I let it be known that I was doing so and it was just a therapeutic then as it is now.  Now, I just have the advantage of telling myself that I am helping people by broadcasting my crazy.

I'll bet at this point you are wishing you had not wondered about what I am thankful for and just asked about my Christmas gifts.  Which, since my love language is gift giving, are all fucking awesome so really, you probably missed out there...

Letters VI

 Dear Bitchez, 

I won't even go into the amount of tomfuckery that is 2020 because everyone already knows because we are fucking living it.  Figured I'd give (another) update on the family as it's been like a year since the last one.  What, go back to blogging during the quarantine?  That would have been a more healthful choice than wallowing in despair and alcoholic seltzers.  Or than injuring myself constantly.  More on that later...

Elizabeth graduated from college.  She is taking after her mama as I graduated with my B.S. (and yeah, those student loans were ever BS!) the May after 9/11, and with my Master's right after the economy tanked in 2008...so yeah.  Poor kid.  I told her not to take after me. She did manage to find a job at a jewelry store, with some career advancement potential should she choose.  She keeps acquiring cats, which is fine with me because I'm still not quite forty and fourth daughter Jewel had to rebel and have Delilah before then.  That's OK, though, cause Delilah remains perfect.  Her parents, though, are  headed towards the altar next year so I get to have some wedding liquor sooner rather than later (cranberry and vodka, yo!)

Alexis is definitely completely morphed into that elusive and irritable creature otherwise known as 14 year old female.  She and her father argue a lot, but for sport not the kind that gets us all in therapy.  Like, she's gonna make a great lawyer someday if she so chooses that path.  She is already on her third college credit class and generally is adjusting great to quarantine high school.  She's fabulous to talk to about current events and I really like the person she is when she's not being 14.

Charlie has started a new school this year, and is doing 110% better than when she was at her old one.  The shift in her is quite marked.  She is taking horseback riding lessons and has asked about art lessons as well, but as I live in BFE the art might not happen.  As far as I know, her body count is still 0 but I also don't ask too many questions because I don't want to spill the beans on anything during interrogation.  She says the funniest shit just off the cuff and half my Facebook posts anymore are just writing down shit she has said.  

It's a good thing my children are funny because otherwise I might drink more than I already do.

Ten months into 2020 and Charles has not had surgery (and not for lack of trying...he rolled his 4 wheeler earlier this year and did about 3K worth of damage to it.  Luckily, nothing serious to himself.  Yay?)  However...My husband was also told that the next time his surgeon operates on his knees will be to replace them.  Meaning they are so fucked up that there's no point in operating again until he decides to do this.  We knew this day was coming, but hoped he'd be closer to 50 when it did.  Maybe the messages in the cosmos got crossed and instead of waiting to be grandparents when we were over 40, we get knee replacements?  If so, that's messed up, universe.  Not cool.  His job also continues to vex him in every way possible, yet he refuses to go dig up that treasure he buried in the back yard so we can both be independently wealthy.  Though I like my job, even though I miss seeing people in person so really it's just more so he can quit his job and give his poor knees a break.  

As for me...well, I started to break myself back in August.  Just a little bit, though...only a stress fracture in my foot.  Then, because I am an overachiever in all that I do, I fell down the stairs whilst helping someone move and jacked up my arm and leg.  That was a whole fiasco...went to get X-rays, was told nothing was broken.  Got a call next day, "Oh just kidding!  You actually broke your fibula and tibia and your shoulder!"  Get an appointment with an ortho, and he goes "Just kidding!  That radiologist is smoking some serious crack because there are no breaks at all in your leg but you did break the shoulder so wear a sling for the next month.  Oh, and by the way, it's probably going to hurt for a really long time too.  And stay off that leg while you are at it cause you seriously bruised that fucker all to hell."

He didn't actually say those exact words, but that was the spirit.  Woulda been hella cool if he had though.

