Denial II

There have been some things that I have been avoiding not only talking about, but writing about on here as well.

I mean, not that I am the queen of denial at all or anything...and I'm not talking about a river in Egypt here, folks.  Aside from humor, denial is probably my go-to defense mechanism to use.  I ignore my health until it whacks me upside my head and takes me out.  I avoid dealing with unpleasant things such as making phone calls and having to actually talk to people.  I frequently avoid looking at my bank account, but I maintain that is an act of self-preservation more so than actual denial.

I need to do better and to be better, though.  So here goes it, the re-cap of the three most important things that have happened that I have been avoiding talking about, in chronological order.

1.)  Alexis turned 10 years old.  Yes, ten.  As in double digits.  As in now she has less years to go until 18 than she has lived.  As in a full decade.

Why I am able to accept Elizabeth turning 18 but not Alexis turning 10, I have no clue.  Maybe it is because I can tell myself that I am still young with Elizabeth.   Maybe it's because Alexis has always had a kind of sweet innocence about her, stubborn as she may be, that lends itself to being incompatible with growing up and I don't want to see that go away.  Maybe it's because I see how the world is a cruel and unforgiving place sometimes and I don't want to see her crushed and I know that it is going to happen someday and I can't stop it.

Alexis is my child who once told me after I commented on how low the clouds were that she was excited about this because she always wanted to taste them.  Alexis, my baby who hated everyone from birth but me, and then only tolerated me because I had the food.  Alexis, the child who once had to be told at a competition to stop turning cartwheels because she had done so many we were afraid that she was going to wear herself out.  Alexis, the child who is so energetic that another therapist who worked with ADHD kids turned to me and asked, "Is she always this hyper?"  Alexis, the child who went from crying every dance class to dancing solos in competitions.  My child who is a mixture of steel and softness and innocence and light.  I once had a teacher say about Alexis that "even when she is trying to be sassy she is still sweet."

I never want those qualities to go away from her.  The only surefire way I see to prevent this is to never have her grow up.  So yes, I am in denial that she is 10.

2.)  I quit my full time job at the agency and went to private practice full time.

This should be a great thing, right?  I did not want to hospitalize people any more.  While that job was a noble job, a necessary one, and I know that I did in fact save many people's lives...I did not want to be on that end of things anymore.  I wanted to be more involved in the actual work that went into claiming back your mental health.

However...I did my internship at this agency.  I started out as a terrified intern who did not know what the hell I was doing and worked my way to my independent license.  I worked there the longest out of my professional career.  I built a great reputation in the community with other stakeholders, I believe.  Change is hard, especially for the already anxious person that I am.  Private practice is very different, and while I am sure that I have any kind of clinical advice I need available, I still miss the stability that working for an agency provides.  I miss my coworkers, who all helped shape me professionally.  I miss being confident in my paychecks and not worrying if people cancel or I don't have people scheduled.

Don't get me wrong, I am very happy in my current job.  I am just still in denial that this is my actual life's work now because it seems too good to be true.

3.)  Spartacus died.

Yes, my bubby; the first dog that was mine.  I trained him and housebroke him, all on my own.  He was there when I brought the little girls home from the hospital; he was there when we brought Deogie and Maximus home.  He helped train them.  He was always willing to allow me to wrap my arms around him and snuggle; albeit for only a minute because he was a veritable walking furnace with his thick fur.

His death, though he was 10 years old, was unexpected.  Friday night, he was running around, albeit slowing down a little bit which I chalked up to being 10 years old.  Saturday, he was not eating.  Sunday, he started to vomit and was still not eating, so Monday Charles took him to the vet.  They did labs and sent him home with medicines.  His liver enzymes were way off as were his white blood cell counts.  Charles took him home and only a few hours later, Spartacus had a seizure, vomited up some blood, and died.

It does not surprise me that he went when I was not around.  I would not have been able to handle watching that.  I would not have been able to handle seeing his body lifeless.  I have the memory of petting him before I left for work, and him leaning into my leg as I did so, versus what happened to him in the last hours of his life.

Dealing with that is hard.  Maximus still looks for him, and when he can't find him he gets tears in his eyes.  The day that he died, when I got home from work, he literally climbed up into my lap and gave me a hug with his front paws.  Charles said that when he was carrying Spartacus's body to the truck (he took him to his parents' to bury) Maximus was losing his shit.

