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?"

Enough

I've been a bad blogger again, bitchez.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Random VI

I have had for a while now a couple of ideas for posts that have been banging around in my head like two horny teenagers, but I've not been able to make any kind of cohesive post out of any of them.  Much to my disappointment, and I am sure the disappointment of the like four readers I have.  Sorry, bitchez, but I'm not a circus monkey that can perform on command.  I need some Viagra to get this party started, if you get my drift.  Or wine.  I'm not sure what Viagra will do to a female, and I'm kinda afraid to Google it.  Then I had a lovely epiphany...I can just write a post of random shit.  I have done this before.  In my defense...OK.  No fucking defense.  It's my blog and I can write whatever the hell I want to in it.


My children's pediatrician has recently started to confirm appointments by text message.  What is really hella cool, and super enabling of my continued social anxiety and avoidance of being an adult, is the fact that you can now also cancel appointments via text as well.  Pretty soon I am so not even going to ever have to talk to people again.  Well, except for that whole being a therapist thing.


One trend that I am trying to wrap my mind around is the whole concept of a food cart.  Look, bitchez...I've worked in a restaurant, several in fact.  Who the fuck thinks that it is a good idea to take an entire building and condense it into a horse trailer, where you can then move around like some kind of nomadic, gypsy restaurateur?  It seems pretty shady to me.  Ever see the movie Snatch?  Parkies are not to be trusted.  Neither are food carts, IMHO.


Along those lines, who the hell started this whole open letter thing?  Seriously, I just can't even with those things.  What an incredibly passive aggressive idea...let's just write to the entire fucking Interwebs when someone pisses you off.  And conversely, if you are thanking someone, let's totally NOT go up to that person in person but post an anonymous letter because God forbid that we should have social interactions with each other of a positive sort.  I mean, I am cool with texting my kids' docs, but open letters piss me off and serve as a justification for my wine consumption.


Magical things happen when I avoid laundry.  And by magical I mean my grandmother's peanut butter cookies, those delicious bombs of trans fats and diabetes.  I still have yet to decide if I like them cooked or raw better.  See, my family should THANK me for not engaging in the futility of laundry.  Really, I'm just trying to show my love through delicious peanut butter cookies.  Except to Charlie.  Peanut butter makes her gag.  But hey, all my actions can't be winners.


I've also been thinking a lot about the whole concept of hashtags.  Who the fuck thought of that name?  Who came up with the idea to put a # sign in front of shit?  And really, what purpose do they have on Facebook?  I've been trying to start my own hashtag, #textingwithalicia, but I only use it on Facebook.  Mostly because 90% of the time I forget I have a Twitter.  I'm a really bad Tweeter.  I have an Instagram too that I post, like, monthly on.  But really, has anyone ever considered that hashtags could be the way that pot heads keep track of content on the internet?  I mean, come one, HASHtags....I wonder if by using them I have been inadvertently enabling someone's weed habit.  Great, now I feel fucking guilty.  I thought I gave that all up when I stopped attending Catholic churches...

Closets

Charlie has recently taken to turning the light on in the small linen closet in our bathroom.  Now, I am not one to complain if it means that she will go in there and just poop.  When that child needs to poop, she is as stinky as all get out.  Her farts rival that of the dogs.

I tried telling her that she did not need the closet light on to go to the bathroom.  That the four lights across the medicine cabinet, coupled with the overhead light and the bright sunshine streaming in through the window...they all provide a more than adequate amount of lighting for all of her powder room needs.  She remains unconvinced.  Why I am surprised, I don't know, as this is the same child who demands proof that jumping off of the front steps onto a concrete walkway will hurt.  And then proceeds with the experiment to prove exactly that.

Why have I not been to the ER more with her?  Her guardian angel has to be speed balling.

When it comes right down to it, she needs to have the darkness lit up and what is hiding there revealed for her to see.  Even if it is just towels and toilet paper and extra toothpaste.  The hidden corners of the bathroom need to be illuminated so her overactive mind can rest for a minute.  At least long enough for her to pinch one off.