We also, over the course of this year, lost a neighbor, my brother, two uncles, and had to put Deogie down after a brief battle with Cushing's disease.  COVID funerals suck monkey balls, that's all I have to say about that.  Now the children are bugging me to get a cat, but no.  Roman would lose his shit because the neighbor's cat likes to torture him by walking past our window.  That cat also likes to fuck with Charles and they have a bit of a war going on where the cat comes into our yard and Charles runs it off.  I stay out of it.  Between the cat and Alexis, he's got enough to deal with without adding my crazy to the mix. Maximus, I am pretty sure, also wishes at time that he had an imaginary prescription for Xanax that he could chase with a bottle of wine like I pretend to do.  But for different reasons than me.  I think.  

Anyways, life is still crazy but now it's a new and special 2020 kind of crazy.  I don't know who the hell pulled the tag off of their mattress and enraged the powers that be, but for the love of GOD MAN STITCH THAT FUCKING THING BACK ON SO WE CAN APPEASE THE GODS WE HAVE SOMEHOW DISPLEASED!!!

Love, 

Me

Letters V

Dear Bitchez,
I'M BAAAAAACCCKKK!!!

Took a bit of a hiatus from things here because life just got crazy.  Again.  That and I needed a break from feeling as though I have to come up with content for this blog.  I act like I post so often but goddamn even monthly was a lot.  How do people do this for a living? I mean I guess if I got paid I'd be making my ass think of shit to post....Do people even actually blog anymore?  Well, I was also the girl who french rolled her pants for a solid year after it became unfashionable, so...IDGAF. 

So let's see...where to start?  I'm now solidly in my new private practice and even hired someone.  I don't think she's figured out the level of crazy she is involved with yet so I'm hoping to kind of ease her into it.  I am still at my other place, mostly because I like my clients and my coworkers there, but also because it's currently a steady stream of income.  I'm doing well enough that I bought an expensive vacuum cleaner vs the cheap one.  But in the cheapie vacuum's defense, that fucker lasted over 14 years so yay for the Dirt Devil Jaguar?

Charles continues on his trend of being surgery free this year which is great.  We also decided that we were going to re-side, re-roof, and re-gutter our house after some crazy wind storms damaged the old, really shitty siding.  Let's just say, the roof and siding probably needed to be replaced the year before we bought the house and we just kept putting it off and putting it off because denial totally makes your problems disappear like Democratic votes in North Carolina.  Let's also say that insurance sucks monkey balls and their decision to only pay for 2 sides of the house in the old crappy siding despite there being 3 sides damaged (or, at the cost of the old crappy siding) when all four sides of the house in newer, prettier vinyl siding was only  slightly more ranks up there as a mystery of the times right along with who was Jack the Ripper and what was in the briefcase in Pulp Fiction.  The house now looks amazing but dear sweet baby Jesus having those people here working on the house was incredibly anxiety provoking for me, and therefore terrible for Charles.  We soldiered on through and have put off any additional house projects until next year because of the trauma.

Elizabeth, to my knowledge, continues to get through school without being a functional alcoholic or resorting to selling drugs. I like to think, though, that if she were dealing that she is smart enough to not get caught cause Mama didn't raise no fool.  She completed her internship in New York City at a high end jewelry shop and really solidified for me that my baby girl is likely not going to stay in Ohio.  Which, as much as that would suck monkey balls, means that I will get to travel to visit her.  I am sure her boyfriend would LOVE having the mother in law come to stay.

Alexis continues to barrel on towards adolescence.  She is excited for her 13th birthday, which means things like being allowed to wear makeup and sit in the front seat of the car.  She does occasionally warily emerge from the lair  bedroom to interact with us mere mortals.  She's still dancing and we still continue to root for dancing to evolve into stages vs poles.  She also got bumped up to freshman algebra because she's a fucking rockstar, but now I get to relive my freshman year of math with her.  I told her once she gets to Calculus, though, she's screwed because I only went through Pre-Calc in high school, then somehow convinced my undergrad college that I should take that AGAIN for my math credit.  Again, not a fool here.