My bubby, the Friday before he passed.

So yes, life has been interesting these last few weeks.  I'm trying to get away from the Freudian defense mechanisms; hence the honesty in this post.  I'll get back to my regularly scheduled inanity soon, I promise.

Cartoons

Charles recently introduced the little girls to the old school cartoons.  You know, the old Disney ones full of racism, addiction, sexism, and sexual innuendo that you don't get until adulthood.  Right, the wolf reading "How to pluck a chick" has NO Freudian meaning AT ALL.  Disney is such a bastion of wholesome values and freedom from stereotypes.  Great life lessons for the children.

I mean, seriously, this is the shit that we grew up on.  And by we, I mean the people who have to scroll down internet forms to find their birth year.  Not any of you youngin's still on the first page.  And it's not just Disney.  It was all over children's programming. Some of those story lines are pretty fucking disturbing.  I mean, have you ever actually listened to Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer?  He was made fun of and ostracized from society until he was suddenly of use to the fat burglar with questionable interest in not only young children and midgets, but attire.  The, Fuck.

Or what about Charlie Brown?  Lucy is running her unlicensed psychotherapy practice, Pig Pen is a walking Children's Services case, and the grown ups are heavily slurring their words in such a way that leads me to believe that they are likely on some form of barbiturate, chased down with a gin and tonic.  Plus, there is this uber aggressive female who is suspiciously reeking of the stereotype of the masculine lesbian who remains closeted.  Again, the fuck?

Charles showed the girls the Three Little Pigs.  I mean, seriously, their portrait of their father on the wall is actually sausage links with the word "Father" under them.  The wolf has some serious rage issues and probably didn't get hugged enough as a child.  And Little Red Riding Hood is taking Grandma cake and wine.  Because, you know, Grandma's old so may as well feed her diabetes and alcoholism when she's not feeling well.  Doubly fucked there.

Moving along to the latter years of my childhood...Legend of Zelda.  "Saved you again, Princess.  Kiss me."   So, Link, you're telling Zelda because you are a helpless woman who required saving, you owe me bodily favors.  Dude, get over yourself because likely Zelda was gonna get herself out of this pickle and you just inserted yourself into it out of some misplaced desire to be a bad ass.  Not to be repetitive, but the fuck?

For God's sake, at least the Simpsons were pretty up front about their sarcasm and wit and reinforcement of stereotypes.  "Eat my shorts" was shocking, to be sure, but at least it wasn't hidden as a vaguely disturbing, slightly phallic representation of someone's father.  Though one could argue that Homer's love of donuts was some sort of Electra complex thing...

I really think that the grown up in our lives needed to get laid more often, because goddamn, their story lines were just RIDDLED with pent up sexuality, on top of the rank sexism, racism, ageism, able-ism, etc.  Or perhaps I am just a twisted, disturbed individual.  I'll leave it up to you to decide.

Slow

I recently decided that I was going to start running again.  There's this 5K I have done for the past three years now and last year I walked it because my sister fucked her knee up and someone has to keep her in check.  I wasn't going to do it again this year, then at the last minute decided I was because I really like to test my meds at least quarterly.  So I started running, got the old runner's high again, and remembered why I used to like it to begin with.

Then I pulled a groin muscle.

It wasn't bad at first.  I was all "oh, I'll rest it for a day or two."

Day or two turned into a month.  Wasn't bad at first turned into holy hell my leg is on fire and it hurts and I'm dying.  This then turned into people I work with freaking out thinking I had a blood clot (I didn't, but glad someone is going to care for my physical health because I sure suck at it sometimes).  I got doctor's involved, then physical therapy.  And had a breakthrough.

Or so I thought.

The PT stretched my leg out some and used ultrasound therapy.  For the first time in two weeks, I could walk without looking like some kind of zombie dragging my leg behind me.  It was great.

Until it wasn't.

That weekend, I woke up on Saturday and could not put any weight on the leg.  At all.  I caved and started to use crutches.  Went back to physical therapy for the second session.  I got asked, "What did you do to yourself?"  The tone of voice used here indicated to me that this woman wanted to add some F-bombs in there but she was being all professional and shit so she did not.