I can appreciate that kind of anxiety.  Hell, I live with that kind of anxiety.  The kind that my meds will never completely eliminate.  The kind that tells me what is hidden and unknown is to be feared, while I rationally know that this is a load of bull crap that my mind tries to play off as the truth.

What's in the dark closet that I am so afraid of?  What prevents me from moving forward, from being all that I can be?  Monsters?  The maniac who will stab you to death with a Q-tip?  My past?  What is so terrifying in that closet that it can't be faced?

You go ahead and turn that light on, little girl.  I don't want there to be any scary stuff that you are afraid to illuminate.  Face your fears head on and barrel through them, Charlie style.  Grab a hold of them with both hand and kiss them directly on the mouth to tell them to fuck off.  Don't ever lose that passion to find out why because of being afraid of what is in the dark.

Musings

I always feel vaguely guilty about my lack of enjoyment of breakfast foods.  My ability to function in the mornings is as severely limited as an infant's ability to drive a car is, so any kind of food that takes actual preparation is out.  Plus, I never understood people who could eat like pancakes or waffles and then go work.  I usually drift into some kind of coma after eating those, either from the sugar in the syrup or the heaviness that goes with the territory of eating basically unleavened bread.  Seriously, a spoonful of flour is like the whole foods equivalent here folks.  I also generally find eggs to be the devil and always gag whenever I try to force their rubbery disgustingness between my lips.  Muffins are basically glorified cake and I am not so much a cake fan.  Cold cereal also makes me gag.  Bacon and eggs involve grease and that could be potentially a fire hazard before I have had my pot of coffee in the morning.  I usually settle for a handful of almonds or walnuts, mostly because the only effort I have to put forth there is to not miss my mouth and to chew.

I try to Skype with my niece in North Carolina at least on a weekly basis.  One could say that I am a good aunt, but really it is because I need her to like me because my children will most likely not pick out a good nursing home for me.  She totally waved to me today and I am pretty sure she rolled her eyes at me as well.  Just so long as she realizes that the good nursing home=I won't live with her, I think I am golden.

We got rid of our Directv earlier this month.  Best damn decision I have made in a while.  Still doesn't top the decision to stop using tartar control toothpaste so I don't get horrid canker sores anymore, but it definitely ranks up there.

I taught someone about the cognitive triangle today.  They called it the "magical triangle of wonder".  I am beginning to wonder if this means I need to wear an aluminum foil hat to work now.

I started new medications recently and upon obsessively reading the enclosed pamphlet (cause that is what the anxiety ridden do to see what awful things we can worry about next) I saw that I could potentially test positive for amphetamines now.  Fuck yeah.  If I am going to fail a drug test I want it to be for something unusual.  None of this marijuana or heroin shit.  I wanna fail for speed.

Struggling

It's never being good enough.

It's forgetting what it is like to function outside of the constant fog cloud of fatigue.  Forgetting what it is like to wake up after 10, 12, 14 hours of sleep and feeling refreshed and rested.  Wanting to spend all day in bed asleep because the time you have to be aware of how you just hurt is less that way.

It's wanting to curl up within yourself, except that you are intensely uncomfortable in your own skin so you really don't want to do that either.  So you exist in limbo, simply existing for a while.

It's the never ending cycle of thought that flows through your mind, unbidden and unwanted and uncontrollable and unwelcome.  "You suck.  You're awful.  You're less than.  You MUST be perfect.  You will NEVER learn to cope.  You will ALWAYS feel like hell."

It's recognizing the cycle of negativity yet feeling helpless to stop it.

It's the constant worry.  The catastrophizing.  The panic attacks.

It's seeing the reminder and freaking out and dying on the inside.  A touch, a gesture, a scent.  Triggers.

It's being numb.

It's the guilt.  The constant gnawing guilt of feeling like you are failing everyone around you.  Like you are to blame for your circumstances and why you are here and in this situation.

It's desperately wanting to feel better but lacking the motivation to even get up and make the call.  The fear.  The stigma.  The lies that run through your mind.

Make the call.  It gets better.