Charlie also continues to barrel through life head first, but that's nothing new for her.  She decided to re-join the competition team this year, why, I don't know, but she did.  She is dog-obsessed and once told me "if three dogs are good, mom, five are better."  She has discovered YouTube and that her mother is incredibly mean and abusive and makes her do things like go outside to play and wear clothes without holes in them.  She also tries to get me to play Roblox with her, which is incredibly entertaining for everyone who is not me.  We really should video that shit and go viral, but I like my privacy too much.  Just trust me when I say, it's super entertaining. 

The animals are pretty much status quo, though Roman has decided that he hates all dogs not in his family so we have to work through that with him.  I blame it on spending too much time with Charles, because that man pretty much hates anyone who is not family.  The girls are trying to convince me to get a cat, but hell the fuck no because a.) Charlie's allergies, and b.) our last cat was psychotic and quite possibly plotting my death on the regular.  The chinchilla is just kinda quiet, as are the rabbits.

Oh, and Delilah is perfect as usual.  Duh.  Gigi does not get nearly enough time with her, but Gigi and her mama are both incredibly busy. 

So I guess this makes more than a tri-decadely letter.  Fucking sue me.  You'll get a house with really nice siding and that's about it.  Oh, and crippling student loan debt.  Enjoy!

Love,
Me

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

Questions

I had some rare time alone with Alexis a few nights ago.  I say rare because anymore, we are so fucking busy I barely see my house and I *think* I slept in my own bed last night but I'm not 100% sure because, hey, we're busy and I haven't been home much so I vaguely remember what the interior of my house looks like...between volleyball for her, dance for both girls, doctor's appointments, me still working two jobs, and attempting to somewhat have some sort of social life and a relationship with my husband...yeah.  Busy.

We went outside and I practiced volleyball with her, strangely reminiscent when I would do so with Elizabeth.  This is also very funny as I totally suck at volleyball due to my t-rex arms and complete lack of upper body strength.  Attempts to serve the ball on my part are usually epic fails, plus the baby aspirin I take makes breathing on my skin give me a bruise, so now I have bruises up my forearms that will make people question if I am a battered woman more than they already do (I am so not, for the record.  Poor Charles.  I abuse him way more than he abuses me...)

We got to talking about a variety of topics.  She randomly got on the subject of coffins, and was shocked to discover that people are, in fact, actually buried in coffins and that this is not a Hollywood invention. (That's my honor student for you, folks.)  She then started to inquire as to why we feel the need to bury our dead, and we then discussed diseases that rotting dead bodies can carry, the fact that the beginnings of organized religion probably came around the same time as when humans started to bury the dead, and that now we not only have cremation and burial as options, but you can be created into a diamond to wear as jewelry as well as be put into a pod to nourish a tree.  (Side note:  When I initially told her that you could be made into jewelry, she was all horrified because she thought that you would just be like, wearing a dead person's body parts on a necklace like a charm.)  We then moved onto the circle of life and how it used to be that you would become one with the earth again but now I'm not so sure about that because of embalming.  I am also unsure how this will affect the zombie apocalypse, participation in which is my sole reason for wanting to be buried because I intend to fully participate.

Then somehow, we moved onto the concept of space being the new frontier and if there was life on other planets.  I had to explain the concept of a light year to her, and we discussed the idea of moving to another planet when Donald Trump destroys our current planet and how this would likely just lead to us destroying another one ASAP.  Then somehow she started to question how old our planet was, and when I told her billions of years old, she then questioned why it is only the year 2018 then.  Next came a fantastic discussion of BC/AD and how this came about, and how the current calendar was formulated.

Goddamn.  By the time we went inside because the mosquitos around here have decided that I am quite the snack and have been giving me quarter sized incredibly itchy welts so I wanted to avoid this, I was exhausted.  Not from the volleyball (though we did discuss how my t-rex arms plus big boobs meant I would never be a good volleyball player).  The conversation reminded me of ones you have with a preschooler in its randomness and the way that she listened eagerly, but it was so different too.  She actively engaged and added to the conversation and was forming her own ideas and thoughts.  She was...well, grown.