I'll spare you the details, but basically I managed to twist my pelvis and hips into positions that they are not meant to be twisted, which then was pinching nerves.  I went to the chiropractor in desperation for the first time in my life.  I got asked, "What did you do to yourself?"  Again, pretty sure the tone was F-bombs.  Maybe if there was an F-bomb font (like we need a sarcasm font) I wouldn't need to actually say fuck as much as I do...

He told me that I chose the biggest joint of the spinal cord to get out of place.  Of course I did.  It is very fitting for my life that I would do this.  He popped that sucker back into position, while cracking dad jokes continually which was actually rather amusing, and then told me to go home and lie down for the rest of the day.

My tone was F-bombs.  "Uh, I'm going to work."  He shook his head at me and told me to slow down.  "You have to let yourself heal.  Who knows how long your pelvis was that way."

I, of course, went to work.  And then the next day drove to college to see Elizabeth for family weekend after going grocery shopping and running the little girls to dance and gymnastics.  We walked all around campus, taking stairs at times, even.  I brought the crutches as the damn thing kept slipping in and out.

Let myself heal?  When?  While Charles is still off work because of his arm, his idea of a clean house is way more relaxed than mine is.  I have not been up the stairs to kiss the little girls good night in almost a month, which kills me.  My garden desperately needs my attention.  I have not gone for a run, which was a great source of stress relief, since this has happened. Rolling over in bed at times can hurt, yet the idea of having to sit and relax is almost enough to send me into a panic attack.  What am I running from?

Perhaps it is my own thoughts that I am running away from.  My head can be a pretty messed up place sometimes.  Perhaps it is from judgment from others, because God knows as a woman who works and has children I will forever be judged as inadequate at both.  Perhaps it is the anxiety, that while controlled for the most part is always there, lurking, telling me that I am in grave danger somehow; that my loved ones are too.

Having to slow down has made me realize how hard and fast I go sometimes.  Hell, for the last two years I have been working 7 days/week, most weeks.  I have been figuratively limping along for a while now...Is it no wonder my body decided to give out when I pushed it running and started literally limping?  Maybe it was my subconscious's way of getting my attention, and when that did not work it had to up the ante and get my pelvis, hip, and back involved in the game so I would finally slow down some. Some.  Not as much as I probably should.  I still have tendencies toward oppositional behaviors because I am an asshole like that and don't like to be told I can't do something.  Because you know, the rules for caring for sports injuries somehow don't apply to me.

Guess "slow" can also be applied to me as a learner of life lessons, as well.

Towels

There are a bunch of towels in this house.  Some I have purchased, some my mother has given us that were her old ones because she knows that my husband is a welder and will likely destroy any towel that comes near  his body simply by virtue of the grinding dust and God knows what else he brings home from work.  (She hasn't come up with any solutions for getting that shit out of my bathtub, but I guess one outta two ain't bad...)

I try to be all environmentally conscious and shit and have all of us reuse the towels multiple times (not the same one.  We each  have our own.  I'm not THAT environmentally conscious.  See: Welding dust.  Plus school age children and their cooties.  And my hatred of laundry.)  Despite this, we seem to run out of towels on a regular basis.

The culprit?

The teenager.

As much as I love my daughter to death, that child hoards towels like there's going to be a shortage at some point.  I will do a load of towels, fold them all nicely, and put them away (well, let's be honest, when I do fold them...they seem to be happy basement dwellers, living contentedly in their laundry baskets thankyouverymuch.)  They then disappear at an alarming rate and end up in Elizabeth's room.

How the hell this happens, I have no clue.  She is not home much anymore.  She's been working a lot before going off to college, and staying at her friend's in Sandusky (or so she says...she's an adult.  Trying not to helicopter here.  Much.)  She's never freaking home it seems.  Yet all the towels, they end up in her room.

This is going to end soon.  Soon, she will be gone.  The time she is at home will be less.  Holidays.  Summer vacation.  Then, in four short years...gone for good.  To make her own life.

I've been actively avoiding thinking about her leaving.  Hell, the same day that she moves in to college is the same day Charlie starts Kindergarden.  I always try not to think about that fact...one a freshman in college, one in Kindergarden.   I'm used to her being gone some of the time.  I've always had to share her with her father's family, and as hard as that was on me I always firmly believed that she had the right to know that side of the family and never withheld her from them.

It is hard to admit that the time has come to share her with the world.  But I've always been good at denial.

I still want to protect her.  To jump in and fix everything for her.  Well, as much as she would let me.  I raised her to think, to be independent.  To be fierce.  We essentially grew up together.  There is a mere 16 years between us...I was just a baby when she was born, really.  She already did the college thing with me...twice, in fact.  But now the roles are reversed.  And I won't be there to kiss her boo-boos.  To advocate on her behalf. To carefully allow her to fail, all the while being right there watching the whole time, as painful as it is to see.  Hell, even to scream at her and fight with her.  (We've had some doozies of fights, let me tell you...)  To laugh at her antics...cause lord knows, that child has a wicked sense of humor.  To beam with pride as I am told, over and over again, what a great kid she is, by all of the adults who come into contact with her.

I'm going to miss hunting for towels.

Remember, Elizabeth, very very hard:

Oh, why you look so sad?
The tears are in your eyes
Come on and come to me now

Don't be ashamed to cry
Let me see you through
Cause I've seen the dark side too

When the night falls on you
And you don't know what to do
Nothing you confess
Could make me love you less

I'll stand by you
I'll stand by you
Won't let nobody hurt you
I'll stand by you

So, if you're mad, get mad!
Don't hold it all inside
Come on and talk to me now

Hey, what you got to hide?
I get angry too
But I'm alive like you

When you're standing at the crossroads 
And don't know which path to choose
Let me come along
Cause even if you're wrong

I'll stand by you
I'll stand by you
Won't let nobody hurt you

I'll stand by you 

Take me in into your darkest hour
And I'll never desert you
I'll stand by you

And when, when the night falls on you baby
You're feeling all alone
You won't be on your own

I'll stand by you
I'll stand by you
Won't let nobody hurt you
I'll stand by you

Take me in into your darkest hour
And I'll never desert you
I'll stand by you
Oh, I'll stand by you
I'll stand by you.

Lucky II

I have the craziest luck sometimes.

Especially when it comes to vehicles.

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

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

Wrong.

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

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

Fast forward to this summer.  Guess what goes out?

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

Cause so did the A/C in the truck.

And the A/C in our house.

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

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

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

Lucky, right?

Yeah, fuck you.

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

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

Door-to-Door

Charles:  So some "college girl" stopped by today selling books.  She asked if I had kids and I told her I had an 18 year old.  Then she mentioned the toys in the back yard, and asked if I had nieces and nephews.  I wanted to tell her they were mine, but I just went with it.  She left, though, after trying to talk about how she is from Wisconsin, but yet wanted to give back to the community.  Like, what the fuck?  You don't even LIVE in the community.

Me:  You should have told her they were yours.

Charles:  Yeah.  "They're mine.  I don't have to share.  I'm an adult."

Later on, talking about people coming in our yard to do things like meter reading or door to door sales:

Charles:  I kinda hope the next time someone tries to sell stuff to us its another college girl.  I'm gonna turn around and yell "Hey guys!  That place sent us a college girl this time!  It was worth the money!"  Then when she goes "But I really am a college girl" I'll say "And yeah, the last one was a French Maid.  And the one before that was a chef."

Me:  Oh my God.  Please do this.  And video it.

Charles:  Nah, I'll just go "You're late.  You were supposed to be here a half hour ago."

Me:  "So come in and get naked."  Wait, you'll probably get someone who's into that kind of stuff and is all like, "OK..."

Charles:  Yeah, then I will have to boot her ass out. (Mimes kicking someone out the door.)  We'll be put on a list of places to never go.  "Like, those people are freaky.  Don't go there."

Me:  Yeah, like a "Do Not Call" list, but for door to door salesperson.  We will be banned for perpetuity.  This is sounding more and more like a good idea.  Let's do it.

'Merica

*Note:  I am well aware that I have not written a post on my son's birthday this year.  I assure you that this is not because I have forgotten.  In fact, I have not and the only reason I got out of bed that day was because Alexis had dance (Nationals, baby!  Though by the end of this week I was so done and wished that her team sucked so we didn't have to go to the invite-only Big Show at the end of the week...), and in case you missed it, I am apparently a dance mom.  In keeping with the spirit of last year, I have decided to again write a post with the usual inanity and bluntness and propensity to offend as I usually do.  Enjoy!