It is so hard to reconcile my little innocent girl with the woman she is becoming.  She still wants to snuggle and will let me hug her tightly for a long time, on her terms, of course, but I am well aware that those days are numbered.  I am bracing myself for the hatred and venom that will be spilled my way, and reminding myself that it is normal; that she needs to figure out who she is and to learn to think for herself.  All that so she can one day become a strong, independent woman.  It has already started in small ways...she won't say "I love you" to me when I drop her off at school, even if it is just in the car with the door still closed.  She made a joke about a log that had looked really inappropriate a few weeks ago.  She even told me today when I was complaining about an ad interrupting my video  "That means you need to get off of YouTube and do something with your life.  I heard that on a YouTube video."  I love her sense of humor and her good heart and her beauty and grace when she dances, as well as off the stage.  I am just wondering how it will be until she has questions I can't answer.  Mom, why does he want to break up with me?  Mom, why are people so mean?  Mom, why did that person have to die when they did nothing wrong?  Mom, why is there suffering and evil in the world?

Those are the questions that I don't know the answers to.  Throw as many questions about the universe at me as you like, child.  I can answer those.  I can still pretend that you are young and innocent with those.

Walking

Tonight Charles and I forced the little girls to go on a walk with us at a local park with a "nature trail."  I put nature trail in quotes because it is literally like a half mile loop through some woods, with a little creek.  Bitchez, I grew up with the Cleveland Metroparks...I can show you a goddamned nature trail, with a pretty good sized waterfall, even.  Hell, in high school we used to go into the woods at one of these trails as a cross country team and play tag.  For hours.  Well, not really, but sometimes it felt that way.  Point being, I am being indulgent to our small little town here by referring to it as a nature trail.  Maybe more like a nature footpath?

I digress.  Forcing the children to go, right.  I am literally the worst mother ever, for the record, because I made them go outside and play today.  They had to do things such as go swimming, play on the trampoline, and swing on the swingset.  I'm telling you, people, DO NOT parent like I do because activities such as these are surely screwing my children up way more than allowing them to have processed sugar and antibiotics for strep throat and watching Disney movies ever will.

It ended up being a good time. We took the dogs, Roman's first time in the woods ever, and Charlie read the story on the Storybook Trail the library puts up in the summer (NOT in the woods, mind you...It just goes around the little track around the baseball field at the park).  She was reading the book so casually, all like "NBD, Mom.  I can read words like accordion and frolic because I am so big now."  Alexis was out of her tween attitude for the moment and she and Charlie must have signed some kind of peace accord for the evening as they weren't actively plotting each other's demise while simultaneously verbally assaulting each other.  The weather was lovely and the park was empty (which it usually is.  Small town.)

It reminded me of summers in the past, when Alexis was a baby, and Charles and I would load her up in her little pull along thingy and hop on our bikes with Elizabeth.  We'd let her choose which way to go (which honestly, sounds more exciting than it really is in a town of less than a square mile; remember, small town?  I wasn't joking...) and would just ride all around with no real plan other than being out in the lovely weather and enjoying it.

It made me a bit sad, too, to be honest.  Elizabeth is all grown now, out doing her own thing at college.  She lives at school full time now, sharing an apartment with her boyfriend and her cousin at college.  She is an adult now, or at least a reasonable facsimile (really, aren't we all?  Does there ever come a day when you are like, yep, I am now solidly an adult?  I still haven't had that day if there is...).  We never had those times with all three girls, the lazy summer evenings when we just were together.

It is so over-said, but time does truly slip away.  Another year has gone by.  June is slipping away.  Gabe's birthday came, number 10, and I saw a rainbow that evening.  I deliberately took the entire week off, partly because the Fourth of July was on a Wednesday this year, but mostly because I was not sure how double digits was going to impact me.  I got through that day, as I always do, but now the first full week of July is gone and holy fuck, I didn't even write a blog post in June this year!  It's literally like trying to hold onto a fistful of sand...before you know it, time is just gone.

My baby boy, saying hi. 

I want to just grab my kids and hold tight.  To just freeze them where they are and to keep all of the nasty and the ugly and the flat out shit that is going down in this country today away from them.  To stop the heartache that is coming their way and the life lessons they will ultimately learn and the independence they will ultimately attain.  I just want to be free to wander with them, just a little longer, and to explore the world when it is still fresh and new and they are relatively un-jaded.

And, let's be honest, while they all still think I am at least alright. 

Killing

It turns out that my paranoia about my eventual demise at the hands of our animals or random murderers was misplaced.

Apparently it has been matricide at the hands of my darling middle child, Alexis, that I should have been worried about.

We went out to an early dinner on Mother's Day.  Early because we had 4H that evening and since my kid is the president of it, I kinda figured that she should show up even if it meant spending my Mother's Day evening in a small town hall that is horribly echo-y and causes all kinds of sensory overload in my already cranky self.  Hell, earlier that day we had driven home from Columbus as she had a dance competition and of course had to perform her solo that morning.  Guess I should not complain though as there were people who danced that afternoon/evening so my paltry 4H meeting is totally a first world problem amongst first world problems.

So, dinner.  Now when I am out and about with my family, there's a good chance that the most random topics will come up.  Like one time I ended up offering my niece a thousand bucks if she could fist bump the Pope and five thousand if she could spoon with him.  Video or it didn't happen, of course.  Then another time my nephew was talking about how he isn't into Facebook anymore so I asked him if Internet gambling and porn were more his speed.  And another time my nephew and I made a parody of Elf on the Shelf that involved the replacement elf (because the original quit due to a labor dispute with Santa) feeling up a ginormous stuffed bear and puking up his liquor like the lightweight that all elves probably are.

My family should probably not let me around my nieces and nephews unsupervised I think.

Somehow the subject of boot camp in the military came up, and Alexis asked what boot camp was.  My sister informed her that boot camp is where people in the military go to learn how to be killing machines.  Alexis, very casually, and without looking up from the picture she was coloring goes "Oh, I'm a killing machine."

Uh, the fuck?  She said it so nonplussed.  Like one would say something like "Oh yeah, I graduated from high school in 1998."  Like a statement of verifiable fact.  Apparently this is something I totally missed in my kid's life, the fact that somewhere in her 11 years of existence she has developed the ability to kill someone with her bare hands.

Mother of the YEAR, I tell you what.

So the conversation moved on, and Elizabeth is showing me this thing she got in her Ipsy bag that is like a double headed eyeliner, where one end is a regular line drawing eyeliner, and the other end is a star.  We were talking about all of the cool (?  Not so sure that look would be cool for anyone over the age of 14 on a day other than Halloween, but whatevs...) things you could do with it and Alexis said she wanted a "tattoo" of the star on her cheek.  My response was, "oh, like a teardrop tattoo?"  She again, very casually, affirmed that was in fact what she wanted.

I hope to god that she was just going along with this story for the laughs (we almost made my brother choke on his food a number of times with the discussion of her abilities to murder) but Imma be honest here...I'm a little freaked out.  I mean, the kid seriously has like no spine when she dances as evidenced by the way she can bend herself into all kinds of unnatural folds...would it really be that much of a stretch to assume that she has also along the way picked up some other talents, like the ability to break a neck with a single twist?

Maybe all of this time I have been worried about the wrong child being a serial killer.  Or perhaps this has been part of the plan all along, to keep the focus on the little one and glide along in the shadows like some sort of ballerina ninja ready to pounce should someone displease her.  I almost kind of feel like I need to start packing heat when I sleep.  Or like I need to up my meds.  Probably both.

Mother of the YEAR here, bitchez.

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...

Letters III

Bitchez,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Merry Christmas!

Laura, Charles, Elizabeth, Alexis, and Charlie

Random XI

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


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


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


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


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


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

Fundraising II

This came home today:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bubbles

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


Still here?  Great.  Let's begin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A twofer, even!

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

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.