It's Independence Day Weekend, bitchez!  Let's celebrate 'Merica!  For those of you not from the U.S.A, this is the weekend that we celebrate the mistaken notion that the Declaration of Independence was signed on July 4, 1776 (it was actually just officially adopted on this day, thus showing that U.S'ians aren't bothered by things like historical accuracy or fact checking.)  There are a lot of traditions that go along with this, and most of them are as fucked up as all get out, so of course I am going to dissect them here.

First, let's start off with a tradition that is not necessarily limited to the Fourth (capital F, bitchez, cause it's a goddamned government sanctioned holiday and we don't get mail that day.  It's THAT important.).  Catching lightning bugs.  You may know these as fireflies.  Who thought up the good idea of releasing small children out into a yard to catch these poor mothafuckers who are just trying to get laid, to either be squeezed to death in a toddler's hand and smearing their yellow glow shit all over the fucking place, or they go into the jar of death and torture.  There are a lot of variations on this jar of death and torture, FYI.  When we were little, it was a margarine tub with fork holes stabbed in the top.  Some people perpetuate the whole American consumerism thing ('Merica!) and purchase a special receptacle to capture those things.  My kids get a mason jar with holes stabbed into the lid, which I then superglued to the ring.  Cause nothing says 'Merica like being inventive.  But seriously, once those little guys are in the jar, they are desperately trying to climb out to get their freak on, and the kids are pounding on the lid to get them to fall to the bottom...and let's not even talk about the ones who inadvertently get smooshed a'la that scene in Scream where the girl gets all tangled up in the garage door.

Then there are the sparklers.  Let's give children hot pieces of wire that shoot sparks and let them run free, in the dark.  Cause nothing says Independence Day like being branded by your five year old after sundown.  Plus all that smoke inhalation and fumes from the sparklers, year after year after year, surely can't be healthy for you.  But hey, this is America, land of the free!  Health care is not seen as a right, yo, so no need to treat the lung cancer from the smoke inhalation!

Fireworks.  OK, in Ohio, they are illegal to shoot off in your backyard.  People do it all the fucking time.  Which is great until the cops show up, or someone loses an eye.  Plus, does no one see the irony in firing off something that is going to remind the combat veterans of this country of combat in celebration of the freedom that we have, that was earned through combat?  Be respectful of the vets, bitchez.  They are the reason your dumb asses can shoot that shit off.  And the dogs, too.  I imagine that more Valium is consumed by the canine population this week than any other.  And there are the stupid "fireworks" too, like the snakes and those popper things that you throw at people's feet, while screaming "Dance, mothafucker!  Dance!"  (At least that's how I do it...)  We had some pretty interesting ones tonight, like a pooping dog and a chicken blowing up a balloon.  Cause, 'Merica!

Nothing says Independence from Oppression like sparks blowing out your ass.

Parades are also kinda fucked up if you think about it.  First of all, let's take the emergency response vehicles and have them drive at 5 MPH down the road with their sirens blaring.  Cause hearing is just an extra sense to have, doncha know?  And who cares if there is an actual emergency.  There's a parade, dammit, deal with it your own fucking self.  Then let's let the perpetuation of misogyny come with the princesses being paraded down in sports cars.  And of course it's the middle of July so it's usually like 90* with 99% humidity in Ohio, so their make up is slowly melting and I am sure that they are silently cursing whatever possessed them to run for Little Miss whatever.  Then there are the floats, wherein people throw candy into crowds for children to get.  This usually involves them having to run into the streets, because by god if the obesity won't get them, modeling running into the street surely will.  If, that is, they did not get an eye taken out, either during the parade from the errant Tootsie Roll or from the fireworks and/or sparklers from the night before.

Apple Pie...ok this is one thing that we got right (is it American?  IDK, to be honest, because like most Americans I am unconcerned with things like fact checking or historical accuracy.  At least about my baked goods, that is.).  Sweetened apples, baked into a flaky crust, served warm with ice cream on it.  Great huh?  No, we have to fuck things up royally here in 'Merica and even the innocence of apple pie was corrupted by an infamous movie scene where a young boy let himself loose on a poor unsuspecting pie.  That is just a bacterial infection waiting to happen there, folks.

And now I want pie.  The innocent kind, not the corrupted movie kind.

Random X

Conversation that may or may not have been had at my house while I was watching a video of a dog dancing the salsa with its owner:

Me:  Lookit, honey!  A salsa dancing dog!  Can I do this with Maximus?

Charles: Uh, I want to see you be able to pick him up and flip him like that guy did...

Me:  That's not a no...

Charles:  Well, he's not allowed to jump up on people.  And he has to do that for this.  So that might be a problem.

Me: (because I am a PROBLEM SOLVER, bitchez...) Well, just don't play salsa music then.  PROBLEM SOLVED.

Charles:  Nope.  It's all I listen to all day long at work.


As a documented dance mom, I feel that I have some leeway when it comes to watching my child dance and getting all emotional and shit.  Mostly because its so fucking nice to see that all that money I am paying for dance is not getting wasted.  I will say, though, that I also feel that I then have the leeway to go home and drink a margarita because Mama earned that, mothafuckers.


So my husband is totally gimped out right now from a torn bicep muscle.  He had to have surgery to repair it (technically it was a ligament, but torn bicep ligament for some reason does not sound as bad ass) and now he is off work for four months and has this brace on his arm that probably cost more than my van.  It's totally not a bad ass story, though.   There was a dead baby skunk in the back yard.  He scooped it up with a shovel to fling into the field behind our house.  That's it.  He's lucky, though, because my sister and I have a rule that you don't go to the ER if you are doing something stupid.  My personal belief, though, is that he did it to avoid having to set up for Elizabeth's graduation party.  Because you know, it would TOTALLY make sense to go to those lengths to avoid having to set up for a party.  TOTALLY realistic and very similar to the set up in the movie Anger Management (one of the few movies I have actually seen, for the record.  I'm lucky I can sit through a 50 minute therapy session...and even then I'm totally fidgeting the whole time.)

Because of the above, he had his arm in a cast for two weeks. This meant I literally had to tie his shoes.  I was teasing him about this one day and told him he was going to forget all of his big boy skills.  As soon as the words left my mouth, I wished I could take them back because I totally knew where he was going to take that.  And he did.  I'm not going into details, because honestly if you can't figure it out on your own why the fuck are you reading this blog, of all the blogs to read?



I get very annoyed by salads you buy from a restaurant.  They have them all prettily arranged in the bowl, all the veggies nicely separated and the meat all artfully splayed across the bed of crisp greens.  Look here, mothafuckers...I'm already cranky by having to buy a salad from you because all of your other food has gluten in it which my body has decided is the devil.  I sure as fuck don't want to have to mix that shit up myself.  I came to this restaurant for you to prepare my food for me.  I expect it to be ready to eat.  Having to mix my own salad is too much like work.  What's next, having me do my own dishes at this place?

Recital

It pains me to have to write this post.

Mostly because it makes me feel like the equivalent of the old timers in a barber shop lamenting the state of today's youth.  However, in this case, I am sitting in a theatre watching in disbelief as entire families, like literally dozens of people, got up to leave after their child's performance.  In some cases, before intermission.

What. The. Fuck.

Why do I have to write a "how not to be an asshole at a dance recital" post?

I am sorry, your child ain't that special.  It's not like they had a solo, because NO ONE had a solo.  The solos did not perform at this recital.  None of the competition families, who's children ARE that special (and also put hours of work in WEEKLY vs your one little 45 min class), got up and left.  They might have cheered very loudly, but they stayed seated unless it was to go do a costume change.  And even if they did have to go help backstage, they returned...leaving after your kid performs takes douche-baggery to a whole new level.

You go to a recital, you sit through the whole entire thing.  You may or may not make fun of all of the other children who aren't yours (*ahem* not that I've ever been privy to this happening...) but you sit there the whole time and you clap after each number and laugh at the kids who stand there and stare terrified out at the audience in a moment they are sure to re-live with their therapist as an adult.

You sure as fuck don't get up and leave and then stand out in the lobby and laugh and talk and ooh and aah over your preschooler while ignoring the fact that every other child in that recital worked just as fucking hard as your kid.  In the case of the competition kids, EVEN harder than your kid.  And that is not including all of the time and effort put forth by the teachers, and the support staff, and the staff of the theatre.

Your child is not the only one performing.  What a big "fuck you" to all of those other kids when you get up and leave.  The idea of being able to go get your kid after they performed was to bring them back into the audience...TO SUPPORT THEIR PEERS.  Not to be a douche bag like you clearly are.

It is a sad reflection on our society that people feel the need to make their little special snowflakes feel super duper special at the expense of other kids.  What does that sound like?  Bullying.  That is what that sounds like.  I no longer want to hear people wondering about where this comes from because they are the people who are leaving recitals early.  You learn this shit from home, bitchez.  And if you can't be arsed to sit through a fucking children's dance recital, you certainly can't be arsed to make sure you aren't modelling other bullying behaviors.

Take a good hard look at yourself here.  Children mimic what they see.  Would you be ok with another child treating your special snowflake like you are treating other kids?

If you are leaving that recital early...I doubt it.

Felonies

One of the things that I like about the private practice work that I do is there is a bit of a drive home.  This can be a good thing as I decompress a bit after work and prepare myself for the onslaught of children, husband, and animals when I get home.  It can also be a bad thing as, well, anyone who has read my blog knows how my mind works.  And just think, this is the stuff that I feel is fit for public consumption...imagine what I keep to myself...

Anyways. (*side note...I  had someone say to me today that I use that as a segue a lot.  So of course, being the asshole that I am, I deliberately made it a point to use it as much as possible.) This particular day that I am thinking of, I was thinking about the whole idea of criminal thinking and the thought processes that must go behind the decision to commit a felony.  I mean, when does one cross the line and think, yep.  This is worth losing my right to vote and own a gun and I strongly feel I have a future working at McDonald's as a fry cook for the rest of my life (*another side note...I just Googled "does McDonald's hire felons" because I was honestly second guessing myself as to if they do.  They do, sometimes.  They are a franchise, so it depends on the store.  This may or may not be need to know info for you.  I don't judge.)

I suppose, however, that one is not considering the consequences here because one is supposing that one will not get caught.  Hence why there are probably a lot of really common felonies, like trafficking in black tar heroin and murder and rape.

I then made the decision, that if I was ever going to commit a felony, I didn't want it to be the ordinary, run of the mill felony.  No siree, I was going to commit one of the exotic ones.  Only problem was, I couldn't exactly remember what those were.  I vaguely remembered the mnemonic MRS & MRS LAMB for remembering felonies, but obviously I either did not pay attention or it's not a very good one because I did not remember what all of them were.  I mean, like the biggies, like murder, robbery, manslaughter, and rape, sure.  But what about the rest?  Again, Google to the rescue.

Murder
Rape

Manslaughter
Robbery
Sodomy

Larceny
Arson
Mayhem
Burglary

Again, might be need to know info for you, and again, no judgment here.

So upon perusing the list, I eliminated the ones you commonly hear of, the murder, manslaughter, rape, robbery, and burglary.  Arson is one that's sorta common, but I really am not into fire starting unless it's to get drunk next to one and watch a neighbor burn her cheek on a s'more (true story.  In her defense, there were a lot of margaritas involved...)  I wasn't going to go with sodomy because, well, I just wasn't and if I have to explain it to you then you need to utilize Google yourself (says the woman who is actively considering which felony, hypothetically speaking, of course, she would be likely to commit.)  That leaves larceny and mayhem.  I wasn't completely comfortable with the whole larceny thing either, so that left mayhem.  Again, not entirely sure what that was, so a quick Google search again indicated that it was "the crime of maliciously injuring or maiming someone, originally so as to render the victim defenseless"  I really didn't want to go there, either, cause deep down inside I'm not mean.  So I was a bit bummed that my brainstorming was not working out, until I had an idea.

Racketeering.

Sounds exotic, and I would make it so I only impacted the super rich somehow.  Like convinced them that their puppies needed this special water to keep them from getting sick, and then sold them water from their hoses or something, because saving dogs (and hobos) is what I do.  However, I wasn't completely sure if it was a felony.

I was tired of Googling at this point, so I texted my older brother who is a police officer.  Luckily, he's known me all of my life and I often text him really random questions, so me texting him "Is racketeering a felony?" was not something that made him bat an eye.  Not only did he answer the question, but he expanded on it as well and went into it usually being a collection of crimes and against RICO and whatnot.

So there you have it, bitchez.  If I were ever to make the evening news, it is totally going to be for running some kind of a racket.  Anyone need some water for their puppies?